THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF ILLINOIS 
 LIBRARY 
 
 From the collection of 
 Julius Doerner, Chicago 
 Purchased, 1918. 
 
 8Z3 
 
 0)55> W 
 
 V. 12 
 
THE WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 Charles Dickens 
 
 VOLUME TWELVE 
 
 WITH TWENTY-SEVEN ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 DOMBEY ANDSON 
 
 (PART TWO) - 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 New York 
 
 PETER PENELON COLI.IER, PUBLISHER 
 
■p55'W 
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 PART TWO. 
 
 Took Uncle Sol’s snuff-colored lappels, one in each hand ; kissed 
 him on the cheek, etc — paj^e 9. 
 
 “ Take advice from plain old Joe, and never educate that sort of 
 people, sir”— page 2(5. 
 
 Mr. Dombey again addressed himself to Edith— page 40. 
 
 “You dog,” said Mr. Carker, through his set jaws, “I’ll strangle 
 you! ” — page 47. • 
 
 “ What do you want with Captain Cuttle, I should wish to know? ” 
 said Mrs. Macstinger— page 73. 
 
 Rob retreated before him into another corner: holding out the 
 keys and packet— page 9.5. 
 
 “ Go and meet her! ” — page 123. 
 
 “A child! ” said Edith, looking at her. “When was I a child ? 
 Vv^hat childhood did you ever leave to me? ’’—page 135. 
 
 The couple turned into the dining-room— page 165. 
 
 In a firm, free hand the bride subscribes her name in the register 
 —page 181 
 
 “She’s come back harder than she went! ’’cried the mother, 
 looking up in her face, and still holding to her knees— 
 page 221. 
 
 “Do you know that there is some one here?” she returned, 
 now looking at him steadily— page 251. 
 
 Withers, meeting him on the stairs, stood amazed at the beauty 
 of his teeth, and at his brilliant smile— jiage 259. 
 
 Ran sniggering off to get change, and tossed it away with a pie- 
 man-page 273. 
 
 Mr. Toots replies by launching wildly out into Miss Dombey’s 
 praises — page 311. 
 
 “Do you call it managing this establishment, madam ?” said 
 Mr. Dombey— page 341. 
 
 “ Miss Dombey,” returned Mr. Toots, “ if you’ll only name one, 
 you’ll — you’ll give me an appetite to which "l have long 
 been a stranger ’’--page 347. ♦ 
 
 Florence made a motion with her hand towards him, reeled, and 
 fell upon the floor — page 389. 
 
 When he had tilled his pipe in an absolute reverie of satisfaction, 
 Florence lighted it for him — page 405. 
 
 It a,ppears that he met everybody concerned in the late transac- 
 tion, everywhere — page 439. 
 
 He saw the face change from its vindictive passion to a faint 
 sickness and terror — page 491. 
 
 After this, he smoked four pipes succe.ssively in the little parlour 
 by himself— page 501. 
 
 “Wy, it’s' mean That’s where it is. It’s mean!’.’ — 
 
 page 515. 
 
 “ Joe had been deceived, sir, taken in, hoodwinked, blindfolded” 
 — page 525. 
 
 “Yes, Mrs. Pipchin, it is,” replies cook, advancing. “And wha,t 
 then, pray,?” — page 541. 
 
 “No, no !” cried Florence, shrinking back as she rose up, and 
 putting out her hands to keep her off. “ Mamma ! ” — 
 page ,575. 
 
 Captain Cuttle gives them the lovely peg — page 581. 
 
 800457 
 
 ( 3 ) 
 
' ^ 
 
 
 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 5 
 
 CHAPTER XIX„ 
 
 Walter goes away. 
 
 The Wooden Midshipman at the Instrument-maker's 
 door, like the hard-hearted little midshipman he was, re- 
 mained 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 at- 
 titude of indomitable alacrity, the midshipman displayed 
 his elfin small-clothes to the best advantage, and, ab- 
 sorbed in scientific pursuits, had no sympathy with 
 worldly concerns. He was so far the creature of cir- 
 cumstances, that a dry day covered him with dust, and 
 a misty day peppered him with little bits of soot, and a 
 wet day brightened up his tarnished uniform for a mo- 
 ment, and a very hot day blistered him ; but otherwise 
 he was a callous, obdurate, conceited midshipman, in- 
 tent on his own discoveries, and caring as little for w^hat 
 went on about him, terrestrially, as Archimedes at the 
 taking of Syracuse. 
 
 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 door-post, resting his weary wig as near 
 the shoe-buckles of the guardian genius of his trade and 
 shop as he could. But no fierce idol with a month 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. 
 
 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. Dis- 
 mantled of his little stock of books and pictures, it 
 looked coldly and reproachfully on him for his desertion, 
 and had already a foreshadow 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 wa^^^mg to 
 this place, it may be : but the dream at least will serve 
 no other master, and the room may have a sco’*e, and 
 every one of them may change, neglect, misuse H." 
 
 But his uncle was not to be left alone in the little b‘»ck- 
 parlour, where he was then sitting by himself ; for Cap- 
 
WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 tain 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. 
 
 “ Uncle,” he said gaily, laying his hand upon the old 
 man’s shoulder, what shall I send you home from Bar- 
 bados?” 
 
 “Hope, my dear Wally. Hope that we shall meet 
 again, on this side of the grave. Send me as much of 
 that as you can.” 
 
 “ So I will, uncle ; I have enough and to spare, and 
 I’ll not be chary of it I 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 
 shiploads, uncle : when I’m rich enough.” 
 
 Old Sol wiped his spectacles, and faintly smiled. 
 
 “ That right, uncle ! ” cried Walter, merrily, and 
 clapping him half a dozen times more upon the shoulder. 
 
 You cheer up me i I’ll cheer up you ! We’ll be as gay 
 as larks to-morrow morning, uncle, and we’ll fly as high ! 
 A 02 to my anticipations, they are singing out of sight 
 now. ” 
 
 “Wally, my dear boy,” returned the old man, “I’l/ 
 do my best. I’ll do my best. 
 
 “ And your best, uncle,” said Walter, with his pleasant 
 laugh, “ is the best that I know. You’ll not forget what 
 you’re to send me, uncle ? ” 
 
 “No, Wally, no,” replied the old man ; “ everything 
 I hear about Miss Dombey, now that she is left alone, 
 poor lamb. I’ll write. I fear it won’t be much though, 
 Wally.” 
 
 “ Why, I’ll tell you what, uncle,” said Walter, after a 
 moment’s hesitation, “ I have just been up there.” 
 
 “Ay, ay, ay?” murmured the old man, raising his 
 eyebrows, and his spectacles with them. 
 
 “Not to see said Walter, “ though I could have 
 seen her, I dare say, if I had asked, Mr. Dombey being 
 out of town ; but to say a parting word to Susan. 1 
 thought I might venture to do that, you know, under the 
 circumstances, and remembering when I saw Miss Dom- 
 bey last.” 
 
 “Yes, my boy, yes,” replied his uncle, rousing him' 
 self from a temporary abstraction. 
 
 “ So I saw her,” pursued Walter. “ Susan, I mean : 
 and I told her I was ofl 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 
 ^ou think so?” 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 1 
 
 “ Yes, my boy, yes,’’ replied his uncle, in the tone as 
 before. 
 
 ‘'And I added,” pursued Walter, " that if she— Susan 
 I mean — could ever let you know, either through herself 
 or Mrs. 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.” 
 
 His honest voice and manner corroborated what he 
 said, and quite established its ingenuousness. 
 
 "So, if you ever see her, uncle,” said Walter, "I 
 mean Miss Dombey now — and perhaps you may, who 
 knows ! — tell her how much I felt for her ; how much I 
 used to think of her when I was here ; how I spoke of 
 her, with the tears in my eyes, uncle, on this last night 
 before I went away. Tell her that I said I never could 
 forget her gentle manner, or her beautiful face, or her 
 sweet kind disposition that was better than all. And as 
 I didn’t take them from a woman’s feet, or a young lady’s ; 
 only a little innocent child’s,” said Walter : "tell her if 
 you don’t mind, uncle, th«t I kept those shoes — she’ll 
 remember how often they fell oif, that night — and took 
 them away with me as a remembrance ! ” 
 
 They were at that very moment going out at the door 
 in one of Walter’s trunks. A porter carrying off his 
 baggage on a truck for shipment at the docks on board 
 the Son and Heir, hud got possession of them : and 
 wheeled them away under the very eye of the insensible 
 Midshipman before their owner had well finished speak- 
 ing. 
 
 But that ancient mariner might have been excused 
 his insensibility to the treasure as it rolled away. For, 
 under his eye at the same moment, accurately within 
 his range of observation, coming full into the sphere of 
 his ‘startled and intensely wide-awake look-out, were 
 Florence and Susan Nipper ; Florence looking up into 
 his face half timidly, and receiving the whole shock of 
 his wooden ogling ! 
 
 More than this, they passed into the shop, and passed 
 in at the 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, 
 
 "Why uncle!” exclaimed Walter. "What’s the 
 matter? ” 
 
8 WOEKS OF CHAELES DICKENS. 
 
 Old Solomon replied, Miss Dombey ! 
 
 /‘Is it possible cried Walter, looking round and 
 starting up in bis turn. “ Here ! ’’ 
 
 Why it was so possible and so actual, tbat, while the 
 words were on his lips, Florence hurried past him ; took 
 Uncle Sobs snuff-coloured lappels, one in each hand ; 
 kissed him on the cheek ; and turning, ga7e her hand 
 to Walter with a simple truth and earnestness that was 
 her own, and no one else’s in the world ! 
 
 “Going away, Walter ! ” said Florence. 
 
 “ Yes, Miss Dombey,” he replied, but not so hope- 
 fully as he endeavoured : “ I have a voyage before me.” 
 
 “And your uncle,” said Florence, looking back at 
 Solomon. ‘ ‘ He is sorry you are going, I am sure. Ah I 
 I see he is ! Dear Walter, I am very sorry too.” 
 
 “ Goodness knows,” exclaimed Miss Nipper, “there’s 
 a many we could spare instead, if numbers is a object, 
 Mrs. Pipchin as a overseer would come cheap at her 
 weight in gold, and if a knowledge of black slavery 
 should be required, them Blimbers is the very people for 
 the sitiwation.” 
 
 With that Miss Nipper untied her bonnet strings, and 
 after looking vacantly for some moments into a little 
 black tea-pot that was set forth with the usual homely 
 service, on the table, shook her head and a tin canister, 
 and began unasked to make the tea. 
 
 In the meantime Florence had turned again to the 
 Instrument-maker, who was as full of admiration as 
 surprise. “ So grown I ” said old Sol. “So improved ! 
 And yet not altered I Just the same ! ” 
 
 “ Indeed ! ” said Florence. 
 
 “Ye — yes,” returned old Sol, rubbing his hands 
 slowly, and considering the matter* half aloud, as some- 
 thing pensive in the bright eyes looking at him arrested 
 his attention. “Yes, that expression was in the younger 
 face too ! ” 
 
 “You remember me,” said Florence with a smile, 
 
 and what a little creature 1 was then ? ” 
 
 “ 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 — ” 
 
 “Was he?” said Florence. “ Thank you, Walter ! Oh 
 thank you Walter I 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. 
 
 Yet Walter did not hold H as he might have held it 
 once, nor did its touch awaken those old day-dreams of 
 
TOOK UNCLE SOL’S SNUFF-COLORED LAPPELS, ONE IN EACH HAND; 
 KISSED HIM ON THE CHEEK, ETC. 
 
 — Dombey and Son, Vol. Twelve, page 9 
 
10 
 
 WOEKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 his b©.yhood that had floated past him sometimes evem 
 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 tend- 
 ing, and the love the child had borne her : and on the 
 wings of such remembrances she seemed to rise up, far 
 above his idle fancies, into clearer and serener air. 
 
 I — I am afraid I must call you Walter’s uncle, sir, 
 said Florence to the old man, if you’ll let me.” 
 
 My dear young lady,” cried old Sol. Let you ! 
 Good gracious ! ” 
 
 “ We always knew you by that name, and talked of 
 you,” said Florence, glancing round and sighing gently. 
 ‘'The nice old parlour I Just the samel How well I 
 recollect it ! ” 
 
 Old Sol looked first at her, then at his nephew, and 
 then rubbed his hands, and rubbed his spectacles, and 
 said below his breath, " Ah ! time, time, time ! ” 
 
 There was a short silence ; during which Susan Nipper 
 skilfully impounded two extra cups and saucers from the 
 cupboard, and awaited the drawing of the tea with a 
 thoughtful air. 
 
 1 want to tell Walter^s ^cle,” 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 ? ” 
 
 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 sky- 
 light. 
 
 "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 ?’*’ 
 
 The sweet face looking into his, the gently pleading 
 eyes, the soft voice, and the light touch on his arm 
 made the more winning by a child’s respect and honour 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 11 
 
 foi 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 onlj? 
 £t,nswered : 
 
 Wally I say a word for me, my dear. Fm very grate-^ 
 fui.’* 
 
 ‘‘ 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.” 
 
 The regretful tone in which she said these latter 
 words touched Walter more than all the rest. 
 
 ‘"Miss Florence,” he replied, with an effort to recover 
 the cheerful manner he had preserved while talking 
 with his uncle, ‘‘ I know no more than my uncle, what 
 to say in acknowledgment of such kindness, I am sure. 
 But what could I say, after all, if I had the power of 
 talking for an hour, except that it is like you ? ” 
 
 Susan Nipper began upon a new part of her bonnet- 
 string, and nodded at the skylight, in approval of the 
 sentiment expressed. 
 
 Oh ! but Walter,” said Florence, ‘‘there is some- 
 thing that I wish to say to you before you go away, and 
 you must call me Florence if you please, and not speak 
 like a stranger.” 
 
 “Like a stranger!” returned Walter. “No. I 
 couldn’t speak so. I am sure, at least, I couldn’t feel 
 like one.” 
 
 “ Ay, but that is not enough, and is not what I mean. 
 For Walter,” added Florence, bursting into tears, “he 
 liked you very much, and said before he died that he 
 v/as fond of you, and said ‘ Remember Walter ! ’ and 
 if you’ll be a brother to me Walter, now that he is gone 
 and 1 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 wish to say, dear Walter, but I cannot say it 
 as I would, because my heart is full.” 
 
 And in its fulness and its sweet simplicity, she held out 
 both her hands to him. Walter taking them, stooped 
 down and touched the tearful face that neither shrunk 
 nor turned away, nor reddened as he did so, but looked 
 up at him with confidence and truth. In that one mo« 
 ment every shadow of doubt or agitation passed away 
 from Walter’s soul. It seemed to him that he responded 
 to her innocent appeal, beside the dead child’s bed : and, 
 in the solemn presence he had seen there, pledged him- 
 self to cherish and protect her very image, in his banish- 
 ment, with brotherly regard ; to garner up her simple 
 faith, inviolate ; and hold himself degraded if he 
 breathed upon it any thought that was not in her own 
 breast when she gave it to him. 
 
12 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLBS DICKENS. 
 
 Susan Nipper, who had bitten both her bpnnet-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 super* 
 intendence ; and the presence of Florence in the bacl^ 
 parlour brightened the Tartar frigate on the wall. 
 
 Half an hour ago, Walter, for his life, would have 
 hardly called her by her name. But he could do so now 
 when she entreated him. He could think of her being 
 there, without a lurking misgiving that it would have 
 been better if she had not come. He could calmly think 
 how beautiful she was, how full of promise, what a 
 home some happy man would find in such a heart one 
 day. He could reflect upon his own place in that heart, 
 with pride ; and with a brave determination, if not to 
 deserve it — he still thought that far above him — never 
 to deserve it less. 
 
 Some fairy influence must surely have hovered round 
 the hands of Susan Nipper when she made the tea, en- 
 gendering the tranquil air that reigned in the back par- 
 lour 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 re- 
 ferred 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 au- 
 thority. . If Uncle Sol had been going to be hanged by 
 his own time, he never would have allowed that the 
 chronometer was too fast, by the least fraction of a 
 second. 
 
 Florence at parting recapitulated to the old man all 
 that she had said before, and bound him to their com- 
 pact. Uncle Sol attended her lovingly to the legs of the 
 wooden Midshipman, and there resigned her to Walter, 
 who was ready to escort her and Susan Nipper to the 
 coach. 
 
 Walter," said Florence by the way, have been 
 afraid to ask before your uncle. Do you think you will 
 be absent very long? " 
 
 Indeed," said Walter, don't know. I fear so. 
 Mr. Dombey signified as much, I thought, when he ap- 
 pointed me." 
 
 '^Is it a favour, Walter?" inquired Florence, after a 
 moment's hesitation, and looking anxiously in his face. 
 
 The appointment?" returned Walter. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 13 
 
 ‘'Yes.” 
 
 Walter would have given anything to have answered 
 in the affirmative, but his face answered before his lips 
 could, and Florence was too attentive to it not to under- 
 stand its reply. 
 
 “ I am afraid you have scarcely been a favourite with 
 papa,” she said, timidly. 
 
 “There is no reason,” replied Walter smiling, “why 
 I should be.” 
 
 “No reason, Walter !” 
 
 “ There was no reason,” said Walter, understanding 
 what she meant. “ There are many people employed in 
 the house. Between Mr. Dombey and a young man 
 like me, there's a wide space of separation. If I do 
 my duty, I do what I ought, and do no more than all the 
 rest.” 
 
 Had Florence any misgiving of which she was hardly 
 conscious : any misgiving that had sprung into an indis- 
 tinct 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 dis- 
 pleasure 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. 
 
 “You may come back very soon,” said Florence, 
 “perhaps, Walter.” 
 
 “ I may come back,” said Walter, “an old man and 
 find you an old lady. But I hope for better things.” 
 
 “Papa,” said Florence, after a moment, “ will-rwill 
 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 re- 
 call you for my sake.” 
 
 There was a touching modulation in these words about 
 her father that Walter understood too well. 
 
 The coach being close at hand, he would have left her 
 without speaking, for now he felt what parting was ; 
 but Florence held his hand when she was seated, and 
 then he found there was a little packet in her own. 
 
 “Walter,” she said, looking full upon him with her 
 affectionate eyes, “ like you T 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 1 never forget me. 
 You are my brother, dear ! ” 
 
14 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 He was glad that Susan Mpper came between them, 
 or he might have left her with a sorrowful remembrance 
 of him. He was glad too that she did not look out of the 
 coach again, but waved the little hand to him instead, 
 as long as he could see it. 
 
 In spite of her request he could not help opening the 
 packet that night when he went to bed. It was a little 
 purse : and there was money in it. 
 
 Bright rose the sun next morning, from his absence in 
 strange countries, and up rose Walter with it to receive 
 the captain, who was already at the door : having turned 
 out earlier than was necessary, in order to g;pt under 
 weigh while Mrs. MacStinger was yet slumbering. The 
 captain pretended to be in tip-top spirits, and brought 
 a very smoky tongue in one of the pockets of the broad 
 blue coat for breakfast. 
 
 ‘^And Wahr,’’ said the captain, when they took their 
 seats at table, if your uncle’s the man I think him, lieTl 
 bring out the last bottle of the Madeira on the present 
 occasion.” 
 
 No, no, Ned,” returned the old man. ‘‘ No ! -hat 
 shall be opened when Walter comes home again.” 
 
 Well said ! ” cried the captain. Hear him 1 ” 
 
 “ There it lies,” said Sol Gills, ‘'down in the little cel- 
 lar, covered with dirt and cobv/ebs. There may be dirt 
 and cobwebs over you and me perhaps, Ned, before it 
 sees the light.” 
 
 “Hear him!” cried the captain. “Good morality 1 
 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. Over- 
 haul the — Well,” said the captain on second thoughts, 
 “I ainT quite certain where that’s to be found ; but 
 when found, make a note of. Sol Gills, heave a-head 
 again i ” 
 
 “ But there or somwhere it shall lie, Ned, until Wally 
 comes back to claim it,” said the old man. “ That’s all 
 I meant to say. ” 
 
 “And well said too,” returned the captain ; “and if 
 we three don’t crack that bottle in company. I’ll give you 
 two leave to drink my allowance ! ” 
 
 Notwithstanding the captain’s excessive joviality, he 
 ma(%? but a poor hand at the smoky tongue, though he 
 triea very hard, when anybody looked at him, to appear 
 as if he were eating with a vast appetite. He was terri- 
 bly afraid, likewise, of being left alone with either uncle 
 or nephew ; appearing to consider that his only chance of 
 safety as to keeping up appearances, was in there being 
 ahrays three together. This terror on the part of the 
 captain, reduced him to such ingenious evasions as run- 
 ning to the door, when Solomon w^ent to put his coat on, 
 under pretence of having seen an extraordinary hackney- 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 15 
 
 coacb pass : and darting out into the road when Walter 
 went up-stairs 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 ob- 
 server. 
 
 Walter was coming down from his parting expedition 
 up-stairs, and was crossing the shop to go back to the 
 little parlour, when he saw a faded face he knew, look- 
 ing in at the door, and darted towards it. 
 
 Mr. Carker ! ” cried Walter, pressing the hand of John 
 Carker the Junior. Pray come in ! This is kind of 
 you, to be here so early to say good bye to me. You 
 knew how glad it would make me to shake hands with 
 you, once, before going away. I cannot say how glad I 
 am to have this opportunity. Pray come in.” 
 
 It is not likely that we may ever meet again, Wal- 
 ter " returned the other, gently resisting his invitation, 
 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 ap- 
 proaches, Walter, any more.” 
 
 There was a melancholy in his smile as he said it, that 
 showed he had found some company and friendship for 
 his thoughts even in that. 
 
 Ah, Mr. Carker I ” returned Walter. Why did you 
 resist them ? You could have done me nothing but good, 
 1 am very sure.” 
 
 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.” 
 
 “ 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 
 nears from me. I have not,” said Walter, noticing his 
 hesitation, and speaking with embarrassment himself : 
 
 "I have not told him anything about our last conversa- 
 tion, Mr. Carker ; not even him, believe me.” 
 
 The gray Junior pressed his hand, and tears rose in his 
 eyes. 
 
 “ If ever I 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 consider- 
 ation. It would be to wrong it, not to tell him all the 
 truth, before I sought a word of confidence from him. 
 But I have no friend or acquaintance except you : and 
 even for your sake, am little likely to make any.” 
 
 “ I wish,” said Walter, “ you had suffered me to be your 
 friend indeed. I always wished it, Mr. Carker, as you 
 
1C 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 know ! but never lialf sp mucli as now, when we are go. 
 ing to part.'' 
 
 It is enough," replied the other, that you have been 
 the friend of my own breast, and that when I have avoids 
 ed you most^ my heart inclined the most towards you, 
 and was fullest of you. Walter, good bye ! " 
 
 Good bye, Mr. Garker. Heaven be with you, sir ! 
 cried Walter, with emotion. 
 
 If," said the other, retaining his hand while he 
 spoke ; ‘‘If when you come back, you miss me from my 
 old corner, and should hear from 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 my time is coming on, that 
 some one like my former self may stand there, for a mo> 
 ment, and remember me with pity and forgiveness i 
 Walter, good bye ! " 
 
 His figure crept like a shadow down the bright, sun- 
 lighted street, so cheerful yet so solemn in the early 
 summer morning ; and slowly passed away. 
 
 The relentless chronometer at last announced that Wah 
 ter must turn his back upon the Wooden Midshipman , 
 and away they went, himself, his uncle, and the cap- 
 tain, in a hackney-coach to a wharf, where they were to 
 take steamboat for some Reach down the river, the name 
 of which, as the captain gave it out, was a hopeless 
 mystery to the ears ot 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 unintellig 
 ible 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 
 be-draggled 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. 
 
 The caxjtain immediately drew Walter into a corner, 
 and with a great effort, that made his face very red, 
 pulled up the silver watch which was so big, and so 
 tight in his pocket, that it came out like a bung. 
 
 “ Wal'r," said the captain, handing it over, and shak- 
 ing him heartily by the hand, “ a parting gift, my lad. 
 Put it back half an hour every morning, and about an- 
 other quarter towards the afternoon, and it's a watofe 
 that'll do you credit." 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 17 
 
 Captain Cuttle 1 I couldn’t think of it!” cried 
 Walter, detaining him, for he was running away. Pray 
 take it back. I have one already.” 
 
 ‘‘ Then Wal’r,” said the captain, suddenly diving in- 
 to one of his pockets and bringing up the two tea-spoons 
 and a sugar-tongs, with which he had armed himself to 
 meet such an objection, ‘Hake this here trifle of plate, 
 instead.” 
 
 “No, no, I couldn’t, indeed 1 ” cried Walter, ‘ ‘ a thous- 
 and thanks I Don’t throw them away. Captain Cuttle ! ” 
 for the captain was about to Jerk them overboard. 
 “They’ll be of much more use to you than me. Give 
 me your stick. I have often thought that I should like 
 to have it. There ! Good bye, Captain Cuttle ! Take care 
 of my uncle ! Uncle Sol, God bless you ! ” 
 
 They were over the side in the confusion, before Wal- 
 ter caught another glimpse of either ; and when he ran 
 up to the stern, and looked after them, he saw his undo 
 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 hope- 
 fully with the tea-spoons and sugar-tongs. Catching 
 sight of Walter, Captain Cuttle dropped the property 
 into the bottom of the. boat with perfect unconcern, being 
 evidently oblivious of its existence, and pulling off the 
 glazed hat hailed him lustily. The glazed hat made 
 quite a show in the sun with its glistening, and the cap- 
 tain 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. 
 
 Day and 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 up-stairs, so 
 lonely, to the attic where it sometimes blew great guns, 
 he looked up at the stars and listened to the wind, and 
 kept a longer watch than would have fallen to his lot on 
 board the ship. The last bottle of the old Madeira, 
 which had had its cruising days, and known its dangers 
 of the deep, lay silently beneath its dust and cobwebs, in 
 the meanwhile, undisturbed. 
 
18 
 
 WOKKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Mr. Dombey goes upo?i a Journey. 
 
 ‘‘Mr. Dombey, sir,’’ said Major Bagstock, “Joey B. is 
 not in general a man of sentiment, for Joseph is tough. 
 But Joe has his feelings, sir, and when they are awak- 
 ened — Damme Mr. Dombey,” cried the major with sud- 
 den ferocity, “this is weakness, and I won’t submit to 
 it ! ” 
 
 Major Bagstock delivered himself of these expressions 
 on receiving Mr. Dombey as his guest at the head of his 
 own staircase in Princess’s-place. Mr. Dombey had come 
 to breakfast with the major, previous to their setting 
 forth on their trip ; and the ill-starred native had 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. 
 
 “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 feroc- 
 ity, “ I condole with you ! ” 
 
 The major’s purple visage deepened in its hue, and the 
 major’s lobster eyes stood out in bolder relief, as he 
 shook Mr. Dombey by the hand, imparting to that peace- 
 ful action as defiant a character as if it had been the pre- 
 lude to his immediately boxing Mr. Dombey for a thous^ 
 and 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 
 %nd frankness of a travelling companion. 
 
 “ Dombey,” said the major, “ I’m glad to see you. 
 I’m proud to see you. There are not many men in 
 Europe to whom J. Bagstock would say that — for Josh is 
 blunt, sir : it’s his nature — but Joey B. is proud to see 
 you, Dombey.” 
 
 “ Major,” returned Mr. Dombey, “ you are very oblig- 
 img.” 
 
 “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 reso- 
 lutely, “ it’s an honour to me [ ” 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 19 
 
 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 agreeable. It was a confirmation to Mr. Dom- 
 bey, 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 Ex- 
 change. 
 
 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, think- 
 ing of the baby question, he could hardly forbear inquir- 
 ing, himself, what could it do indeed : what had it done ? 
 
 But these were lonely thoughts, bred late at night in 
 the sullen despondency and gloom of his retirement, and 
 pride easily found its re-assurance in many testimonies 
 to the truth, as unimpeachable and precious as the ma- 
 jor's. Mr. Dombey, in his friendliness, 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 sea-side. 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, un- 
 examined. 
 
 ‘‘ Where is my scoundrel ! " said the major, looking 
 wrathfully round the room. 
 
 The native, who had no particular name, but answered 
 to any vituperative epithet, presented himself instantly 
 at the door and ventured to come no nearer. 
 
 You villain ! ” said the choleric major, where's the 
 bs’eakfast ? " 
 
20 
 
 WOIiKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 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 ali 
 the way up. 
 
 “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.” 
 
 “Very excellent fare, major,” replied his guest ; and 
 not in mere politeness either ; for the major always took 
 the best possible care of himself, and indeed ate rather 
 more of rich meats than was good for him, insomuch that 
 his Imperial complexion was mainly referred by the 
 faculty to that circumstance. 
 
 “ You have been looking over the way, sir,” observed 
 the major. “ Have you seen our friend? ” 
 
 “ You mean Miss Tox,” retorted Mr. Dombey. “ No.” 
 
 “ Charming woman, sir,” said the major, with a fat 
 laugh rising in his short throat, and nearly suffocating 
 him. 
 
 “ Miss Tox is a very good sort of person, I believe,” 
 replied Mr. Hombey. 
 
 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. 
 
 “ Old Joe, sir,” said the major, “ was a bit of a favour- 
 ite in that quarter once. But Joe has had his day. J. 
 Bagstock is extinguished— outrivalled— floored, sir. I 
 tell you what, Dombey.” The major paused in his eat- 
 ing, and looked mysteriously indignant. “That’s a de. 
 vilisli ambitious woman, sir.” 
 
 Mr. Hombey said “ Indeed ! ” with a frigid indiffer- 
 ence : mingled perhaps with some contemptuous incred^ 
 ulity as to Miss Tox having the presumption to harbour 
 such a superior quality. 
 
 “ That woman, sir,” said the major, “is, in her way 
 a Lucifer. Joey B. has had his day sir, but he keeps 
 his eyes. He sees, does Joe. His Royal Highness the 
 late Duke of York observed of Joey, at a levee, that he 
 saw.” 
 
 The major accompanied this with such a look, and 
 between eating, drinking, hot tea, devilled grill, muffins 
 and meaning, was altogether so swollen and inflamed 
 about the head, that even Mr. Hombey showed some 
 anxiety for him. 
 
 “ That ridiculous old spectacle, sir,” pursued the majoi 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 21 
 
 aspires. She aspires sky-high, sir. Matrimonially, 
 Dombey.’" 
 
 I am sorry for her/’ said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 Don’t say that, Dombey,” returned the major in a 
 warning voice. 
 
 Why should I not, major?” said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 The major gave no answer but the horse’s cough, and 
 went on eating vigororously. 
 
 She has taken an interest in your household,” said 
 the major, stopping short again, and been a frequent 
 visitor at your house for some time now.” 
 
 Yes,” replied Mr. Dombey with great stateliness. 
 Miss Tox was originally received there, at the time of 
 Mrs. Dombey’s death, as a friend of my sister’s ; and 
 being a well-behaved person, and showing a liking for 
 the poor infant, she was permitted — I may say encour- 
 aged — 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 im 
 significant services perhaps, major, but not to be dis^ 
 paraged on that account : and I hope I have had the 
 good fortune to be enabled to acknowledge them by 
 such attention and notice as it has been in my power to 
 bestow. I hold myself indebted to Miss Tox, major,” 
 added Mr. Dombey, with a slight wave of his hand, ‘‘for 
 the pleasure of your acquaintance, 
 
 “Dombey,” said the major warmly ; “ no ! No, sir ! 
 Joseph Bagstock can never permit that assertion to pass 
 uncontradicted. Your knowledge of old Joe, sir, such 
 as he is, and old Joo’s knowledge of you, sir, had its 
 origin in a noble fellow, sir — in a great creature, sir. 
 Dombey ! ” said the major, with a struggle which it was 
 not very difficult to parade, his whole life being a strug- 
 gle against all kinds of apoplectic symptoms, “ we knew 
 each other through your boy.” 
 
 Mr. Dombey seemed touched, as it is not improbable 
 the major designed he should be, by this allusion. He 
 looked down and sighed : and the major, rousing him- 
 self fiercely, again said, in reference to the state of mind 
 into which he felt himself in danger of falling, that 
 !his was weakness, and nothing should induce him to 
 submit to it. 
 
 “ Our friend had a remote connexion with that event,” 
 said the major, “ and all the credit that belongs to her, 
 J. B. is 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 
 
22 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 flowers, you’re a scheming jade, ma’am, and your ambi- 
 tion 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 ob- 
 jection, I assure you, on the part of Bagstock.” Here 
 the major laughed frightfully up in the tips of his ears 
 and in the veins of his head. “But when, ma’am/'" 
 said the major, “ you compromise other people, and gen- 
 erous unsuspicious people too, as a repayment for their 
 condescension, you stir the blood of old Joe in his body.” 
 
 “Major,” said Mr. Dombey, reddening, “I hope you 
 do not hint at anything so absurd on the part of Miss 
 Tox as — ” 
 
 “Dombey,” returned the major, “I hint at 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 de-vilish artful and 
 ambitious woman over the way.” 
 
 Mr. Dombey involuntarily glanced over the way ; and 
 an angry glance he sent in that direction, too. 
 
 “ That’s all on such a subject that shall pass the lips 
 of Joseph 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.” 
 
 The emotion of this outbreak threw the major into a 
 paroxysm of horse’s coughs, which held him for a long 
 time. On recovering he added : 
 
 “And now, Dombey, as you have invited Joe — old 
 Joe, who has no other merit, sir, but that he is tough 
 and hearty — to be your 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, 
 ail of you ; but this I know, sir, that if he wasn’t 
 pretty tough, and obstinate in his refusals, you’d kill 
 Mm among you with your invitations, and so forth, in 
 double quick time.” 
 
 Mr. Dombey, in a few words, expressed his sense of 
 the preference he received over those other distinguished 
 members of society who were clamoring for the posses- 
 sion of Major Bagstock. But the major cut him short 
 by giving him to understand that he followed his own 
 inclinations, and that they had rison up in a body and 
 said with one accord, “ J. B,, Dombey is the man for 
 you to choose as a friend.” 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 23 
 
 I'lie major being by this time in a state of repletion, 
 with essence of savoury pie oozing out at the corners of 
 his eyes, and deviUed grill and kidneys tightening his 
 cravat : and the time moreover approaching for the de- 
 parture of the railwa}^ 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 wash-leather gloves, his thick 
 stick, and his hat ; which latter article the major wore 
 with a rakish air, on one side of his head, by way of 
 toning down his remarkable visage. The native had 
 previously packed, in all possible and impossible parts 
 of Mr. Dombey’s chariot, which was in waiting, an un- 
 usual quantity of carpet-bags and small portmanteaus, 
 no less apoplectic in appearance than the major himself : 
 and having filled his own pockets, with Seltzer water. 
 East India sherry, sandwiches, shawls, telescopes, maps, 
 and newspapers, any or all of which light baggage the 
 . major might require at any instant of the journey, he 
 announced that everything was ready. To complete 
 the equipment of this unfortunate foreigner (currently 
 believed to be a prince in his‘ own country), when ha 
 took his seat in the rumble by the side of Mr. Towlin- 
 son, a pile of the major’s cloaks and great-coats was 
 hurled upon him by the landlord, who aimed at him 
 from the pavement with those great missiles like a Titan, 
 and so covered him up, that he proceeded in a living 
 tomb to the railroad station. 
 
 But before the carriage moved away, and while the na,- 
 tive was in the act of sepulture. Miss Tox appearing at her 
 window, waved a lily-white handkerchief. Mr. Dombey 
 received this parting salutation very coldly — very coldly, 
 even for him — and honouring her with the slightest pos- 
 sible 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. 
 
 During the bustle of preparation at the railway, Mr. 
 Dombey and the major walked up and down the plat- 
 form side by side ; the former taciturn and gloomy, and 
 the latter entertaining him, or entertaining himself, 
 with a variety of anecdotes and reminiscences, in mc«t 
 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, nnd who touched his 
 
24 WORKB OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 hat every^time they passed ; for Mr. Dombey habitually 
 looked over the vulgar herd, not at them ; and the ma= 
 jor was looking, at the time, into the core of one of his 
 stories. At length, lioweve'^, this man stepped before 
 them as they turned round, and pulling his hat off, and 
 keeping it off, ducked his head to Mr. Dombey. 
 
 ‘‘ Beg your pardon, sir,’’ said the man, ‘‘but I hope 
 you’re a doin’ pretty well, sir.” 
 
 He was dressed in a canvas suit abundantly besmeared 
 with coal-dust and oil, and had cinders in his whiskers, 
 and a smell of half -slaked ashes all over him. He was 
 not a bad -looking fellow, nor even what could be fairly 
 called a dirty -looking fellow, in spite of this ; and, in 
 short, he was Mr. Toodle, professionally clothed. 
 
 shall have the honour of stokin’ of you down, sir,’’^ 
 said Mr. Toodle. ‘‘Beg your pardon, sir. I hope you 
 dnd yourself a coming round ? ” 
 
 Mr. Dombey looked at him, in return for his tone of 
 interest, as if a man like that would make his very eye- 
 sight dirty. 
 
 “’Scuse the liberty, sir,” said Toodle, seeing he was 
 not clearly remembered, “but my wife Polly, as was 
 called Richards in your family — ” 
 
 A ciiange in Mr. Dombey ’s face, which seemed to ex- 
 press recollection of him and so it did, but it expressed 
 in a much stronger degree an angry sense of humiliation, 
 stopped Mr. Toodle short. 
 
 “ Your wife wants money, I suppose,” said Mr. Dom- 
 bey, putting his hand in his pocket, and speaking (but 
 that he always did) haughtily. 
 
 “No thank’ee, sir,” returned Toodle, “I can’t say 
 she does, /don’t.” 
 
 Mr. Dombey was stopped short now in his turn : and 
 awkwardly : with his hand in his pocket. 
 
 “ No sir,” said Toodle, turning his oilskin cap round 
 and round ; “ we’re a doin’ pretty well sir ; “ we haven’t 
 no cause to complain in the worldly way, sir. We’ve 
 had four more since then, sir, but we rubs on.” 
 
 Mr. Dombey would have rubbed on to his own car- 
 riage, though in so doing he had rubbed the stoker under- 
 neath the wheels ; but his attention was arrested by 
 something in connection with the cap still going slowly 
 round and round in the man’s hand. 
 
 “\¥e lost one babby,” observed Toodle, “there’s no 
 deny in’.” 
 
 “ Lately,” added Mr. Dombey, looking at the cap. 
 
 “ No, sir, up’ard of three years ago, but all the rest is 
 hearty. And in the matter o’ readin’ sir,” said Toodle, 
 ducking again, as if to remind Mr. Dombey of what had 
 passed between them on that subject long ago, “them 
 boys o' mine, they learned me, among ’em, aider all. 
 
DOIViHF.Y AND SON. 
 
 25 
 
 riieyH’-e made a wery tolerable scholar of me, sir, them 
 boys.^’ 
 
 ‘‘ Come, major ! ’’ said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 Beg your pardon, sir,’’ resumed Toodle, taking a 
 step before them and deferentially stopping them again, 
 still cap in hand : I wouldn’t have troubled you 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.” 
 
 ''Well, man,” said Mr. Dombey in his severest man- 
 ner. '' What about him ? ” 
 
 "Why, sir,” returned Toodle, shaking his head with 
 a face of great anxiety and distress. " I’m forced to 
 cay, sir, that he’s gone wrong.” 
 
 "He has gone wrong, has he?” said Mr. Dombey, 
 with a hard kind of satisfaction. 
 
 " He has fell into bad company, you see, gentlemen,” 
 pursued the father, looking wistfully at both, and evi- 
 dently taking the major into the conversation with the 
 hope of having his sympathy. ‘ ' He has got into bad 
 ways. God send he may come to again, genelmen, but 
 he’s on the wrong track now ! You could hardly bo of^ 
 hearing of it somehow, sir,” said Toodle, again address- 
 ing Mr. Dombey individually ; "and it’s better I should 
 out and say my boy’s gone rather wrong. Polly’s dread- 
 ful down about it, genelmen,” said Toodle, with the 
 same dejected look, and another appeal to the major, 
 
 ' ' A son of this man’s whom I caused to be educated, 
 major,” said Mr. Dombey, giving him his arm. " The 
 usual return ! ” 
 
 " Take advice from plain old Joe, and never educate 
 that sort of people, sir,” returned the major. " Damme 
 sir, it never does ! It always fails ! ” 
 
 The simple father was beginning to submit that he 
 hoped his son, the quondam Grinder, huffed and cuffed, 
 and flogged and badged, and taught, as parrots are, by 
 a brute jobbed into his place of schoolmaster with as 
 much fitness for it as a hound, might not have been edu- 
 cated on quite a right plan in some undiscovered respect, 
 when Mr. Dombey angrily repeating " The usual re- 
 turn ! ” 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. 
 
 Mr. Dombey assented bitterly ; but ihere was some* 
 VoL. 
 
-Dombey and Son, Vol. Twelve, page 516. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 37 
 
 thing* more in his bitterness, and in his moody way of 
 falling* back in the^ carriage, and looking with knitted 
 brows at the changing objects without, than the failure 
 of that noble educational system administered by the 
 Grinders’ Company. He had seen upon the man’s rough 
 cap a piece of new crape, and he had assured himself, 
 from his manner and his answers, that he wore it for his 
 son. 
 
 So ! from high to low, at home or abroad, from Flor- 
 ence in his great house to the coarse churl who was 
 feeding the fire then smoking before them, every one set 
 up some claim or other to a share in his dead boy, and 
 was a bidder against him ! Could he ever forget how 
 that woman had wept over his pillow, and called him 
 her own child 1 or how he, waking from his sleep, had 
 asked for her, and had raised himself in his bed and 
 brightened when she came in ! 
 
 To think of this presumptuous raker among oals 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 hild, 
 who was to have divided with him his riches, and his 
 projects, and his power, and allied with whom he was to 
 nave shut out all the world as with a double door of 
 gold, should have let in such a herd to insult him with 
 thei” knowledge of his defeated hopes, and their boasts 
 of claiming community of feeling with himself, so far 
 removed : if not of having crept into the place wherein 
 he would have lorded it alone ! 
 
 He found no pleasure or relief in the journey. Tor- 
 tured by these thoughts he carried monotony with him, 
 through the rushing landscape, and hurried headlong, 
 not through a rich and varied country, but a wilderness 
 of bkghted 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 a-nd 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 ! 
 
 Away, with a shriek, and a roar and a rattle, from the 
 town, burrowing among the dwellings of men and mak= 
 ing the streets hum, hashing 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 
 
2S 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 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 dis- 
 tance ever moving slowly within him : like as in the 
 track of the remorseless monster. Death ! 
 
 Through the hollow, on the height, by the heath, by 
 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, land no 
 trace to leave behind but dust and vapor : like as in the 
 track of the remorseless monster. Death ! 
 
 Breasting the wind and light, the shower and sun- 
 shine, av/ay, 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 cot- 
 tage-homes, of houses, mansions, rich estates, of hus- 
 bandry, 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 indoniitable monster. 
 Death ! 
 
 Away, wjth 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 dark- 
 ness and v/hirbvind the motion seems reversed, and to 
 tend furiously backward, until a ray of light upon the 
 Vv^et 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 greed- 
 ily, and before the spout at which it drinks has ceased 
 to drip upon the ground, shrieking, roaring, rattling 
 through the purple distance ! 
 
 Louder and louder yet, it shrieks and cries as it comes 
 tearing on resistless to the goal : and now its way, 
 still like the way of Death, is strewn with ashes thickly. 
 Everything around is blackened. There are dark pools 
 of water, muddy lanes, and miserable habitations far 
 belov/. There are jagged w^alls and falling houses close 
 at hand, and through the battered roofs and broken win- 
 dows, wretched rooms are seen, wdiere want and fever 
 hide themselves in many wretched shapes, while smoke 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 39 
 
 and crowded gables, and distorted chimneys, and deform- 
 ity of brick and mortar penning up deformity of mind 
 and *^ody choke the murky distance. As Mr. Dombey 
 looks out of his carriage window, it is never in his 
 thoughts that the monster who has brought him there 
 has let the light of day in on these things : not made or 
 caused them. It was the journey’s fitting end, and 
 might have been the end of everything ; it was so ruin- 
 ous and dreary. 
 
 So, pursuing the one course of thought, he had 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 himc 
 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. 
 
 There was a face — he had looked upon it, on the previ- 
 ous night, and it on him with eyes that read his soul, 
 though they were dim with tears, and hidden soon be- 
 hind two quivering hands — that often had attended him 
 in fancy — on this ride. He had seen it, with the expres- 
 of last night, timidly pleading to him. It was not re- 
 
 E roachful, but there was something of doubt, almost of 
 opeful incredulity in it, which, as he once more saw 
 that fade away into a desolate certainty of his dislike, 
 was like reproach. It was a trouble to him to think of 
 this face of Florence. 
 
 Because he felt any new compunction towards it ? No. 
 Because the feeling it awakened in him — of which he 
 had had some old foreshadowing in older times — was 
 full-formed now, and spoke out plainly, moving him too 
 much, and threatening to grow too strong for his com- 
 posure. 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 
 lie knew full well, in his own breast, as he stood there, 
 tinging the scene of transition before him with the mor- 
 bid colours of his own mind, and making it a ruin and a 
 picture of decay, instead of hopeful change, and promise 
 of better things, that life had quite as much to do with 
 his complainings as death. One child was gone, and one 
 child left. Why was the object of his hope removed 
 instead of her ? 
 
 The sweet, calm, gentle presence in his fancy, moved 
 him to no reflection but that. She had been unv/elcome 
 to him from the first ; she was an aggravation of his bit- 
 terness now. If his son had been his only child, and the 
 same blow had fallen on him, it would have been heavy 
 
eo 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 to bear ; but infinitely lighter than now, when it might 
 have fallen on her (whom he could have lost, or he be- 
 lieved it, without a pang), and had not. Her loving and 
 innocent face rising before him, had no softening or 
 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 ? 
 
 The major, who had been blowing and panting all the 
 way down, like another engine, and whose eye had often 
 wandered from his newspaper to leer at the prospect, as 
 if there were a great procession of discomfited Miss Toxes 
 pouring out in the smoke of the train, and flying away 
 over the fields to hide themselves in any place of refuge, 
 aroused his friend by informing him that the post-horses 
 were harnessed and the carriage ready. 
 
 ^^Dombey,” said the major, rapping him on the arm 
 with his cane, don’t be thoughtful. It’s a bad habit. 
 Old Joe, sir, wouldn’t be as tough as you see him, if he 
 had ever encouraged it. ^ou are too great a man, Dom- 
 bey, to be thoughtful. In your position, sir, you’re far 
 above that kind of thing. ” 
 
 The major, even in his friendly remonstrances, 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 pov/ers than the 
 mode of travelling they had just relinquished, came out 
 for his entertainment. 
 
 In this flow of spirits and conversation, only inter- 
 rupted by his usual plethoric symptoms, and by inter- 
 vals of lunch, and from time to time by some violent as- 
 sault upon the native, who wore a pair of ear-rings in 
 his dark-brov/n ears, and on whom his European clothes 
 sat with an outlandish impossibility of adjustment — b©-' 
 ing, 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 at' 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 31 
 
 tacked him, by shrinking into them like a shrivelled nut 
 or a cold monkey — in this flow of spirits and conversa- 
 tion, the major continued all day : so that when evening 
 came on, and found them trotting through the green anq 
 leafy road near Leamington, the major’s voice, what 
 with talking and eating and chuckling and choking, ap- 
 peared to be in the box under the rumble, or in some 
 neighbouring haystack. 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. 
 
 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 pre- 
 fer remaining in his own room, or walking in the country 
 by himself, on that first day of their sojourn at Leaming- 
 ton ; 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 pufiing 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. 
 
 It was surprising how much new conversation the ma- 
 jor had to let off at dinner-time, and what occasion he 
 gave Mr. Dombey to admire his social qualities. At 
 breakfast next morning, he knew the contents of the 
 latest newspapers received ; and mentioned several sub- 
 jects in 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 him- 
 self, 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 im- 
 provement on his solitary life ; and in place of excusing 
 himself for another day, as he had thought of doing 
 ■ulien alone, walked out with the major arm-in-arm. 
 
32 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 New F(wes. 
 
 The major, more blue-faced and staring — more over^^ 
 ripe, as it were, than ever — and giving vent, every now 
 and then, to one of the horse’s coughs, not so much of 
 necessity as in a spontaneous explosion of 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 remon- 
 strating within himself for being such a captivating ob- 
 ject. They had not walked many yards before the ma- 
 jor 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 locali- 
 ties as they went, and enlivening the walk with any cur- 
 rent scandal suggested by them. 
 
 In this manner the major and Mr. Dombey were walk, 
 iug a^rm-in-arm, much to their own satisfaction, when 
 iftey 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 
 tosy — and her dress and attitude were perfectly juvenile. 
 Walking by the side of the chair, and carrying her gos- 
 samer 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 hand- 
 some, very haughty, very wilful, who tossed her head 
 and drooped her eyelids, as though, if there were any- 
 thing in all the world worth looking into save a mirror, 
 it certainly was not the earth or sky. 
 
 “ Why, what the devil have we here, sir ! ” cried the 
 major, stopping as this little cavalcade drew near. 
 
 '"My dearest Edith ! ” drawled the lady in the chair. 
 
 Major Bagstock ! ” 
 
 The major no sooner heard the voice than he relin- 
 quished Mr. Dombey’s arm, darted forward, took the 
 hand of the lady in the chair and pressed it to his lips. 
 With no less gallantry the major folded both his gloves 
 upon his heart, and bowed low to the 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- 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 33 
 
 pushed his strength, for when he stood upright he was 
 tal], and wa.n, and thin, and his plight appeared the more 
 forlorn from his having injured the shape of his hat, hy 
 butting at the carriage with his head to urge it forward, 
 as is sometimes done by elephants in Oriental conn-= 
 tries. 
 
 Joe Bagstock,’" said the major to both ladies, ‘‘is a 
 proud and happy man for the rest of his life/’ 
 
 ** You false creature,” said the old lady in the chair, 
 insipidly. ‘‘Where do you come from? I can’t bear 
 you.” 
 
 Then suffer old Joe to present a friend, ma’am,” said 
 the major, promptly, “ as a reason for being tolerated. 
 Mr. Dombey, Mrs. Skewton. ” The lady in the chair 
 was gracious. “ Mr. Dombey, Mrs. Granger.” The lady 
 with the parasol was faintly conscious of Mr. Dombey’s 
 taking off his hat, and bowing low. “ I am delighted, 
 lir,” said the major, “to have this opportunity.” 
 
 The major seemed in earnest, for he looked at all the 
 three and leered in his ugliest manner. 
 
 “Mrs. Skewton, Domfey,” said the major, “makes 
 havoc in the heart of old Josh.” 
 
 Mr. Dombey signified that he didn’t wonder at it. 
 
 “ You perfidious goblin,” said the lady in the chair, 
 
 have done ! How long have you been here, bad man ? 
 
 “ One day,” replied the major. 
 
 “ And can you be a day, or even a minute,” returned 
 the lady, slightly settling her false curls and false eye- 
 brows with her fan, and showing her false teeth, set off 
 by her false complexion, “in the garden of what’s-its- 
 name — ” 
 
 “ Eden, I suppose, mama,” interrupted the younger 
 lady scornfully. 
 
 “ My dear Edith,” said the other, “I cannot help it. 
 I never can remember those frightful names — without 
 having your whole soul and being inspired by the sight 
 ©f nature ; by the perfume,” said Mrs. Skewton, rust- 
 ling a handkerchief that was faint and sickly with es- 
 sences, “ of her artless breath, you creature !” 
 
 The discrepancy between Mrs. Skewton’s fresh en- 
 thusiasm 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 re= 
 dined on board her galley. Mrs. Skewton was a beauty 
 
34 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 then, and bucks threw wine-glasses over their heads by 
 dozen in her honour. The beauty and the barouche 
 had both passed away, but she still preserved the atti- 
 tude, and for this reason expressly, maintained the 
 wheeled chair and the butting page : there being noth-, 
 ing whatever, except the attitude, to prevent her froni 
 walking. 
 
 ‘"Mr. Dombey is devoted to nature, I trust?” said 
 Mrs. Skewton, settling her diamond brooch. And by 
 the way, she chiefly lived upon the reputation of some 
 diamonds, and her family connexions. 
 
 ‘"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 — 
 
 “ iSlo one can be a stranger,” said Mrs. Skewton, “to 
 Mr. Dombey’s immense influence.” 
 
 As Mr. Dombey acknowledge the compliment with a 
 bend of his head, the younger lady glancing at him met 
 his eyes. 
 
 “You reside here, madam?” said Mr. Dombey, ad., 
 dressing her. 
 
 “ No, we have been to a great many places. To Harro- 
 gate, and ScailDorough, and into Devonshire. We have 
 been visiting, and resting here and there. Mama likes 
 change. ” 
 
 “ Edith of course does not,’* said Mrs. Skewton, with 
 a ghastly archness. 
 
 “ I have not found that there is any change in such 
 places,” was the answer, delivered with supreme indif- 
 ference. 
 
 ‘ ‘ They libel me. There is only one change, Mr. 
 Dombey,” observed Mrs. Skewton, with a mincing sigh, 
 “for which I really care, and that I fear I shall never 
 be permitted to enjoy. People cannot spare one. But 
 seclusion and contemplation are my what’s-his-name — ” 
 
 “If you mean paradise, mama, you had better say so, 
 to render yourself intelligible,” said the younger lady. 
 
 “My dearest Edith,” returned Mrs. Skewton, “you 
 know that I am wholly dependant upon you for those 
 odious names. I assure you, Mr. Dombey, Nature in- 
 tended me for an Arcadian. I am thrown away in so- 
 ciety. Cows are my passion. What I have ever sighed 
 for, has been to retreat to a Swiss farm, and live entirely 
 surrounded by cows — and china. ” 
 
 This curious association of objects, suggesting a re- 
 membrance of the celebrated bull who got by mistake 
 into a crockery shop, was received with perfect gravity 
 by Mr. Dombey, who intimated his opinion that nature 
 was, no doubt, a very respectable institution. 
 
 “What I want,” drawled Mrs. Skewton, pinching her 
 shrivelled throat, “ is heart.” It was frightfully true 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 35 
 
 in one sense, if not in that in which she used the phrase. 
 
 What I want is frankness, confidence, less convention, 
 alitj, and freer plav of soul. We are so dreadfully arti- 
 iicial.’^ 
 
 We were indeed. 
 
 ‘'^In short,” said Mrs. Skewton, “I want nature 
 everywhere. It would be so extremely charming.” 
 
 Nature is inviting us away now, mama, if you are 
 ready,” said the younger lady, 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. 
 
 ‘‘ 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, abomina- 
 tion. 
 
 The major was staying at the Royal Hotel, with liis 
 friend Donibey. 
 
 You may come and see us any evening when you are 
 good,” lisped Mrs. Skewton. ‘"If Mr. Dombey will bon 
 our us, we shall be happy. Withers, go on ! ” 
 
 The major again pressed to his blue lips the tips of the 
 fingers that were disposed on the ledge of the wheeled 
 chair with careful carelessness ; after the Cleopatra 
 model : and Mr. Dombey bowed. The elder lady hon- 
 oured them both with a very gracious smile and a girh 
 Ish wave of her hand ; the younger lady with the very 
 slightest inclination of her head that common courtesey 
 allowed. 
 
 The last glimpse of the wrinkled face of the mother, 
 with that patched colour on it which the sun made in- 
 finitely more haggard and dismal then any want of col- 
 our 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 m 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. 
 
 “ I tell you what, sir,” said the major, as they re- 
 sumed their w^alk again. “If Joe Bagstock were a 
 younger man, there’s not a woman in the world he’d 
 prefer for Mrs. Bagstock to that woman. By George, 
 sir I” said the major; she’s superb !” 
 
WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ■ Do you mean the daughter ? ” inquired Mr. Domhey, 
 Is Joey F a turnip, Domhey,’" said the major, 
 
 that he should mean the mother ! ” 
 
 “ You v/ere complimentary to the mother,” returned 
 Mr. Domhey. 
 
 An ancient flame, sir,” chuckled Major Bagstock, 
 
 Devilish ancient. I humour her.” 
 
 ‘‘ She impresses me as being perfectly genteel,” said 
 Mr. Domhey. 
 
 “ 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 joint- 
 ure ; hut if yon 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 come to 
 that. 
 
 ‘‘You addressed the daughter, I observed,” said Mr. 
 Dombey, after a short pause, “ as Mrs. Granger.” 
 
 “ Edith Skewton, sir,” returned the major, stopping 
 short again, and punching a mark in the ground with 
 his cane, to represent her, “ married (at eighteen) Gran- 
 ger of Ours ; ” whom the major indicated by another 
 punch. “ Granger, sir,” said the major, tapping at 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 de- 
 ceased Granger through and through the body with his 
 walking-stick, and went on again, carrying his stick over 
 his shoulder. 
 
 “ How long is this ago ? ” asked Mr. Dombey, making 
 another halt. 
 
 “ Edith Granger, sir,” replied the major, shutting one 
 eye, putting his head on one side, passing his cane into 
 his left hand, and smoothing his shirt-frill with his 
 right, “ 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 wo^ 
 man ! ” 
 
 “Was there any family ?” asked Mr. Dombey pres- 
 ently. 
 
 “Yes, sir,” said the major. “ There was a boy.” 
 
 Mr. Dombey’s eyes sought the ground, and a shade 
 came over his face. 
 
 “ Who was drowned, sir,” pursued the major ; “ when 
 a child of four or five years old.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Indeed ? ” said Mr. Dombey, raising his head. 
 
 “By the upsetting of a boat in which his nurse had no 
 business to have put him,” said the major “ That’s his 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 37 
 
 ilistory. Edith Granger is Edith Granger still ; hut if 
 tough old Joey B. , sir, v/ere a little younger and a little 
 richer, the name of that immortal paragon should be 
 Bagstock.” 
 
 The major heaved his shoulders, and his cheeks, and 
 laughed more like an over-fed Mephistopheles than ever, 
 as he said the words. 
 
 ‘‘Provided the lady made no objection, I suppose?'* 
 said Mr. Bomhey, coldly. 
 
 “By Gad, sir,” said the major, ‘Uhe Bagstock breed 
 are not accustomed to that sort of obstacle. Though it's 
 true enough that Edith might have married twen-ty 
 times, but for being proud, sir, proud.” 
 
 Mr. Dombey seemed, by his face, to think no worse of 
 her for that. 
 
 , ‘‘It's a great quality after all,” said the major “By 
 the Lord, if s a high quality ! Dombey ! You are proud 
 yourself, and your friend, old Joe, respects you for it, 
 sir.” 
 
 With this tribute to the character of his ally, which 
 seemed to be wrung from him by the force of circumstan- 
 ces and the irresistible tendency of their conversation, the 
 major closed the subject, and glided into a general ex- 
 position of the extent to which he had been beloved and 
 doted on by splendid women and brilliant creatures. 
 
 On the next day but one, Mr. Dombey and the major 
 encountered the Honourable Mrs. Skewton and her 
 daughter in the pump-room : on the day after, they met 
 them again very near the place where they had met them 
 first. After meeting them thus, three or four times in 
 all, it became a point of mere civility to old acquaint- 
 ances, that the major should go there one evening, 
 Mr. Dombey had not originally intended to pay visits, 
 but on the major announcing his 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. Com- 
 pliments (in which Edith unites) to Mr. Dombey.” 
 
 The Honourable Mrs. Skewton and her daughter, Mrs. 
 Granger, resided while at Leamington, in lodgings that 
 were fashionable enough and dear enough, but rather 
 limited in point of space and conveniences ; so that the 
 Honourable Mrs. Skewton, being in bed, had her feet in 
 
38 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 the window and her head in the fire-place, 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 beau 
 tiful 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 be- 
 longing to the same dairy, where new-laid eggs were 
 produced by the poultry connected with the establish- 
 ment, who roosted on a broken donkey -cart — persuaded, 
 to all appearance, that it grew there, and was a species 
 of tree. 
 
 Mr. Dombey and the major found Mrs. Skewton ar- 
 ranged, as Cleopatra, among the cushions of a sofa ; very 
 airily dressed, and certainly not resembling Shakespeare's 
 Cleopatra, whom age could not wither. On their way 
 up-stairs they had heard the sound of a harp, but it had 
 ceased on their being announced, and Edith now stood 
 beside it handsomer and haughtier than ever. It was a 
 remarkable characteristic of this lady's beauty that it 
 appeared to vaunt and assert itself without her aid, and 
 against her will. She knew that she was beautiful : it 
 was impossible that it could be otherwise: but she seemed 
 with her own pride to defy her very self. 
 
 Whether she held cheap, attractions that could only 
 call forth admiration that was worthless to her, or wheth- 
 er she designed to render them more precious to ad- 
 mirers by this usage of them, those to whom they were 
 precious seldom paused to consider. 
 
 I hope, Mrs. Granger," said Mr. Dombey, advancing 
 a step towards her, “ we are not the cause of your ceas- 
 ing to play ? " 
 
 You ? oh no !" 
 
 ‘"Why do you not go on, then, my dearest Edith 
 said Cleopatra. 
 
 “ I left off as I began — of my own fancy." 
 
 The exquisite indifference of her manner in saying 
 this : an indifference quite removed from dullness or in- 
 sensibility, for it v/as pointe.l with proud purpose : wag 
 well set off by the carelessness with which she drew her 
 hand across the strings, and came from that part of the 
 room. 
 
 “Do you know, Mr. Dombey," said her languishing 
 mother, playing with a hand-screen, “ that occasionally 
 my dearest Edith and myself actually almost differ-^" 
 
 “Not quite, sometimes, mama?" said Edith. 
 
 “ Oh never quite, my darling ! Fie, fie, it would break 
 my lieart," returned her mother, making a faint attempt 
 k) pat her with the screen, which Edith made no move- 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 39 
 
 ment to meet, — about these cold conventionalities of 
 manner that are observed in little things? Why are we 
 not more natural ! Dear me ! With all those yearnings, 
 and gushings, and impulsive throbbings that we have 
 Implanted in our souls, and which are so very charming, 
 why are we not more natural ? 
 
 Mr. Dombey said it was very true, very true. 
 
 We could be more natural I suppose if we tried ?^’ 
 said Mrs. Skewton. 
 
 Mr. Dombey thought it possible. 
 
 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.” 
 
 “ You naughty infidel,” said Mrs. Skewton, ‘ ‘ be 
 mute.” 
 
 “Cleopatra commands,” returned the major, kissing 
 his hand, “and Antony Bagstock obeys.” 
 
 “The man has no sensitiveness,” said Mrs. Skewton, 
 cruelly holding up the hand-screen so as to shut the 
 major out. “No sympathy. And what do w^e live for 
 hut sympathy ! What else is so extremely charming ! 
 Without that gleam of sunshine on our cold cold earth,” 
 said Mrs. Skewton, arranging her lace tucker, and com- 
 placently ‘observing the effect of her bare lean arm, lock- 
 ing 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 w^on’t 
 allows you to disturb it, do you hear ? ” 
 
 The major replied that it was hard in Cleopatra to re- 
 quire the world to be all heart, and yet to appropriate 
 to herself the hearts of all the w^orld ; which obliged 
 Cleopatra to remind him that flattery was insupportable 
 to her, and that if he had the boldness to address her in 
 that strain any more, she would positively send him 
 home. 
 
 Withers the Wan, at this period, handing round the 
 tea, Mr. Dombey again addressed himself to Edith. 
 
 “There is not much company here, it would seem?” 
 said Mr. Dombey, in his own portentous gentlemanly 
 way. 
 
 “ I believe not. We see none.” 
 
 “ Why really,” observed Mrs. Skewton from her couch, 
 “ there are no people here just how with whom v/e care 
 to associate.” 
 
 “ They have not enough heart,” said Edith, with a 
 smile. The very twilight of a smile : so singularly were 
 its light and darkness blended, 
 
 “My dearest Edith rallies me, you see 1 ” said her 
 
— -Dombey and Son, Vol, Twelve, page 40. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 41 
 
 mother, shaking her head : which shook a little of itself 
 sometimes, as if the palsy twinkled now and then in op- 
 position to the diamonds. Wicked one ! ’’ 
 
 “ You have been here before, if I am not mistaken?” 
 said Mr. Dombey. Still to Edith. 
 
 “ Oh, several times. I think we have been every- 
 where.” 
 
 A beautiful country ! ” 
 
 I suppose it is. Everybody says so,” 
 
 “ Your cousin Feenix raves about it, Edith,” inter- 
 posed her mother from her couch. 
 
 The daughter slightly turned her graceful head, and 
 raising her eyebrows by a hair's- breadth as if her cousin 
 Feenix were of all the mortal world the least to be re- 
 garded, turned her eyes again towards Mr. Dombey. 
 
 I hope, for the credit of my good taste, that I am 
 tired of the neighbourhood,” she said. 
 
 ‘"You have almost reason to be, madam,” he replied, 
 
 g lancing at a variety of landscape drawings, of which he 
 ad already recognized several as representing neighbour- 
 ing points of view, and which v/ere stiewn abundantly 
 about the room, “if these beautiful productions are 
 from yonr hand.” 
 
 She gave him no reply, but sat in a disdainful beauty, 
 quite amazing. 
 
 “ Have they that interest ? '' said Mr. Dombey. “ Are 
 they yours ? ” 
 
 “ Yes. ” 
 
 “ And you play, I already know. ” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “ And sing.” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 She answered all these questions with a strange re- 
 luctance ; and with that remarkable air of opposition to 
 herself, already noticed as belonging to her beauty. Yet 
 she was not embarrassed, but wholly self-possessed. 
 Neither did she seem to wish to avoid the conversation, 
 for she addressed her face, and— so far as she could — her 
 manner also, to him ; and continued to do so, when he 
 was silent. 
 
 “ You have many resources against weariness at least,” 
 said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 “ Whatever their efficiency may be,” she returned, 
 “ you know them all now. I have no more.” 
 
 “ May I hope to prove them all ? ” said Mr. Dombey, 
 with solemn gallantry, laying down a drawing he had 
 held, and motioning towards the harp. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Oh certainly I If you desire it ! ” 
 
 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 any 
 
42 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 one had seen it) of a multitude of expressions, among 
 which that of the twilight smile itself,- overshadowed all 
 the rest, went out of the room. 
 
 The major, who was quite forgiven by this time, had 
 wheeled a little table up to Cleopatra, and was sitting 
 down to play picquet with her. Mr. Dombey, notiinow- 
 ing the game, sat down to watch them for his edification 
 until Edith should return. 
 
 ‘‘We are going to have some music, Mr. Dombey, I 
 hope ? ’’ said Cleopatra. 
 
 “ Mrs. Granger has been kind enough to promise so,’' 
 said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 “ Ah ! That’s very nice. Do you propose, major?” 
 
 “No ma’am,” said the major. “ Couldn’t do it.” 
 
 “ You’re a barbarous being,” replied the lady, “and my 
 hand’s destroyed. You are fond of music, Mr. Dom- 
 bey ? ” 
 
 “ Eminently so,” was Mr. Dombey’s answer. 
 
 “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 ! ” 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 Cleopatra had a sharp eye, verily, at picquet. It glis. 
 tened like a bird’s and did not fix itself upon the game, 
 but pierced the room from end to end, and gleamed on 
 harp, performer, listener, everything. 
 
 When the haughty beauty had concluded, she arose, 
 and receiving Mr. Dombey’s thanks and compliments in 
 exactly the same manner as before, went with scarcely 
 any pause, to the piano, and began there. 
 
 Edith Granger, any song but that ! Edith Granger, 
 you are very handsome, and your touch upon the keys 
 is brilliant, and your voice is deep and rich ; but not 
 
BOMBAY AND SON. 
 
 43 
 
 the air tliat his neglected daughter sang to his dead 
 son i 
 
 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 light has 
 turned dark, and the clouds are gathering, and threatejn 
 to discharge themselves in hail ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 A Trifte of Management by Mr. Carlcer the Manager. 
 
 Mr. Career the manager sat at his desk, smooth and 
 soft as usual, reading those letters which were reserved 
 for him to open, backing them occasionally with Such 
 memoranda and references as their business purpose re- 
 quired, and parcelling them out into little heaps for dis- 
 tribution through the several departments of the house. 
 The post had come in heavy that morning, and Mr. Car- 
 ker the manager had a good deal to do. 
 
 The general action of a man so engaged — pausing to 
 look over a bundle of papers in his hand, dealing them 
 round in various portions, taking up another bundle and 
 examining its contents with knitted brows and pursed- 
 out lips — dealing and sorting, and pondering by 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 him- 
 self master of all the strong and weak points of the 
 game : who registered the cards in his mind as they fell 
 about him, knew exactly what was on them, what they 
 missed, and what they made : who was crafty to find 
 out what the other players held, and who never betrayed 
 his own hand. 
 
 The letters were in various languages, but Mr. Carker 
 the manager read them all. If there had been anything 
 in the ofiices of Dombey and Son that he could not read, 
 there would have been a card wanting in the pack. He 
 read almost at a glance, and made combinations of one 
 letter with another and one business with another as he 
 went on, adding new matter to the heaps — much as a 
 man would know the cards at sight, and work out their 
 combinations in his mind after they were turned. Some- 
 thing too deep for a partner, and much too deep for an 
 adversary, Mr. Carker the manager sat in the rays of the 
 sun that came down slanting on him through the sky- 
 light, playing his game alone. 
 
 And although it is not among the instincts wild or do- 
 mestic of the cat tribe to play at cards, feline from sole 
 to crown was Mr. Carker the manager, as he basked' in 
 
44 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 Why do you answer it ? ” was his reception of his 
 brother. 
 
 ‘‘ The messenger is out, and I am the next,” was the 
 submissive reply. 
 
 ‘‘You are the next ?” muttered the manager. “ Yes ! 
 Creditable to me ! — There ! ” 
 
 Pointing to the heaps of opened letters, he turned dis- 
 dainfully away in his elbow-chair, and broke the seal of 
 that one which he held in his hand. 
 
 “ I am sorry to trouble you, James,” said the brother, 
 gathering them up, “ but — ” 
 
 “Oh ! You have something to say. I knew that. 
 Well?” 
 
 Mr. Carker the manager did not raise his eyes or turn 
 them on his brother, but kept them on his letter, though 
 without opening it. 
 
 “ Well ? ” he repeated sharply. 
 
 “ I am uneasy about Harriet.” 
 
 “ Harriet who ? what Harriet ? I know nobody by that 
 mame.” 
 
 “ She is not well, and has changed very much of late. ” 
 
 “ She changed very much, a great many years ago,** 
 replied the manager ; “and that is all I have to say.” 
 
 “ I think if you would hear me — ” 
 
 “Why should 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.” 
 
 “ Don’t mistake me. I do not say she does repent it. 
 It would be black ingratitude in me to hint at such a 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 45 
 
 thing/’ returned the other. Though believe me, 
 James, I am as sorry for her sacrifice as you.” \ 
 
 As I ?” exclaimed the manager. As I ? ” 
 
 ** As sorry for her choice — for what you call her choice 
 — as you are angry at it,” said the .Junior. 
 
 “Angry?” repeated the other, with a wide show of 
 his teeth. 
 
 “ Displeased. Whatever word you like best. You 
 know my meaning. There is no oifence in my inten- 
 . tion. ” 
 
 “ 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.” 
 
 His politeness v/as so much more cutting than his 
 wrath, that the Junior went to the door. But stopping 
 at it, and looking round, he said : 
 
 “'When Harriet tried in vain to plead for me with 
 you, on your first just indignation, and my first disgrace ; 
 and when she left you James to follow my broken for- 
 tunes, and devote herself, in her mistaken affection, to 
 a ruined brother, because without her he had no one, 
 and was lost ; she was young and pretty. I think if you 
 could see her nov/ — if you would go and see her — she 
 would move your admiration and compassion.” 
 
 The manager Inclined his head, and showed his teeth, 
 ’ ' ' 3r to some careless smalL 
 
 case?” but said never a 
 
 word. 
 
 “We thought in those days : you and I both : that 
 she would marry young, and lead a happy and^ light- 
 hearted life,” pursued the other, “Oh if you knew 
 how cheerfully she cast those hopes away ; how cheer- 
 fully she has gone forward on the path she took, and 
 never once looked back ; you never could say again that 
 her name was strange in your ears. Never ! ” 
 
 Again the manager inclined his head, and showed his 
 teeth, and seemed to say, “ Remarkable indeed ! You 
 quite surprise me ! ” And again he uttered never a 
 word. 
 
 “May I go on ? ” said John Carker mildly. 
 
 “ On your way?” replied his smiling brother. “If 
 you will have the goodness.” 
 
 John Carker with a sigh, was passing slowly out at 
 the door, when his brother’s voice detained him for a 
 moment on the threshold. 
 
 “ If she has gone and goes her own way cheerfully,” 
 he said, throwing the still unfolded letter on his desk, 
 and putting his hands firmly in his pockets, “ you may 
 tell her that I go as cheerfully on mine. If she has 
 never once looked back, you may tell her that I have. 
 
46 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 sometimes, to recall lier taking part with you, and that 
 my resolution is no easier to wear away/’ he smiled 
 very sweetly here ; than marble. 
 
 ‘'I tell her nothing of you. We never speak about 
 you. Once a year, on your birthday, Harriet says always, 
 ‘ Let us remember James by name, and wish him happy, 
 but we say no more. ’’ 
 
 Tell it then, if you please,'' returned the other, ‘‘to 
 yourself. You can't repeat it too often, as a lesson to 
 you to avoid the subject in speaking to me. I know no 
 Harriet Carker. There is no such person. You may 
 have a sister ; make much of her. I have none." 
 
 Mr. Carker the manager took up the letter again, and 
 waved it with a smile of mock courtesy towards the 
 door. Unfolding it as his brother withdrew, and looking 
 darkly after him as he left the room, he once more 
 turned round in his elbow-chair, and applied himself to 
 a diligent perusal of its contents. 
 
 It was in the writing of his great chief, Mr. Dombey, 
 and dated from Leamington. Though he was a quick 
 reader of 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 de- 
 cided.' “Now that's unfortunate;" said Mr. Carker 
 the manager, expanding his mouth, as if it were made 
 of india-rubber ; “ for he's far away !" 
 
 Still that passage which was in a postscript, attracted 
 his attention and his teeth, once more. 
 
 ‘‘ I think," he said, “ my good friend Captain Cuttle 
 mentioned something about being towed along in the 
 wake of that day. What a pity he's so far away I" 
 
 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. 
 
 “ 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 
 
“you DOG,” SAID MR. CARKER, THROUGH HIS SET JAWS, “ i’lL 
 STRANGLE YOU ! ” 
 
 —Dombey and Son, Vol. Twelve, page 47 
 
48 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 to liold it up in sucli a presence, and would keep it as 
 much out of the way as possible. 
 
 Who wants me ? ” 
 
 Why, sir,'' said Mr. Perch, in a soft voice, ''really 
 nobody, sir, to speak of at present, Mr. Gills the Ship's 
 Instrument-maker, sir, has looked in, about a little mat- 
 ter of payment, he says ; but I mentioned to him, sir, 
 that you was engaged several deep ; several deep/' 
 
 Mr. Perch coughed once behind his hand, and waited 
 for further orders. 
 
 " Anybody else 
 
 " Well sir," said Mr. Perch, I wouldn't of my own 
 self take the liberty of mentioning, sir, that there 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." 
 
 " You said he wanted something to do, didn't you. 
 Perch?" asked Mr. Carker, leaning back in his chair, 
 and looking at that officer. 
 
 "Why, sir," said Mr. Perch, coughing behind his 
 hand again, "his expression certainly were that he was 
 in wants of a sitiwation, and that he considered, some- 
 thing might be done for him about the Docks, being 
 used to fishing with a rod and line : but — " Mr. Perch 
 shook his head very dubiously indeed. 
 
 "What does he say when he comes?" asked Mr. 
 Carker. 
 
 "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 in- 
 violable nature of his confidence, to give the door a 
 thrust with his hand and knee, as if that would shut it 
 any more when it was shut already, " it's hardly to be 
 bore, sir, that a common lad like that should come a 
 prowling here, and saying that his mother nursed ouF 
 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, as we've ever 
 took the liberty of adding to our faiiiily, I wouldn't have 
 made so free as drop a hint of her being capable of im- 
 parting nourishment, not if it was ever so ! " 
 
 Mr. Carker grinned at him like a ahark, but in an ab- 
 sent thoughtful manner. 
 
BOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 49 
 
 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 am so timid, 
 myself, by nature, sir, and my nerves is so unstrung by 
 Mrs. Perch’s state, that I could take my affidavit easy.” 
 
 Let me see this fellow. Perch,” said Mr. Carker. 
 
 Bring him in ! ” 
 
 Yes, sir. Begging your pardon, sir,” said Mr. Perch, 
 hesitating at the door, he’s rough, sir, in a]:‘:^earance.” 
 
 Never mind. If he’s there, bring him in. I’ll see 
 Mr. Gills directly. Ask him to wait ! ” 
 
 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 v/as gone Mr. Carker assumed his favourito 
 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 sin 
 gularly crouching appearance. 
 
 The messenger was not long in returning, followed by 
 a pair of heavy boots that came bumping along the pas- 
 sage like boxes. With the unceremonious words Come 
 along with you I — 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 ^ 
 particle of brim to it. 
 
 Obedient to a nod from Mr. Carker, Perch had n*’ 
 sooner confronted the visitor with that gentleman than 
 he withdrew. The moment they were face to face 
 alone, Mr. Carker, without a word of preparation, took - 
 him by the throat, and shook him until his head seemed 
 loose upon his shoulders. 
 
 The boy, who in the midst cf his astonishment could 
 not help staring wildly at the gentleman with so manji 
 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 con- 
 trived to utter — 
 
 “ Come sir I You let me alone, will you ! ” 
 
 Let you alone ! said Mr. Carker. What ! i 
 have got you, have I ? ” There was no doubt of that, 
 and tightly too. You dog,” said Mr. Carker, through 
 his set jaws, Fll strangle you ! ” 
 
 Biler whimpered, would he though ? oh no he wouldn’t 
 
 .-Ci 
 
 VoL. 12 
 
50 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 —and what was he doing oc — and why didn’t he stran<* 
 gie somebody of his own size and not him: but Biler 
 was quelled by the extraordinary nature of his reception 
 and. as his head became stationary, and he looked the 
 gentleman in the face, or rather in the teeth, and saw 
 him snarling at him, he so far forgot his manhood as to 
 cry. 
 
 I haven’t done nothing io you, sir,” said Biler, other 
 wise Rob, otherwise Grinder, and always Toodle. 
 
 You young scoundrel 1 ” replied Mr. Carker, slowly 
 releasing him, and moving back a step into his favourite 
 position. VHiat do yoRmean by daring to come here V 
 
 “ I didn’t mean no harm, sir,” whimpered Rob, putting 
 one hand to his throat, and the knuckles of the other to 
 his eyes. ‘‘ I’ll never come again, sir. I only wanted 
 work.” 
 
 Work, young Cain that you are ! ” repeated Mr. 
 Carker eyeing him narrowly. Ain’t you the idlest 
 vagabond in London ? ” 
 
 The impeachment, while it much affected Mr. Toodle 
 junior, attached to his character so justly, that he could 
 not say a word in denial. He stood looking at the gen- 
 tleman, therefore, with a frightened, self-convicted, and 
 remorseful air. As to his looking at him, it may be 
 observed that he was fascinated by Mr. Carker and never 
 took his round eyes off him for an instant. 
 
 Ain’t you a thief ?” said Mr. Carker, with his hands 
 behind him in his pockets. 
 
 ‘‘No, sir,” pleaded Rob. 
 
 “You are I ” said Mr. Cark^er. 
 
 “I ain’t indeed, sir,” whimpered Rob. “I never did 
 such a thing as thieve, sir, if jou’ll believe me. I know 
 I’ve been going wrong, sir, ever since I took to bird- 
 catching and walking-matching. I’m sure a cove might 
 think,” said Mr. Toodle junior, with a burst of penitence, 
 “ that singing birds was innocent company, but nobody 
 knows what harm is in them little creeturs and what 
 they brings you down to.” 
 
 They seemed to have brought him down to a velvet- 
 een jacket and trousers very much the worse for wear, 
 a particularly small red waistcoat like a gorget, an in- 
 terval of blue check, and the hat before mentioned. 
 
 “ I ain’t been home twenty times since them birds got 
 their will of me,” said Rob, “and that’s ten months. 
 Hov/ can I go home when everybody’s miserable to see 
 me ! I wonder,” said Biler, blubbering outright, and 
 smearing his eyes with his coat-cuff, “that I haven’t 
 been and drownded myself over and over again.” 
 
 All of which, including his expression of surprise at 
 not having achieved this last scarce perfoinnaiice, the 
 boy said, just as if the teeth of Mr. Carker drew it out 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 51 
 
 of him, and he had no power of concealing anything 
 with that battery of attraction in full play. 
 
 You’re a nice young gentleman ! ” said Mr. Carker, 
 shaking his head at him. “ There’s hemp- seed sown 
 for you, my fine fellow ! ” 
 
 'M’m sure, sir,” returned the wretched Biler, blubber- 
 ing again, and again having recourse to his coat-cuff : 
 
 I shouldn’t care, sometimes, if it was growed too. My 
 misfortunes, all began in wagging, sir ; but what could 
 I do exceptin’ wag ? ” 
 
 ‘"Excepting what?” said Mr. Carker. 
 
 Wag, sir. Wagging from school.” 
 
 "" Do you mean pretending to go there, and not going i’* 
 said Mr. Carker. 
 
 "" Yes, sir, that’s wagging, sir,” returned the quondam 
 Grinder, much affected. I was chivied through the 
 streets, sir, when 1 went there, and pounded when 1 got 
 there. So 1 wagged, and hid myself, and that began 
 it.” 
 
 "" And you mean to tell me,” said Mr. Carker, taking 
 him by the throat again, holding him out at arms-length, 
 and surveying him in silence for some moments, ‘"that 
 you want a place, do you ? ” 
 
 ‘" 1 should be thankful to be tried, sir,” returned 
 Toodle junior, faintly. 
 
 Mr. Carker the manager pushed him backwards into a 
 corner — the boy submitting quietly, hardly venturing to 
 breathe, and never once removing his eyes from his face 
 —and rang the bell. 
 
 "‘ Tell Mr. Gills to come here.” 
 
 Mr. Perch was too deferential to express surprise or 
 recognition of the figure in the corner : and Uncle Sol 
 appeared immediately. 
 
 ‘" Mr. Gills !” said. Carker, with a smile, ""sit down. 
 How do you do ? You continue to enjoy your health, I 
 hope ? ” 
 
 "" Thank you, sir,” returned Uncle Sol, taking out his 
 pocket-book, and handing over some notes as he spoke. 
 "" Nothing ails me in body but old age. Twenty-five, 
 sir.” 
 
 ""You are as punctual and exact, 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 ovm chro - 
 nometers. Quite right.” 
 
 "" The Son and Heir has not been spoken, 1 find by the 
 list, sir,” said Uncle Sol, with a slight addition to the 
 usual tremour m his voice. 
 
 "" The Son and Heir has not been spoken,” returned 
 Carker. "" There seems to have been tempestuous wea 
 
53 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 tlier, Mr. Gills, and slie lias probably been driven out of 
 her course/' 
 
 She is safe, I trust in Heaven !” said old Sol. 
 
 She is safe, I trust in Heaven !" assented Mr. Carker 
 in that voiceless manner of his : which made the observ- 
 ant young Toodle tremble again. Mr. Gills," he added 
 aloud, throwing himself back in his chair, ‘^you must 
 miss your nephew very much ? " 
 
 Uncle Sol, standing by him, shook his head and 
 heaved a deep sigh. 
 
 ^'Mr. Gills," said Carker, with his soft hand playing 
 round his mouth, and looking up into the Instiuirnent- 
 maker's face, “it would be company to you to have a 
 young fellow in your shop just now, and it would b© 
 obliging me if you would give one house-room for the 
 present. No, to be sure," he added quickly, in antici- 
 pation of what the old man was going to say, ^ " there's 
 not much business doing there, I know : but you can 
 make him clean the place out, polish up the instruments . 
 drudge, Mr. Gills. That's the lad ! '' 
 
 Sol Gills pulled down his spectacles from his forehead 
 to his eyes, and looked at Toodle junior standing upright 
 in the corner : his head presenting the appearance (which 
 it always did) of having been newly drawn out of a bucket 
 of cold water ; his small waistcoat rising and falling 
 quickly in the play of his emotions ; and his eyes in- 
 tently fixed on Mr. Carker, without the least reference 
 to his proposed master. 
 
 “Will you give him house-room, Mr. Gills?" said 
 the manager. 
 
 Old Sol, without being quite enthusiastic on the sub- 
 ject, replied that he was glad of any opportunity, how- 
 ever slight, to oblige Mr, Carker, v/hose wish on such a 
 point was a command : and that the Wooden Midship- 
 man would consider himself happy to receive in his berth 
 any visitor of Mr. Carkei*'s selecting. 
 
 Mr. Carker bared himself to the tops and botxoms of 
 Ais gums : making the watchful Toodle Junior tremble 
 more and more : and acknowledged the Instrument-mak- 
 er's politeness in his most affable manner. 
 
 “ ITl 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 — re- 
 spectable 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. Good bye I " 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 58 
 
 His smile at parting was so full of teeth, that it con® 
 fused old Sol, and made him vaguely uncomfortable. 
 He went home, thinking of raging seas, foundering ships, 
 drowning men, an ancient bot Je of Madeira never 
 brought to light, and other dismal matter. 
 
 Now, boy I ” 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 ? 
 
 Rob said Yes, sii 
 
 cf Perhaps you und irstand,” pursued his patron, that 
 if you ever deceive o * play tricks with me, you had bet- 
 ter have drowned yourself, indeed, once for all, before 
 you came here V 
 
 There was nothing in any branch of mental acquisition 
 that Rob seemed to understand better than that. 
 
 If you have lied to me,^' said Mr. Carker, ‘‘ in any* 
 thing, never come in my way again. If not, you may 
 let me find you waiting for me somewhere near your 
 mother's house this afternoon. I shall leave this at five 
 o’clock, and ride there on horseback. Now, give me the 
 address." 
 
 Rob repeated it slowly, as Mr. Carker wrote it down. 
 Rob even spelt it over a second time, letter by letter, as 
 if he thought that the omission of a dot or scratch would 
 lead to his destruction. Mr. Carker then handed him 
 out of the room : and Rob, keeping his round eyes fixed 
 upon his patron to the last, vanished for the time being. 
 
 Mr. Carker vhe manager did a great deal of business in 
 the course of the day, and bestowed his teeth upon a 
 great many people. In the ofldce, 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. 
 
 As no one can easily ride fast, even f 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 
 passers-by 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. * 
 
 This attention however flattering, being one of an un- 
 usual kind, and attracting some notice from the other 
 
54 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 passengers, Mr. Carker took advantage of a clearer 
 thoroughfare and a cleaner road, and broke into a trot. 
 Bob 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. 
 Oarker turned his eyes to that side of the road, he still 
 saw Toodle junior holding his course, apparently with- 
 out distress, and v/orking himself along by the elbows 
 after the most approved manner of professional gentle- 
 men who get over the ground for wagers. 
 
 Ridiculous as this attendance was, it was a sign of an 
 influence established over the boy, and therefore, Mr. 
 Carker, affecting not to notice it, rode away into the 
 neighbourhood of Mr. Toodle’s house. On his slacken- 
 ing his pace here, Rob appeared before him to point out 
 the turnings ; and when he called to a man at a neigh- 
 bouring 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 dis- 
 mounted. 
 
 “ Now, sir,’’ said Mr. Carker, taking him by the 
 shoulder, “ come along ! ” 
 
 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 broth- 
 ers 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 tbe prodigal’s breast so 
 sharply when he saw his mother stand up among them 
 pale and trembling with the baby in ber arms, that he 
 lent his own voice to the chorus. 
 
 Nothing doubting now, that the stranger, if not Mr. 
 Ketch in person, was one of that company, the whole of 
 the young family wailed the louder, while its more in- 
 fantine members, unable to control the transports of 
 emotion appertaining to their time of life; threw them- 
 selves on their backs like young birds when terrifled by 
 a hawk, and kicked violently. At length poor Polly 
 making herself audible, said, with quivering lips, “ O 
 Rob, my poor boy, what have you done at last ! ” 
 
 ‘^Nothing, mother,” cried Rob, in a piteous voice, 
 
 ‘ ^ ask the gentleman ! ” 
 
 “ Don’t be alarmed,” said Mr. Carker, “ I want to do 
 him good.” 
 
 At this announcement, Polly, who had not cried yet, 
 began to do so. The elder Toodles, who appeared to 
 have been meditating a rescue, unclenched their fists. 
 The younger Toodles clustered round their mother’s 
 gown, and peeped from under their own chubby arms 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 55 
 
 at tlaeir desperado brother and his unknown friend. 
 Everybody blessed the gentleman with the beautiful 
 teeth, who wanted to do good. 
 
 This fellow,’’ said Mr. Carker to Polly, giving him 
 a gentle shake, is your son, eh ma’am?” 
 
 Yes sir,” sobbed Polly, with a curtsey ; ''yes sir.” 
 
 " A bad son, I am afraid ? ” said Mr. Carker. 
 
 " Never a bad son to me, sir,” returned Polly. 
 
 " To whom then ? ” demanded Mr. Carker. 
 
 " He has been a little wild, sir,” replied Polly, check- 
 ing the baby, who was making convulsive efforts with 
 his arms and legs to launch himself on Biler, through 
 the ambient air, " and has gone with wrong compan- 
 ions ; but I hope he has seen the misery of that sir, and 
 will do well again.” 
 
 Mr. Carker looked at Polly, and the clean room and 
 the clean children, and the simple Toodle face, com- 
 bined of father and mother, that was reflected and re- 
 peated everywhere about him : and seemed to have 
 achieved the real purpose of his visit. 
 
 " Your husband, I take it, is not at home ?” he said. 
 
 "No sir,” replied Polly. "He’s down the line at 
 present.” 
 
 The prodigal Rob seemed very much relieved to hear 
 it : though still in the absorption of all his faculties in 
 his patron, he hardly took his eyes from Mr. Carker’s 
 face unless for a moment at a time to steal a sorrowful 
 glance at his mother. 
 
 "Then,” said Mr. Carker, "I’ll tell you how I have 
 stumbled on this boy of yours, and who I am, and what 
 I am going to do for him.” 
 
 This Mr. Carker did, in his own way : saying that he 
 at first intended to have accumulated nameless terrors 
 on his presumptuous head, for coming to the where- 
 about 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 ex- 
 pose 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 re- 
 ceiving 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 re- 
 ceive. And with this great truth Rob himself was so 
 impressed, that, standing gazing on his patron with 
 
56 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 tears rolling down liis cheeks, lie nodded his shiny head 
 until it seemed almost as loose as it had done under the 
 same patron’s hands that morning. 
 
 Polly, who had passed Heaven knows how many sleep- 
 less nights on account of this her dissipated first-born, and 
 had not seen him for weeks and weeks, could have almost 
 kneeled to Mr. Carker the manager, as to a good spirit 
 — in spite of his teethe But Mr. Carker rising to depart, 
 she only thanked him with her mother’s prayers and 
 blessings ; thanks so rich when paid out of the heart’s 
 mint, especially for any service Mr. Carker had rendered, 
 that he might have given back a large amount of change^ 
 and yet been overpaid. 
 
 As that gentleman made his way among the crowding 
 children to the door, Rob retreated on his mother, and 
 took her and the baby in the same repentant hug. 
 
 I’ll try hard, dear mother, now. Upon my soul I 
 will ! ” said Rob. 
 
 Oh do, my dear boy ! I am sure you will, for our 
 sakes and your own ! ” cried Polly, kissing him. ‘‘ But 
 you’re coming back to speak to me, when you have seen 
 the gentleman away?” 
 
 I don’t know, mother.” Rob hesitated, and looked 
 down. Father — when’s he coming home ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ Not till two o’clock to-morrow morning.” 
 
 '' I’ll come back, mother dear ! ” cried Rob. And 
 passing through the shrill cry of his brothers and sis- 
 ters in reception of this promise, he followed Mr. Car- 
 ker out. 
 
 '"What!” said Mr. Carker, who had heard this. 
 "You have a bad father, have you?” 
 
 "No, sir!” returned Rob, amazed. "There ain’t a 
 better nor a kinder father going, than mine is. ” 
 
 " Why don’t you want to see him then ? ” inquired his 
 patron. 
 
 " There’s such a difference betw'een a father and a 
 mother, sir,” said Rob, after faltering for a moment. 
 " He could hardly believe yet that I was going to do bet- 
 ter — -though I know he’d try to — but a mother — she al- 
 ways believes what’s good, sir ; at least I know mj 
 mother does, God bless her ! ” 
 
 Mr. CarkePs 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 : 
 
 "You’ll come to me to-morrow morning, andyoushall 
 be shov/n where that old gentleman lives ; that old gen- 
 tleman who was with me this morning ; where you are 
 going, as you heard me say. ” 
 
 " Yes., sir/’ returned Rob. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 57 
 
 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 ser- 
 vice to him — and especially who comes there to see him. 
 Bo you understand ? 
 
 Rob nodded his stedfast face, and said, Yes, sir,’^ 
 sgain. 
 
 ‘"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.'' 
 
 ITl take care, sir,” said the boy. 
 
 'VAnd take care,” returned his patron, bending for- 
 ward to advance his grinning face closer to the boy's, 
 and pat him on the shoulder with the handle of his 
 whip : take care you talk about affairs of mine to no- 
 body but me.” 
 
 *‘To nobody in the world, sir,” replied Rob, shaking 
 his head. 
 
 “Neither there,” said Mr. Carker, pointing to the 
 place they had just left, “ nor anywhere else. I'll try 
 how true and grateful you can be. I'll prove you ! '* 
 Making this, by his display of teeth and by the action 
 of the 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 be- 
 fore, was yielding him the same attendance, to the great 
 amusement of sundry spectators, he reined up, and or- 
 dered him off. To insure 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. 
 
 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 a 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. 
 
58 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKER'S. 
 
 And in some sort, Mr. Carker, in liis 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 took him and oc- 
 casion served. Was there any bird in a cage, that came 
 in for a share of his regards ? 
 
 ‘"A very young lady thought Mr. Carker the man- 
 ager, through his song. Ah ! when I saw her last, 
 she was a little child. With dark eyes and hair, I re- 
 collect, and a good face ; a very good face \ I dare say 
 she’s pretty.” 
 
 More affable and pleasant yet, and humming his song 
 until his many teeth vibrated to it, 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 perspec- 
 tive of tall houses, he reined in his horse quickly within 
 a few yards of the door. But to explain why Mr. Carker 
 reined in his horse quickly, and what he looked at in no 
 small surprise, a few digressive words are necessary. 
 
 Mr. Toots, emancipated from the Blimber thraldom 
 and coming into the possession of a certain portion of 
 his worldly wealth, which,” as he had been wont, 
 during his last half-year’s probation, to communicate to 
 Mr. Feeder every evening as a new discovery, ‘‘the ex- 
 ecutors couldn’t keep him out of,” had applied himself, 
 with great diligence, to the science of Life. Fired with 
 a noble emulation to pursue a brilliant and distinguished 
 career, Mr. Toots had furnished a choice set of apart- 
 ments ; had established among them a sporting bower, 
 embellished with the portraits of winning horses, in 
 which he took no particle of interest ; and a divan, 
 which made him poorly. In this delicious abode, Mii 
 Toots devoted himself to the cultivation of those gentle 
 arts which refine and humanise existence, his chief in- 
 structor in which was an interesting character called 
 the Game Chicken, who was always to be heard of at 
 the bar of the Black Badger, wore a shaggy white great- 
 - coat in the warmest weather, and knocked Mr. Toots 
 about the head tliree times a week, for the small con- 
 sideration of ten and six per visit. 
 
 The Game Chicken, who was quite the Apollo of Mi. 
 Toots’s Pantheon, had introduced to him a marker who 
 taught billiards, a Life Guard who taught fencing, a 
 job-master who taught riding, a Cornish gentleman who 
 was up to anything in the athletic line, and two or three 
 other friends connected no less intimately with the fine 
 arts. Under whose auspices Mr. Toots could hardly 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 59 
 
 fail to improve apace, and under whose tuition he went 
 to work. 
 
 But, howe.Yer it came abouir, it came to pass, even 
 while these gentlemen had the gloss of novelty upon 
 them, that Mr. Toots felt, he didn't know how, unset- 
 tled 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 
 dov/n. Nothing seemed to do Mr. Toots so much good as 
 incessantly leaving cards at Mr. Dombey's door. No 
 tax-gatlierer in the British dominions — that wide-spread 
 territory on which the sun never sets, and where the 
 tax-gatherer never goes to bed— was more regular and 
 persevering in his calls than Mr. Toots. 
 
 Mr. Toots never went up-stairs ; and always performed 
 the same ceremonies, richly dressed for the purpose, at 
 the hall-door. 
 
 * • Oh ! Good morning ! " would be Mr. Toots's first 
 remark to the servant. For Mr. Dombey," would be 
 Mr. Toots's next remark, as he handed in a card. ‘‘ For 
 Miss Dombey," would be his next, as he handed in an- 
 other. 
 
 Mr. Toots would then turn round as if to go away : 
 but the man knew him by this time, and knew he 
 wouldn't. 
 
 ^'Oh, I beg your pardon," Mr. Toots would say, as if 
 a thought had suddenly descended on him. Is the 
 young woman at home ? " 
 
 The man would rather think she v/as, but wouldn't 
 quite know. Then he would ring a bell that rang up« 
 stairs, 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, 
 
 ‘‘Oh ! How de do?" Mr. Toots would say, with a 
 chuckle and a blush. 
 
 Susan would thank him, and say she was very well. 
 
 “ How's Diogenes going on ? " would be Mr. Toots's sec- 
 ond interrogation. 
 
 Very well indeed. Miss Florence was fonder and fond- 
 er of him every day. Mr. Toots was sure to hail this 
 with a burst of chuckles, like the opening of a bottle of 
 some effervescent beverage. 
 
 “Miss Florence is quite well, sir," Susan would add. 
 
 “Oh, it's of no consequence, thank'ee," was the inva- 
 riable reply of Mr. Toots ; and when he had said so, he 
 always went away very fast. 
 
 Now it is certain that Mr. Toots had a filmy something 
 in his mind, which led him to conclude that if he could 
 aspire successfully in the fulness of time, to the hand of 
 Florence, he would be fortunate and blest. It certain 
 that Mr. Toots, by some remote and roundabout road, had 
 
00 WORKS OF CHARLES DJCKENS. 
 
 got to that point, and that there lie made a stand. His 
 heart was wounded ; he was touched ; he was in love* 
 He had made a desperate attempt, one night; and sat up 
 all night for the purpose, to write an acrostic on Florence, 
 which affected him to tears in the conception. But he 
 never proceeded in the execution further than the words 
 
 For when I gaze ” — the flow of imagination in which 
 he had previously written down the initial letters of the 
 other seven lines, deserting him at that point. 
 
 Beyond devising that very artful and politic measure 
 of leaving a card for 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. 
 
 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 confi- 
 dence ; 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 al >vays 
 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 vievv^ of the case, and heroically resolved to kiss Miss 
 Nipper next day. 
 
 Upon the next day, therefore, Mr. Toots, putting into 
 requisition some of the greatest marvels that Burgess and 
 Co. had ever turned out, went off to Mr. Dombey’s upon 
 this design. But his heart failed him so much as he ap- 
 proached the scene of action, that, although he arrived 
 on the ground at three o’clock in the afternoon, it was six 
 before he knocked at the door. 
 
 Everything happened as usual, down to the point when 
 Susan said her young mistress was well, and Mr. Toots 
 said it was of no consequence.^ To her amazement, Mr. 
 Toots instead of going off like a rocket, after that obser- 
 vation, lingered and chuckled. 
 
 ‘^Perhaps you’d like to walk up-stairs, sir?” said Su- 
 san. 
 
 Well, I think I will come in !” said Mr. Toots. 
 
 But instead of walking up-stairs, the bold Toots made 
 an awkward plunge at Susan when the door was shut, 
 and embracing that fair creature, kissed her on the cheek. 
 
 Go along with you ? ” cried Susan, or I’ll tear your 
 eyes out. ” 
 
 “ Just another !” said Mr. Toots. 
 
 Go along with you 1 ” exclaimed Susan, giving him 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 * ci 
 
 push. Innocents like you, too ! Who’ll begin next I 
 Go along, sir ! ” 
 
 Susan was not in any serious strait, for she could hard- 
 ly speak for laughing ; but Diogenes, on the stair-case, 
 hearing a rustling against the wall, and a shuffling of 
 feet, and seeing through the banisters that there was 
 some contention going on, and foreign invasion in the 
 house, formed a different opinion, dashed down to the 
 rescue, and in the twinkling of an eye had Mr. Toots by 
 the leg, 
 
 Susan screamed, laughed, opened the street door, and 
 ran down-stairs ; the bold Toots tumbled staggering out 
 into the street, wdth 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 enter- 
 tainment ; 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, 
 reining up his horse and sitting a little' at a distance, 
 sav/, to his amazement, issue from the stately house of 
 Mr. Dombey. 
 
 Mr. Carker remained watching the discomfited Toots, 
 when Diogenes was called in, and the door shut : and 
 while that gentleman, taking refuge in a doorway near 
 at hand, bound up the torn leg of his pantaloons with a 
 costly silk handkerchief that had formed part of his ex- 
 pensive outfit for the adventure. 
 
 I beg your pardon sir,” said Mr. Carker, riding up, 
 with his most propitiatory smile. ‘‘I hope you are not 
 hurt ? ” 
 
 “Oh no, thank you,” replied Mr. Toots, raising his 
 fiushed face, “it’s of no consequence.” Mr. Toots 
 would have signified, if he could, that he liked it very 
 much. 
 
 “ If the dog’s teeth have entered the leg, sir — ” began 
 Carker, with a display of his own. 
 
 “ No, thank you,” said Mr. Toots, “ it’s all quite 
 right. It’s very comfortable, thank you.” 
 
 “ I have the pleasure of knowing Mr. Dombey,” ob- 
 served Carker. 
 
 “ Have you though?” rejoined the blushing Toots. 
 
 “ 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. ” 
 
 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 henevef 
 Joses 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. 
 
62 • WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 As Mr. Carker picks his way so softly past the house, 
 glancing up at the windows, and trying to make out the 
 pensive face behind the curtain looking at the children 
 opposite, the rough head of Diogenes came clambering 
 up close by it, and the dog, regardless of all soothing, 
 barks and growls, and makes at him from that height, 
 as if he would spring down and tear him limb from 
 limb. 
 
 Well spoken, Di, so near your mistress ! Another, 
 and another with your head up, your eyes flashing, and 
 your vexed mouth worrying itself, for want of him ! 
 Another, as he picks his way along I You have a good 
 scent, Di, — cats, boy, cats ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 Florence Solitary^ and the Midshipman Mysteriom, 
 
 Florence lived alone in the great dreary house, and 
 day succeeded day, and still she lived alone ; and the 
 blank walls looked down upon her with a vacant stare, 
 as if they had a Gorgon-like mind to stare her youth 
 and beauty into stone. 
 
 No magic dwelling place in magic story, shut up in 
 the heart of a thick wood, was ever more solitary and 
 deserted to the fancy, than was her father's mansion in 
 its grim reality, as it stood lowering on the street ; 
 always by night, when lights were shining from neigh= 
 bouring windows, a blot upon its scanty brightness ; 
 always by day, a frown upon its never-smiling face. 
 
 There were not two dragon sentries keeping ward be- 
 fore the gate of this abode, as in magic legend are usu- 
 ally found on duty over the wronged innocents im- 
 prisoned : but besides a glowering visage, with its thin 
 lips parted wickedly, that surveyed all comers from 
 above the archway of the door, there was a monstrous 
 fantasy of rusty iron curling and twisting like a petri- 
 faction of an arbour over the threshold, budding in 
 spikes and corkscrew points, and bearing, one on either 
 side, two ominous extinguishers, that seemed to say, 
 “ Who enter here, leave light behind ! " There were no 
 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. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 63 
 
 The brass band that came into the street once a week, in 
 the morning, never brayed a note in at tliose 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. 
 
 The spell upon it was more wasting than the spell 
 that used to set enchanted houses sleeping once upon a 
 time, but left their waking freshness unimpaired. 
 
 The passive desolation of disuse was everywhere 
 silently manifest about it. Within doors, curtains, 
 drooping heavily, lost their old folds and shapes, and 
 hung like cumbrous palls. Hecatombs of furniture still 
 piled and covered up, shrunk like imprisoned and for- 
 gotten men, and changed insensibly. Mirrors were 
 dim as with the breath of years. Patterns of carpets 
 faded and became perplexed and faint, like the memory 
 of those years' trifling incidents. Boards, starting at un- 
 wonted footsteps, creaked and shook. Keys rusted in 
 the locks of doors. Damp started on the walls, and as 
 the stains came out, the pictures seemed to go in and 
 secrete themselves. Mildew and mould began to lurk 
 in closets. Fungus trees grew in corners of the cellars. 
 Dust accumulated, nobody knew whence nor how ; 
 spiders, moths, and grubs were heard of every day. An 
 exploratory black-beetle now and then was found im- 
 movable upon the stairs, or in an upper room, as won- 
 dering how he got there. Rats began to squeak and 
 scuffle in the night-time, through dark galleries they 
 mined behind the panelling. 
 
 The dreary magnificence of the state rooms, seen 
 imperfectly by the doubtful light admitted through 
 closed shutters, would have answered w^ell enough for 
 an enchanted abode. Such as the tarnished paws of 
 gilded lions, stealthily put out from beneath their wrap- 
 pers ; the marble lineaments of busts on pedestals, fear- 
 fully 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 
 pendent lustres, more startling than alarm bells ; the 
 softened sounds and laggard air that made their way 
 among these objects, and a phantom crowd of others, 
 shrouded and hooded, and made spectral of shape. But, 
 besides, there was the great staircase, where the lord of 
 the place so rarely set his foot, and by which his little 
 child had gone up to Heaven. There were other stair- 
 cases and passages where no one went for weeks togeth- 
 er ; 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 
 
64 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 gentle figure. moving tlirougli the solitude and gloomj, 
 that gave to every lifeless thing a touch of present hu- 
 man interest and wonder. 
 
 For Florence lived alone in the deserted house, and 
 day succeeded day, and still she lived alone, and the 
 cold walls looked down upon her with a vacant stare, as 
 if they had a Gtorgon-like mind to stare her youth and 
 beauty into stone. 
 
 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 with- 
 ered branches domineered above the leaves. Through 
 the whole building, white had turned yellow, yellow 
 nearly black ; and since the time when the poor lady 
 died, it had slowly become a dark gap in the long mo- 
 notonous street. 
 
 But Florence bloomed there, like the king’s fair 
 daughter in the story. Her books, her music, and her 
 daily teachers, were her only real companions, Susan 
 Nipper and Diogenes excepted ; of whom the former, in 
 her attendance on the studies of her young mistress, be- 
 gan to grow quite learned herself, while the latter, soft- 
 ened 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 sig- 
 nificance 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 deaf- 
 ening 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. 
 
 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 ren- 
 der him such little tokens of her duty and service, as 
 putting everything in order for him with her own hands, 
 binding little nosegays for his table, changing them as 
 one by one they withered and he did not come back, pre- 
 paring something for him every day, and leaving some 
 timid mark of her presence near his usual seat. To-day, 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 G5 
 
 it was a little painted stand for Ills watch ; to-morrow 
 she would be afraid to leave it, and would substitute 
 some other trifle of her making not so likely to attract 
 his eye. Waking in the night, perhaps, she would 
 tremble at the thought of his coming home and angrily 
 rejecting it, and would hurry down with slippered feet 
 and quickly beating heart, and bring it away. At an- 
 other time, she would only lay her face upon his deskj 
 and leave a kiss there, and a tear. 
 
 Still no one knew of this. Unless the household found 
 it out when she was not there — and they all held Mr. 
 Dombey’s rooms in awe — it was as deep a secret in her 
 breast as what had gone before it. Florence stole into 
 those rooms at twilight, early in the morning, and at 
 times when meals were served down-stairs. And al- 
 though they were in every nook the better and the 
 brighter for her care, she entered and passed out as 
 quietly as any sunbeam, excepting tha^t she left her light 
 behind. 
 
 Shadowy company attended Florence up and down the 
 echoing house, and sat with her in the dismantled rooms. 
 As if her life were an enchanted vision, there arose out 
 of her solitude ministering thoughts, that made it fanci- 
 ful 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 I And oh the desolation of 
 the solitary house again, with evening coming on, and 
 no one there ! 
 
 But there was one thought, scarcely shaped out to her- 
 self, yet fervent and strong within her, that upheld Flor- 
 ence 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 afiiic . 
 tion of our mortal nature, there had stolen solemn wan-'" 
 derings and hopes, arising in the dim world beyond the 
 present life, and murmuring, like faint music, of rec«» 
 OOTition in the far-of[ land between her brother and her 
 tmrther : of some present consciousness in both of her; 
 some love and commiseration for her : and some knowl- 
 edge of her as she went her way upon the earth. It was 
 
66 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 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 werping 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 
 ofliim whose hand had made it only with hope. 
 
 Her father did not know — she held to it from that time 
 — how much she loved him. She was very young, and 
 had no mother, and had never learned, by some fault or 
 misfortune, how to express to him that she loved him. 
 She w^ould be patient, and would try to gain that art in 
 time, and win him to a better knowledge of his only 
 child. 
 
 This became the purpose of her life. The morning 
 siin shone down upon the faded house, and found the 
 resolution bright and fresh within the bosom of its soli- 
 tary mistress. Through all the duties of the day, it ani- 
 mated her ; for Florence hoped that the more she knew, 
 and the more accomplished she became, the more glad 
 he would he when he came to know and like her. 
 Sometimes she wondered, with a swelling heart and 
 rising tear, whether she was proficient enough in any- 
 thing to surprise him when they should become com- 
 panions. Sometimes she tried to think if there w^ere 
 any kind of knowledge that would bespeak his inter- 
 est more readily than another. Always : at her books, 
 her music, and her work : in her morning walks, and 
 in her nightly prayers : she had her engrossing aim in 
 view. Strange study for a child, to learn the road to 
 a hard parent’s heart ! 
 
 There were many careless loungers through the 
 streets, 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 con- 
 trast 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 stedfastly. The 
 reputation of the mansion as a haunted house, would 
 not have been the gayer with some humble dwellers 
 elsewhere, who w^ere struck by its external gloom in 
 passing and repassing in their daily avocations, and so 
 named it, if they could have read its story in the darkened 
 face. But Florence held her sacred purpose, unsus- 
 pected 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. 
 
 Thus Florence lived alone in the deserted house, and 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 67 
 
 day succeeded day, and still she lived alone, and tlie mo- 
 notonous walls looked down upon her witli a stare, as if 
 they had a Gorgon-like intent to stare her youth and 
 beauty into stone, 
 
 Susan Nipper stood opposite to her young mistress one 
 morning, as she folded and sealed a note she had been 
 writing ; and showed in her looks an approving knowl- 
 edge of its contents. 
 
 ‘‘ Better late than never, dear Miss Floy,^’ said Susan, 
 
 and I do say, that even a visit to them old Skettleses 
 will be a Godsend.” ' 
 
 It is very good of Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles, Su- 
 san,” returned Florence, with a mild correction of that 
 young lady’s familiar mention of the family in question, 
 ‘^to repeat their invitation so kindly.” 
 
 Miss Nipper, who was perhaps the most thorough-going 
 partisan on the face of the earth, and who carried her 
 partisanship into all matters great or small, and perpetu- 
 ally 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. 
 
 “ They know what they’re about, if ever people did,’" 
 murmured Miss Nipper, drawing in her breath, ‘‘oh > 
 trust them Skettleses for that 1 ” 
 
 “ I am not very anxious to go to Fulham, Susan, I con 
 fess,” said Florence thoughtfully : ‘‘ but it will be right 
 to go. I think it will be better.” 
 
 “Much better,” interposed Susan, vrith another em 
 phatic shake of her head. 
 
 “ And so,” said Florence, “ though I would prefer tO' 
 have gone when there was no one there, instead of in 
 this vacation time, when it seems there are some young 
 people staying in the house, I have thankfully said yes.” 
 
 “ For which 1 say. Miss Moy, Oh be ioyful ! ” returned 
 Susan. “Ah!h— hi” 
 
 This last ejaculation, with which Miss Nipper frequent- 
 ly 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 yearn- 
 ing 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 ad 
 vantage of the sharpest expression. 
 
 “How long it is before we have any news of Walter, 
 Susan 1” observed Florence, after a moment’s silence^ 
 
 “ Long indeed. Miss Floy I ” replied her maid. ‘ ‘ And 
 Perch said, when he came just now to see for letters — 
 but what signifies what he says !” exclaimed Susan, red- 
 d.emng and breaking off. “ Much he knows about it 
 
WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 6B . 
 
 Florence j'aised Tier eyes quickly, and a flush overspread 
 her face. 
 
 If I hadn’t,” said Susan Mpper, evidently struggling 
 with some latent anxiety and alarm, and looking full at 
 her young mistress, v/hile endeavouring to work herself 
 into a state of resentment with the unoffending Mr. 
 Perch’s image, "‘if I hadn’t more manliness than that in- 
 sipidest 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 demeau myself by such disfigurement, but 
 anyways, I’m not a giver up, I hope.” 
 
 ‘"Give up! What?” cried Florence, with a face of 
 terror. 
 
 “ Why, nothing. Miss,” said Susan. “Good gracious, 
 nothing ! It’s only that wet curl-paper of a man Perch, 
 that any one might almost make away with, with a touch, 
 and really it would be a blessed event for all parties if 
 some one would take pity on him, and would have the 
 goodness ! ” 
 
 “ Does he give up the ship, Susan ? ” inquired Florence, 
 very pale. 
 
 No, miss,” returned Susan, “ I should like to see him 
 make so bold as to do it to my face ! No, miss, but he 
 goes on about some bothering ginger that Mr. Waiter 
 v/as to send to Mrs. Perch, and shakes his dismal head, 
 and says he hopes it may be coming : any how, he says, 
 H 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 considera- 
 tion, “if I know myself, a dromedary neither.” 
 
 “What else does he say, Susan?” inquired Florence, 
 earnestly. “ Won’t you tell me ? ” 
 
 “As if I wouldn’t tell you anything. Miss Ploy, and 
 everything 1 ” said Susan. “Why miss, he says that 
 there begins to be a general talk about the ship, and that 
 they have never had a ship on that voyage half so long 
 unheard of, and that tlie captain’s wife was at the ofiSce 
 yesterday, and seemed a little put out about it, but any 
 one could say that, we knew nearly that before.” 
 
 “ I must visit Walter’s uncle,” said Florence, hurriedly, 
 -^before I leave home. I will go and see him this morn- 
 ing. Let us walk there, directly, Susan.” 
 
 tess Nipper having nothing to urge against the propo- 
 sal, but being perfectly acquiescent, they were soon 
 equipped, and in the streets, and on their way towards 
 the little Midshipman. 
 
 The state of mind in which poor Walter had gone to 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 69 
 
 Captain Cuttle's on the day when Brogiey the hrok^ 
 came into possession, and when there seemed to him to 
 be an execution in the very steeples, v/as pretty mucL the 
 same as that in which Florence now took her w^ay to Un- 
 cle Sohs ; 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 v/hom 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 danger- 
 ous 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 speak- 
 ing of the ship, and saying it was lost. Pictures and 
 prints of vessels fighting with the rolling v/aves filled her 
 with alarm. The smoke and clouds, though moving gen- 
 tly, moved too fast for her apprehensions, and made her 
 fear there was a tempest blowing at that moment on the 
 ocean. 
 
 Susan Nipper may or may not have been affected sim- 
 ilarly, but having her attention much engaged in strag 
 gles with boys, v/henever there w^as any press of peopl© 
 — for, between that grade of human kind and herself, 
 there was some natural animosity that invariably broke 
 out, whenever they came together — it would seem that 
 she had not much leisure on the road for intellectual 
 operations. 
 
 Arriving in good time abreast of the Wooden Midship- 
 man on the opposite side of the v/ay, and waiting for an 
 opportunity to cross the street, they were a little sur- 
 prised at first to see, at the Instrument-maker’s door, a 
 round-headed lad, with his chubby face addressed to- 
 wards 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 consid- 
 erable elevation in the air. 
 
 “ Mrs. Richards’s eldest, miss ! ” said Susan, and 
 the worrit of Mrs. Richards’s life ! ” 
 
 As Polly had been to tell Florence of the resuscitated 
 prospects of her son and heir, Florence w^as 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 I Whoo-oop 1 Strays ! ” which 
 
70 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 identification liad sucli an effect upon tlie conscience- 
 stricken pigeons, that instead of goiog direct to some 
 town in tke 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 I Whoo-oop I 
 Strays ! 
 
 From this transport, he was abruptly recalled to ter- 
 restrial objects, by a- poke from Miss Nipper, which sent 
 him into the shop. 
 
 Is this the way you show your penitence, when Mrs. 
 Richards has been fretting for you months and months ! ’’ 
 said Susan, following the poke. Where’s Mr. Gills 
 
 Rob, who smoothed his first rebellious glance at Miss 
 Nipper when he saw Florence following, put his knuckles 
 to his hair, in honour of the latter, and said to the former, 
 that Mr, Gills was out. 
 
 Fetch him home,'*’ said Miss Nipper, with authority, 
 
 and say that my young lady’s here.” 
 
 “ I don’t know where he’s gone,” said Rob. 
 
 ‘‘Is tJiat your penitence?” cried Susan, with stingiiJ^ 
 sharpness.” 
 
 “ Why how can I go and fetch him when I don’t know 
 where to go? ” whimpered the baited Rob. “ How can 
 you be so unreasonable ? ” 
 
 “Did Mr. Gills say when he should be home?” asked 
 Florence. 
 
 “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.” 
 
 “Is he very anxious about his nephew?” inquired 
 Susan. 
 
 “Yes, miss,” returned Rob, preferring to address him- 
 self to Florence and slighting Nipper ; “I should say he 
 was, very much so. He ain’t in-doors, miss, not a quar- 
 ter 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 Ms fingers half- 
 way to his mouth, on the verge of another whistle. 
 
 “Do you know a friend of Mr. Gills, called Captain 
 Cuttle ?” inquired Florence, after a moment’s reflection. 
 
 “ Him with a hook, miss?” rejoined Rob, with an il- 
 lustrative twist of his left hand. “ Yes, miss. He was 
 here the day before yesterday.” 
 
 “ Has he not been here since ?” asked Susan. 
 
 “ No, miss,” returned Rob, still addressing his reply 
 to Florence 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 71 
 
 Perhaps Walter’s uncle has gone there, Susan,” ob- 
 served Florence, turning to her. 
 
 To Captain Cuttle’s, miss?” interposed Rob ; no, 
 he’s not gone there, miss. Because he left particular 
 word that if Captain Cuttle called, I should tell him how 
 surprised he was, not to have seen him j^esterday, and 
 should make him stop ’till he came back.” 
 
 Do you know where Captain Cuttle lives?” asked 
 Florence. 
 
 Rob replied in the affirmative, and turning to a greasy 
 parchment book on the shop desk, read the address 
 aloud. 
 
 Florence 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 should go to Cap- 
 tain Cuttle’s house ; hear from his own lips, what he 
 thought of the absence of any tidings of the Son and 
 Heir ; and bring him, if they could, to comfort Uncle 
 Bob 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 as- 
 sent. 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 ap- 
 pointed arbitrator of the arguments. 
 
 In fine, Rob was despatched for a coach, the visitors 
 keeping shop meanwhile ; and when he brought it, they 
 got into it, leaving word for Uncle Sol that they would 
 be sure to call again, on their way back. Rob having 
 stared after the coach until it was as invisible as the 
 pigeons had now become, sat down behind the desk with 
 a most assiduous 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 be- 
 traying anything, if accidentally lost ; for long before a 
 word was dry, it became as profound a mysteiy to Rob, 
 as if he had had no part whatever in its production. 
 
 While he was yet busy with these labours, the hack- 
 ney-coach, after encountering unheard of difficulties 
 from swivel-bridges, soft roads, impassable canals, cara- 
 vans of casks, settlements of scarlet -beans and little 
 wash-houses, and many such obstacles abounding in that 
 country, stopped at the corner of Brig Place. Alighting 
 here, Florence and Susan Nipper walked down the street, 
 and sought out the abode of Captain Cuttle. 
 
 It happened by evil chance to be one of Mrs. MacStin- 
 ger's great cleaning days. On these occasions, Mrs. Mac- 
 Stinger was knocked up by the policeman at a quarter 
 
^2 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 before three in the morning, and rarely succumbed before 
 twelve o’clock next night. The chief object of this in- 
 stitution appeared to be, that Mrs. MacStinger should 
 move all the furniture into tlie back garden at early 
 dawn, walk about the house in pPtttens all day, and 
 move the furniture back again after dark. These cere^ 
 monies greatly fluttered those doves the young Mac- 
 Stingers, who were not only unable at such times to find 
 any resting-place for the soles of their feet, but gener- 
 ally came in for a good deal of pecking from the mater- 
 nal bird during the progress of the solemnities. 
 
 At the moment when Florence and Susan Nipper pre- 
 sented themselves at Mrs. MacStinger’s door, that 
 worthy but redoubtable female was in the act of convey- 
 ing 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 punish- 
 ment, and a cool paving-stone being usually found to act 
 as a powerful restorative in such cases. 
 
 The feelings of Mrs. MacStinger, as a woman and a 
 mother, were outraged by the look of pity for Alexander 
 which she observed on Florence’s face. Therefore, Mrs. 
 MacStinger asserting those finest emotions of our nature, 
 in preference to weakly gratifying her curiosity, shook 
 and buffetted Alexander both before and during the ap- 
 plication of the paving-stone, and took no further notice 
 ©f the strangers. 
 
 I beg your pardon, ma’am,” said Florence, when the 
 child had found his breath again, and was using it. 
 ‘"Is this Captain Cuttle’s house?” 
 
 “ No,” said Mrs. MacStinger. 
 
 “ Not Number Nine ? ” asked Florence, hesitating. 
 
 “ Who said it wasn’t Number Nine?” said Mrs. Mac- 
 Stinger. 
 
 Susan Nipper instantly struck in, and begged to in- 
 quire what Mrs. MacStinger meant by that, and if she 
 knew whom she was talking to. 
 
 Mrs. MacStinger in retort, looked at her all over. 
 “ What do you want with Captain Cuttle, I should wish 
 to know ? ” said Mrs. MacStinger. 
 
 “ Should you? Then I’m sorry that you won’t be sat- 
 isfied,” returned Miss Nipper. 
 
 “Hush, Susan! If you please!” said FlorencCc 
 “ Perhaps you can have the goodness to tell us where 
 Captain Cuttle lives ma’am, as he don’t live here.” 
 
 “ Who says he don’t live here ?” retorted the implac- 
 able 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 
 
Dombey and Son, Vol. Twelve, page 73. 
 
74 
 
 WOKKS OP CHARLES DlCKSm 
 
 to keep a Louse — and don’t deserve to Lave a Louse — it’s 
 my Louse—and wLen I let tLe upper floor to Cap’en 
 Cuttle, oL I do a tLankless thing, and cast pearls before 
 swine ! ” 
 
 Mrs. MacStinger pitcLed Ler voice for tLe upper win^ 
 dows in offering tLese remarks, and cracked off each 
 clause sharply by itself as if from a rifle possessing an 
 infinity of barrels. After the last shot, the captain’s 
 voice was heard to say, in feeble remonstrance from his 
 own room, Steady below ! ” 
 
 Since you want Cap’en Cuttle, there he is I” said 
 Mrs. MacStinger, with an angry motion of her Land. 
 On Florence making bold to enter, without any more 
 parley, and on Susan following, Mrs. MacStinger re- 
 commenced her pedestrian exercise in pattens, and 
 Alexander MacStinger (still on the paving-stone), wlio 
 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. 
 
 The captain in Lis own apartment was sitting with 
 Lis hands in Lis pockets and his legs drawn up under his 
 chair, on a very small desolate island, lying about mid- 
 way in an ocean of soap and water. The Captain’s 
 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. 
 
 But when the captain, directing his forlorn visage to- 
 wards the door, saw Florence appear with her maid, no 
 words can describe his asljonishment. Mrs. MacStinger’s 
 eloquence Laving rendered all other sounds but imper- 
 fectly distinguishable, he had looked for no rarer visitor 
 than the potboy or the milkman ; wherefore when Flor- 
 ence appeared, and coming to the confines of the island, 
 put her hand in his, the captain stood up, aghast, as if 
 he supposed her, for the moment, to be some young 
 member of the Flying Dutchman’s family. 
 
 Instantly recovering his self-possession, however, the 
 captain’s first care was to place her on dry land, which 
 he happily accomplished, with one motion of his 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 ad- 
 miration, raised the hand of Florence to Lis lips, and 
 standing off a little (for the island was not large enough. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 75 
 
 for three), beamed on her from the soap and water like 
 a new description of Triton. 
 
 ‘‘ You are amazed to see us, I am sure,’" said Florence, 
 with a smile. 
 
 The inexpressibly gratified captain kissed his hook in 
 reply, and growled, as if a choice and delicate compliment 
 were included in the words, Stand by ! Stand by V 
 
 ‘‘ But I couldn’t rest,” said Florence, without coming 
 to ask you what you think about dear Walter — who is 
 my brother, now— and whether there is anything to fear, 
 and whether you will not go and console his poor uncle 
 every day, until we have some intelligence of him ? ’’ 
 
 At these words Captain Cuttle, as by an involuntary 
 gesture, clapped his hand to his head, on which the hard 
 glazed hat was not, and looked discomfited. 
 
 '"Have you any fears for Walter’s safety?” inquired 
 Florence, from whose face the captain (so enraptured he 
 was with it) could not take his eyes ; while she, in her 
 turn, looked earnestly at him, to be assured of the sin- 
 cerity of his reply. 
 
 "" No, Heart’s-delight,” said Captain Cuttle, "" I am not 
 afeard. WaTr 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 a in’ard and spirited grasp, and when found make 
 a note of.” 
 
 Florence, who did not quite understand this, though • 
 the captain thought it full of meaning and highly satis- 
 factory, mildly looked to him for something more. 
 
 ‘"i am not afeard, my Heart’s delight,” resumed 
 the captain "" There’s been most uncommon bad weather 
 in them latitudes, there’s no denyin, and they have 
 drove and drove and been beat ofi, may be the t’other 
 side the world. But the ship’s a good ship, and the 
 lad’s a good IM ; 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 buzz urns. Here we 
 have ’em both ways, wkich is bringing it up with a round 
 turn, and so I ain’t a bit afeard as yet,” 
 
 " As yet ?” repeated Florence. 
 
 "Not a bit,” returned the captain, kissing his iron 
 hand; ""and afore I begin to be, my Heart’s-delight, 
 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 
 doe us part, and when the stormy winds do blow, do 
 blow, do blow — overhaul the Catechism,” said the cap- 
 
76 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 tain parenthetically, and there jeon'll find th^m ex. 
 pressions — if it would console Sol Gills to have tho 
 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 ! ” 
 
 '^Let us take this gentleman to see him, and let us 
 hear what he says,” cried Florence. ** Will you go with 
 us now ? We have a coach here.” 
 
 Again the captain clapped his hand to his head, on 
 which the hard glazed hat was not, and Idoked discom- 
 fited. But at this instant a most remarkable phenom- 
 enon occurred. The door opening, without any note of 
 preparation, and apparently of itself, the hard glazed 
 hat in question skimmed into the room like a bird, and 
 alighted heavily at the captain’s feet. The door then 
 shut as violently as it had opened, and nothing ensued 
 in explanation of the prodigy. 
 
 Captain Cuttle picked up his hat and having turned it 
 over with a look of interest and welcome, began to pol- 
 ish it on his sleeve. While doing so the captain eyed 
 his visitors intently, and said in a low voice : 
 
 You see I should have bore down on Sol Gills yes- 
 terday, and this morning, but she — she took it away and 
 kept it. That’s the long and short of the subject.” 
 
 “Who did, for goodness sake?” asked Susan Nipper. 
 
 * “ The lady of the house, my dear,” returned the cap- 
 
 tain, in a gruff whisper, and making signals of secrecy. 
 “We had some words about the swabbing of these her© 
 planks, and she — in short,” said the captain, eyeing the 
 door, and relieving himself with a long breath, “she 
 stopped my liberty.” 
 
 “Oh ! I wish she had me to deal with ! ” said Susan, 
 reddening with the energy of the wish. “I’d stop 
 her ! ” 
 
 “Would you, do you think, my dear?” rejoined the 
 captain, shaking his head doubtfully, but regarding the 
 desperate courage of the fair aspirant with obvious ad- 
 miration. “I don’t know. It’s difficult navigation. 
 She’s very hard to carry on with, my dear. You never 
 can tell how she’ll head, you see. She’s full one minute, 
 and round upon you next. And when she is a tartar,” 
 said the captain, with the perspiration breaking out 
 upon his forehead — . There was nothing but a whistle 
 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 
 
J30MBEY . ND SON. 
 
 77 
 
 Nipper’s devoted bravery, timidly repeated, ‘‘Would 
 you, do you tliink, my dear ? ” 
 
 Susan only replied with a bridling smile, but that 
 was so very fuil 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 oracu- 
 lar Bunsby. Thus reminded of his duty. Captain Cut- 
 tie put on the glazed hat firmly, took up another knobby 
 stick with which he had supplied the place of that on© 
 given to Walter, and offering his arm to Florence, pre- 
 pared to cut his way through the enemy. 
 
 It turned out, however, that Mrs. MacStinger had al- 
 ready changed her course, and that she headed, as the 
 captain had remarked she often did, in quite a new di- 
 rection. For when they got down-stairs, they found that 
 exemplary woman beating the mats on the door steps, 
 with Alexander, still upon the paving-stone, dimly loom- 
 ing through a fog of dust ; and so absorbed was Mrs. 
 MacStinger in her household occupation, that when Cap- 
 tain Cuttle and his visitors passed, she beat the harder, 
 and neither by word or gesture showed any conscious- 
 ness 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 appre- 
 hension of Mrs. MacStingeFs giving chase yet. 
 
 However, they got to the jcorner 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 be- 
 sought to do so — piloted the driver on his course for 
 Captain Bunsby ’s vessel, which was called the Cautious 
 Clara, and was lying hard by Ratcliffe. 
 
 Arrived at the wharf off which this great comman- 
 der’s ship was jammed in among the some five hundred 
 companions, whose tangled rigging looked like mons- 
 trous 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. 
 
 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 v/as pleasant to see, over several very 
 
78 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 dirty decks, until, coming to tbe Clara, tkey found tliat 
 cautious craft (wliich lay outside the tier) with her gang- 
 way 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 timfe being was so 
 hard that he could bear it no longer, he set this gulf be- 
 tween them as a last resource. 
 
 ‘ ' Clara a-hoy ! ” cried the captain, putting a hand to 
 each side of his mouth. 
 
 ‘"A-hoy k’ cried a boy, like the captain’s echo, tum- 
 bling up from below. 
 
 “Bunsby aboard ? ” cried the captain, hailing the boy 
 in a stentorian voice, as if he were half-a-mile off in- 
 stead of two yards. 
 
 “ Aye, aye ! ” cried the boy, in the same tone. 
 
 The boy then shoved out a plank to Captain Cuttle, 
 who adjusted it carefully, and led Florence across : re- 
 turning presently, for Miss Nipper. So they stood upon 
 the deck of the Cautious Clara, in whose standing rig- 
 ging, divers fluttering articles of dress wera curing, in 
 company with a few tongues a,nd some mackerel. 
 
 Immediately there appeared, coming slowly up above 
 the bulk-head of the cabin, another bulk-head — ^human 
 and very large — with one stationary eye in the mahogany 
 face, and one revolving one, on the principle of some 
 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, aiKl to every point upon it. 
 The head was followed by a perfect desert of chin, and 
 by a shirt-collar and a 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 become a succedaneum for a waistcoat : being 
 ornamented near the wearer’s breast-bone 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 
 Caj)tain Cuttle or the ladies, but the mast-head. 
 
 The profound appearance of this philosopher, who 
 was bulky and strong, and on whose extremely red face 
 an expression of taciturnity sat enthroned, not inconsis- 
 tent 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 be eyed his mast-head, and 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 79 
 
 afterwards swept the horizon ; and when the revolving 
 eye seemed to be coming round in his direction, said : 
 
 Bunsby, my lad, how fares it ? ’’ 
 
 A deep, gruff, husky utterance, which seemed to have 
 no connection with Bunsby, and certainly had not the 
 least effect upon his face, replied Aye, aye, shipmet, 
 how goes it ! ’’ 
 
 At the same time, Bunsby’s right hand and arm, 
 emerging from a pocket, shook the captain's, and went 
 back again. 
 
 “ Bunsby," said the captain, striking home at once, 
 
 here you 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 inwention, and knows no law. Bunsby, 
 will you wear, to oblige me, and come along with us ? " 
 
 The great commander, who seemed by the expression 
 of his visage to be always on the look-out for something 
 in the extremest distance, and to have no ocular know- 
 ledge of anything within ten miles, made no reply what- 
 ever. 
 
 Here is a man," said the captain, addressing himself 
 to his fair auditors, and indicating the commander with 
 his outstretched hook, “that has fell down more than 
 any man alive ; that has had more accidents happen to 
 his own self than the Seaman's Hospital to all hands ; 
 that took as many spars and bars and bolts about the 
 outside of his head when he was young, as you'd want 
 a order for on Chatham -yard to built a pleasure-yacht 
 with ; and yet that got his opinions in that way, it’s 
 my belief, for there an't nothing like 'em afloat or 
 ashore." 
 
 The stolid commander appeared, by a very slight vib- 
 ration in his elbov/s, 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. 
 
 “ Shipmet," said Bunsby, all of a sudden, and stooping 
 down to look out under some interposing spar, “ what’ll 
 the ladies drink ? " 
 
 Captain Cuttle, whv?«e 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 
 difliculty finding room for himself between his berth and 
 a very little brass fire-place, serve out for . self and 
 
WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 friend. They soon reappeared on deck, and Captain Cut- 
 tie, triumpliing in the success of his enterprise, conducted 
 Florence back to the coach, while Bunsby followed, esr 
 corting Miss Nipper, whom he hugged upon the way 
 (much to that young lady^s indignation) with his pilots 
 coated arm, like a blue bear. 
 
 The captain put his oracle inside, and gloried so much 
 in having secured him, and having got that mind into q 
 hac-iney-coach, thathe could not retain from often peep- 
 ing in at Florence through the little window behind the 
 driver, and testifying his delight in smiles, and also in 
 taps upon his forehead, to 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 
 preser^^ed his gravity of deportment, and showed no other 
 consciousness of her or anything. \ 
 
 Uncle Sol, who had come home, received them at the 
 door, and ushered them immediately into the little back- 
 parlour : strangely altered by the absence of Walter. 
 On the table, and about the room, were the charts and 
 maps on which the heavy-hearted Instrument-maker had 
 again and again tracked the missing vessel across the 
 sea, and on which, with a pair of compasses that he still 
 had in his hand, he had been measuring, a minute 
 before, how far she must have driven, to have driven 
 here or there : and trying to demonstrate that a long 
 time must elapse before hope was exhausted. 
 
 “ Whether she can have run,^’ said Uncle Sol, looking 
 wistfully over the chart ; bat no, that^s almost impos- 
 sible. Or whether she can have been forced by stress 
 of weather, — but that's not reasonably likely. Or 
 whether there is any hope she so far changed her course 
 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 hope- 
 ful probability in it large enough to set one small point 
 of the compasses upon. 
 
 Florence saw immediately — it would have been diffi- 
 cult to help seeing — that there was a singular indescrib- 
 able change in the old man, and that while his manner 
 was far more restless and unsettled than usual, there was 
 yet a curious, contradictory decision in it, that perplexed 
 her very much. She fancied once that he spoke wildly, 
 and at random ; for on her saying she regretted not to 
 have seen him when she had been there before that 
 morning, he at first replied that he had been to see her, 
 and directly afterwards seemed to wish to recall that 
 answer. 
 
 *‘You have been to see me?” said Florence, “To- 
 day?" 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 81 
 
 ‘"Yes, my dear young lady/’ returned Uncle Sol, look- 
 ing at her and away from her in a confused manner. 
 ** I wished to see you with my own eyes, and to hear 
 you with my own ears, once more before — ’’ There he 
 stopped. 
 
 Before when ? Before what ? said Florence, putting 
 her hand upon his arm. 
 
 “ Did I say " before?' replied Old Sol. “ If I did, I 
 must have meant before we should have news of my 
 dear boy.” 
 
 You are not well,” said Florence, tenderly. “ You 
 have been so very anxious. I am sure you are not 
 well.” 
 
 “ I am as well,” returned the old man, shutting up his 
 right hand, and holding it out to show her : “as well 
 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 resolu- 
 tion and fortitude as many a younger man ? I think so. 
 We shall see.” 
 
 There was that in his manner more than in his words, 
 though they remained with her too, which impressed 
 Florence so much, that she would have confided her un- 
 easiness to Captain Cuttle at that moment, if the captain 
 had not seized that moment for expounding the state of 
 circumstances on which the opinion of the sagacious 
 Bunsby was requested, and entreating that profound 
 authority to deliver the same. 
 
 Bunsby, whose eye continued to be addressed to some- 
 where about the half-way house between London and 
 Gravesend, two or three times put out his rough right 
 arm, as seeking to wind it for inspiration, round the fair, 
 form of Miss Nipper ; but that young female having 
 withdrawn herself, in displeasure, to the opposite side of 
 the table, the soft heart of the commander of the Cautious 
 Clara met with no response to its impulses. After sun- 
 dry failures in this wise, the commander, addressing him- 
 self 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 ; 
 
 “ My name's Jack Bunsby ! ” 
 
 “He was christened John,” cried the delighted Cap- 
 tian Cuttle. “ Hear him ! ” 
 
 “And w^hat I says,” pursued the voice, after some de- 
 liberation, “ I stands to.” 
 
 The captain, with Florence on his arm, nodded at the 
 auditory, and seemed to say, “ Now he's coming out. 
 This is what I meant when I brought him.” 
 
 “ Whereby,” proceeded the voice, “ why not ? If so, 
 what odds ? Can any man say otherwise ? No. Awast 
 then ! ” 
 
 When it had pursued its train of argument to this 
 
82 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 point, tlie voice stopped and rested. It then proceeded 
 very slowly, thus : 
 
 "‘Do I believe that this here Son and Heir’s gone 
 down, my lads ? Mayhap. Do I say so ? Which ? If 
 a skipper stands out by Sen’ George’s Channel, making 
 for the Downs, what’s right ahead of him ? The Good- 
 wins. He isn’t forced to run upon the Goodwins, but he 
 may. The bearings of this observation lays in the appli- 
 cation on it. That an’''i, no part of my duty. Awast 
 then, keep a bright look-out for’ard, and good luck to 
 you !” 
 
 The voice here went out of the back parlour and into 
 the street, taking the commander of the Cautious Clara 
 with it, and accompanying him on board again with all 
 convenient expedition, where he immediately turned in, 
 and refreshed his mind with a nap. 
 
 The students of the sage’s precepts, left to their own 
 application of his wisdom — upon a principle which was 
 the main leg of the Bunsby tripod, as it is perchance of 
 some other oracular stools — looked at one another in a 
 little uncertainty ; while Rob the Grinder, who had taken 
 the innocent freedom of peering in, and listening, through 
 the skylight in the roof, came softly down from the 
 leads, in a state of very dense confusion. Captain Cut- 
 tie, however, whose admiration of Bunsby was, if possi- 
 ble, en chanced by the splendid manner in which he had 
 Justified his reputation and come through this solemn 
 reference, proceeded to explain that Bunsby meant noth- 
 ing 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, and with 
 good roads to cast it in. Florence endeavored to believe 
 that the captain was right ; but the Nipper, with her 
 arms tight folded, shook her head in resolute denial, 
 and had no more trust in Bunsby than in Mr. Perch 
 himself. 
 
 The philosopher seemed to have left Uncle Sol pretty 
 much where he had found him, for he still went roam- 
 ing about the watery world, compasses in hand, and dis- 
 covering no rest for them. It was in pursuance 
 of a whisper in his ear from Florence, while the old 
 man was absorbed in this pursuit, that Captain Cuttle 
 laid his heavy hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 “ What cheer, Sol Gills?” cried the captain, heartily. 
 
 “But so-so, Ned,” returned the Instrument-maker. 
 “ I have been remembering, 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 yoa 
 stand, we talked of storm and shipwreck, and I could 
 hardly turn him from the subject.” 
 
 But meeting the eyes of Florence, which \v ere fixed 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 83 
 
 with earnest scrutiny upon Ms face, the old man stopped 
 and smiled. 
 
 ''Stand by, old friend !” cried the captain. "Look 
 alive ! I tell you what, Sol Gills ! arter I’ve con- 
 voyed Heart’s-delight safe home,” here the captain kissed 
 his hook to Florence, " I’ll come back and take you in 
 tow for this rest of this blessed day. You’ll come and eat 
 your dinner along with me, Sol, somewheres or other. 
 
 " Not to-day, Ned ! ” said the old man quickly, and 
 appearing to be unaccountably startled by the proposi- 
 tion. "Not to-day. I couldn’t do it ! ” 
 
 " Why not ?” returned the captain, gazing at him in 
 astonishment. 
 
 " I — I have so much to do. I — mean to think of, and 
 arrange. I couldn’t do it, Ned, indeed. I must go out 
 again, and be alone, and turn my mind to many things 
 to-day. ” 
 
 The captain looked at the Instrument-maker, and 
 looked at Florence,and again at then Instrument-maker. 
 "To-morrow, then,” he suggested at last. 
 
 " Yes, yes. To-morrow,” said the old man. "Think 
 of me to-morrow. Say to-morrow.” 
 
 " I shall come here early, mind, Sol Gills,” stipulated 
 the old captain. 
 
 " Yes, yes. The first thing to-morrow morning,” said 
 old Sol : " and now good-bye, Ned Cuttle, and God bless 
 you I ” 
 
 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 a very singular pre= 
 cipitation. Altogether, he made such an effect on Cap» 
 tain Cuttle that the captain lingered behind, and in- 
 structed Rob to be particularly gentle and attentive to 
 his master until the morning : which injunction he 
 strengthened with one shilling down, and the promise of 
 another sixpence before noon the 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 old 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 I ” 
 
 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 
 
84 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 parlonr like a wedge, to which glazed hats much resort- 
 ed. The captain’s principal intention was to pass Sol 
 Gills’s after dark, and look in tliTOugh 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. Re-assured by 
 the tranquillity that reigned within the precincts of the 
 wooden mariner, the captain headed for Brig-place, re- 
 solving to weigh anchor betimes in the morning. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 The Study of a Loving Heart. 
 
 Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles, very good people, re- 
 sided 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 appear- 
 ance of the river in the drawing- room, and the contem- 
 poraneous disappearance of the lawn and shrubbery. 
 
 Sir Barnet Skettles expressed his personal consequence 
 chiefly through an antique gold snuff-box, and a ponder- 
 ous silk pocket-handkerchief, which he had an imposing 
 manner of drawing out of his pocket like a banner, and 
 using with both hands at once. Sir Barnet’s object in 
 life was constantly to extend the range of his acquaint- 
 ance. Like a heavy body dropped into water — ^not to 
 disparage so worthy a gentleman by the comparison — it 
 was in the nature of things that Sir Barnet must spread 
 an ever- widening circle about him, until there was, no 
 room left. Or, like a sound in air, the vibration of 
 which, according to the speculation of an ingenious 
 modern philosopher, may go on travelling for ever 
 through the interminable fields of space, nothing but 
 coming to the end of his moral tether could stop Sir 
 Barnet Skettles in his voyage of discovery through the 
 social system. 
 
 Sir Barnet was proud of making people acquainted 
 with people. He liked the thing for its own sake, and 
 it advanced his favourite object too. For example, if 
 Sir Barnet had the good fortune to get hold of a raw’' re- 
 emit, 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 85 
 
 anybody yon would like to know? Who is there you 
 wish to meet ? Do you take any interest in writing peo- 
 ple, or in painting or sculpturing 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 afore- 
 said somebody, left his card, wrote a short note, — ‘‘My 
 dear Sir — penalty of your eminent position — friend at 
 my house naturally desires — Lady Skettles and myself 
 participate — trust that genius being superior to ceremo- 
 nies, you will do us the distinguished favour of giving 
 us the pleasure, &c. &c. — and so kill a brace of birds with 
 one stone, dead as door-nails. 
 
 With the snuff-box and banner in full force, Sir Bar- 
 net Skettles propounded his usual inquiry to Florence on 
 the first morning of her visit. When Florence thanked 
 him, and said there was no one in particular whom she 
 desired to see, it was natural she should think with a 
 pang of poor lost Walter. When Sir Barnet Skettles, 
 urging his kind offer, said, “ My dear Miss Dombey, are 
 you sure you can remember no one on whom your good 
 papa— to whom I beg you to present the best compli- 
 ments 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. 
 
 Skettles j unior, much stiffened as to his cravat, and 
 sobered down as to his spirits, was at home for the holi- 
 days, and appeared to feel himself aggrieved by the 
 solicitude of his excellent mother that he should be at- 
 tentive to Florence. Another and a deeper injury under 
 which the soul of young Barnet chafed, was the com- 
 pany of Dr. and Mrs. Blimber, who had been invited on 
 a visit to the parental roof tree, and of whom the young 
 gentleman often said he would have preferred their 
 passing the vacation at Jericho. 
 
 “ Is there anybody you can suggest, now. Doctor 
 Blimber?” said Sir Barnet Skettles, turning to that 
 gentleman. 
 
 “You are very kind. Sir Barnet,” returned Doctor 
 Blimber. “ Really I am not aware that there is, in par- 
 ticular. I like to know my fellow men in general. Sir 
 Barnet. What does Terence say ? Any one who is the 
 parent of a son is interesting to m^.” 
 
 “Has Mrs. Blimber any wish to see any remarkable 
 person ? ” asked Sir Barnet courteously. 
 
 Mrs. Blimber replied, with a sweet smile and a shake 
 of her sky-blue cap, that if Sir Barnet could have made 
 her known to Cicero, she would have troubled him : but 
 
86 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 such an introduction not being feasible, and she already 
 enjoying tbe friendship of himself and his amiable 
 lady, and possessing with the Doctor her husband their 
 joint confidence in regard to their dear son — here young 
 Barnet was observed to curl his nose~she asked no 
 more. 
 
 Sir Barnet was fain, under these circumstances, to 
 content himself for the time with the company assem- 
 bled. Florence v/as glad of that ; for she had a study 
 to pursue among them, and it lay too near her heart, and 
 was too precious and momentous, to yield to any other 
 interest. 
 
 There were some children staying in the house. ChiL 
 dren who were as frank and happy with fathers and 
 with mothers, as those rosy faces opposite home. Chih 
 dren who had no restraint upon their love, and freely 
 showed it. Florence sought to learn their secret ; sought 
 to find out what it was she had missed ; what simple art 
 they knew, and she knew not ; how she could be taught 
 by them to show her father that she loved him, and to 
 win his love again. 
 
 Many a day did Florence thoughtfully observe these 
 children. On many a bright morning did she leave her 
 bed when the glorious sun rose, and walking up and 
 down upon the river’s bank, before any one in the house 
 was stirring, look up at the windows of their rooms, and 
 think of them, asleep, so gently tended and affection- 
 ately 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 un- 
 like them all she was. But attentive to her study, though 
 it touched her to the quick at every little leaf she turned 
 in the hard book, Florence remained among them, and 
 tried, with patient hope, to gain the knowledge that she 
 wearied for. 
 
 Ah ! how to gain it ! how to know the charm in its 
 beginning ! There were daughters here, who rose up 
 in the morning, and lay down to rest at night, pos- 
 sessed of father’s hearts already. They had no repulse 
 to overcome, no coldness to dread, no frown to smooth 
 away. As the morning advanced, and the win^.ows 
 opened one by one, and the dew began to dry upon the 
 flowers and grass, and youthful feet began to move upon 
 the lawn, Florence, glancing round at tbe 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 by being* so bold. Oh ! could it be that there was less 
 and less hope as she studied more and more ! 
 
 She remembered well, that even the old woman who 
 had robbed her when a child — whose image and whose 
 house and all she had said and done, were stamped upon 
 her recollection, with the enduring sharpness of a fear- 
 ful impression made at that early period of life — had 
 spoken fondly of her daugher, 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 her- 
 self, that she could not resist its passing, like a wild 
 cloud, through the distance of her mind. 
 
 There came among the other visitors, soon after Florence, 
 one beautiful girl, three or four years younger than she, 
 who was an orphan child, and who was accompanied by 
 her aunt, a gray-haired lady, who spoke much to Flor- 
 ence, 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 ob- 
 servant of a youthful group upon the turf, through some 
 intervening boughs, and wreathing flowers for the head 
 of one little creature among them who was the pet and 
 plaything of the rest, heard this same lady and her niece, 
 in pacing up and down a sheltered nook close by, speak 
 of herself. 
 
 Is Florence an orphan like me, aunt?” said the child. 
 
 ‘‘No, my love. She has no mother, but her father is 
 living.” 
 
 “ Is she in mourning for her poor mama now?” in- 
 quired the child, quickly. 
 
 “No ; for her only brother.” 
 
 “ Has she no other brother?" 
 
 “None.” 
 
 “No sister ? ” 
 
 “ None.” 
 
 “ I am very, very sorry ! ” said the little girl. 
 
 As they stopped soon afterwards to watch some boats, 
 and had been silent in the meantime, Florence, who had 
 
WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 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 re- 
 commenced next moment. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Florence is a favourite with every one here^ and 
 deserves to be, I am sure,” said the child, earnestly, 
 
 Where is her papa ?” 
 
 The aunt replied, after a moment’s pause, that she 
 did not know. Her tone of voice arrested Florence, who 
 had started from her seat again ; and held her fastened 
 to the spot, with her work hastily caught up to her 
 bosom, and her two hands saving it from being scattered 
 on the ground. 
 
 “ He is in England, I hope, aunt?” said the child. 
 
 I believe so. Yes ; 1 know he is, indeed.” 
 
 Has he ever been here ?” 
 
 ‘"I believe not. No.” 
 
 Is he coming here to see her?” 
 
 I believe not.” 
 
 ‘‘Is he lame, or blind, or ill, aunt?” asked the child. 
 
 The flowers that Florence held to her breast began to 
 fall when she heard those words, so wonderingly spoken. 
 She held them closer ; and her face hung down upon them. 
 
 “ Kate,” said the lady, after another moment of silence, 
 “I will tell you the whole truth about Florence as I 
 have heard it, and believe it to be. Tell no one else, my 
 dear, because it may be little known here, and your 
 doing so would give her pain.” 
 
 “ I never will ! ” exclaimed the child. 
 
 “ I know you never will,” returned the lady. “ I can 
 trust you as myself. I fear then, Kate, that Florence’s 
 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 suf- 
 fer her, but he will not — though for no fault of her’s ; 
 and she is greatly to be loved and pitied by all gentk 
 hearts.” 
 
 More of the flowers that Florence held, fell scattering 
 on the ground ; those that remained were wet, but not 
 with dew ; and her tace dropped upon her laden hands. 
 
 “Poor Florence ! Bear, good Florence !” cried the 
 child. 
 
 “ Bo you know why I have told you this, Kate ?” said 
 the lady. 
 
 “That I may be very kind to her, and take great care 
 to try to please her. Is that the reason, aunt ? ” 
 
 “ Partly,” said the lady, “ but not all. Though we see 
 her so cheerful ; with a pleasant smile for every one ; 
 ready to oblige us all, and bearing her part in every 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 kmnsement here : she can hardly he quite happy, do you 
 ihink she can, Kate ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ I am afraid not,” said the little girl. 
 
 “And you can understand,” pursued the lady, “why 
 her observation of children who have parents who are 
 fond of them, and proud of them — like many here, just 
 now — should make her sorrowful in secret ?” 
 
 “ Yes, dear aunt,” said the child, “ I understand that 
 very well. Poor Florence ! ” 
 
 More howers strayed upon the ground, and those she 
 yet held to her breast trembled as if a wintry wind were 
 ifustling them. 
 
 “ My Kate,” said the lady, whose voice was serious, 
 but very calm and sweet, and had so impressed Florence 
 from the first moment of her hearing it, “of all the 
 youthful people here, you are her natural and harmless 
 friend ; you have not the innocent means, that happier 
 children have” — 
 
 “ There are none happier, aunt ! ” exclaimed the child, 
 who seemed to cling about her. 
 
 — “ As other children have, dear Kate, of reminding 
 her of her 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 andiiold upon poor Florence.” 
 
 “But I am not without a parent's love, aunt, and I 
 never have been,” said the child, with you.” 
 
 “However that may be, my dear,” returned the lady, 
 “your 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 parent's love. ” 
 
 The flowers were scattered on the ground like dust ; 
 the empty hands were spread upon the face ; and or- 
 phaned Florence, shrinking down up6n the ground, 
 wej)t long and bitterly. 
 
 But true of heart and resol ut^ in her good purpose, 
 Florence held to it as her dying mother held by her 
 upon the day that gave Paul life. He did not know 
 how much she loved him. However long the time in 
 coming, and however slow the interval, she must try to 
 bring that knowledge to her father's heart one day or 
 other. Meantime she must be careful in no thoughtless 
 word, or look, or burst of feeling awakened by any 
 chance circumstance, to complain against him, or to give 
 occasion for. these whispers to his prejudice. 
 
 Even in the response she made the orphan child, to 
 whom she was a,ttracted 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— “iB 
 
90 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 one mind certainly ; perliaps 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. 
 
 She did so always. If a book were read aloud, and 
 there were anything in the story that pointed at an un- 
 kind father, she was in pain for their application of it to 
 him ; not for herself. So 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 ten- 
 derness towards him were so many, that her mind mis- 
 gave 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, sus- 
 pected what a heap of fiery coals was piled upon his 
 head ! 
 
 Florence pursued her study patiently, and, failing to 
 acquire the secret of the nameless grace she sought, 
 among the youthful company who were assembled in 
 the house, often walked out alone, in the early morning, 
 among the children of the poor. But still she found 
 them all too far advanced to learn from. They had won 
 their household places long ago, and did not stand with- 
 out, as she did, with a bar across the door. 
 
 There was one man whom she several times observed 
 at work very early, and often with a girl of about her 
 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 gar- 
 den-ground before his cottage ; and now tinkered up a 
 miserable old boat thf t 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 em- 
 ployed ; but sat, when she was with him, in a listless, 
 moping state, and idle. 
 
 Florence had often wished to speak to this man ; yet 
 she had never taken courage to do so, as he made 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 tho 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 91 
 
 sound of her footstep, and gave her Good morning. 
 
 "" Good morning,” said Florence, approaching nearer, 
 '^'"you are at work early.” 
 
 'Tdbe glad to be often at work, earlier, miss, if I 
 had work to do.” 
 
 ‘"Is it so hard to get?” asked Florence. 
 
 "^/find it so,” replied the man. 
 
 Florence glanced to where the girl was sitting, drawn 
 together, with her elbows on her knees, and her chin on 
 her hands, and said : 
 
 Is that your daughter?” 
 
 He raised his head quickly^ and looking towards 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 re- 
 turn, ungraciously and sullenly. 
 
 Is she in want of employment also ?” said Florence. 
 
 The man shook his head. No, miss,” he said. I 
 work for both.” 
 
 xire there only you two, then?” inquired Florence. 
 
 Only us two,” said the man. Her mother has been 
 dead these ten year. Martha ! ” (he lifted up his head 
 again and whistled to her) Won’t you say a word to the 
 pretty young lady ? ” 
 
 The girl made an impatient gesture with her cowering 
 shoulders, and turned her head another way. Ugly, 
 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. 
 
 ‘‘ 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 rough. 
 
 “ She is ill, then ?” said Florence. 
 
 The man drew a deep sigh. I don’t believe my 
 Martha’s had five short days good health,” he answered, 
 looking at her still, in as many long years.” 
 
 "" Aj ! and more than that, John,” said a neighbour, 
 who had come down to help him with the boat. 
 
 “More than that, you say, do you?” cried the other, 
 pushing back his battered hat, and drawing his hand 
 across his forehead. “ Very like. It seems a long, long 
 time.” 
 
 “And the more the time,” pursued the neighbour, 
 “ the more you’ve favoured and humoured her, John, 
 ’till she’s got to be a burden to herself, and everybody 
 else.” 
 
 “Not to me,” said her father, falling to his work 
 again. “ Not to me.” 
 
 Florence could feel — who better ? — how truly he spoke. 
 
9 ^ 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 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. 
 
 Who would favour my poor girl — to call it favour- 
 ing — if I didn't ? " said the father. 
 
 ‘‘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 I 
 You don't believe she knows it?" 
 
 The father lifted up his head again, and wtiistled to 
 her. Martha made the same impatient gesture with her 
 crouching shoulders, in reply ; and he was glad and 
 happy. 
 
 “ Only for that, miss," said the neighbour with a smile, 
 in which there was more of secret sympathy than he ex- 
 pressed : “only to get that, he never lets her out of his 
 sight ! " 
 
 “Because the day'll come, and has been coming a long 
 while," observed the other, bending low over his work, 
 “ when to get half as much from that unfort'nate child 
 of mine— to get the trembling of a finger, or the waving 
 of a hair — would be to raise the dead." 
 
 Florence softly put some money near his hand on the 
 old boat, and left him. 
 
 And now Florence began to think, if she were to fall 
 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 em- 
 brace, 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 rooro. 
 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? 
 
 Yes, she thought if she were dying, he would relent. 
 She thought, that if she lay, serene and not unwilling to 
 depart, upon the bed that was curtained round with 
 recollections of their darling boy, he would be touched 
 home, and would say, “Dear Florence, live for me, and 
 we will love each other as we might have done, and be 
 as happy as we might have been these many years ! ” 
 She thought that if she heard such words from him, and 
 had her arms clasped round him, she could answer with 
 a smile, “ It is too late for anything but this ; I never 
 could be happier, dear father ! " and so leave him, with 
 a blessing on her lips. 
 
 The golden water she remembered on the wall, ap« 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 93 
 
 peared to Florence, in tlie 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 ha.nd ^ 
 and often when she looked upon the darker river rip' 
 pling at her feet, she thought with awful wonder, but 
 not terror, of that river which her brother had so often 
 said was bearing him away. 
 
 The father and his sick daughter were yet fresh in 
 Florence's mind, and, indeed, that incident was not a 
 week old, when Sir Barnet and his lady going out walk- 
 ing in the lanes one afternoon, proposed to her to bear 
 them company. Florence readily consenting. Lady Sket^ 
 ties 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. 
 
 Barnet, to say the truth, appeared to entertain an op- 
 posite sentiment on the subject, and on such occasions 
 frequently expressed himself audibly, though indefinite- 
 ly, in reference to a parcel of girls." As it was not 
 easy to ruffle her sweet temper, however, Florence gen- 
 erally reconciled the young gentleman to his fate after a 
 few minutes, and they strolled on amicably : Lady Sket- 
 and Sir Barnet following, in a state of perfect com- 
 placency and high gratification. 
 
 This was the order of procedure on the afternoon in 
 question : and Florence had almost succeeded in over- 
 ruling the present objections of Skettles junior to his 
 destiny, when a gentleman on horseback came riding 
 by, looked at them earnestly as he paused, drew in his 
 rein, wheeled round, and came riding back again, hat 
 in hand. 
 
 The gentleman had looked particularly at Florence ; 
 and when the little party stopped, on his riding back, hu 
 bowed to her before saluting Sir Barnet and his lady. 
 Florence had no remembrance of having ever seen him, 
 but she started involuntarily when he came near her, 
 and drew back. 
 
 ‘‘My horse is perfectly quiet, I assure you," said the 
 gentleman. 
 
 It was not that, but something in the gentleman him- 
 self — Florence could not have said what — that made her 
 recoil as if she had been stung, 
 
 “ I have the honour to address Miss Dombey, I be- 
 lieve?" said the gentleman, with a most persuasive 
 smile. On Florence inclining her head, he added, "" My 
 name is Carker. I can hardly hope to be remembered 
 by Miss Dombey, except by nam.e. Carker." 
 
 Florence, sensible of a strange inclination to shiver, 
 though the day v/as hot, presented him to her host and 
 hostess ; by whom he was very graciously received. 
 
 beg pardon," said Mr, Carker, a thousand times ! 
 
94 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 But I am going down to-morrow morning to Mr. Bomo 
 bey, at Leamington, and if Miss Bornbey can intrust me 
 wftb any commission, need I say bow mry bappy I shall 
 be?’^ 
 
 Sir Barnet immediately divining that Florence would 
 desire to write a letter to her father, proposed to return, 
 and besought Mr. Carker to come home and dine in his 
 riding gear. Mr, Carker had the misfortune to be en- 
 gaged for dinner, but if Miss Bornbey wished to write, 
 nothing would delight him more than to accompany 
 them back, and to be her faithful slave in waiting as 
 long as she pleased. As he said this with his widest 
 smile, and bent down close to her to pat his horse’s 
 neck, 'Florence, meeting his eyes, saw, rather than 
 heard him say, There is no news of the ship ! ” 
 
 Confused, frightened, shrinking from him, and not 
 even sure that he had said those words, for he seemed 
 to have shown them to her in some extraordinary man- 
 ner through his smile, instead of uttering them, Flor- 
 ence faintly said that she was obliged to him, but she 
 would not write ; she had nothing to say. 
 
 ‘^Nothing to send. Miss Bornbey?” said the man of 
 teeth. 
 
 ‘^Nothing,” said Florence, ^'but my— but my dear 
 love — if you please.” 
 
 Disturbed as Florence was, she raised her eyes to his 
 face with an imploring and expressive look, that plainly 
 besought him, if he knew — which he as plainly did — 
 that any message between her and her father was an un- 
 common charge, but that one most of all, to spare her. 
 Mr. Carker smiled and bowed low, and being charged 
 by Sir Barnet with the best compliments of himself and 
 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 Bar- 
 net, adopting the popular superstition, supposed some- 
 body was passing over her grave. Mr. Carker, turning 
 a corner, on the instant, looked back, and bowed, and 
 disappeared as if he rode off to the churchyard, straight, 
 to do it. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Strange News of Uncle Sol. 
 
 Captain Cuttle, though no sluggard, did not turn 
 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 
 
V- 
 
WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 six as lie 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 door- 
 way of Captain Cuttle’s bed- room before, and in it he 
 ^tood then, panting at the captain, with a flushed and 
 touzled air of bed about him, that greatly heightened 
 both his colour and expression. 
 
 '‘Halloa!” roared the captain. "What’s the mat- 
 ter ? ” 
 
 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. 
 
 " Steady my lad,” said the captain, " don’t ye speak a 
 word to me as yet I ” 
 
 The captain looked at his visitor in great consterna- 
 tion, 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 v/alked up to the cup- 
 board, 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 backward 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, re- 
 quested him to " heave-a-head.’^ 
 
 "Do you mean, tell you, captain?” asked Rob, who 
 had been greatly impressed by these precautions. 
 
 " Ay,” said the captain. 
 
 " Well, sir,” said Rob, “ I ain’t got much to tell. But 
 look here I ” 
 
 Rob produced a bundle of keys. The captain sur- 
 veyed them, remained in his corner, and surveyed the 
 messenger. 
 
 " And look here ! ” pursued Rob. 
 
 The boy produced a sealed packet, which Captain Cut- 
 tie stared at as he had stared at the keys. 
 
 "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. 
 
 " Gone ! ” roared the captain. 
 
 " Flowed, sir,” returned Rob. 
 
 The captain’s voice vras so tremendous, and he came 
 
DOMBSY AND SON. 
 
 97 
 
 out of his corner with such way on him, that Rob reo 
 treated before him into another corner : holding out tha 
 keys and packet, to prevent himself from being run 
 down, 
 
 “‘For Captain Cuttle,’ sir,” cried Rob, “is on tha 
 keys, and on the packet too. Upon my word and hon- 
 our, Captain Cuttle, I don’t know anything more about 
 it. I wish I may die if I do ! Here’s a sitiwation for a 
 lad that’s just got a sitiwation,” cried the unfortunate 
 Grinder, screwing his cuff into his face : “his master 
 bolted with his place, and him blamed for it ! ” 
 
 These lamentations had reference to Captain Cuttle’s 
 gaze, or rather glare, which v/as full of vague sus 
 picions, threatenings, and denunciations. Taking the 
 proffered packet from his hand, the captain opened it and 
 read as follows : — 
 
 “My dear Ned Cuttle. Enclosed is m.y will ! ” The 
 captain turned it over, with a doubtful look — “and tes- 
 tament. — Where’s the testament? ” said the captain, in- 
 stantly impeaching the ill-fated Grinder. “ What have 
 you done Avith that, my lad ? ” 
 
 “/never see it,” whimpered Rob. “Don’t keep on 
 suspecting an innocent lad, captain. I never touched 
 the testament.” 
 
 Captain Cuttle shook his head, implying that some- 
 body must be made answerable for it ; and gravely pro= 
 ceeded : — 
 
 “ 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-establish- 
 ment of his dignity in this trying position, looked Avith 
 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 ex- 
 pired, 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 cap- 
 tain took a long breath, and then read these words writ- 
 ten 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 Midship- 
 man.’ ” 
 
 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 oAvn mind, 
 would require the united genius of all the great men^ 
 VoL. 12 — E 
 
98 
 
 WORKS' OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 who, discarding their own untoward days, have deter- 
 mined 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 
 BO clearly expressed in his visage, that Rob remon- 
 strated. 
 
 '"Oh, don’t, captain ! ” cried the Grinder. "I wonder 
 how you can ! what .have I done to be looked at, like 
 that?’^ 
 
 "My lad,” said Captain Cuttle, "don’t you sing out 
 afore you’re hurt. And don’t you commit yourself, 
 whatever you do.” 
 
 I haven’t been and committed nothing, captain,” an- 
 swered Rob. 
 
 "Keep her free, then,” said the captain, impressively, 
 
 ' ' and ride easy. ” 
 
 With a deep sense of the responsibility imposed upon 
 him, and the necessity of thoroughly fathoming this 
 mysterious affair, as became a man in his relations with 
 the parties. Captain Cuttle resolved to go down and ex- 
 amine the premises, and to keep the Grinder with him. 
 Considering that youth as* under arrest at present, the 
 captain was in some doubt whether it might not be ex- 
 pedient to handcuff him, or tie his ancles together, or 
 attach a weight to his legs, but not being clear as to the 
 legality of such formalities, the captain decided merely 
 to hold him by the shoulder all the way and knock him 
 down if he made any objection. 
 
 However, he made none, and consequently got to the 
 Instrument-maker’s house without being placed under 
 any more stringent restraint. As the shutters were not 
 yet taken down, the captain’s first care was to have the 
 shop opened ; and when the daylight was freely admit-* 
 feed, he proceeded, with its aid, to further investigation. 
 
 The captain’s first care was to establish himself in a 
 chair in the shop, as president of the solemn tribunal 
 that was sitting within him ; and to require 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 imita- 
 tion from being carried farther than the threshold — and 
 ;30 on to the end of the chapter. When all this had been 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 99 
 
 done several times, the captain shook his head and 
 seemed to think the matter had a bad look. 
 
 Next, the captain, with some indistinct idea of linding 
 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 laid down on the coverlet, as was evident from 
 the impression yet remaining there. 
 
 ‘"And I think, captain,” said Rob, looking round the 
 room, that when Mr. Gills was going in and out so often, 
 these last few days, he was taking little things away, 
 piecemeal, not to attract attention.” 
 
 Ay ! ” said the captain, mvsteriously. ‘‘ Why so, my 
 lad?” 
 
 ^"Why,” returned Rob, looking about, don’t see 
 his shaving tackle. Nor his brushes, captain. Nor no 
 shirts. Nor yet his shoes.” 
 
 As each of these articles was mentioned, Captain Cut- 
 tie took particular notice of the corresponding depart, 
 IQaent of the Grinder, lest he should appear to have been 
 in recent use, or should prove to be in present posses- 
 sion thereof. But Rob had no occasion to shave, certain- 
 ly was not brushed, and wore the clothes he had \vorn for 
 a long time past, beyond all possibility of mistake. 
 
 ‘‘And what should you say,” said the captain — ‘‘not 
 committing yourself— about his time of sheering off? 
 Hey ?” 
 
 “ Vf hy, I think, captain,” returned Rob, “that he 
 must have gone pretty soon after I began to snore.” 
 
 “ What o’clock was that?” said the captain, prepared 
 to be very particular about the exact time. 
 
 “ How can I tell, captain ! ” answered Rob. “ I only 
 know that I’m a heavy sleeper at first, and a light one 
 towards morning ; and if Mr. Gills had come through 
 the shop near daybreak, though ever so much on tip toe. 
 I’m pretty sure I should have heard him shut the door at 
 all events.” 
 
 On mature consideration of this evidence. Captain Cut- 
 tie began to think that the Instrument-maker must have 
 vanished of his own accord ; to which logical conclusion 
 he was assisted by the letter addressed to himself, which, 
 as being unquestionably in the old man’s handwriting, 
 would seem, with no great forcing, to bear the construc- 
 tion, 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 ho saw 
 to the solution of the first diflBulty, he confined his medi- 
 tations to the second. 
 
100 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Remembering the old man’s curious manner, and the 
 farewell he had taken of him : unaccountably fervent at 
 the time, but quite intelligible now : a terrible appre- 
 hension strengthened on the captain, that, overpowered 
 by his anxieties and regrets for Walter, he had been 
 driven to commit suicide. Unequal to the wear and 
 tear of daily life, as he had often professed himself to 
 be, and shaken as he no doubt was by the uncertainty 
 and deferred hope he had undergone, it seemed no vio- 
 lently strained misgiving, but only too probable. 
 
 Free from debt, and with no fear for his personal 
 liberty, or the seizure of his goods, what else but such a 
 state of madness could have hurried him away alone 
 and secretly ? As to his carrying some apparel with him, if 
 he had really done so — and they were not even sure of 
 that — he jnight have done so, the captain argued, to pre- 
 vent inquiry, to distract attention from his probable fate, 
 or to ease the very mind that was now revolving all 
 these possibilities. Such, reduced into plain language, 
 and condensed within a small compass, was the final 
 result and substance of Captain Cuttle’s deliberations ; 
 which took a long time to arrive at this pass, and were 
 like some more public deliberations, very discursive and 
 disorderly. 
 
 Dejected and despondent in the extreme. Captain 
 Cuttle felt it just to release Rob from the arrest in 
 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 dis- 
 mal quest after the mortal remains of Solomon Gills. 
 
 Not a station-house or bone-house, or work-house in 
 the metropolis escaped a visitation from the hard glazed 
 hat. Along the wharves, among the shipping, on the 
 bank side, up the river, down the river, here, there, 
 everywhere, i t 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 shop-boys who had fallen 
 overboard and in tall foreigners with dark beards, who 
 had taken poison — to make sure,” Captain Cuttle said 
 
 that it warn’ t him.” It is a sure thing that it never 
 was, and that the good captain had no other satisfaction. 
 
 Cap tain. 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 101 
 
 a Dome 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 Grills himself, and would go into the instru- 
 ment business, and see what came of it. 
 
 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. 
 
 Now, look ye here, my lad,” said the captain to Rob, 
 when he had matured this notable scheme, ‘ ‘ to-morrow, 
 I shan’t be found in this here roadstead till night — not 
 till arter midnight p’raps. But you keep watch till you 
 hear me knock, and the moment you do, turn-to, and open 
 the door.” 
 
 Very good, captain,” said Rob. 
 
 You’ll continue to be rated on these here books,” 
 pursued the captain condescendingly, "'and I don’t say 
 but what you may get promotion, if you and me should 
 pull together with a will. But the moment you hear me 
 knock to-morrow night, whatever time it is, turn-to and 
 show yourself smart with the door. ” 
 
 I’ll be sure to do it, captain,” replied Rob. 
 
 ""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 at the door.” 
 
 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. 
 
 The sense the captain had of its being the last time, 
 and of the awful purpose hidden beneath his blue waist- 
 coat, inspired him with such a mortal dread of Mrs. Mac- 
 Stinger that the sound of that lady’s foot down-stairs 
 at any time of the day, was sufficient to throw him into 
 a fit of trembling. It fell out, too, that Mrs. MacStin- 
 ger was in a charming temper — mild and as 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. 
 
 A nice small kidney-pudding now, Cap’en Cuttle,” 
 said his landlady : "" or a sheep’s heart. Don’t mind my 
 trouble.” 
 
 ""No thank’ee, ma’am,” returned the captain. 
 
 "" Have a roast fowl,” said Mrs. MacStinger, "" with 
 a bit of weal stuffing and some egg sauce. Come, 
 Cap’en Cuttle ! Give yourself a little treat ! ” 
 
102 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 "'No thank’ee, ma'am,’’ returned tlie captain very 
 humbly. 
 
 ‘"I’m sure you’re out of sorts, and want to be stimulat- 
 ed,” said Mrs. MacStinger. “ Why not have, for once 
 in a way, a bottle of sherry wine ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ Well, ma’am,” rejoined the captain, if you’d be so 
 good as take a glass or two, I think I would try thatc 
 Would you do me the favour, ma’am,” said the captain, 
 torn to pieces by his conscience, ‘‘to accept a quarter’s 
 rent a-head ? ” 
 
 ‘‘And why so, Cap’en Cuttle?” retorted Mrs. Mac- 
 Stinger — sharply as the captain thought. 
 
 The captain was frightened to death. “ If you would, 
 ma’am,” he said with submission, it would oblige me. 
 I can’t keep my money very well. It pays itself out. I 
 should take it kind if you’d comply.” 
 
 Well, Cap’en Cuttle,” said the unconscious Mac- 
 Stinger, rubbing her hands, ‘‘ you can do as you please. 
 It s not for me, with my family, to refuse, no more than 
 it is to ask.” 
 
 ‘‘And would you, ma’am,” said the captain, taking 
 down the tin canister, in v/hich he kept his cash, from 
 the top-shelf of the cupboard, “be so good as offer eight- 
 een-pence a-piece to the little family all round ? If you 
 could make it convenient, ma’am, to pass the word pres- 
 ently for them children to come for’ard, in a body, I 
 should be glad to see ’em.” 
 
 These innocent MacStingers were so many daggers to 
 the captain’s breast, when they appeared in a swarm, 
 and tore at him ^ with the confiding trustfulness he so 
 little deserved. * The eye of Alexander MacStinger, who 
 had been his favourite, was insupportable to the captain ; 
 the voice of Juliana MacStinger, who was the picture of 
 her mother, made a coward of him. 
 
 Captain Cuttle kept up appearances, nevertheless, tol- 
 erably well, and for an hour or two was very hardly used 
 and roughly handled by the young MacStingers : who in 
 their childish frolics, did a little damage also to the 
 glazed hat, by sitting in it, two at a time, as in a nest, 
 and drumming on the inside of the crown with their 
 shoes. At length the captain sorrowfully dismissed 
 them : taking leave of these cherubs with the poignant 
 remorse and grief of a man who was going to execution. 
 
 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, 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 103 
 
 and Mrs. MacStinger was lulled in sweet oblivion, witb 
 her infants around lier, the guilty captain stealing down 
 on tip-toe, in the dark, opened the door, closed it softly 
 after him, and took to his heels. 
 
 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, be- 
 tween Brig-place and the Instrument-maker’s door. It 
 opened when he knocked — for Rob was on the watch — 
 and when it was bolted and locked behind him. Captain 
 Cuttle felt comparatively safe. 
 
 "'Whew!” cried the captain, looking round him, 
 " It’s a breather ! ” 
 
 "Nothing the matter, is there, captain ?” cried the 
 gaping Rob. 
 
 " No, no I ” 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 tw’o 
 as you see t’other day, ever comes and asks for Cap’en 
 Cuttle, be sure to report no person of that name known, 
 nor never heard of here ; observe them orders, will 
 you ? ” 
 
 " I’ll take care, captain,” returned Rob. 
 
 " You might say — if you liked,” hesitated the captain 
 " that you’d read in the paper that a cap’en of that name 
 •was gone to Australia, emigrating along with a whole 
 ship’s complement of people as had all swore never to 
 come back no more.” 
 
 Rob nodded his understanding of these instructions ; 
 and Captain 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 Sol- 
 omon Gills. 
 
 What the captain suffered next day, whenever a bon- 
 net passed, or how often he darted out of the shop to 
 elude imaginary MacStingers, and sought safety in the 
 attic, cannot be told. But to avoid the fatigues attend- 
 ant on this means of self-preservation, the captain cur- 
 tained the glass door of communication between the shop 
 and 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 wail. The advantage of this fortification 
 is obvious. On a bonnet appearing, the captain instantly 
 slipped into his garrison, locked himself up, and took 
 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 alarm? 
 were so inseparable from their appearance, that the capr 
 
104 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 tain was almost Incessantly slipping in and out all day 
 long. 
 
 Captain Cuttle found time, however, in the midst oi 
 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 alsc 
 ticketed a few attractive looking articles at a venture, at 
 prices ranging from ten shillings to fifty pounds, and 
 exposed them in the window to the great astonishment 
 of the public. 
 
 After effecting these improvements. Captain Cuttla 
 surrounded by the instruments, began to feel scientifie •. 
 and looked up at the stars at night, through the skylight, 
 when he was smoking his pipe in the little back parloua? 
 before going to bed, as if he had established a kind of 
 property in them. As a tradesman in the city, too, he 
 bf-gan 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 principles of navigation, 
 what the figures meant, and could have very well dis- 
 pensed 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 
 
 f reat changes come upon them, thought musingly of 
 V'aiter, and of Solomon Gills, and even of Mrs. Mac- 
 Stinger herself, as among the things that had been. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 Shadows of the Past aiid Future. 
 
 Your most obedient, sir,’’ said the major. Damme, 
 sir, a friend of my friend Dombey’s is a friend of mine, 
 and Fm glad to see you ! ” 
 
 I am infinitely obliged, Carker,’’ explained Mr. Dom- 
 bey, to Major Bagstock for his company and conversa- 
 tion. Major Bagstock has rendered me great service, 
 Carker. 
 
 Mr. Carker the manager, hat in hand, just arrived at 
 Leamington, and just introduced to the major, showed 
 the major his whole double range of teeth, and trusted 
 he might take the liberty of thanking him with all his 
 heart for having effected so great an improvement in 
 Mr. Dombey’s looks and spirits. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 105 
 
 By Gad, sir,” said the major, in reply, '"there are 
 no thanks due to me, for it’s a give ana 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 
 ^aature. ” 
 
 Mr. Carker snapped at the expression. In his moral 
 nature. Exactly. The very words he had been on the 
 point of suggesting. 
 
 "" But when my friend Dombey, sir,” added the major, 
 "" talks to you of Major Bagstock, I must crave leave to 
 get him and you right. He means plain Joe, sir-— Joey 
 B.— Josh. Bagstock — Joseph — rough and tough old J,, 
 sir. At your service.” 
 
 Mr. Garker’s excessi vely friendly inclinations towards 
 the major, and Mr. Carker’s admiration of his roughness, 
 toughness, and plainness, gleamed out of every tooth in 
 Mr. Carker’s head. 
 
 "" And now, sir,” said the major, you and Dombey 
 have the devil’s own amount of business to talk over.” 
 
 "" By no means, major,” observed Mr. Dombey. 
 
 "" Dombey,” said the major defiantly, "" I know better ; 
 a man of your mark — the Colossus of commerce— -is not to 
 be interrupted. Your moments are precious. We shall 
 meet at dinner-time. In the interval old Joseph will be 
 scarce. The dinner hour is at sharp seven, Mr. Carker.” 
 
 With that, the major, greatly swollen as to his face, 
 withdrew ; but immediately putting in his head at the 
 duor again, said : 
 
 L beg your pardon. Dombey, have you any message 
 to ’em ? ” 
 
 Mr. Dombey in some embarrassment, and not without a 
 glance at the courteous keeper of his business confidence, 
 intrusted the major with his compliments. 
 
 ‘"By the Lord, sir,” said the major, “you must make 
 it something warmer than that, or old Joe will be far 
 from welcome. ” 
 
 “ Regards then, if you will, major,” returned Mr. 
 Dombey. 
 
 “ Damme, sir,” said the major, shaking his shoulders 
 and his great cheeks jocularly ; “ make it something 
 warmer than that.” 
 
 “What you please, then, major,” observed Mr. Dom- 
 bey, 
 
 ? “Gur friend is sly sir, sly sir, de-vilish sly,” said th^ 
 major, staring round the door at Carker. “So is Bag- 
 stock.” But stopping in the midst of a chuckle, and 
 drawing himself up to his full height, the major so emnly 
 exclaimed, as he struck himself on the chest, “ Dorn jey I 
 
106 
 
 WOEKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 I envy your feelings. God bless you ! ” and withdrew. 
 You must have found the gentleman a great re- 
 source,” said Carker, following him with his teeth. 
 
 ‘‘ Very great indeed,’" said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 “ He has friends here, no doubt,” said 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 ! ” 
 
 Mr. Dombey acknowledged this display of interest on 
 the part of his second in command, by twirling his watch- 
 chain, and slightly moving his head. 
 
 '‘You were formed for society,” said Carker. “ Of all 
 the men I know, you are the best adapted by nature and 
 by position, for society. Do you know I have been fre- 
 quently amazed that you should have held it at arm’s 
 length so long ! ” 
 
 ‘ ‘ I have had my reasons, Carker. I have been alone, 
 and indifferent to it. But you have great social qualifi- 
 cations yourself, and are the more likely to have been sur- 
 prised.” 
 
 '‘Oh ! 1! ” returned the other, with ready self-dispar- 
 agement. “ It’s quite another matter in the case of a man 
 like me. I don’t come into comparison with you'* 
 
 Mr. Dombey put his hand to his neckcloth, settled his 
 chin in it, coughed, and stood looking at his faithful friend 
 and servant for a few moments in silence. 
 
 “ I shall have the pleasure, Carker,” said Mr. Dombey, 
 at length : making as if he swallowed something a little 
 too large for his throat : “ to present you to my — to the 
 major’s friends. Highly agreeable people.” 
 
 “ Ladies among them, I presume ! ” insinuated th© 
 smooth Manager. 
 
 “ They are all— that is to say, they are both— ladies,” 
 replied Mr. Dombey. 
 
 “ Only two ? ” smiled Carker. 
 
 “ There are only two. 1 have confined my visits to 
 their residence, and have made no other acquaintano© 
 here. ” 
 
 “ Sisters, perhaps?” quoth Carker. 
 
 “ Mother and daughter,” replied Mr. Dombey. 
 
 As Mr. Dombey dropped his eyes, and adjusted his 
 neckcloth again, the smiling face of Mr. Carker the Man- 
 ager became in a moment, and without any stage of tran- 
 sition, transformed into a most intent and frowning face, 
 scanning his closely, and with an ugly sneer. As Mr. 
 Dombey raised his eyes, it changed back, no less quickly, 
 to its old expression, and showed him every gum of 
 which it stood possessed. 
 
 “ You are very kind,’' said Carker. “I shall be de- 
 lighted to know them. Speaking of daughters, I have 
 seen Miss Dombey.” 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 107 
 
 There was a sudden rnsh of blood to Mr. Dombey’s face„ 
 I took the liberty of waiting on her/' said Mr. Carker, 
 
 to inquire if she could charge me with any little com- 
 mission. I am not so fortunate as to be the bearer of 
 any but her — but her dear love.” 
 
 Wolf’s face that it was then, v>^ith even the hot tongue 
 revealing itself through the stretched mouth, as the eyes 
 encountered Mr. Dombey’s ! 
 
 What business intelligence is there ? ” inquired the 
 latter gentleman, after a silence, during which Mr. Car- 
 ker had produced some memoranda and other papers. 
 
 ‘'There is very little,” returned Mr. 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 wan 
 insured from her keel to her masthead.” 
 
 “ Carker,” said Mr. Dombey, taking a chair near him^ 
 “ I cannot say that young man, Gay, ever impressed ms 
 favourably — ” 
 
 “ NTor me,” interposed the Manager. 
 
 “ But I wish,” said Mr. Dombey, without heeding the 
 interruption, “ he had never gone on board that ship. I 
 wish he had never been sent out.” 
 
 “ It is a pity you didn’t say so, in good time, is it not ? ” 
 retorted Carker, coolly. “ However, I think it’s all for 
 the best. I really think it’s all for the best. Hid I men- 
 tion that there was something like a little confidence be- 
 tween Miss Dombey and myself.” 
 
 “ No,” said Mr. Dombey, sternly. 
 
 “ I have no doubt,” returned Mr. Carker, after an im- 
 pressive pause, “ that wherever Gay is, he is much bet- 
 ter where he is, than at home here. If I were, or could 
 be, in your place, I should be satisfied of that. 1 am 
 quite satisfied of it myself. Miss Dombey is confiding 
 amd 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 ? ” 
 
 Mr. Dombey leaned back in his chair, instead of bend- 
 ing over the papers that were laid before him, and looked 
 the Manager steadily in the face. The Manager, with 
 his eyelids slightly raised, affected to be glancing at his 
 figures, and to await the leisure of his principal. He 
 showed that he affected this, as if from great delicacy, 
 and with a design to spare Mr. Dombey’s feelings ; and 
 the latter, as he looked at him, was cognizant of his in- 
 tended consideration, and felt that but for it, this confi- 
 dential Carker would have said a great deal more, which 
 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 
 
108 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 papers before bim ; 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. 
 
 While they were thus engaged ; and under the skil- 
 ful 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 gener- 
 ally reigned there ; Major Bagstock, much admired by 
 the old ladies of Leamington, and followed by the native, 
 carrying the usual amount of light baggage, straddled 
 along the shady side of the way, to make a morning call 
 on Mrs. Skewton. It being mid-day when the major 
 reached the bower of Cleopatra, he had the good for- 
 tune to find his princess on her usual sofa, languishing 
 over a cup of coffee, with the room so darkened and 
 shaded for her more luxurious repose, that Withers, 
 who was in attendance on her, loomed like a phantom 
 page. 
 
 ‘‘ What insupportable creature is this, coming in ! ” 
 said Mrs. Skewton. I cannot bear it. Go away, who- 
 ever you are ! 
 
 '^You have not the heart to banish J. B., ma’am !” 
 said the major, halting midway, to remonstrate, with his 
 cane over his shoulder. 
 
 Oh it’s you, is it ? On second thoughts you may en- 
 ter,” observed Cleopatra. 
 
 The major entered accordingly, and advancing to the 
 sofa pressed her charming hand to his lips. 
 
 “Sit down,” said Cleopatra, listlessly waving her fan, 
 “ a long way off. Don’t come too near me, for I am 
 frightfully faint and sensitive this morning, and you 
 smell of the sun. You are absolutely tropical, ” 
 
 “By George, ma’am,” said the major, “the time has 
 been when Joseph Bagstock had been grilled and blis- 
 tered by the sun ; the time was, when he was forced, 
 ma’am, into such full blow, by high hothouse heat in the 
 West Indies, that he was known as the flower. A man 
 never heard of Bagstock, ma’am, in those days ; he heard 
 of the flower— the flower of Our’s. The flower may have 
 faded, more or less, ma’am,” observed the major, drop- 
 ping 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.” 
 
 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 con- 
 fines of apoplexy than he had ever gone before. 
 
 “ Where is Mrs. Granger ? ” inquired Cleopatra of her 
 page. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 109 
 
 • Withers believed she was in her own room. 
 
 ^‘Very well,” said Mrs. Skewton. ‘‘Go away, and 
 shut the door. I am engaged. ” 
 
 As Withers disappeared, Mrs. Skewton turned her 
 head languidly towards the major, without otherwise 
 moving, and asked him how his friend waSo 
 
 “Dombey, ma'am,” returned the major, with a face- 
 tious gurgling in his throat, “ is as well as a man inhiff 
 condition can be. His condition is a desperate one, 
 ma’am. He is touched, is Dombey. Touched ? ” cried 
 the major. “He is bayonetted through the body.” 
 
 Cleopatra cast a. sharp look at the major, that con- 
 trasted forcibly with the affected drawl in which she 
 presently said : — 
 
 “Major Bagstock, although I know but little of the 
 world, — nor can I really regret my inexperience, for I 
 fear it is a false place : full of withering conventionali- 
 ties : 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 ! ” 
 
 “Bluntness, ma’am,” returned the major, “has ever 
 been the characteristic of the Bagstock breed. You are 
 right. Joe admits it.” 
 
 “ And that allusion,” pursued Cleopatra, “ would in- 
 volve one of the most — if not positively the most — touch' 
 ing, and thrilling*, and sacred emotions of which our 
 sadly- fallen nature is susceptible, I conceive.” 
 
 The major laid his hand upon his lips, and wafted a 
 kiss to Cleopatra, as if to identify the emotion in ques- 
 tion. 
 
 “ 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 mo- 
 mentous to my dearest Edith without a feeling of faint' 
 ness. Nevertheless, bad man, as you have boldly re- 
 marked upon it, and as it has occasioned me great an- 
 guish ; ” Mrs. Skewton touched her left side with her 
 fan : “I will not shrink from my duty.” 
 
 The major, under cover of the dimness, swelled, and 
 swelled, and rolled his purple face about, and winked 
 his lobster eye, until he fell into a fit of wheezing, which 
 obliged him to rise and take a turn or two about the 
 room, before his fair friend could proceed. 
 
 “Mr. Dombey,” said Mrs. SkevTon, when she at 
 
110 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 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 can not know it 
 better. But I am not penitent ; I would rather not be 
 frozen by the heartless world, and am content to bear 
 this imputation justly.'" 
 
 Mrs. Skewton arranged her tucker, pinched her wiry 
 throat to give it a soft surface, and went on, with great 
 complacency. 
 
 It gave me (my dearest Edith too, I am sure) infinite 
 pleasure to receive Mr. Dombey. Asa friend of yours, 
 my dear major, we were naturally disposed to be prepos- 
 sessed in his favour ; and I fancied that I observed an 
 amount of heart in Mr. Dombey, that was excessively re- 
 freshing. 
 
 There is devilish little heart in Dombey now, ma’am,” 
 said the major. 
 
 « Wretched man ! ” cried Mrs. Skewton, looking at 
 him languidly, ‘'pray be silent.” 
 
 “ J. B. is dumb, ma’am,” said the major. 
 
 “Mr. Dombey,” pursued Cleopatra, smoothing the 
 rosy hue upon her cheeks, “ accordingly repeated his 
 visit ; and possibly finding some attraction in the sim- 
 plicity and primitiveness of our tastes — for there is al- 
 ways a charm in nature — it is so very sweet — became 
 one of our little circle every evening. Little did I think 
 of the awful responsibility into which I plunged when I 
 encouraged Mr. Dombey — to — ” 
 
 “To beat up these quarters, ma’am,” suggested Ma- 
 jor Bagstock. 
 
 “Coarse person!” said Mrs. Skewton, “you antici- 
 pate my meaning, though in odious language.” 
 
 Here Mrs. Skewton rested her elbow on the little table 
 at her side, and sufering her wrist to droop in what she 
 considered a graceful and becoming manner, dangled 
 her fan to and fro, and lazily admired her hand while 
 speaking. 
 
 “ The agony I have endured,” she said mincingly, 
 
 ‘ ‘ as the truth has by degrees dawned upon me, has been 
 too exceedingly terrific to dilate upon. My whole ex- 
 istence 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 w^orld.” 
 
 Mrs. Skewdon’s world was not a very trying one, if 
 one might judge of it by the influence of its most affect- 
 ing circumstance upon her ; but this by the way. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Ill 
 
 '' Edith,” simpered Mrs. Skewtoii, '' who is the per- 
 fect pearl of my life, is said to resemble me. I believe 
 we are alike.’’ 
 
 There is one man in the world who never will ad- 
 mit that any one resembles you, ma’am,” said the ma- 
 jor ; “ and that man’s name is old Joe Bagstock.” 
 
 Cleopatra made as if she.j^ould brain the flatterer with 
 her fan, but relenting, smiled upon him and proceeded ; 
 
 ‘‘ If my charming girl inherits any advantages from 
 me, wicked one ! ” : the major, was the wicked one : 
 ^‘she inherits also my foolish nature. She has great 
 force of character — mine has been said to be immense, 
 though I don’t believe it — but once moved, she is sus- 
 ceptible and sensitive to the last extent. What are my 
 feelings when I see her pining ! They destroy me.” 
 
 The major advancing his double chin, and pursing up 
 his blue lips into a soothing expression, affected the pro- 
 found est sympathy. 
 
 The confidence,” said Mrs. Skewton, that has sub- 
 sisted between us — the free development of soul, and 
 openness of sentiment — is touching to think of. We 
 have been more like sisters than mama and child.” 
 
 B.’s own sentiment,” observed the major, ^"ex- 
 pressed by J. B. fifty thousand times ! ” 
 
 "" Do not interrupt, rude man 1 ” 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 art- 
 less Edith is changed to me ! They are of the most 
 poignant description, of course.” 
 
 The major left his chair, and took one nearer to the 
 little table. 
 
 "" From day to day I see this, my dear major,” pro- 
 ceeded Mrs. Skewton. "" From day to day I feel this. 
 Prom 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 .re- 
 morse — take care of the coffee-cup : you are so very 
 awkward — my darling Edith is an altered being ; and I 
 really don’t see what is to be d.one, or what good crea- 
 ture I can advise with.” 
 
 Major Bagstock, encouraged perhaps by the softened 
 and confidential tone into which Mrs. Skewton, after sev- 
 eral times lapsing into it for a moment, seemed now to 
 have subsided for good : stretched out his hand across 
 the little table, and said with a leer, 
 
 "" Advise with Joe, ma’am.” 
 
 Then, you aggravating monster, ” said Cleopatra* 
 
112 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 giving one liand 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 ? ” 
 
 The major laughed, and kissed the hand she had be= 
 stowed upon him, and laughed again, immensely. 
 
 Is there as much Heart in Mr. Dombey as I gave him 
 credit for ?” languished Cleopatra tenderly. ''Do you 
 think he is in earnest, my dear major ? Would you rec- 
 ommend his being spoken to, or his being left alone? 
 Now, tell me, like a dear man, what you would ad- 
 vise.” 
 
 " Shall vre marry him to Edith Gr ranger, ma’am?” 
 chuckled the major hoarsely. 
 
 "Mysterious creature?” returned Cleopatra, bringing 
 her fan to bear upon the major’s nose. " How can we 
 marry him ?” 
 
 "Shall we marry him to Edith Granger, ma’am, I 
 say ? ” chuckled the major again. 
 
 Mrs. Skewton returned no answer in words, but smiled 
 upon the major with so much archness and vivacity, that 
 that gallant officer considering himself challenged, would 
 have imprinted a kiss on her exceedingly red lips, but 
 for her interposing the fan with a v^ry winning and ju- 
 venile dexterity. It might have been in modesty ; it 
 might have been in apprehension of some danger to their 
 bloom. 
 
 " Dombey, ma’am,” said the major, " is a great catch.” 
 
 " Oh, mercenary wretch!” cried Cleopatra, with a 
 little shriek, " I am shocked.” 
 
 " And Dombey, ma’am,” pursued the major, thrusting 
 forward his head, and distending his eyes, "is in earnest. 
 Joseph says it ; Bagstock knows it ; J. B. keeps him to the 
 mark. Leave Dombey to himself, ma’am. Dombey is 
 safe, ma’am. Do as you have done ; do no more ; and 
 trust to J. B. for the end.” 
 
 "You really think so, my dear major ? ” returned Cleo- 
 patra, who had eyed him very cautiously, and very 
 searchingly, in spite of her listless bearing. 
 
 " Sure of it, ma’am,” rejoined the major. " Cleopatra 
 the peerless, and her Antony Bagstock, will often speak 
 of this, triumphantly, when sharing the elegance and 
 wealth of Edith Dombey ’s establishment. Dombey’ s 
 right hand-man, ma’am,’'’ said the major, stopping ab- 
 ruptly in a chuckle, and becoming serious, " has arrived. ” 
 
 " This morning ?” said Cleopatra. 
 
 " 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 de-vilish sly” — 
 the major tapped his nose, and screwed up one of his 
 eyes tight : which did not enhance his native beauty — 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 113 
 
 ** to liis desire that what is in the wind should become 
 knov/n to him, without Dombey’s telling and consulting 
 him. For Dombey is as proud, ma^am,^" said the major, 
 as Lucifer. ’’ 
 
 charming quality,” lisped Mrs. Skewton ; ''re- 
 minding one of dearest Edith. ” 
 
 " 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, 
 swe] ling with shortness of breath and slyness, as he pro- 
 duced a note, addressed to the Honourable Mrs. Skewton, 
 by favour of Major Bagstock, wherein hers ever faith- 
 fully, Paul Dombey, besought her and her amiable and 
 accomplished daughter to consent to the proposed ex- 
 cursion ; and in a postscript unto which, the same ever 
 faithfully Paul Dombey entreated to be recalled to the 
 remembrance of Mrs. Granger. 
 
 "Hush 1” said Cleopatra, suddenly, "Edith ! ” 
 
 The loving mother can scarcely be described as re^ 
 suming her insipid and affected air when she made this 
 exclamation ; for she had never cast it off ; nor was it 
 likely that she ever would or could, in any other place 
 than in the grave. But hurriedly dismissing whatever 
 shadow of earnestness, or faint confession of a purpose, 
 laudable or wicked, that her face, or voice, or manner, 
 had, for the moment, betrayed, she lounged upon the 
 couch, her most insipid and most languid self again, as 
 Edith entered the room. 
 
 Edith, so beautiful and stately, but so cold and so re- 
 pelling. Who, slightly acknowledging the presence of 
 Major Bagstock, and directing a keen glance at her 
 mother, drew back the curtain from a window, and sat 
 down there, looking out. 
 
 "My dearest Edith,” said Mrs. Skewton, "where on 
 earth have you been ? I have wanted you, my love, most 
 sadly.” 
 
 "You said you were engaged, and I stayed away,” she 
 answered, without turning her head. 
 
 "It was cruel to Old Joe, ma’am,” said the major in 
 his gallantry. 
 
 "It was very cruel, I know,” she said, still looking 
 out — and said with such calm disdain that the majorw^as 
 discomfit ted, and could think of nothing in reply. 
 
 "Major Bagstock, my darling Edith,” drawled her 
 mother, "who is generalFy the most useless and dis- 
 agreeable creature in the world : as you know—” 
 
 "It is surely not worth while, mama,” said Edith, 
 
114 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 looking round, ''to observe tliese forms of speech. We 
 are quite alone. We know each other. 
 
 The quiet scorn that sat upon her handsome face — a 
 scorn that evidently lighted on herself, no less than them 
 — was so intense and deep, that her mother’s simper, for 
 the instant, though of a hardy constitution, drooped 
 before it. 
 
 "My darling girl,” she began again. 
 
 INot woman yet ? ” said Edith, with a smile. 
 
 "How very odd you are to-day, my dear! Pray let 
 me say, my love, that Major Bagstock has brought the 
 kindest of notes from Mr. Hombey, proposing that we 
 should breakfast with him to-morrow, and ride to War 
 wick and Kenilworth. Will you go, Edith ? ” 
 
 "Will 1 go I” she repeated, turning very red, and 
 breathing quickly as she looked round at her mother. 
 
 " I knew you would, my own,” observed the latter 
 carelessly. " It is, as you say, quite a form to ask. Here 
 is Mr. Dombey’s letter, Edith.” 
 
 "Thank you. I have no desire to read it,” was her 
 answer. 
 
 Then perhaps I had better answer it myself,” said 
 Mrs. Skewton, " though I had thought of asking you to 
 be my secretary, darling.” As Edith made no movement 
 and no answer, Mrs. Skewton begged the major to wheel 
 her little table nearer, and to set open the desk it con- 
 tained, and to take out pen and paper for her ; all which 
 congenial offices of gallantry the major discharged, with 
 much submission and devotion. 
 
 " Your regards, Edith, my dear ? ” said Mrs. Skewton, 
 pausing, pen in hand, at the postscript. 
 
 " What you will, mama,” she answered, without turn 
 ing her head, and with supreme indifference. 
 
 Mrs. Skewton wrote what she would, without seeking 
 for any more explicit directions, and handed her letter to 
 the major, who receiving it as a precious charge, made a 
 show of laying it near his heart, but was fain to put in 
 the pocket of his pantaloons on account of the insecurity 
 of his waistcoat. The major then took a very polished 
 and chivalrous farew^ell 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. 
 
 "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 bag- 
 gage to the front, and walked in the shadow of that ex- 
 patriated prince ; " as to alteration, sir, and pining, and 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 115 
 
 so forth, that won’t go down with Joseph Bagstoclc. 
 None of that, sir. It won’t do here. But as to thero 
 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 w^ell matched ; let ’em 
 fight it out ! Bagstock backs the winner ! ” 
 
 The major, by saying these tatter words aloud, in the 
 vigour of his thoughts caused the unhappy native to 
 stop, and turn round, in the belief that he was person- 
 ally 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 na- 
 tive’s ribs, and continued to stir him up at short inter- 
 vals, all the way to the hotel. 
 
 Nor was the major less exasperated as he dressed for 
 dinner, during which operation the dark servant under- 
 went the pelting of a shower of miscellaneous objects, 
 varying in size from a, boot to a hair-brush, and includ- 
 ing everything that came within his master’s reach. For 
 the major plumed himself on having the native in a per- 
 fect state of drill, and visited the least 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 
 have earned his pay — which was not large. 
 
 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 lan- 
 guage, submitted to have his cravat put on ; and being 
 dressed, and finding himself in a brisk flow of spirits 
 after this exercise, went down-stairs to enliven Dom- 
 bey ” and his right-hand man. 
 
 Dombey was not yet in the room, but the right-hand 
 man was there, and his dental treasures were, as usual, 
 ready for the major. 
 
 Well, sir ! ” said the major. How have you passed 
 the time since I had the happiness of meeting you? 
 Have you walked at all ? ” 
 
 ‘‘A saunter of barely half an hour’s duration,” re" 
 turned Carker. We have been so much occupied.” 
 ‘‘Business, eh?” said the major. 
 
 “ A variety of little matters necessary to foe gone 
 through,” replied Carker. “But do you know — this is 
 .quite unusual with me, educated in a distrustful school, 
 and who am not generally disposed to be communica- 
 tive,” he said, breaking; off, and speaking in a charming 
 
116 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 tone of frankness— but I feel quite confidential with 
 you, Major Bagstock.^^ 
 
 "‘You do me honour, sir,” returned the major. “ You 
 may be.” 
 
 “Do you know thexi,” pursued Carker, “that I have 
 rot found my friend — our friend, I ought rather to call 
 him — 
 
 “ Meaning Dombey, sir?” cried the major. “ You see 
 me, Mr. Carker, standing here ! J. B. ? ” 
 
 He was puffy enough to see, and blue enough ; and Mr. 
 Carker intimated that he had that pleasure. 
 
 " ‘ Then you see a man, sir, who would go through fire 
 and water to serve Dombey,” returned Major Bagstock. 
 
 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 tc 
 business to-day, as usual ?” 
 
 “No? ” observed the delighted major. 
 
 “ I have found him a little abstracted, and with his at 
 tention disposed to wander,” said Carker. 
 
 “ By Jove, sir,” cried the major, “ there’s a lady in tha 
 case.” 
 
 “ Indeed, I begin to believe there really is,” returned 
 Carker. “ I thought you might be jesting when you 
 seemed to hint at it ; for I know you military men—” 
 
 The major gave the horse’s cough, and shook his head 
 and shoulders, as much as to say, “ Well ! we are gay 
 dogs, there’s no denying.” He then seized Mr. Carker 
 by the button-hole, and with starting eyes whispered in 
 his ear that she was a woman of extraordinary charms, 
 sir. That she was a young widow, sir. That she was of 
 a fine family, sir. That Dombey was over head and ears 
 in love with her, sir, and that it would be a good m.atch 
 on both sides ; for she had beauty, blood, and talent, and 
 Dombey had fortune ; and what more could any couple 
 have? Hearing Mr. Dombey’s footsteps without, the 
 major cut himself short by saying, that Mr. Carker would 
 see her to-morrow morning, and would judge for himself ; 
 and between his mental excitement, and the exertion of 
 saying all this in wheezy whispers, the major sat gurg- 
 ling in the throat and watering at the eyes, until dinnei? 
 was ready. 
 
 The major, like some other noble animals, exhibited 
 himself to great advantage at feeding time. On this oc- 
 casion, he shone resplendent at one end of the table, sup- 
 ported by the milder lustre of Mr. Dombey at the other ; 
 while Carker on one side lent his ray to either light, ol 
 suffered it to merge into both, as occasion arose. 
 
 During the first course or two, the major was usually 
 grave ; for the native, in obedience to general orders, 
 secretly issued, collected every sauce and cruet round 
 
DOMBEY aND SON. 
 
 117 
 
 Mm, and gave him a great deal to do, in taking out th@ 
 stoppers, and mixing up the contents in his plate. Be- 
 sides which, the native had private zests and flavours on 
 a side-table, with which the major daily scorched him- 
 self ; to say nothing of strange machines out of which 
 he spirted unknown liquids into the major's drink. But 
 on this occasion. Major Bagstock, even amidst these 
 many occupations, found time to be social ; and his so- 
 ciality consisted in excessive slyness for the behoof of 
 Mr. Carker, and the betrayal of Mr. Dombey's state of 
 mind. 
 
 '"Dombey,” said the major, ‘‘you don't eat; what's 
 the matter?" 
 
 “Thank you," returned that gentleman, “I am doing 
 very well ; I have no great appetite to-day." 
 
 “ Why, Dombey, what's become of it ? " asked the ma- 
 jor. “ Where's it gone ? You haven't left it with our 
 friends. I'll swear, for I can answer for their having none 
 to-day at luncheon. I can answer for one of 'em, at 
 least ; I won't say which." 
 
 Then the major winked at Carker, and became so 
 frightfully sly, that his dark attendant was obliged to 
 pat him on the back, without orders, or he would prob- 
 ably have disappeared under the table. 
 
 In a later stage of the dinner : that is to say, when the 
 joiative stood at the major's elbow ready to serve the 
 flrst bottle of champagne : the major became still slyer. 
 
 “ Fill this to the brim, you scoundrel," said the major, 
 folding up his glass. “Fill Mr. Carker 's to the brim 
 too. And Mr. Dombey 's too. By Gad, gentlemen," 
 said the major, winking at his new friend, while Mr. 
 Dombey looked into his plate with a conscious air, 
 “ we'll consecrate this glass of wine to a divinity whom 
 Joe is proud to know, and at a distance humbly and 
 reverently to admire. Edith," said the major, “is her 
 name ; angelic Edith ! " 
 
 “ To angelic Edith !" cried the smiling Carker. 
 
 “ Edith, by all means," said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 The entrance of the waiters with new dishes caused 
 the major to be slyer yet, but in a more serious vein. 
 “ 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 any fellows. Not a word, 
 sir, while they are here ! " 
 
 This was respectful and becoming on the major's part, 
 and Mr. Dombey plainly felt it so. Although embar- 
 rassed in his own frigid way, by the majors allusions, 
 Mr. Dombey had no objection to such rallying, it was 
 clear, but rather courted it. Perhaps the major had. 
 
118 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 been pretty near tlie truth, when lie had divined that 
 morning that the great man who was too haughty 
 formally to consult with, or confide in his prime minister, 
 on such a matter, yet wished him to be fully possessed of 
 it. Let this be how it may, he often glanced at Mr, 
 Carker while the major plied his light artillery, and 
 seemed watchful of its effect upon him. 
 
 But the major, having secured an attentive listener, 
 and a smiler,«'who had not his match in all the world— 
 '‘in short, a de-vilish intelligent and agreeable fellow,” 
 as he often afterwards declared — was not going to let 
 him off with a little slyness personal to Mr. Dombey. 
 Therefore, on the removal of the cloth, the major de- 
 veloped himself as a choice spirit in the broader and 
 more comprehensive range of narrating regimental 
 stories, and cracking regimental jokes, which he did 
 with such prodigal exuberance, that Carker was (or 
 feigned to be) quite exhausted with laughter and ad- 
 miration ; while Mr. Dombey looked on over his starched 
 cravat, like the major’s proprietor, or like a stately show- 
 man who was glad to see his bear dancing well. 
 
 When the major was too hoarse v/ith meat and drink, 
 and the display of his social powers to render himself in- 
 telligible any longer, they adjourned to coffee. After 
 which, the major inquired of Mr. Carker the manager, 
 with little apparent hope of an answer in the affirmative, 
 if he played picquet. 
 
 “ Yes, I play picquet a little,” said Mr. Carker. 
 
 “ Backgammon, perhaps ?” observed the major hesi- 
 tating. 
 
 “ Yes, I play backgammon a little too,” replied the 
 man of teeth. 
 
 “Carker plays at all games, I believe,” said * Mr. 
 Dombey, laying himself on a sofa like a man of w'ood 
 without a hinge or a joint in him ; “ and plays them 
 well.” 
 
 In sooth, he played the two in question, to such per- 
 fection, that the major was astonished, and asked him, 
 at random, if he played chess. 
 
 “Yes, I play chess a little,” answered Carker. “I 
 have sometimes played, and won a game — it’s a mere 
 trick — without seeing the board.” 
 
 “By Gad, sir!” said the major, staring, “you’re a 
 contrast to Dombey, who plays nothing. ” 
 
 “ Oh ! He ! ” returned the manager. “ He has never 
 had occasion to acquire such little arts. To men like 
 me, they are sometimes useful. As at present Major 
 Bagstock, when they enable me to take a hand with 
 you.” 
 
 it might be only the false mouth, so smooth and wide ; 
 ^nd yet there seemed to lurk beneath the humility and 
 
DOMBBY AND SON. 
 
 119 
 
 subserviency of tbis short speech, a something like a 
 snarl ; and for a moment, one might have thought that 
 the white teeth were prone to bite the hand they fawned 
 upon. But the major thought nothing about it ; and 
 Mr. Dombey lay meditating with his eyes half shut during 
 the whole of the play, which lasted until bed-time. 
 
 By that time, Mr. Carker, though the winner, had 
 mounted high into the major's good opinion, insomuch, 
 that when he left the major at his own room before going 
 to bed, the major, as a special attention, sent the native — 
 who always rested on a mattress, spread upon the ground 
 at his master's door — along the gallery, to light him to 
 Ms room in state. 
 
 There was a faint blur on the surface of the mirror in 
 Mr. Carker's chamber, and its reflection was, perhaps, a 
 false one. But it showed, that night, the image of a 
 man, who saw, in his fancy, a crowd of people slumber- 
 ing 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. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 Beeper Shadows. 
 
 Mr. 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 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, v/hen . 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 ob- 
 servers to propitiate : nor did he relapse, after being 
 thus awakened ; but clearing his face, like one who be- 
 thought himself that it might otherwise wrinkle and tell 
 tales, went smiling on, as if for practice, 
 
120 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DiCKENS. 
 
 Perhaps with an eye to first impressions, Mr. Carker 
 was very carefully and trimiy dressed, that morning. 
 Though always somewhat formal in his dress, in imita- 
 tion of the great man whom he served, he stopped short 
 of the extent of Mr. Dombey’s stiffness : at once, per- 
 haps, because he knew it to be ludicrous, and because 
 in doing so he found another means of expressing his 
 sense of the difference and distance between them. 
 Some people quoted him indeed, in this respect, as a 
 pointed commentary, and not a flattering one, on his icy 
 patron— but the world is prone to misconstruction, and 
 Mr. Carker was not accountable for its bad propensity. 
 
 Clean and florid : with his light complexion, fading as 
 it were, in the sun, and his dainty step enhancing the 
 softness of the turf : Mr. Carker the manager strolled 
 about the meadows, and green lanes, and glided among 
 avenues of trees, until it was time to return to break- 
 fast. 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 I ” 
 
 He had strolled beyond the town, and re-entered it by 
 ^ 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 des- 
 tination easily accessible in ten, Mr. Carker threaded the 
 great boles of the trees, and went passing in and out, 
 before this one and behind that, weaving a chain of 
 footsteps on the dewy ground. 
 
 But he found he was mistaken in supposing there was 
 no one in the grove, for as he softly rounded the trunk 
 of one itarge 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 flgure sitting on a bench 
 near at hand, about which, in another moment, he 
 would have wound the chain he was making*. 
 
 It v/as that of a lady, elegantly dressed and very hand- 
 some, whose dark proud eyes were flxed upon the 
 ground, and in whom some passion or struggle was rag- 
 ing. For as she sat looking down, she held a corner of 
 her under lip within her mouth, her bosom heaved, her 
 nostrils 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 121 
 
 of weariness and lassitude, and turning away with noth- 
 ing expressed in face or figure but careless beauty and 
 imperious disdain. 
 
 A withered and very ugly old woman, dressed not so 
 much like a gipsey as like any of that medley race of 
 vagabonds who tramp about the country, begging, and 
 stealing, and tinkering, and weaving rushes, by turns, 
 or all together, had been observing the lady, too ; for, 
 as she rose, this second figure, strangely confronting the 
 first, scrambled up from the ground—out of it, it almost 
 appeared— and stood in the way. 
 
 ‘‘ Let me tell your fortune, my pretty lady,” said the 
 old woman munching with her jaws, as if the Death^s 
 head beneath her yellow skin were impatient to get out. 
 can tell it for myself,’' was the reply. 
 
 Ay, ay, pretty lady ; but not right. You didn’t tell 
 it right when you were sitting there. I see you ! Give 
 me a piece of silver, pretty lady, and I’ll tell your for- 
 tune true. There’s riches, pretty lady, in your face.” 
 
 I know,” returned the lady, passing her with a dark 
 smile, and a proud step. I knew it before.” 
 
 Wliat ! You won’t give me nothing?” cried the old 
 woman. ‘‘ You won’t give me nothing to tell your for- 
 tune, pretty lady ? How much will you give me not to 
 tell it, then ? Give me something, or I’ll call it after 
 ydu ! ” croaked the old woman, passionately. 
 
 Mr. Carker, whom the lady was about to pass close, 
 slinking against his tree as she crossed to gain the path, 
 advanced so as to meet her, and pulling olf his hat as 
 she went by, bade the old woman hold her peace. The 
 lady acknowledged his interference with an inclination 
 of the head, and went her way. 
 
 “You give me something then, or I’ll call it after 
 her ! ” screamed the old woman, throwing up her arms, 
 and pressing forward against bis 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 yon I ” 
 
 “After me, old lady? ” returned the manager, putting 
 his hand in liis pocket, 
 
 “Yes,” said the w^oman, steadfast in her scrutiny, and 
 holding out her shrivelled hand, “/know ! ” 
 
 “What do you know?” demanded Carker, throwing 
 her a shilling. “ Ho you know who the handsome lady 
 is?” 
 
 Munching like that sailor’s wife of yore, who had 
 chestnuts in her lap, and scowding like the witch who 
 asked for some in vain, the old woman picked the shil- 
 ling up, and going backwards, like a crab, or like a heap 
 of crabs ; for her alternately expanding and contracting 
 VoL. 12 —h' 
 
122 
 
 WORKS OP CHART.es DICKENS. 
 
 hands might have represented two of that species, and 
 her creeping face, some half-a-dozen more : crouched on 
 the veinous root of an old tree, pulled out a short black 
 pipe from within the crown of her bonnet, lighted it 
 with a match, and smoked in silence, looking fixedly at 
 her questioner. 
 
 Mr. Carker laughed, and turned upon his heel. 
 
 Good ! ” said the old woman. One child dead, and 
 one child living : one wife dead, and one wife coming. 
 Go and meet her ! ” 
 
 In spite of himself, the manager looked round again, 
 and stopped. The old woman, who had not removed 
 her pipe and was munching and mumbling while she 
 smoked, as if in conversation with an invisible familiar, 
 pointed with her finger in the direction he was going, 
 and laughed. 
 
 What was that you said, Beldamite?’' he demanded. 
 
 The woman mumbled, and chattered, and smoked, and 
 still pointed before him ; but remained silent. Mutter- 
 ing a 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 ! ” 
 
 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 fum- 
 ing 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. 
 
 ‘‘My dear Mr. Dombey,’' said the lady, “ I am afraid 
 we are late, but Edith has been out already looking for 
 a favourable point of view for a sketch, and kept me 
 waiting for her. Falsest of majors,” giving him her 
 little finger, '‘how do you do?” 
 
 "Mrs. Skewton,” said Mr. Dombey, "let me gratify 
 my friend Carker : ” Mr. Dombey unconsciously empha- 
 sized the word friend, as saying " no really ; I do allow 
 him to take credit for that distinction;” "by present- 
 ing him to you. You have heard me mention Mr. Car- 
 ker.” 
 
 "I am charmed, I am sure,” said Mrs. Skewton, gra- 
 ciously. 
 
 Mr. Carker was charmed, of course. Would he have 
 been more charmed on Mr. Dombey’s behalf, if Mrs. 
 

 1 .- . 
 
124 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Skewton had been (as he at first supposed her) the Edith 
 whom they had toasted over night ? ” 
 
 Why, where, for Heaven’s sake, is Edith?” ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Skewton, looking round. Still at the 
 door, giving Withers orders about the mounting of those 
 drawings ! My dear Mr. Dombey, will you have the 
 kindness — ” 
 
 Mr. Dombey was already gone to seek her. Next 
 moment he returned, bearing on his arm the same ele- 
 gantly dressed and very handsome lady whom Mr. Car- 
 ker had encountered underneath the trees. 
 
 ‘‘ Carker — ” began Mr. Dombey. But their recogni- 
 tion of each other was so manifest, that Mr. Dombey 
 stopped surprised. 
 
 ‘"I am obliged to the gentleman,” said Edith, with a 
 stately bend, ‘'for sparing me some annoyance from an 
 importunate beggar just now.” 
 
 “I am obliged to my good fortune,” said Mr. Carker, 
 bowing low, “for the opportunity of rendering so slight 
 a service to one whose servant I am proud to fe.” 
 
 As her eye rested on him for an instant, and then 
 lighted on the ground, he saw in its bright and searching 
 glance a suspicion that he had not come up at the mo- 
 ment of his interference, but had secretly observed her 
 sooner. As he saw that, she saw in his eye that her dis- 
 trust was not without foundation. 
 
 “Really,” cried Mrs. Skew’ton, who had taken this 
 opportunity of inspecting Mr. Carker through her glass, 
 and satisfying herself (as she lisped audibly to the ma- 
 jor) that he was all heart ; “really now, this is one of 
 the most enchanting coincidences that I ever heard of 
 The idea I 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 Thing- 
 ummy, and What-you-may-call-it is his prophet ! ” 
 
 Edith deigned no revision of this extraordinary quota- 
 tion from the Koran, but Mr. Dombey felt it necessary 
 to offer a few polite remarks. 
 
 “ It gives me great pleasure,” said Mr. Dombey, with 
 cumbrous gallantry, “that a gentleman so nearly con- 
 nected with myself as Carker is, should have had the 
 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 en- 
 vious of Carker ; ” he unconsciously laid stress on these 
 words, as sensible that they must appear to involve a 
 very surprising proposition ; “ envious of Carker, that I 
 had not that honour and that happiness myself.” Mr. 
 Dombey bowed again. Edith, saving for a curl of her 
 lip, was motionless. 
 
BOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 125 
 
 ‘'By tlie 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. &anger, 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 in to table ! ” 
 
 With this, the major gave his arm to Edith ; Mr. Dom- 
 bey led the way with Mrs. Skewton ; Mr. Carker went 
 last, smiling on the party. 
 
 "I am quite rejoiced, Mr. Carker,” said the lady- 
 mother, at breakfast, after another approving survey of 
 him through her glass, “that you have timed your visit 
 so happily, as to go with us to-day. It is the most en- 
 chanting expedition !” 
 
 “ Any expedition would be enchanting in such society,’^ 
 returned Carker ; “but I believe it is, in itself, full of 
 interest.” 
 
 “Oh ! ” cried Mrs. Skewton, with a faded little scream 
 of rapture, “the castle is charming ! — associations of the 
 middle ages — and all that — which is so truly exquisite. 
 Don’t you dote upon the middle ages, Mr. Carker ? ” 
 
 “Very much, indeed,” said Mr. Carker. 
 
 “ Such charming times !” cried Cleopatra. “So full 
 of faith ! So vigorous and forcible ! So picturesque I 
 So perfectly removed from commonplace ! Oh dear ! If 
 they v/ould only leave us a little more of the poetry of 
 existence in these terrible days ! ” 
 
 Mrs. Skewton was looking sharp after Mr. Dombey all 
 the time she said this, who was looking at Edith : who 
 was listening, but who never lifted up her eyes. 
 
 “We are dreadfully real, Mr. Carker,” said Mrs. 
 Skewton ; “ are we not ? ” 
 
 Few people had less reason to complain of their reality 
 than Cleopatra, who had as much that was false about 
 her as could v/ell 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. 
 
 “ Pictures at the castle, quite divine ! ” said Cleopatra. 
 
 'I hope you dote upon pictures?” 
 
 “ 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.” 
 
 “ Damme, sir ! ” cried Major Eagstock, “ my opinion 
 
126 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 is, that you’re the admirable Carker, and can do any» 
 thing.” 
 
 “ Oh !” smiled Carker, with humility, ‘"‘you are much 
 too sanguine. Major Bagstock. I can do very little. But 
 Mr. Dombey is so generous in his estimation of any tri- 
 vial accomplishment a manJike myself may find it almost 
 necessary to acquire, and to which, in his very different 
 sphere, he is far superior, that—” Mr. Carker shrugged 
 his shoulders, deprecating further praise, and said no 
 more. 
 
 All this time, Edith never raised her eyes, unless to 
 glance towards her mother when that lady’s fervent 
 spirit shone forth in words. But as Carker ceased, she 
 looked at Mr.. Dombey for a moment. 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. 
 
 Mr. Dombey caught the dark eyelash in its descent, 
 and took the opportunity of arresting it. 
 
 You have been to Warwick often, unfortunately ? ” 
 said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 Several times.” 
 
 The visit will be tedious to you, I am afraid.” 
 
 "" Oh no ; not at all.” 
 
 '' Ah ! You are like your cousin Feenix, my dearest 
 Edith,” said Mrs. Skewton. ''He has been to War- 
 wick Castle fifty times, if he has been there once ; yet 
 if he came to Leamington to-morrow— -I wish he would, 
 dear angel ! — he would make his fifty-second visit next 
 day.” 
 
 "We are all enthusiastic, are we not, mama?” said 
 Edith, with a cold smile. 
 
 " Too much so for our peace, perhaps, my dear,” re- 
 turned her mother ; " but we won’t complain. Our own 
 emotions are our recompense. If, as your cousin Fee- 
 nix says,, the sword wears out the what’s-its-name — ” 
 
 "The scabbard, perhaps,” said Edith. 
 
 "Exactly — a little too fast, it is because it is bright 
 and glowing, you know, my dearest love.” 
 
 Mrs. Skewton heaved a gentle sigh, supposed to cast 
 a shadow on the surface of that dagger of lath, whereof 
 her susceptible bosom was the sheath ; and leaning her 
 head on one side, in the Cleopatra manner, looked with 
 pensive affection on her darling child. 
 
 Edith had turned her face towards Mr. Dombey when 
 he first addressed her, and had remained in that atti- 
 tude, while speaking to her mother, and while her 
 mother spoke to her, as though offering him her atten- 
 tion, if he had anything more to say. There was some- 
 thing in the manner of this simple courtesy : almost de- 
 fiant, and giving it the character of being rendered on 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 127 
 
 compulsion, or as a matter of traffic to which she was 
 a reluctant party : again not lost upon that same obser- 
 ver who was smiling round the board. It set him think- 
 ing of her as he had first seen her, when she had be- 
 lieved herself to be alone among the trees. 
 
 Mr. Dombey having nothing else to say, proposed — the 
 breakfast being now finished, and the major gorged 
 like any boa constrictor — that they should start. A 
 baroiiclie being in waiting, according to the orders of 
 that gentleman, the two ladies, the major and himself, 
 took their seats in it ; the native and the wan page 
 mounted the box, Mr, Towlinson being left behind ; and 
 Mr. Carker, on horseback, brought up the rear. 
 
 Mr. Carker cantered behind the carriage, at the dis- 
 tance of a hundred yards or so, and watched it, during 
 all the ride, as if he v/ere a cat, indeed, and its four oc- 
 cupants, mice. Whether he looked to one side of the 
 road, or to the other — over distant landscape, with its 
 smooth undulations, windmills, corn, grass, bean fields, 
 wild -flowers, farm-yards, hay -ricks, and the spire among 
 the wood — or upward in the sunny air, where butterflies 
 were sporting round his bead, and birds were pouring 
 out their songs — or downv^ard, 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 neglect- 
 fully 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 weary 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 m tier first surprise ; but when he 
 touched her, in alighting, with his soft white hand, it 
 overlooked him altogetlier as before. 
 
 Mrs. Skewton was bent on taking charge of Mr. Car. 
 ker herself, and showing him the beauties of the Castle, 
 She was determined to have his arm, and the majorV 
 to<\ It would do that incorrigible creature : who was 
 the most barbarous infidel in point of poetry : good to be 
 In such company. This chance arrangement left Mr. 
 Dombey at liberty to escort Edith : which he did : stalk- 
 ing before them through the apartments with a gentle- 
 manly solemnity. 
 
 Those darling bygone times, Mr. Carker,” said Cleo- 
 patra, ‘ ' with their delicious fortresses, and their dear 
 
WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 old dungeons, and their delightful places of torture, 
 knd their romantic vengeances, and their picturesque as- 
 saults and sieges, and everything that makes life truly 
 charming ! How dreadfully we have degenerated 1 
 Yes we have fallen off deplorably,’' said Mr. Car- 
 
 ker. 
 
 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. 
 Hombey and Edith. With all their conversational endow- 
 ments, they spoke somewhat distractedly, and at random 
 in consequence. 
 
 “We have no faith left, positively,” said Mrs. 
 Skewton, advancing her shrivelled ear ; for Mr. Dombey 
 was saying something to Edith. “We have no faith in 
 the dear old barons, who were the most delightful 
 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 wail there, which were so ex- 
 tremely golden ! Hear creature ! She was all heart ! 
 And that charming father of hers I I hope you dote on 
 Harry the Eighth ! ” 
 
 “ I admire him very much,” said Carker. 
 
 “So bluff ! "cried Mrs. Skewton, “wasn’t he? So 
 burly. So truly English. Such a picture, too, he 
 makes, with his dear little peepy eyes, and his benevolent 
 chin ! ” 
 
 “ Ah, ma’am ! ” said Carker, stopping short ; “ but if 
 you speak of pictures, there’s a composition ! What 
 gallery in the world can produce the counterpart of 
 that ! ” 
 
 As the smiling gentleman thus spake, he pointed 
 through a doorway to where Mr. Dombey and Edith were 
 standing alone in the centre of another room. 
 
 They were not interchanging a word or a look. Stand- 
 ing together, arm in arm, they had the appearance of be- 
 ing 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, un- 
 bending, formal, austere. She, lovely and graceful in an 
 uncommon degree, but totally regardless of herself and 
 him and everything around, and spurning her own at- 
 tractions 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 129 
 
 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 dro’wning left ? Ruins cried, Look 
 here, and see what We are, wedded to uncongenial 
 Time ! " Animals, opposed by nature, worried one an- 
 other, as a moral to them. Loves and Cupids took to 
 flight afraid, and Martyrdom had no such torment in its 
 painted history of suffering. 
 
 Nevertheless, Mrs. Skewton was so charmed by the 
 sight to which Mr. Carker invoked her attention, that 
 she could not refrain from saying, half aloud, how sweet, 
 bow very full of soul it was 1 Edith, overhearing, looked 
 round, and flushed indignant scarlet to her hair. 
 
 ‘‘ My dearest Edith knows I was admiring her ! " said 
 Cleopatra, tapping her, almost timidly, on the back with 
 her parasol. Sweet pet ! " 
 
 Again Mr. Carker saw the strife he had witnessed so 
 unexpectedly among the trees. Again he sav/ the 
 haughty languor and indifference come over it, and hide 
 it like a cloud. 
 
 She did not raise her eyes to him ; but with a slight 
 peremptory motion of them, seemed to bid her moth^* 
 come near. Mrs. Skewton thought it expedient to um 
 derstand the hint, and advancing quickly, with her two 
 cavaliers, kept near her daughter from that time. 
 
 Mr. Carker now, having nothing to distract his atten 
 tion, began to discourse upon the pictures, and to select 
 the 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 cata- 
 logue, or holding his stick, or the like. These services 
 did not so much originate with Mr. Carker, in truth, as 
 with Mr. Dombey himself, who was apt to assert his 
 chieftainship by saying, with subdued authority, and 
 in an easy way—for him — “Here, Carker, have the 
 goodness to assist me, will you ! " which the smiling 
 gentleman always did with pleasure. 
 
 They made the tour of the pictures, the walls, crow's 
 nest, and so forth ; and as they were still one little 
 party, and the major was rather in the shade, being 
 sleepy during the process of digestion, Mr. Carker 
 became communicative and agreeable. At first, he ad- 
 dressed 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 in- 
 spirations, she observed as a reason for that mark of 
 
130 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKBrS. 
 
 rapture), he transferred his attentions to Mr. Dombey. 
 Mr. Doinbey said little beyond an occasional Very 
 true, Carker,^’ or Indeed, Carker?'' but he tacitly en- 
 couraged 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. 
 
 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 cere- 
 moniously 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. 
 Bombey made another of his bows), which he must 
 always highly value. Withers the lean having Edith's 
 sketch-book under his arm, was immediately called upon 
 by Mrs. Skewton to produce the same : and the carriage 
 stopped, that Edith might make the drawing, which Mr. 
 Dombey was to put away among his treasures. 
 
 '' But I am afraid I trouble you too much,'’ said Mr. 
 Dombey. 
 
 "‘By no means. Where would you wish it taken 
 from ? ” she answered, turning to him with the same 
 enforced attention as before. 
 
 Mr. Dombey, with another bow, which cracked the 
 starch in his cravat, would beg to leave that to the 
 artist. 
 
 ‘‘ I would rather you chose for yourself,” said Edith. 
 
 Suppose then,” said Mr. Dombey, ‘‘ we say from 
 here. It appears a good spot for the purpose, or — Carker, 
 what do you think ? ” 
 
 There happened to be in the foreground, at some little 
 distance, a grove of trees, not unlike that in which Mr. 
 Carker had made his chain of footsteps in the morning, 
 and with a seat under one tree, generally resembling, in 
 the general character of its situation, the point where 
 his chain had broken. 
 
 '' Might I venture to suggest to Mrs. Granger ? " said 
 Carker, that that is an interesting — almost a curious- 
 point of view ? ” 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 1B1 
 
 Slie followed tlie 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 introduce 
 tion ; and would have been exactly like the first, but 
 that its expression was plainer. 
 
 “ Would you like that ? ’’ said Edith to Mr, Dombey. 
 
 I shall be charmed,"’ said Mr. Dombey to Edith. 
 
 Therefore the carriage was driven to the spot where 
 Mr. Dombey was to be charmed ; and Edith, without 
 moving from her seat, and opening her sketch-book with 
 her usual proud indifference, began to sketch. 
 
 “ My pencils are all pointless,"" she said, stopping and 
 turning them over. 
 
 Pray allow me,"" said Mr. Dombey. OrCarker will 
 do it better, as he understands these things. Carker, 
 have the goodness to see to these pencils for Mrs. 
 Granger."" 
 
 Mr. Carker rode up close to the carriage door on Mrs. 
 Granger’s side, and letting the rein fall on his 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; 
 v/hile Cleopatra and the major dallied as two ancient 
 doves might do. 
 
 ‘‘Are you satisfied with that, or shall I finish it a little 
 more ? ” said Edith, showing the sketch to Mr, Dombey. 
 
 Mr. Dombey begged that it might not be touched ; it 
 was perfection. 
 
 “ It is most extraordinary,” said Carker, bringing every 
 one of his red gums to bear upon his praise. “ I was not 
 prepared for anything so beautiful, and so unusual al- 
 together.” 
 
 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 fco be while the drawing was 
 laid aside for Mr. Dombey, and* while the sketching 
 materials were put up ; then he nanded in the pencils 
 (which were received with a distant acknowledgment of 
 his help, but without a look), and tightening his rein fell 
 back and followed the carriage again. 
 
 Thinking, perhaps, as he rode, that even this trivial 
 sketch had been made and delivered to its owner, as if 
 it had been bargained for and bought. Thinking, per- 
 haps, that although she had assented with such perfect 
 
132 
 
 VTORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. Car- 
 ker was graciously invited by Cleopatra to return thither 
 mth Mr. Dombey and the major, in the evening, to hear 
 some of Edith’s music ; and the three gentlemen repaired 
 to their hotel to dinner. 
 
 The dinner was the counterpart of yesterday’s, except 
 that the major Was twenty-four hours more triumphant 
 and less mysterious. Edith was toasted again. Mr. 
 Dombey was again agreeably embarrassed. And Mr. 
 Carker was full of interest and praise. 
 
 There were no other visitors at Mrs. Ske wton’s. Edith’s 
 drawings were strewn about the room, a little more 
 abundantly than usual perhaps ; and Withers, the wan 
 page, handed round a little stronger tea. The harp was 
 there ; the piano was there ; and Edith sang and played. . 
 But even the music was paid by Edith to Mr. Dom bey’s 
 order, as it were, in the same uncompromising way. AS 
 thus. 
 
 “ Edith, my dearest love,” said Mrs. Skewton, half an 
 hour after tea, '"Mr. Dombey is dying to hear you, I 
 know.” 
 
 ‘‘ Mr. Dombey has life enough left to say so for him* 
 self, mama, I have no doubt.” 
 
 I shall be immensely obliged,” said Mr. Dombey. 
 What do you wish ? ” 
 
 Piano ? ” hesitated Mr. Dombey. 
 
 ‘‘ Whatever you please. You have only to choose. 
 
 Accordingly, she began with the piano. It was the 
 same with the harp ; the same with her singing ; the 
 same with the selectiorf of the pieces that she sang and 
 J)layed. 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 im- 
 press itself on Mr. Carker’s keen attention. Nor did he 
 lose sight of the fact that Mr. Dombey was evidently 
 proud of his power and liked to show it. 
 
 Nevertheless, Mr, Carker played so well — some games 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 133 
 
 with the major, and some with Cleopatra, whose vigi- 
 lance of eye in respect of Mr. Dombey and Edith no lynx 
 could have surpassed — that he even heightened his posi- 
 tion in the lady-mother’s good graces ; and when on tak* 
 ing 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. 
 
 ‘‘ I hope so,” said Mr. Carter, with an expressive look 
 at the couple in the distance, as he drew towards the 
 door, following the major. “ I think so.” 
 
 Mr. Dombey, who had taken a stately leave of Edith, 
 bent, or made some approach to bend, over Cleopatra’s 
 couch, and said, in a low voice : 
 
 I have requested Mrs. Granger’s permission to call 
 on her to-morrow morning — for a purpose — and she has 
 appointed twelve o’clock. May I hope to have the pleas- 
 ure of finding you at home, madam, afterwards ? ” 
 
 Cleopatra was so much fluttered and moved, by hear- 
 ing this, of course incomprehensible speech, that she 
 could only shut her eyes, and shake her head, and give 
 Mr. Dombey her hand ; which Mr. Dombey, not exactly 
 knowing what to do with, dropped. 
 
 “ Dombey, come along ! ” cried the major looking in at 
 the door. Damme, sir, old Joe has a great mind to 
 propose an alteration in the name of the Royal Hotel, 
 and that it should be called the Three Jolly Bachelors, 
 in 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 ten- 
 dency of blood to the head, carried him off. 
 
 Mrs. Skewton reposed on her sofa, and Edith sat apart, 
 by her harp, in silence. The mother, trifliug with her 
 fan, looked stealthily at the daughter more than once, 
 but the daughter, brooding gloomily with downcast eyes, 
 was not to b^e disturbed. 
 
 Thus they remained for a long hour, without a word, 
 until Mrs. Skewton’s maid appeared, according to cus- 
 tom, to prepare her gradually for night. At night she 
 should have been a skeleton, with dart and hour-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 drop- 
 ped 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 wo- 
 man, with red eyes, alone remained in Cleopatra’s place, 
 huddled up, like a slovenly bundle, in a greasy flannel 
 gown. 
 
 The very voice was changed, as it addressed Edith, 
 when they were alone again. r 
 
134 
 
 WOKES OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 WTij don’t you tell me,” it said, sharply, that he 
 is coming here to-morrow by appointment 
 
 Because you know it,” returned Edith, ‘^mother.” 
 
 The mocking emphasis she laid on that one word I 
 You know he has bought me,” she resumed. "'Or 
 that he will, to-morrow. He has considered of his bar» 
 gain ; he has shown it to his friends ; he is even rather 
 proud of it ; he thinks that it will suit him, and may be 
 had sufficiently cheap ; and he will buy to-morrow. 
 God, that I have lived for this, and that I feel it ! ” 
 
 Compress into one handsome face the conscious self- 
 abasement, and the burning indignation of a hundred 
 Tvomen, strong in passion and in pride ; and there it hid 
 itself with tv/o white shuddering arms. 
 
 '‘What do you mean?” returned the angry mother. 
 "Haven’t you from a child — ” 
 
 "A child !” said Edith, looking at her, " when was I 
 a child. What childhood did you ever leave to me ! I 
 was a woman — artful, designing, mercenary, laying 
 snares for men — before I knew myself, or you, or even 
 understood the base and wretched aim of every new dis- 
 nlay I learnt. You gave birth to a woman. Look upon 
 ter. She is in her pride to-night.” 
 
 And as she spoke, she struck her hand upon her beau 
 tiful bosom, as though she would have beaten down 
 hersel f . 
 
 " Look at me,” she said, " v/ho 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 de- 
 scended to him — a judgment on you ! well deserved !— - 
 and tell me what has been my life for ten years since.” 
 
 "We have been making every effort to endeavour to 
 secure to you a good establishment,” rejoined her mother. 
 " That has been your life. And now you have got it.” 
 
 " There is no slave in a market, there is no horse in a 
 fair, so shown and offered and examined and paraded, 
 mother, as I have been, for ten shameful years,” cried 
 Edith, with a burning brow, and the same bitter empha^ 
 sis on the one word. " Is it not so? Have I been made 
 the bye- word of jail kinds of men ? Have fools, have 
 p^’otiigates, 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 
 
A child! ” SAID EDITH, LOOKING AT HER. “ WHEN WAS I A CHILD ? 
 WHAT CHILDHOOD DID YOU EVER LEAVE TO ME ? ” 
 
 — Dombey and Son, Vol. Twelve, page 135. 
 
 
136 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 iihe last grain of self-respect is dead within me , and 1 
 loathe myself ? Has this been my late childhood ? I had 
 none before. Do not tell me that I had, to-night, of all 
 nights in my life ! ” 
 
 You might have been well married,” said her mother, 
 
 tv/enty times at least, Edith, if you had given encour- 
 agement enough.” 
 
 No ! Who takes me, refuse that I am, and as I 
 well deserve to be,” she answered, raising her head, and 
 trembling in her energy of shame and stormy pride, 
 ^ shall take me, as this man does, with no art of mine 
 put forth to ] ure 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 be 
 would have me show one of them, to justify his pur- 
 chase to his men, I require of him to say which he de- 
 mands, and I exhibit it. I will do no more. He makes 
 Jhe 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.” 
 
 ‘‘ You talk strangely to-night, Edith, to your own 
 mother.” 
 
 It seems so to me ; stranger to me than you,” said 
 Edith. But my education was completed long ago. 
 I am too old now, and have fallen too low, by degrees, 
 to take a new course, and to stop yours, and to help ray- 
 self. The germ oi all that purifies a woman's breast, and 
 makes it true and good, has never stirred in mine, and I 
 have nothing else to sustain me when I despise myself.” 
 There had been a touching sadness in her voice, but it 
 was gone, when she went on to say, ‘'So, as we are 
 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.” 
 
 “This man! You speak,” said her mother, “as if 
 you hated him,” 
 
 “ And you thought I loved him, did you not ? ” she an- 
 swered, stopping on her way across the room, and look- 
 ing 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 v/nom I have 
 even less of self-respect or confidence than before my own 
 inward self : being so much degraded by his knowledge 
 of me ? ” 
 
 “ This is an attack, 1 suppose,” returned lier mother, 
 coldly, “on poor, unfortunate what’s-his-name — Mr. Gar- 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 137 
 
 ker ! 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 es- 
 tablishment. Why do you look at me so hard ? Are 
 you ill ? ’’ 
 
 Edith suddenly let fall her face, as if it had been 
 stung, and while she pressed her hands upon it, a terri- 
 ble tremble crept over her whole frame. It was quickly 
 gone ; and with her usual step she passed out of the 
 room. 
 
 The maid, who should have been a skeleton, then re- 
 appeared, and giving one arm to her mistress, who ap- 
 peared to have taken off her manner with her charms, 
 and to have put on paralysis with her flannel gown, col- 
 lected the ashes of Cleopatra, and carried them away, 
 ready for to-morrow’s revivification. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 Alterations, 
 
 So the day has come at length, Susan,” said Florence 
 to the excellent Nipper, when we are going back to 
 our quiet home ! ” 
 
 Susan drew in her breath with an amount of expression 
 not easily described, and further relieving her feelings 
 with a smart cough, answered, ‘‘Very quiet indeed. 
 Miss Floy, no doubt. Excessive so.” 
 
 “ When I was a child,” said Florence, thoughtfully, 
 and after musing for some moments, “did you ever see 
 that gentleman who has taken the trouble to ride down 
 here to speak to me, now three times — three times I 
 think, Susan ? ” 
 
 “Three times, miss,” returned the Nipper. “Once 
 when you was walking out with them Sket — ” 
 
 Florence gently looked at her, and Miss Nipper check- 
 ed herself. 
 
 “ With Sir Barnet and his lady, I mean to say, miss, 
 and the young gentleman. And two evenings since 
 then.” 
 
 “When I was a child, and when company used to 
 come to visit papa, did you ever see that gentleman at 
 home, Susan ? ” asked Florence. 
 
 “Well, miss,” returned the 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.” 
 
138 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ‘‘To be pure/' said Florence, still tliouglitfully : “ yon 
 are not likely to have known who came to the house. 
 I quite forgot.” 
 
 ‘‘Not, miss, but what we talked about the family and 
 visitors,” said Susan, “ and but what I heard much said, 
 although the nurse before Mrs. Richards dM make un- 
 pleasant remarks when I was in company, and hint at 
 little Pitchers, but that could only be attributed, poor 
 thing,” observed Susan with composed forbearance, “to 
 habits of intoxication, for which she w^as required to 
 leave, and did.” 
 
 Florence, who was seated at her chamber window, with 
 her face resting on her hand, sat looking out, and hardly 
 seemed to her what Susan said, she was so lost in 
 thought. 
 
 “ At all events, miss,” said Susan. “ I remember very 
 well that this same gentleman, Mr. Carker, was almost, 
 if not quite, as great a gentleman with your papa then, 
 as he is now. It used to be said in the house then, miss, 
 that he was at the head of all your pa’s affairs in the city, 
 and managed the whole, and that your pa minded him 
 more than anybody, which begging your pardon. Miss 
 Floy, he might easy do, for he never minded anybody 
 else. I knew that. Pitcher as I might have been.” 
 
 Susan Nipper, with an injured remembrance of the 
 nurse before Mrs. Richards, emphasised “Pitcher” 
 strongly. 
 
 “And that Mr. Carker has not fallen off, miss,” she 
 pursued, “ but has stood his ground, and kept his credit 
 with your pa, I know from what is always said among 
 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 peace with 
 the man, he knows what goes on in the city tolerably 
 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.” 
 
 Not a word of this was lost on Florence, who, with 
 an awakened interest in Susan’s speech, no longer gazed 
 abstractedly on the prospect without, but looked at her, 
 and listened with attention. 
 
 “Yes, Susan,” she said, when that young lady had 
 concluded. “He is in papa’s confidence, and is his 
 friend, I am sure.” 
 
 Florence’s mind ran high on this theme, and had done 
 for some days. Mr. Carker, in the two visits with which 
 he had followed up his first one, had assumed a confi- 
 dence between himself and her~a right on his part to 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 139 
 
 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 re- 
 pelling it, or from freeing herself from the web he was 
 gradually winding about her ; for that would have re- 
 quired 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 
 ©f the ship, and that he feared the worst ; but how he 
 came to know that she was interested in the ship, and 
 why he had the right to signify his knowledge to her, so 
 insidiously and darkly, troubled Florence very much. 
 
 This conduct on the part of Mr. Carker, and her habit 
 of often considering it with wonder and uneasiness, be- 
 gan 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. 
 
 Again, Florence, in pursuit of her strong purpose with 
 reference to her father, and her steady resolution to be- 
 lieve that she was herself unwittingly to blame for their 
 so cold and distant relations, would recall to mind that 
 this gentleman was -his confidential friend, and would 
 think, with an anxious heart, could her struggling ten- 
 dency to dislike and fear him be a part of that misfor- 
 tune 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 her- 
 self that she was honoured and en courged by the notice 
 of her father’s friend ! and hoped that patient observa- 
 tion of him and trust in him would lead her bleeding feet 
 along that stony road which ended in her father’s heart. 
 
 Thus, with no one to advise her — for she could advise 
 with no one without seeming to complain against him — 
 
 g entle Florence tossed on an uneasy sea of doubt and 
 ope ; and Mr. Carker, like a scaly monster of the deep, 
 swam down below, and kept his shining eye upon her. 
 
 Florence had a new reason in all this for wishing to 
 be at home again. Her lonely life was better suited to 
 her course of timid hope and doubt : and she feared 
 sometimes, that in her absence she might miss some 
 hopeful chance of testifying her affection for her father. 
 Heaven knows, she might have set her mind at rest, 
 poor child 1 on this last point ; but her slighted love was 
 
140 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 fluttering within her, and, even in her sleep, it flev/ 
 away in dreams, and nestled, like a wandering bird come 
 home, upon her father’s neck. 
 
 Of Walter she thought often. Ah ! how often, when 
 the night was gloomy, and the wind was blowing round 
 the house I But hope was strong in her breast. It k 
 so diflicult for the young and ardent, even with such ex- 
 perience as hers, to imagine youth and ardour quenched 
 like a weak flame, and the bright day of life merging 
 into night, at noon, that hope was strong yet. Her 
 tears fell frequently for Walter’s sufferings, but rarely 
 for his supposed death, and never long. 
 
 She had written to the old Instrument-maker, but had 
 received no answer to her note : which indeed required 
 none. Thus matters stood with Florence on the morn- 
 ing when she was going home, gladly, to her old S0“ 
 eluded life. 
 
 Doctor and Mrs. Blimber, accompanied (much against 
 his will) by their valued charge, Master Barnet, were 
 already gone back to Brighton, where that young gentle- 
 man 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 ju- 
 venile guests at the villa had taken their departure ; 
 and Florence’s long visit was come to an end. 
 
 There was one guest, however, albeit not resident 
 within the liouse, who had been very constant in his at- 
 tention to the family, and who still remained devoted to 
 them. This v/as Mr. Toots, who after renewing, some 
 weeks ago, the acquaintance he had had the happiness of 
 forming vnth Sketfcles Junior, on the night when he 
 burst the Blimberian bonds and soared into freedom 
 with liis 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 v/hist on the part of the 
 sel’vant . 
 
 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 insth 
 tution 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 repll.d, 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 141 
 
 witli divers strong asseverations, tliat 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 this boat The Tootses 
 Joy, as a delicate compliment to Florence, of which no 
 man knowing the parties, could possibly miss the appre^ 
 ciation. 
 
 Stretched on a crimson cushion in his gallant hark, 
 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 Delight as had 
 filled all the neighbouring part of the water-side with 
 astonishment. But whenever he saw any one in Sir 
 Barnet's garden on the brink of the river, Mr. Toots 
 always feigned to be passing there, by a combination of 
 coincidences of the most singular and unlikely descrip- 
 tion. 
 
 How are you, Toots !" Sir Barnet would say, wav- 
 ing his hand from the lawn, while the artful Chicken 
 steered close in shore. 
 
 ‘‘How de do, Sir Barnet ! " Mr. Toots would answer. 
 “ What a surprising thing that I should see you here?" 
 
 Mr. Toots, in his sagacity, always said this, as if, im 
 stead of that being Sir Barnet’s house, it were some dev 
 serted edifice on the banks of the Nile, or Gapges. 
 
 “I never was so surprised!” Mr. Toots would ex^ 
 claim. — “ Is Miss Dombey there ? " 
 
 Whereupon Florence would appear, perhaps. 
 
 “Oh, Diogenes is quite well, Miss Dombey," Mr. Toots 
 would cry. “ I called to ask this morning.” 
 
 “ Thank you very much ! " the pleasant voice of Floiv 
 ence would reply. 
 
 “ Won't you come ashore. Toots?” Sir Barnet would 
 eay then. “Come ! you're in no hurry. Come and see 
 us." 
 
 “Oh it's of no consequence, thank you 1" Mr. Toots 
 Tvould blushingly rejoin. “ I thought Miss Dombey 
 would like to know, that's all. Good bye I " And poor 
 Mr. Toots who was dying to accept the invitation, but 
 hadn't the courage to do it, signed to the Chicken, with 
 an aching heart, and away went the Delight, cleaving 
 the water like an arrow. 
 
 The Delight was lying in a state of extraordinary 
 splendour at the garden steps, on the morning of Flor- 
 ence's departure. When she went down-stairs to take 
 leave, after her talk with Susan, she found Mr. Toots 
 awaiting her in the drawing-room. 
 
142 
 
 WORKS OP ICHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ‘‘ Oil, how de do, Miss Bombey ? ’’ said tlie stricken 
 Toots, always dreadfully disconcerted when the desire of 
 his heart was gained, and he was speaking to her ; 
 ‘‘ thank you. Fin very well indeed, I hope you’re the 
 same, so was Diogenes yesterday.” 
 
 “You are very kind,” said Florence. 
 
 “ Thank you, it’s of no consequence,” retorted Mn 
 Toots. “I thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind, in this 
 fine weather, coming home by water, Miss Dombey. 
 There’s plenty of room in the boat for your maid. ” 
 
 “I am very much obliged to you,” said Florence, hesi- 
 tating. “ I really am — but I would rather not.” 
 
 “ Oh, it’s of no consequence,” retorted Mr. Toots. 
 “ Good morning ! ” 
 
 “ Won’t you wait and see Lady Skettles?” asked Flor- 
 ence, kindly. 
 
 ‘‘Oh no, thank you,” returned Mr. Toots, “it’s of no 
 consequence at all.” 
 
 So shy was Mr. Toots on such occasions, and so flur- 
 ried ! But Lady Skettles entering at that moment, Mr. 
 Toots was suddenly seized with a passion for asking her 
 how she did, and hoping she was very well ; nor could 
 Mr. Toots by any possibility leave off shaking hands 
 with her, until Sir Barnet appeared : to whom he im= 
 mediately clung with the tenacity of desperation. 
 
 “We are losing, to-day. Toots,” said Sir Barnet, 
 turning towards Florence, “the light of our house, I as- 
 sure you.” 
 
 “Oh, it’s of no conseq — I mean yes, to be sure,” 
 faltered the embarrassed Toots. “ Good morning ! ” 
 
 Notwithstanding the emphatic nature of this farewell, 
 Mr. Toots, instead of going away, stood leering about 
 him, vacantly. Florence, to relieve him, bade adieu, 
 with many thanks, to Lady Skettles, and gave her arm 
 to Sir Barnet. 
 
 “May I beg of you my dear Miss Dombey,” said her 
 host, as he conducted her to the carriage, “to present 
 my best compliments to your dear papa ? ” 
 
 It 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. 
 
 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 at- 
 tached to her, and very earnest in taking leave of Imr. 
 Even the household were sorry for her going, and the 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 143 
 
 servants came nodding and curtseying round the carriage 
 door. As Florence looked round on the kind faces, and 
 saw among them those of Sir Barnet and his lady, and 
 of Mr. Toots, who was chuckling and staring at her from 
 a distance, she was reminded of the night when Paul 
 and she had come from Doctor Blimber’s : and when 
 the carriage drove away, her face was wet with tears. 
 
 Sorrowful tears, but tears of consolation, too; for all the 
 softer memories connected with the 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 farew-ell re- 
 'ninded 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. 
 
 Even Susan Nipper softened towards the home of so 
 many years, as they were on their way towards it. 
 Hloomy 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 ! ” 
 
 You'll be glad to go through the old rooms, won't 
 you, Susan ? ” said Florence, smiling. 
 
 ‘‘Well, miss,” returned the Nipper, softening more 
 and more towards the house, as they approached it 
 nearer, ‘‘I won't deny but what I shall, though I shall 
 hate 'em again, to-morrow, very likely.” 
 
 Florence felt that, for her, there was greater peace 
 within it than 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 v/as 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 wdiat it would. She welcomed back her old 
 enchanted dream of life, ^nd longed for the old dark 
 door to close upon her, once again. 
 
 Full of such thoughts, they turned into the long and 
 sombre street. Florence was not on that side of the 
 carriage which was nearest to her home, and as the dis- 
 
144 
 
 WOBKS OF CflABLES DICKENS. 
 
 tanee lessened between tliem and it, slie looked out of 
 her window for the children over the way. 
 
 She was thus engaged, when an exclamation from 
 Susan caused her to turn quickly round. 
 
 ‘‘ Why gracious me ! cried Susan, breathless, where's 
 our house ! ” 
 
 Our house said Florence. 
 
 Susan, drawing in her head from the window, thrust 
 it out again, drew it in again as the carriage stopped, 
 and stared at her mistress in amazement. 
 
 There was a labyrinth of scaffolding raised all round 
 the house, from the basement to the roof. Loads of 
 bricks and stones, and heaps of mortar, and piles of 
 wood, blocked up half the width and length of the 
 vvoad street at the side. Ladders were raised against the 
 waFis: 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 windov/s 
 in any of the rooms ; nothing but workmen, and the im- 
 plements of their several trades, swarming from the 
 kitchens to the garrets. Inside and outside alike ; brick- 
 layers, painters, carpenters, masons : hammer, hod, 
 brush, pickaxe, saw, and trowel : all at work together, in 
 full chorus ! 
 
 Florence descended from the coach, half doubting if 
 it were, or could be the right house, until she recognised 
 Towlinson, with a sunburnt face, standing at the door 
 to receive her. 
 
 ''There is nothing the matter?” inquired Florence. 
 
 "'Oh no, miss.” 
 
 " There are great alterations going on.” 
 
 "Yes, miss, great alterations,” said Towlinson. 
 
 Florence passed him as if she were in a dream, and 
 hurried up-stairs. The garish light was in the long- 
 darkened drawing-room, and there were steps and plat- 
 forms, and men in paper caps, in the high places. Her 
 mother’s picture was gone with the rest of the move- 
 ables, and on the marl?; 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 were reclining in various attitudes, on the 
 skylight. Her own room was not yet touched within, 
 but there were beams and boawls raised against it with, 
 out, baulking the daylight. She went up swfftty to 
 that other bed-room, where the little bed was ; and a 
 dark giant of a man with a pipe in his mouth, and his 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 
 liead tied up in a pocket-handkerchief, was staring in at 
 Jhe window. 
 
 It was here that Susan Nipper, who had been in quest 
 of Florence, found her, and said, would she go down- 
 stairs to her papa, who wished to speak to her. 
 
 ‘‘ At home ! and wishing to speak to me \” cried Flor- 
 ence, trembling. 
 
 Susan, who was infinitely more distraught than Flor- 
 ence herself repeated her errand ; and Florence, pale 
 and agitated, hurried down again, without a moment’s 
 hesitation. She thought upon the way down, would she 
 dare to kiss him? The longing of her heart resolved 
 her, and she thought she would. 
 
 Her father might have heard that heart beat, when it 
 came into his presence. One instant, and it would have 
 heat against his breast — 
 
 But he was not alone. There were two ladies there ; 
 and Florence stopped. Striving so hard with her emo- 
 tion, that if her brute friend Hi had not burst in and 
 overwhelmed her with his caresses as a welcome home 
 — at which one of the ladies gave a little scream, and 
 that diverted her attention from herself — she would 
 have swooned upon the floor. 
 
 Florence,” said her father, putting out his hand : so 
 stiffly that it held her off : how do you do ? ” 
 
 Florence took the hand between her own, and putting 
 it timidly to her lips, yielded to its withdrawal. It 
 touched the door in shutting it, with quite as much en- 
 dearment as it had touched her. 
 
 ‘‘ What dog is that ? ” said Mr. Dombey, displeased. 
 
 It is a dog, papa— from Brighton.” 
 
 Well ! ” said Mr. Dombey ; and a cloud passed over 
 his face, for he understood her. 
 
 “He is very good-tempered,” said Florence, address- 
 ing herself with her natural grace and sweetness to the 
 two lady strangers. “He is only glad to see me. Pray 
 forgive him.” 
 
 She saw in the glance they interchanged, that the 
 lady who had screamed, and who was seated, was old ; 
 and that the other lady, who stood near her papa, was 
 very beautiful, and of an elegant figure. 
 
 “ Mrs. Skewton,” said her father, turning to the first, 
 and holding out his hand, “ this is my daughter Flor- 
 ence.” 
 
 “Charming, I am sure,” observed the lady, putting 
 up her glass. “So natural ! My darling Florence, you 
 inust kiss me, if you please. ” 
 
 Florence having done so, turned towards the other 
 lady, by whom her father stood waiting. 
 
 “ Edith,” said Mr. Dombey, “ this is my daughter 
 Florence. Florence, this lady will soon be your mama/^ 
 VoL. la 
 
146 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 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 indeflnable sort of fear. 
 Then she cried out, Oh, papa, may you be happy I 
 may you be very, very happy all your life ! and then 
 fell weeping on the lady’s bosom. 
 
 There was a short silence. The beautiful lady, who 
 at first had seemed to hesitate whether or no she should 
 advance to Florence, held her to her breast, and pressed 
 the hand with which she clasped her, close about her 
 waist, as if to reassure her and comfort her. Not one 
 word passed the lady’s lips. She bent her head down 
 over Florence, and she kissed her on the cheek, but she 
 said no word. 
 
 Shall we go on through the rooms,” said Mr. Dom- 
 bey, and see how our workmen are doing ? Pray 
 allow me, my dear madam. ” 
 
 He said this in offering his arm to Mrs. Skewton, who 
 had been looking at Florence through her glass, as 
 though picturing to herself what she might be made, by 
 the infusion — from her own copious storehouse, no doubt 
 — of a little more Heart and Nature. Florence was 
 still sobbing on the lady’s breast, and holding to her, 
 when Mr. Dombey was heard to say from the conserva- 
 tory : 
 
 Let us ask Edith. Dear me, where is she ? ” 
 
 Edith, my dear 1 ” cried Mrs. Skewton, “ where 
 you ? Looking for Mr. Dombey somewhere, I know 
 We are here, my love.” 
 
 The beautiful lady released her hold of Florence, and 
 pressing her lips once more upon her face, withdrew 
 hurriedly, and joined them. Florence remained standing 
 in the same place : happy, sorry, joyful, and in tears, 
 she knew not how or how long, but all at once: when 
 her new mama came back, and took her in her arms 
 again. 
 
 Florence,” said the lady hurriedly, and looking into 
 her face with great earnestness. ‘‘You v/ill not begin 
 by hating me ? ” 
 
 “ By hating you, mama ! ” cried Florence, winding 
 her arm round her neck, and returning the look. 
 
 “Hush ! Begin by tliinking 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.” 
 
 Again she pressed her to her breast — she had spoken 
 in a rapid manner, but firmly — and Florence saw her 
 rejoin them in the other room. 
 
 And now Florence began to hope that she would learn 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 m 
 
 from her new and beautiful mama, how to gain hef 
 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 I 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 The Opening of the Eyes of Mrs. Chick. 
 
 Miss Tox, all unconscious of any such rare appear- 
 ances in connexion with Mr. Dombey’s house, as scaffold- 
 ings and ladders, and men with their heads, tied up in 
 pocket-handkerchiefs, glaring in at the windows like 
 hying genii or strange birds, — having breakfasted one 
 morning at about this eventful period of time, on her 
 customary viands ; to wit, one French roll rasped, one 
 egg new laid (or warranted to be), and one little pot of 
 tea, wherein was infused one little silver scoop-full of 
 that herb on behalf of Miss Tox, and one little silver 
 * scoop-full on behalf of the tea-pot — a flight of fancy in 
 which good housekeepers delight ; went up-stairs to set 
 forth the bird waltz on the harpsichord, to water and 
 arrange the plants, to dust the nick-nacks, and accord- 
 ing to her daily custom, to make her little drawing-room 
 the garland of Princess’s-place. 
 
 Miss Tox endued herself with the pair of ancient 
 gloves, like dead leaves, in which she was accustomed 
 to perform these avocations — hidden from human sight 
 at other times in a table drawer — and went methodically 
 to work ; beginning with the bird waltz ; passing, by a 
 natural association of ideas, to her bird — a very high- 
 shouldered canary^ stricken in years, and much rumpled, 
 but a piercing singer, as Princess’s-place well knew : 
 taking, next in order, the little china ornaments, paper 
 fly-cages, and so forth ; and coming round, in good time, 
 to the plants, which generally required to be snipped 
 here and there with a pair of scissors, for some botanical 
 reason that was very powerful with Miss Tox. 
 
 Miss Tox was slow in coming to the plants, this morn- 
 ing. The weather was warm, the wind southerly ; and 
 there was a sigh of the summer time in Princess’s-place, 
 that turned Miss Tox’s thoughts upon the country. The 
 pot-boy attached to the Princess’s Arms had come out 
 with a can and trickled water, in a flowing pattern, all 
 over Princess’s-place, and it gave the weedy ground a 
 fresh scent — quite a growing scent. Miss Tox said. 
 There was a tiny blink of sun peeping in from the grea^ 
 Btreet round the corner, and the smoky sparrows hopped 
 fever it and back again, brightening as they passed : of 
 
148 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 batlied In it like a stream, and became glorified sparrowjg, 
 unconnected witli chimneys. Legends in praise of Gin* 
 ger Beer, with pictorial representations of thirsty cus» 
 tomers 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, some- 
 where 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. 
 
 Miss Tox sat down upon the window-seat, and thought 
 of her good papa deceased — Mr. Tox, of the Customs De- 
 partment of the public service ; and of her childhood, 
 passed at a seaport, among a considerable quantity of cold 
 tar, and some rusticity. She leP into a softened remem- 
 bruice of meadows in old time, gleaming with butter- 
 cups, like so many inverted ^rmaments of golden stars ; 
 and how she had made chains of dandelion stalks for 
 youthful vowers of eternal constancy, dressed chiefly in 
 nankeen ; and how soon those fetters had withered and 
 broken . 
 
 Sitting on the window-seat, and looking out upon the 
 sparrows and the blink of sun. Miss Tox thought likewise 
 of her good mama deceased— sister to the owner of the 
 powdered head and pigtail — of her virtues, and her rheu- 
 matism. 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 rec- 
 ollections were so strong upon Miss Tox, that she shook 
 her head, and murmured she would be comparatively old 
 before she knew it — which seemed likely. 
 
 In her pensive mood. Miss Tox's thoughts went wan- 
 dering on Mr. Dombey's track ; probably because the ma- 
 jor 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 sorr of person now ! 
 
 A flush— it was warm weather — overspread Miss Tox's 
 face, as, while entertaining these meditations, she turned 
 
149 
 
 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 boT head, and was surprised hy the reflection of her 
 tnoughtful image in the chimney-glass. Another flush 
 succeeded when she saw a little carriage drive into Prin- 
 cess’s-place, and make straight for her own door. Miss 
 Tox arose, took up her scissors hastily, and so coming, 
 at last, to the plants, was very busy with them when 
 Mrs. Chick entered the room. 
 
 “How is my sweetest friend?” exclaimed Miss Tox, 
 with open arms. 
 
 A little stateliness was mingled with Miss Tox^s sweet- 
 est friend's demeanour, but she kissed Miss Tox, and said, 
 
 Lucretia, thank you, I am pretty well. I hope you are 
 the same. Hem ! ” 
 
 Mrs. Chick w^as labouring under a peculiar little mon- 
 osyllabic cough ; a sort of primer, or easy introduction to 
 the art of coughing. 
 
 “ You call very early, and how kind that is, my dear !” 
 pursued Miss Tox. “ Now have you breakfasted ?” 
 
 “ Thank you, Lucretia,” said Mrs. Chick, “ I have. I 
 took an early breakfast ” — the good lady seemed curious 
 en the subject of Princess’s-place, and looked all round 
 it as. she spoke, “ with my brother, who has come home.” 
 
 “ He is better, I trust, my love,” faltered Miss Tox. 
 
 “ He is greatly better, thank you. Hem ! ” 
 
 *‘My dear Louisa must be careful of that cough,” re- 
 marked Miss Tox. 
 
 “ It’s nothing,” returned Mrs. Chick. “ It's merely 
 change of weather. We must expect change.” 
 
 “ Of weather ?” asked Miss Tox, in her simplicity. 
 
 “ Of everything,” returned Mrs. Chick. “ Of course 
 we must. It's a world of change. Any one would sur- 
 prise me very much, Lucretia, and wmuld 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 not 
 change ! even the silkworm, who I am sure might be 
 supposed not to trouble itself about such subjects, 
 changes into all sorts of unexpected things continually.” 
 
 “ My Louisa,” said the mild Miss Tox, “is ever happ^ 
 in her illustrations.” 
 
 “You are so kind, Lucretia,” returned Mrs. Chick, a 
 little softened, “as to say so, and to think so, I believe. 
 I hope neither of us may ever have any cause to lessen 
 our opinion of the other, Lucretia.” 
 
 “I am sure of it,” returned Miss Tox. 
 
 Mrs. Chick coughed as before, and drew lines on the cal* 
 pet 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 v/as 
 
150 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 prone to a discursive kind of irritability, availed herself 
 of the pause to change the subject. 
 
 Pardon me, my dear Louisa,’’ said Miss Tox, but 
 have I caught sight of the manly form of Mr. Chick in 
 the carriage ? ” 
 
 He is there,” said Mrs. Chick, '"but pray leave hinj 
 there. He has his newspaper, and would be quite con- 
 tented for the next two hours. Go on with your flowers, 
 Lucretia, and allow me to sit here and rest.” 
 
 "My Louisa know^s,” observed Miss Tox, "that be- 
 tween friends like ourselves, any approach to ceremony 
 would be out of the question. Therefore — Therefore 
 Miss Tox finished the sentence, not in words but actions ; 
 and putting on her gloves again, which she had taken 
 off, and aiTiiing herself once more with her scissors, be- 
 gan to snip and clip among the leaves with microscdpie 
 industry. 
 
 " Florence has returned home also,” said Mrs. Chick, 
 after sitting silent for some time, with her head on one 
 side, and her parasol sketching on the floor ; " and really 
 Florence is a great deal too old now, to continue to lead 
 that solitary life to which she has been accustomed. Of 
 course she is. There can be no doubt about it, I should 
 have very little respect, indeed, for anybody who could 
 advocate a different opinion. Whatever my wishes 
 might be, I could not respect them. We cannot com-, 
 mand our feelings to such an extent as that.” 
 
 Miss Tox assented, without being particular as to the 
 intelligibility of the proposition. 
 
 " If she’s a strange girl,” said Mrs. Chick, " and if my 
 brother Paul cannot feel perfectly comfortable in her so- 
 ciety, 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 — /am of no consequence — ” 
 
 " My dearest love,” remonstrated Miss Tox. 
 
 Mrs. Chick dried her eyes, which were, for the mo- 
 ment, overflowing ; and proceeded : 
 
 " And consequently he is more than ever bound to 
 make an effort. And though his having done so, comes 
 upon me wuth 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 Vv^as a marble slab, or 
 a paving stone — ” 
 
 "My sweet Louisa,” remonstrated Miss Tox again. 
 
 " Still, it is a triumph to me to know that he is so 
 true to himself, and to his name of Dombey ; although 
 Of course, 1 always knew he would be. I only hope,” 
 
bombey and son. 
 
 151 
 
 said Mrs. Chick, after a pause, '' that she maybe worthy 
 of the name too.^' 
 
 Miss Tox filled a little green watering-pot from a jug, 
 and happening to look up when she had done so, was so 
 surprised by the amount of expression Mrs. Chick had 
 conveyed into her face, and was bestowing upon her, 
 that siie put the little watering-pot on the table for the 
 present, and sat down near it. 
 
 ‘‘My dear Louisa,’' said Miss Tox, “will it be the 
 feast satisfaction to you, if I venture to observe in refer- 
 ence to ^that remark, that I, as a humble individual, 
 think your sweet niece in every way most promising ! ” 
 
 “ What do you mean, Lucretia?” returned Mrs. 
 Chick, with increased stateliness of manner. “ To wha^ 
 remark of mine, my dear, do you refer? ” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Her being worthy of her name, my love, ” replied 
 Miss Tox. 
 
 “ If,” said Mrs. Chick, with solemn patience, “ I have 
 not expressed myself with clearness, Lucretia, the fault 
 of course is mine. There is, perhaps, no reason why I 
 should express myself at alf, except the intimacy that 
 has subsisted between us, and which I very much hope, 
 Lucretia — confidently hope — nothing will occur to dis^ 
 turb. 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.” 
 
 “ Indeed !” returned Miss Tox. 
 
 “ No,” said Mrs. Chick shortly and decisively. 
 
 “ Pardon me, my dear,” rejoined her meek friend r 
 
 but I cannot have understood it. I fear I am dull.” 
 
 Mrs. Chick looked round the room and over the way ; 
 at the plants, at the birds, at the watering-pot, at almost 
 everything within view, except Miss Tox ; and finally 
 dropping her glance upon Miss Tox, for a moment, on its 
 way to the ground, said, looking meanwhile with ele- 
 vated eyebrows at the carpet : 
 
 “ When I speak, Lucretia, of her being worthy of the 
 name, I speak of my brother Paul’s second wife. I be- 
 lieve I have already said, in effect, if not in the very 
 words I now use, that it is his intention to marry a 
 second wife.” 
 
 Miss Tox left her seat in a hurry, and returned to her 
 plants ; clipping among the stems and leaves v/ith as 
 little favour as a barber working at so many pauper 
 heads of hair. 
 
 “Whether she will be f rally 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 worldf 
 
153 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 and I hope she may be. I have not been advised with, 
 myself. If I had been advised with, I have no doubt 
 my advice would have been cavalierly received, and 
 therefore it is infinitely better as it is. I much prefer 
 it, as it is/^ 
 
 Miss Tox, with head bent down, still clipped among 
 the plants. Mrs. Chick, with energetic shakings of her 
 own head from time to time, continued to hold forth, as 
 if in defiance of somebody. 
 
 If my brother Paul had consulted with me, which he 
 sometimes does — or rather, sometirnes used to do ; for 
 he will naturally do that no more now, and this is a cir- 
 cumstance which I regard as a relief from responsibil- 
 ity,’^ said Mrs. Chick, hysterically, ‘‘ for I thank 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 hav^e an- 
 swered, ‘Paul, you must have family, you must have 
 beauty, you must have dignity, you must have con- 
 nexion.’ 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 con- 
 nexion ! There is nobody in the world, not mad, who 
 could dream of daring to entertain such a preposterous 
 idea ! ” 
 
 Miss Tox stopped clipping ; and with her head among 
 the plants, listened attentively. Perhaps Miss Tox 
 thought there was hope in this exordium, and in the 
 v/armtli of Mrs. Chick. ^ 
 
 “I should have adopted this course of argument,” 
 pursued the discreet lady, “ because I trust I am not a 
 fool. I make no claim to be considered a person of 
 superior intellect — though I believe some people have 
 been extraordinary enough to consider me so ; one so lit- 
 tle humoured as I am, would very soon be disabused of 
 any such notion ; but I trust I am not a down -right 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 lime 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.” 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 153 
 
 In tlie moment^s silence that ensued. Miss Toy’s seis. 
 sors gave a feeble clip or two ; but Miss Tox’s face was 
 still invisible, and Miss Tox’s morning gown was agitat- 
 ed. Mrs. Chick looked sidewise at her, through the in- 
 tervening plants, and went on to say, in a tone of bland 
 conviction, and as one dwelling on a point of fact that 
 hardly required to be stated : 
 
 Therefore, of course my brother Paul has done what 
 was to be expected of him, and what anybody might 
 have foreseen he would do, if he entered the marriage 
 state again. I confess it takes me rather by surprise, 
 however gratifying ; because when Paul went out of 
 town I had no idea at all that he would form any at- 
 tachment out of town, and he certainly had no attach- 
 ment when he left here. However, it seems to be ex- 
 tremely 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 PauTs 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 immedi- 
 ately — 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.” 
 
 Miss Tox made no verbal answer, but took up the lit- 
 tle watering-pot with a trembling hand, and looked 
 Vacantly round as if considering what article of furniture 
 would be improved by the contents. The room door 
 opening at this crisis of Miss Tox’s feelings, she started, 
 laughed aloud, and fell into the arms of the person en- 
 tering ; happily insensible alike of Mrs. Chick’s indig- 
 nant countenance, and of the major at his window over 
 the way, who had his double-barrelled eye-glass in full 
 action, and whose face and figure were dilated with 
 Mephistophelean joy. 
 
 Not so the expatriated native, amazed supporter of 
 Miss Tox’s swooning form, who, coming straight up-stairs, 
 with a polite inquiry touching Miss Tox’s health (in ex- 
 act 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 
 dosely w’atched by the wrathful major, who had threat- 
 ened the usual penalty in regard of every bone in his 
 
154 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Eikin in case of any failure, combined to render Mm a 
 moving spectacle of mental and bodily distress. 
 
 For some moments, this afflicted foreigner remained 
 clasping Miss Tox to bis heart, with an energy of actios 
 in remarkable opposition to his disconcerted face, wh^r 
 that poor lady trickled slowly down upon him the ve^g 
 last sprinklings of the little watering-pot, as if he were 
 a delicate exotic (which indeed he was), and might be 
 almost expected to blow while the gentle rain descended. 
 Mrs. Chick, at length recovering sufficient presence of 
 mind to interpose, commanded him to drop Miss Tox upon 
 the sofa and withdraw ; and the exile promptly obeying, 
 she applied herself to promote Miss Tox’s recovery. 
 
 But none of that gentle concern, which usually char- 
 acterises 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 ail true 
 men wear perpetual mourning), did Mrs. Chick adminis- 
 ter 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. 
 
 Lucretia ! ” said Mrs. Chick. I will not attempt 
 to disguise what I feel. My eyes are opened all at one® 
 I wouldn’t have believed this, if a saint had told it to 
 me.” 
 
 I am foolish to give way to faintness,” Miss Tox 
 faltered. “ I shall be better presently.” 
 
 You will be better presently, Lucretia ! repealed 
 Mrs. Chick, with exceeding scorn. Do you suppose I 
 am blind ? Do you imagine I am in my second child- 
 hood ? No, Lucretia ! I am obliged to you ! ” 
 
 Miss Tox directed an imploring, helpless kind of look 
 towards her friend, and put her handkerchief before 
 her face. 
 
 ‘^If any one had told me this yesterday,” said Mrs. 
 Chick with majesty, or even half -an -hour ago, I 
 should have been tempted, I almost believe, to strike 
 them to the earth. Lucretia Tox, my eyes are opened 
 to you all at once. The scales ; ” here Mrs. Chick cast 
 down an Imaginary pair, such as are commonly used in 
 grocer’s shops: ‘‘ have fallen from my sight. The blind- 
 ness of my confidence is past, Lucretia. It has been 
 
DOM BEY AND SON. 
 
 155 
 
 abused and played upon, and evasion is quite out of the 
 question now; I assure you.” 
 
 •'Oh I what do you allude to so cruelly, my love?” 
 asked Miss Tox, through her tears. 
 
 Lucretia,” said Mrs. Chick, ask your own heart. 
 I must entreat you not to address me by any such familiar 
 term as you have just used, if you please. I have some 
 self-respect left, though you may think otherwise.” 
 
 '‘Oh, Louisa ! ” cried Miss Tox. “ How can you speak 
 to me like that ? ” 
 
 " How can I speak to you like that?” retorted Mrs. 
 Chick, who, in default of having any particular argu- 
 ment to sustain herself upon, relied principally on such 
 repetitions for her most withering effects. " Like that \ 
 You may well say like that, indeed ! ” 
 
 Miss Tox sobbed pitifully. 
 
 " The idea ! ” said Mrs. Chick," of your having basked 
 at my brother’s fireside, like a serpent, and wound your- 
 self, through me, almost into his confidence. Lucre tia, 
 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 
 of which almost relieves its treachery.” 
 
 "Pray, Louisa,” urged Miss Tox, "do not say such 
 dreadful things.” 
 
 " Dreadful things ! ” repeated Mrs. Chick. " Dread- 
 ful things ! Is it not a fact, Lucretia, that you have just 
 now been unable to command your feelings even before 
 me, whose eyes you had so completely closed ? ” 
 
 " I have made no complaint,” sobbed Miss Tox. " I 
 have said nothing. If I have been a little overpowered 
 by your news, Louisa, and have ever had any lingering 
 thought that Mr. Dombey was inclined to be particular 
 towards me, surely you will not condemn me.” 
 
 " She is going to say,” said Mrs. Chick, addressing 
 herself to the whole of the furniture, in a comprehen- 
 sive glance of resignation and appeal, " She is going to 
 say — I know it — that I have encouraged her ! ” 
 
 " I don’t wish to exchange reproaches, dear Louisa,” 
 sobbed Miss Tox' " NTor do I wish 'to complain. But, 
 in my own defence — ” 
 
 "Yes,” cried Mrs. Chick, looking round the room 
 with a prophetic smile, " that’s what she’s going to say. 
 I knew it. You had better say it. Say it openly ! Be 
 open, Lucretia Tox,” said Mrs. Chick, with desperate 
 sternness, "whatever you are.” 
 
 " In my own defence,” faltered Miss Tox, " and only 
 in my own defence against your unkind words, my dear 
 Louisa, I would merely ask you if you haven’t often 
 
156 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 a 
 
 favoured sucli a fancy, and even said it might happen, 
 for anything we could tell ? 
 
 ‘' There is a point,"’ said Mrs. Chick, rising, not as if 
 ghe 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 foTe]3oding, Lu- 
 cretia, when my confidence of many years is destroyed in 
 isji instant, when my eyes are opened all at once, and 
 when I find you revealed in your true colours. Luere- 
 tia, 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 posi- 
 tion, 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 wdfe — and as a connexion b^ marriage of 
 my brother’s wife’s mother — may I be permitted to add, 
 asaDombey? — I can wish you nothing else hut good, 
 morning. ” 
 
 These words, delivered with cutting suavity, tempered 
 and chastened by a lofty air of moral rectitude, carried 
 the speaker to the door. There she inclined her head in 
 a ghostly and statue-like manner, and so withdrew to 
 her carriage, to seek comfort and consolation in the arms 
 of Mr. Chick Irer lord. 
 
 Figuratively speaking, that is to say ; for th^ arms of 
 Mr. Chick were full of his newspapei*. Neither did that 
 gentleman addi-ess his eyes towards his wife otherwise 
 than by stealth. Neither did he ofier 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 wwd, good, bad, or in- 
 different. 
 
 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 ! ” 
 
 "To which your eyes have been opened, my dear !” 
 repeated Mr. Chick. 
 
 " Oh, don’t talk to me !” said Mrs. Chick. " If you 
 can hear to see me in this state, and not ask me what 
 the matter is, you had better hold your tongue for ever. ” 
 
 " What is the matter, my dear?” asked Mr. Chick. 
 
 "To think,” said Mrs. Chick, in a state of soliloquy, 
 " that she should ever have conceived the base idea of 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 157 
 
 connecting herself with our family by a marriage with 
 Paul ! To think that when she was playing at horse® 
 with that dear child who is now in his grave — I never 
 liked it at the time — she should have been hiding such a 
 double-faced design ! I wonder she was never afraid 
 that something would happen to her. She is fortunate: 
 if nothing does.” 
 
 ‘‘I really thought, my dear,” said Mr. Chick slowly^ 
 after rubbing the bridge of his nose for some time with 
 his newspaper, ‘‘ that you had gone on the same tack 
 yourself, all along, until this morning ; and had thought 
 it would be a convenient thing enough, if it could have 
 been brought about.” 
 
 Mrs. Chick instantly burst into tears, and told Mr. 
 Chick that if he wished to trample upon her with his 
 boots, he had better do it. 
 
 But with Lucretia Tox I have done,” said Mrs. Chick, 
 after abandoning herself to her feelings for some min- 
 utes, to Mr. Chick's great terror. “I can bear to resign 
 Paul's confidence in favour of one w^ho, I hope and trust, 
 may be deserving of it, and with whom he has a perfect 
 right to replace poor Fanny if he chooses ; 1 can bear to 
 be informed, in Paul’s cool manner, of such a change in 
 Ms plans, and never to be consulted until all is settled 
 and determined ; but deceit I can not bear, and with Lu- 
 cretia 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 to-day, but, upon th© 
 whole I don’t regret it.” 
 
 In which Christian spirit, Mrs. Chick dried her eyes^ 
 and smoothed her lap, and sat as became a person calm 
 under a great wrong. Mr. Chick, feeling his unworthi- 
 ness no doubt, took an early opportunity of being set 
 down at a street corner and walking awa}^ whistling, 
 with his shoulders very much raised, and his hands in 
 his pockets. 
 
 While poor excommunicated Miss Tox, who, if she 
 were a fawner and toad-eater, was at least an honest and 
 a constant one, and had ever borne a faithful 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. 
 
158 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ^ CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 The Interval before the Marriage. 
 
 Although the enchanted house was no more, and the 
 working world had broken into it, and was hammering 
 and crashing and tramping up and down stairs all day- 
 long, keeping Diogenes in an incessant paroxysm of bark- 
 ing 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 Flor- 
 ence'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 cheer- 
 ful homes to which they were returning, and the children 
 who were waiting for them, and was glad to think that 
 they were merry and well pleased to go. 
 
 She welcomed back the evening silence as an old friend, 
 but it came now with an altered face, and looked more 
 kindly on her. Fresh hope was in it." The beautiful 
 lady who had soothed and caressed her, in the very room 
 in which her heart had been so wrung, was a spirit of 
 promise to her. Soft shadows of the bright life dawn- 
 ing, 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 ! 
 
 In her thoughts of her new mother, and in the love 
 and trust overflowing her pure heart towards her, Flor- 
 ence loved her own dead mother more and more. She 
 had no fear of setting up a rival in her breast. The new 
 flower sprang from the deep-planted and long-cherished 
 root, she. knew. Every gentle word that had fallen from 
 the lips of the beautiful lady, sounded to Florence like 
 an echo of the voice long hushed and silent. How could 
 she love that memory less for living tenderness, when it 
 was her memory of all parental tenderness and love ! 
 
 Florence was, one day, sitting reading in her room, and 
 thinking of the lady and her promised visit soon — for her 
 book turned on a kindred subject — v/hen, raising her 
 eyes, she saw her standing in the doorway. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 159 
 
 ** Mama ! ” cried Florence, joyfully meeting her. 
 
 Come again ! ” 
 
 ‘‘Not mama yet,” returned the lady, with a serious 
 smile, as she encircled Florence's neck with her ai*m. 
 
 “But very soon to be,” cried Florence. 
 
 “ Y ery soon now, Florence r very soon. ” 
 
 Edith bent her head a little so as to press the blooming 
 cheek of Florence against her own, and for some few mo- 
 ments remained thus silent. There was something so 
 very tender in her manner, that Florence was even more 
 sensible of it than on the first occasion of their meeting. 
 
 She led Florence to a chair beside her, and sat down - 
 Florence looking in her face, quite wondering at its beau 
 ty, and willingly leaving her hand in hers. 
 
 “Have you been alone, Florence, since I was here 
 last ?” 
 
 “ Oh yes ! ” smiled Florence, hastily. 
 
 She hesitated and cast down her eyes ; for her new 
 mama was very earnest in her look, and the look was in 
 tently and thoughtfully fixed upon her face. 
 
 “ I — I — am used to be alone,” said Florence. “ I don'f 
 mind it at all. Di and I pass whole days together, some 
 times.” Florence might have said whole weeks, and 
 months. 
 
 “ Is Di your maid, love ? ” 
 
 “ My dog, mama, ” said Florence, laughing. Susan 
 is my maid.” 
 
 “ And these are your rooms, ” said Edith, looking rounds 
 “ 1 was not shown these rooms the other day. We must 
 have them improved, Florence. They shall be made the 
 prettiest in the house.” 
 
 “If I might change them, mama,” returned Florence 
 “ there is one up-stairs I should like much better.” 
 
 “Is this not high enough, dear girl?” asked Edith, 
 smiling. 
 
 “ The other was my brother's room,” said Florence, 
 “ and I am very fond of it. I would have spoken to papa 
 about it when I came home, and found the workmea 
 here, and everything changing ; but—” 
 
 Florence dropped her eyes, lest the same look should 
 make her falter again. 
 
 “—but I was afraid it might distress him ; and as you 
 said you would be here again soon, mama, and are the 
 mistress of everything, I determined to take courage and 
 ask you.” 
 
 Edith sat looking at her, with her brilliant eyes in- 
 tent upon her face, nntil Florence raising her own, she, 
 in her turn, withdrew her gaze, and turned it on the 
 ground. It was then that Florence thought how differ- 
 ent this lady's beauty was, from what she had supposed. 
 She had thought it of a proud and lofty kind ; yet her 
 
160 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 manner was so subdued and gentle, tbat if sbe had been 
 of Florence’s own age and character, it scarcely could 
 Lave invited confidence more. 
 
 Except when a constrained and singular reserve crept 
 over her ; and then she seemed (but Florence hardly un- 
 derstood this, though she could not choose but notice it, 
 and think about it) as if she were humbled before Flor* 
 ence, 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 con- 
 nexion. 
 
 She gave Florence her ready promise about her new 
 room, and said she would give directions about it herself. 
 She then asked some questions concerning poor Paul ; 
 and when they had sat in conversation for some time 
 told Florence she had come to take her to her own home. 
 
 “We have come to London now, my mother and I,” 
 said Edith, “and you shall stay with us until I am mar- 
 ried. I wish that we should know and trust each other, 
 Florence. ” 
 
 “You are very kind to me,” said Florence, “dear 
 mama. How much I thank you ! ” 
 
 “ Let me say now, for it may be the best opportunity,” 
 continued Edith, looking round to see that they wera 
 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 elsev/here, come home 
 here. It is better to be alone than — what I would say 
 is,” she added, checking herself , “ that I know well you 
 are best at home, dear Florence.” 
 
 “ I will come home on the very day, mama.” 
 
 “Do so. I rely on that promise. Now, prepare to 
 come with me, dear girl. You will find me down stairs 
 when you are ready.” 
 
 Slowly and thoughtfully did Edith wander alone 
 through the mansion of which she was so soon to be the 
 lady : and little heed took she of all the elegance and 
 splendour it began to display. The same indomit- 
 able 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 161 
 
 the eye, she saw some hateful atom of her purchase- 
 money ; the broad high mirrors showed her, at full 
 length, a woman with a iloble quality yet dwelling in 
 her nature, who was too false to her better self, and too 
 debased and lost, to save herself. She believed that all 
 this was so plain, more or less, to all eyes, that she had 
 no resource or power of self-assertion but in pride : and 
 with this pride, which tortured her own heart night 
 and day, she fought her fate out, braved it, and defied 
 it. 
 
 Was this the woman whom Florence — -an innocent 
 girl strong only in her earnestness and simple truth— 
 could so impress and quell, that by her side she was an- 
 other 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 en- 
 twined, and who, while she courted and entreated her 
 to love and trust her, drew her fair head to nestle on her 
 breast, and would have laid down life to shield it from 
 wrong or harm ? 
 
 Oh, Edith ! it were well to die, indeed, at such a time 1 
 Better and happier far, perhaps, to die so, Edith, than 
 to live on to the end I 
 
 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 daugh- 
 ter. It being necessary for the credit of the family to 
 make a handsome appearance at such a time, Mrs. Skew- 
 ton 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 ser- 
 vice 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 
 
 select staff of kitchen servants ; so that a legend 
 arose, down-stairs, that Withers the page, released at 
 once from his numerous household duties, and from the 
 propulsion of the wheeled chair (inconsistent with the 
 metropolis), had been several times observed to rub his 
 oyes and pinch his limbs, as if he misdoubted his hav 
 Ing overslept himself at the Lemington milkman’s, and 
 being still in a celestial dream. A variety of requisites 
 
163 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 in plate and cliina being also conveyed to the same es- 
 tablishment from the same convenient source, with sev- 
 eral miscellaneous articles, including a neat chariot and 
 a pair of bays, Mrs. Skew ton cushioned herself on the 
 principal sofa, in the Cleopatra attitude, and held her 
 court in fair state. 
 
 And how,” said Mrs. Skewton, on the entrance of 
 her daughter and her charge, is my charming Flor- 
 ence?” You must come and kiss me, Florence, if you 
 please, my love.” 
 
 Florence was timidly stooping to pick out a place in 
 the white part of Mrs. Skewton’s face, when that lady 
 presented her ear, and relieved her of her difficulty. 
 
 Edith, my dear,” said Mrs. Skewton, “ positively, I 
 —stand a little more in the light, my sweetest Florence, 
 for a moment.” 
 
 Florence blushingly complied. 
 
 You don’t remember, dearest Edith,” said her moth- 
 er, what you were when you were about the same age 
 <ts our exceedingly precious Florence, or a few years 
 younger ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ I have long forgotten, mother.” 
 
 For positively, my dear,” said Mrs. Skewton, I do 
 think that I see a decided resemblance to what you were 
 then, in our extremely fascinating young friend. And. 
 it shows,” said Mrs. Skewton, in a lower voice, which 
 conveyed her opinion that Florence was in a very unfin- 
 ished state, what cultivation will do.” 
 
 It does, indeed,” was Edith’s stern reply. 
 
 Her mother eyed her sharply for a moment, and feel- 
 ing herself on unsafe ground, said, as a diversion : 
 
 “My charming Florence, you must come and kiss me 
 once more, if you please, my love.” 
 
 Florence complied, of course, and again imprinted her 
 Hps on Mrs. Skewton’s ear. 
 
 And you have heard, no doubt, my darling pet,” said 
 Mrs. Skewton, detaining her hand, “ that your papa, 
 whom we all perfectly adore and dote upon, is to b<^ 
 married to my dearest Edith this day week.” 
 
 “ I knew it would be very soon,” returned Florence, 
 
 but not exactly when.” 
 
 “ My darling Edith,” urged her mother, gaily, “is it 
 possible you have not told Florence?” 
 
 “ Why should I tell Florence ? ” she returned, so sud- 
 denly and harshlj^, that Florence could scarcely believe 
 it was the same voice. 
 
 Mrs. Skewton then told Florence, as another and safer 
 diversion, that her father was coming to dinner, and that 
 he would no doubt be 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 W6 
 
 which, according to Mrs. Skewton’s expectation, would 
 throw him into a perfect ecstacy. Florence was troubled 
 to hear this ; and her distress uecame so keen, as the 
 dinner hour approached, that if she had known how to 
 frame an entreaty to be suffered to return home, with- 
 out 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 displeas- 
 ure. 
 
 As the time drew nearer, she could hardly breathe. 
 She dared not approach a window, lest he should see her 
 from the street. She dared not go up-stairs to hide her 
 emotion, lest, in passing out at the door, she should meet 
 him unexpectedly ; besides which dread she felt as 
 though she never could conie back again if she were 
 summoned to his presence. In this conflict of her fears, 
 she was sitting by Cleopatra's couch, endeavouring to un- 
 derstand and to reply to the bald discourse of that lady, 
 when she heard his foot upon the stair. 
 
 ‘‘ I hear him now ! " cried Florence, starting. ‘‘ He 
 is coming ! " 
 
 Cleopatra, who in her juvenility was always playfully 
 disposed, and who in her self -engrossment did not trou- 
 ble 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 sur- 
 prise. It was so quickly done that in a moment Flor- 
 ence heard his awful step in the room. 
 
 He saluted his intended mother-in-law, and his in- 
 tended bride. The strange sound of his voice thrilled 
 through the whole frame of his child. 
 
 ‘‘ My dear Dombey," said Cleopatra, come here and 
 tell me how your pretty Florence is." 
 
 Florence is very well," said Mr. Dombey, advancing 
 towards the couch. 
 
 ‘ ' At home ? " 
 
 At home," said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 ‘"My dear Dombey," returned Cleopatra, with be- 
 witching vivacity ; "" How are you sure you are not de- 
 ceiving 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 clear 
 Dombey. " 
 
 Though he had been ; and had been detected on the 
 spot, in the most enormous falsehood that was ever said 
 or done ; he could hardly have been more disconcerted 
 than he was, v/hen 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 oi 
 
164 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 the room. He looked round as if to refer the matter to 
 somebody else, but Edith had gone after Florence, in- 
 stantly. 
 
 ‘^Now confess, my dear Dombey,” said Mrs. Skewton, 
 giving him her hand, that you never were more sur« 
 prised and pleased in your life.” 
 
 I never Tvas more surprised,” said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 ‘'Nor pleased, my dearest Dombey?” returned Mrs, 
 Skewton, holding up her fan. 
 
 “ I — yes, I am exceedingly glad to meet Florence here,” 
 said Mr. Dombey. He appeared to consider gravely about 
 it for a moment, and then said, more decidedly, “Yes, I 
 really am very glad indeed to meet Florence here.” 
 
 “You wonder how she comes here?” said Mrs. Skew- 
 ton, “ don’t you ? ” 
 
 “Edith, perhaps — ” suggested Mr. Dombey. 
 
 “ Ah ! wicked guesser i ” replied Cleopatra, shaking 
 her head. 
 
 ‘ Ah ! cunning, cunning man I One shouldn’t tell these 
 things ; your sex, my dear Dombey, are so vain, and so 
 apt to abuse our weaknesses ; but, you know my open 
 soul — very well ; immediately.” 
 
 This was addressed to one of the very tall young men 
 who announced dinner. 
 
 “ But Edith, my dear Dombey,” she continued in a 
 whisper, “ when she cannot have you near her — and as I 
 tell her, she cannot expect that always — will at lea'st have 
 near her something or somebody belonging to you. W ell, 
 how extremely natural that is ] And in this spirit, noth- 
 ing would keep her from riding off to-day to fetch our 
 darling Florence. Well, how excessively charming 
 that is ! ” 
 
 As she waited for an answer, Mr. Dombey answered, 
 “ Eminently so.” 
 
 “Bless you, my dear Dombey, for that proof of 
 heart!” cried Cleopatra, squeezing his hand. “But I 
 am growing too serious 1 Take me down-stairs, like an 
 angel, and let us see what these people intend to give us 
 for dinner. Bless you, dear Dombey 1” 
 
 Cleopatra skipping off her couch with tolerable brisk- 
 ness, after the last benediction, Mr. Dombey took her 
 arm in his and led her ceremoniously down-stairs ; one 
 of the very tall young men on hire, whose organ of 
 veneration was imperfectly developed, thrusting his 
 tongue into his cheek, for the entertainment of the 
 other very tall young man on hire, as the couple turned 
 into the dining-room. 
 
 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 
 

166 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 put her hand upon her arm, and Mr. Dombey took an 
 opposite place at the round table. 
 
 The conversation was almost entirely sustained by 
 Mrs. Skewton. Florence hardly dared to raise her eyes, 
 lest they should reveal the traces of tears ; far less dared 
 to speak ; and Edith never uttered a word, unless in 
 answer to a question. Verily, Cleopatra worked hard, for 
 the establishment that was so nearly clutched ; and verily 
 H should have been a rich one to reward her ! 
 
 * ‘ And so your preparations are nearly finished at last, 
 my dear Dombey?” said Cleopatra, when the dessert was 
 put on the table, and the silver-headed butler had with° 
 drawn. Even the lawyer’s preparations ! ” ^ 
 
 ^'Yes, madame,” 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 execu- 
 tion.” 
 
 Edith sat like a handsome statue ; as cold, as silent, 
 tind as still. 
 
 My dearest love,” said Cleopatra, do you hear what 
 Mr. Dombey says? Ah, my dear Dombey !” aside to that 
 gentleman, How her absence, as the time approaches, 
 reminds me of the days when that most agreeable of crea- 
 tures, her papa, was in your situation !” 
 
 I have nothing to suggest. It shall be when you 
 please,” said Edith, scarcely looking -over the table at 
 Mr. Dombey. 
 
 “ To-morrow ? ” suggested Mr. Dombeyc 
 
 ‘‘If you please.” 
 
 “ Or would next day,” said Mr. Dombey, “ suit your 
 engagements better ? ” 
 
 “ I have no engagements. I am always at your dis- 
 posal. Let it be when you like.” 
 
 “No engagements, my dear Edith ! ” remonstrated her 
 mother, “ when you are in a most terrible state of finny 
 s&ll day long, and have a thousand and. one appointments 
 with all sorts of tradespeople ! ” 
 
 “ They are of your making,” returned Edith, turning 
 on her, with a slight contraction of her brow. “You 
 and Mr. Dombey can arrange between you.” 
 
 “Very true indeed, my love, and most considerate of 
 you ! ” said Cleopatra. “ My darling Florence, you 
 must really come and kiss me once more, if you please, 
 my dear !” 
 
 Singular coincidence, that these gushes of interest in 
 Florence hurried Cleopatra away from almost every dia- 
 logue in which Edith had a share, however trifling ! 
 Florence had certainly never undergone so much em- 
 bracing, and perhaps had never been, unconsciously, so 
 useful in her life 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 167 
 
 Mr. Dombey was far from quarreling, in bis own breast, 
 with the manner of his beautiful b^etrothed. 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. 
 
 So thought Mr. Dombey, when he was left alone at the 
 dining-table, and mused upon his past and future for- 
 tunes : 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 coflPms, waiting like mutes, 
 upon the threshold of the Turkey carpet ; and two ex- 
 hausted negroes holding up two withered branches of can- 
 delabra 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 bouse 
 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 com 
 plete. 
 
 No bad representation of the body, for the nonce, in 
 his unbending form, if not in his attitude, Mr. Dombey 
 looked down into the cold depths of the dead sea of ma- 
 hogany on which the fruit dishes and decanters lay at 
 anchor ; as if the subjects of his thoughts were rising 
 towards the surface, one by one, and plunging down 
 again. Edith was there in all her majesty of brow and 
 figure ; and close to her came Florence, with her timid 
 head turned to him, as it had been, for an instant, when 
 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 foredoomed diflSculty 
 and disappointment to him ; whether as a rival wdio 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 main- 
 
168 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 tained in Ms new relations ; tie best knew. Indiffer- 
 ently we]l, perhaps, at best ; for marriage company and 
 marriage altars, and ambitious scenes — still blotted here 
 and there with Florence — always Florence — turned up 
 so fast, and so confusedly, that* he rose, and went up- 
 stairs, to escape them. 
 
 It was quite late at night before candles were brought ; 
 for at present they made Mrs. Skewton’s head ache, she 
 complained ; and in the 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 men- 
 tion of a few occasions in the course of the evening, 
 when that affectionate lady was impelled to solicit an- 
 other kiss, and which always happened after Edith had 
 said anything. They were not many, however, for 
 Edith 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. 
 
 The week fled fast. There were drives to milliners, 
 dress-makers, jewellers, lawyers, florists, pastry-cooks ; 
 and Florence was always of the party. Florence was to 
 go to the wedding. Florence was to cast off her mourn- 
 ing, and to wear a brilliant dress on the occasion. The 
 milliner's intentions on the subject of this dress — the 
 milliner was a Frenchwoman, and greatly resembled 
 Mrs. Skewton — were so chaste and elegant, that Mrs. 
 Skewton bespoke one like it for herself. The milliner 
 said it would become her to admiration, and that all the 
 world would take her for the young lady's sister. 
 
 The week fled faster. Edith looked at nothing and 
 cared for nothing. Her rich dresses came home, and 
 were tried on, and were loudly commended by Mrs. 
 Skewton and the milliners, and were put away without 
 a word from her. Mrs. Skewton made their plans for 
 every day, and executed them. Sometimes Edith sat in 
 the carriage when they went to make purchases ; some- 
 times, when it was absolutely necessary, she went into 
 the shops. But Mrs. Skewton conducted the whole busk 
 ness, 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. 
 
 The week fled faster. It had nearly winged its flight 
 
BOjMBEY aSD son. 
 
 169 
 
 away. The last uight of the week, the night before the 
 marriage, was come. In the dark room — for Mrs. Skew- 
 ton’s head was no better yet, though she expected to re- 
 cover permanently to-morrow — were that lady, Edith, 
 and Mr. Dombey. Edith was at her open window look- 
 ing 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. 
 
 My dear Dombey,” said Cleopatra, “ you will leave 
 me Florence to-morrow, when you deprive me of my 
 sweetest Edith.” 
 
 Mr. DomJoey said he would, with pleasure. 
 
 “ To have her abont me, here, while you are both at 
 Paris, and to think that, at her age, I am assisting in the 
 formation of her ifiind, my dear Dombey,” said Cleopatra, 
 “ will be a perfect balm to me in the extremely shattered 
 state to v/hich I shall be reduced.” 
 
 Edith turned her head suddenly. Her listless manner 
 was exchanged, in a moment, to one of burning interest, 
 and, unseen in the darkness, she attended closely to their 
 conversation. 
 
 Mr. Dombey would be delighted to leave Florence ia 
 such admirable guardianship. 
 
 My dear Dombey,” returned Cleopatra, ‘‘ a thousand 
 thanks for your good opinion. I feared you were going, 
 with malice aforethought, as the dreadful lawyers say— 
 those horrid proses ! — to condemn me to utter solitude.” 
 
 Why do me so great an injustice, my dear madam ?” 
 said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 Because my charming Florence tells me so positively 
 she must go home to-morrow,” returned Cleopatra, 
 ‘‘that I began to be afraid, my dearest Dombey, you 
 were quite a Bashaw.” 
 
 “ I assure you, madam ! ” said Mr. Dombey, “ I have 
 laid no commands on Florence ; and if I had, there are 
 no commands like your wish.” 
 
 “ My dear Dombey,” replied Cleopatra, “ what a cour- 
 tier you are ! Though Fll not say so, either ; for cour- 
 tiers have no heart, and yours pervades your charming 
 life and character. And are you really going so early, 
 my dear Dombey ! ” 
 
 Oh, indeed ! it was late, and Mr. Dombey feared he 
 must. 
 
 “ Is this a fact, or is it all a dream ! ” lisped Cleopatra. 
 “ Can I ]>e]ieve, my dearest Dombey, that you are com- 
 ing back to morrow morning to deprive me of my sweet 
 companion ; my own Edith ! ” 
 
 Mr. Dombey, who wa,s accustomed to take things liter- 
 ally, reminded Mrs, Skewton that they were to meet 
 first at the church. 
 
 The pang,” said Mrs. Skewton, “of consigning a 
 VoL. la —a 
 
170 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 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 
 v.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/* 
 
 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 to- 
 wards him, and said nothing. Mr. Dombey, with a lofty 
 gallantry adapted to his dignity and the occasion, be- 
 took his creaking boots towards her, ppt her hand to his 
 lips, and said, To-morrow morning I shall have the 
 happiness of claiming this hand as Mrs. Dorabey’s,” and 
 bowed himself solemnly out. 
 
 Mrs. Skewton rang for candles as soon as the house- 
 door had closed upon him. With the candles appeared 
 her maid, v/ith the juvenile dress that was to delude th© 
 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 suffer- 
 ing her maid to take it off again, and to prepare her for 
 repose, tumbled into ruins like a house of painted cards. 
 
 All this time, Edith remained at the dark window 
 looking out into the str^t. When she and her mother 
 were at last left alone, ^e moved from it for the first 
 time that evening, and came opposite to her. The yawn- 
 ing, shaking, peevish figure of the mother, with her 
 eyes raised to confront the proud erect form of her 
 daughter, whose glance of fire was bent downward upon 
 her, had a conscious air upon it, that no levity of temper 
 could conceal. 
 
 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 undu- 
 tiful.’* 
 
 “ 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.** 
 
 “ Must remain alone here, Edith, until you return?** 
 repeated her mother. 
 
 “ Or in that name upon which I shall call to-morrow 
 to witness what I do, so falsely, and so shamefully, I 
 swear I wi^^ refuse the hand of this man in the church, 
 If I do not, may I fall dead upon the pavement 1 *' 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 171 
 
 The mother answered with a look of quick alarm, in 
 no degree diminished by the look she met. 
 
 ‘'It is enough,” said Edith, steadily, “ thed we are 
 what we are. I will have no youth and truth dragged 
 down to my level. I will have no guileless nature un- 
 dermined, corrupted, and perverted, to amuse the leisure 
 of a world of mothers. You know my meaning. Flor- 
 ence must go home.” 
 
 “You are an idiot, Edith,” cried her angry mother. 
 “ Do you expect there can ever be peace for you in that 
 house, till she is married, and away ? ” 
 
 “ Ask me, or ask yourself, if I ever expect peace in 
 that house,” said her daughter, “and you know the an- 
 swer.” 
 
 “ And am I to be told to-night, after all my pains and 
 labour, and when you are going, through me, to be ren- 
 dered independent,” her mother almost shrieked in her 
 passion, while her palsied head shook like a leaf, “ that 
 there is corruption and contagion in me, and that I am 
 not fit company for a girl ! What are you, pray ? What 
 are you ? ” 
 
 “ I have put the question to myself,” said Edith, ashy 
 pale, and pointing to the window, “more than once 
 when I have been sitting there, and something in the 
 faded likeness of my sex has wandered past outside ; and 
 God knows I have met with my reply. Oh mother, 
 mother, if you had but left me to my natural heart when 
 I too was a girl — a younger girl than Florence — how dif- 
 ferent I might have been ! ” 
 
 Sensible that any show of anger was useless here, her 
 mother •restrained herself, and fell a whimpering, and 
 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. 
 
 “ 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 
 Lny daughter, Edith, and addressing me in such ^ 
 strain !” 
 
 “Between us, mother,” returned Edith, mournfully, 
 “the time for mutual reproaches is past.” 
 
 “ Then why do you revive it ? ” whimpered her mother. 
 “ You know that you are lacerating me in the cruellest 
 manner. You know how sensitive I am to unkindness. 
 At such a moment, too, when I have so much to think of, 
 and am naturally anxious to appear to the best advan- 
 tage ! I wonder at you, Edith. To make your mother 
 a fright ux)on your wedding-day ! ” 
 
 Edith bent the same fixed look upon her, as she sobbed 
 
m 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 and rubbed ber eyes ; and said in tbe same low steady 
 voice, which had neither risen nor fallen since she first 
 addressed her, ** I have said that Florence must go 
 home.” 
 
 “ Let her go ! ” cried the afflicted and affnghfced parent, 
 hastily. I am sure I am willing she should go. What 
 is the girl to me? ” 
 
 She is so much to me, that rather than communi- 
 cate, or sufPer to be communicated to her, one grain of 
 the evil that is in my breast, mother, I would renounce 
 you, as I would (if you gave me cause) renounce him in 
 the church to-morrow,” replied Edith. '‘Leave her 
 alone. She shall not, while I can interpose, be tampered 
 with and tainted by the lessons I have learned. This is 
 no hard condition on this bitter night.” 
 
 " If you had proposed it in a filial manner, Edith,” 
 whined her mother, " perhaps not ; very likely not. But 
 such extremely cutting words—” 
 
 "They are past and at an end between us now,” said 
 Edith. " Take your own way, mother ; share as you 
 please in what you have gained ; spend, enjoy, make 
 much of it ; and be as happy as you will. The object of 
 our lives is won. Henceforth let us wear it silently. 
 My lips are closed upon the past from this hour. I for- 
 give you your part in to-morrow^s wickedness. May God 
 forgive my own ! ” 
 
 Without a tremour in her voice or frame, and passing 
 onward with a foot that set itself upon the neck of every 
 soft emotion, she bade her mother good night, and re- 
 paired to her own room. 
 
 But not to rest : for there was no rest in the 'tumult 
 of her agitation when alone. To and fro, and to and fro, 
 and to and fro again, five hundred times, among the 
 splendid preparations for her adornment on the morrow ; 
 with her dark hair shaken down, her dark eyes flashing 
 with a raging light, her broad white bosom red with the 
 cruel grasp of the relentless hand with which she spurned 
 it from her, pacing up and down with an averted head, 
 as if she would avoid the sight of her own fair person, 
 and divorce herself from its companionship. Thus, in 
 the dead of the night before her bridal, Edith Granger 
 wrestled with her unquiet spirit, tearless, friendless, 
 silent, proud, and uncomplaining. 
 
 At length it happened that she touched the open door 
 which led into the room where Florence lay. 
 
 She started, stopped, and looked in. 
 
 A light was burning there, and showed her Florence 
 in her bloom of innocence and beauty, fast asleep. Edith 
 held her breath, and felt herself drawn on towards her. 
 
 Drawn nearer, nearer, nearer yet ; at last, drawn so 
 near, that stooping down, she pressed her lips to the 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 173 
 
 f entle hand that lay outside the bed, and put it softly to 
 er neck. Its touch was like the prophet's rod of old 
 upon the rock. Her tears sprung forth beneath it, as 
 she sunk upon her knees, and laid her aching head and 
 streaming hair upon the pillow by its side. 
 
 Thus Edith Granger passed the night before her bri- 
 dal, Thus the sun found her on her bridal morning. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXL 
 
 The Wedding. 
 
 Dawn, with its passionless blank face, steals shivering 
 ^ the church beneath which lies the dust of little Paul 
 ftstd his mother, and looks in at, the windows. It is cold 
 end dark. Night crouches yet, upon the pavement, and 
 broods, sombre and he? vy, 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 grayly visible, like a stone bea- 
 con, recording how the sea flows on ; but within doors, 
 dawn, at first, can only peep at night, and see that it is 
 there. 
 
 Hovering feebly round the church, and looking in, 
 dawn moans and weeps for its short reign, and its tears 
 trickle on the window -glass, and the trees against the 
 chnrch-w^all 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 scared dawn, following the 
 night, and chasing it from its last refuge, shrinks into the 
 vaults itself and hides, with a frightened face, among 
 the dead, until night returns, refreshed, to drive it out. 
 
 And now, the mice, who have been busier with the 
 prayer-books than their proper owners, and wdth 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 wdth the sexton ; and Mrs. 
 Miff, the wheezy little pew^-opener — a mighty dry old 
 lady, sparely dressed, with not an inch of fulness any- 
 where about her — is also here, and has been waiting at 
 the church -gate half-an-hour, as her place is, for the 
 beadle. 
 
174 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 A vinegary face lias Mrs. Miff, aiid a mortified bonnet^ 
 and eke a thirsty soul for sixpences and shillings. Beck» 
 oning 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 
 had opinions, it would seem., about free-seats ; and 
 though Mrs. Miff hopes he may be gone upward, she 
 couldn’t positively undertake to say so. 
 
 Busy is Mrs. Miff this morning at the church-door, 
 beating and dusting the altar-cloth, the carpet, and the 
 cushions ; and much has Mrs. Miff to say, about the 
 wedding they are going to have. Mrs. Miff is told, that 
 the new furniture and alterations in the house cost full 
 five thousand pound if they cost a penny ; and Mrs. Miff 
 has heard, upon the best authority, that the lady hasn’t 
 got a sixpence wherewithal to bless herself. Mrs. Miff 
 remembers, likewise, as if it had happened yesterday, 
 the first wife’s funeral ; and then the christening, and 
 then the other funeral ; and Mrs. Miff says, by-the-bye 
 she’ll soap-and- water that ’ere tablet presently, against 
 the company arrive. Mr. Sownds, the beadle, who is 
 sitting in the sun upon the church-steps all this time 
 (and seldom does anything else, except, in cold weather, 
 sitting by the fire) approves of Mrs. Miff’s discourse, and 
 asks if Mrs. Miff has heard it said, that the lady is un- 
 common handsome ? The information Mrs. Miff has re- 
 ceived 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 forci- 
 ble to Mrs. Miff, or would from any lips but those of 
 Mr. Sownds the beadle. 
 
 In Mr. Dombey’s house, at this same time, there is 
 great stir and bustle, more especially among the women : 
 not one of whom has had a wink of sleep since four 
 o’clock, and all of whom were full dressed before six. 
 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 bouse- 
 maid 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, pres- 
 ently, that he never knew of any good that ever come 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 175 
 
 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. 
 
 The pastry-cook is hard at work in the funereal room 
 in Brook-street, and the very tall young men are busy 
 looking on. One of the very tall young men already 
 smells of sherry, and his eyes have a tendency to become 
 fixed in his head, and to stare at objects without seeing 
 them. The very tall young man is conscious of this fail- 
 ing in himself ; and he informs his comrade that it's his 
 ** exciseman." The very tall young man would say ex- 
 citement, but his speech is hazy. 
 
 The men who play the bells have got scent of the 
 marriage ; and the marrow-bones and cleavers too ; and 
 a brass band too. The first are practising in a back set- 
 tlement near Battlebridge ; the second put themselves in 
 communication, through their 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. Ex- 
 pectation and excitement extend further yet, and take a 
 wider range. From Ball's 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 gal- 
 lery, 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 Dom- 
 bey 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 cer- 
 emony, 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, lis- 
 tening to Bob 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 
 
176 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 time, to ^‘^pat about,” or to bverbaul that ere article 
 again,” or to stick to bis own duty, and leave tbe Amens 
 to him, the captain ; one of which he repeats whenever 
 a pause is made by Rob the Grinder, with sonorous sat- 
 isfaction. 
 
 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. Sounds 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. Miif has cause to pounce on an un- 
 lucky dwarf child, with a giant baby, who peeps in at 
 the porch, and drive her forth with indignation I ” 
 
 Cousin Feenix has come over from abroad, expressly 
 to attend the marriage. Cousin Feenix was a map 
 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 when 
 they first observed him, not exactly certain as 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. 
 
 Mr. Dombey leaves his dressing-room, amidst a general 
 whisking away of the women on the staircase, who dis- 
 perse 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 
 curtesey 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. Dom- 
 bey’s new blue coat, fawn-coloured pantaloons, and lilac 
 waistcoat ; and a whisper goes about the house, that Mr. . 
 Dombey’s hair is curled. 
 
 A double-knock announces the arrival of the major, 
 who is gorgeous too, and wears a whole geranium in his 
 button-hole, and has his hair curled tight and crisp, as 
 well as the native knows. 
 
 ‘‘ Dombey ! ” says the major, putting out both hands, 
 
 how are you ? ” 
 
 “ Major,” says Mr. Dombey, how are You ?” 
 
 ''By Jove, sir,” says the major, "Joey B. is in such 
 case this morning, sir,” — and here he hits himself haM 
 upon the breast — "in such case this morning, sir, that^ 
 damme, Dombey, he has half a mind to make a doublo 
 marriage of it, sir, and take the mother.” 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 177 
 
 Mr. Dombey smiles ; but faintly, even for him f, foa* 
 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. 
 
 “ 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 ! ” 
 
 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. 
 
 ‘'As to Edith. Granger, sir,” pursues the major, " there 
 is not a woman in all Europe but might — and would, 
 sir, you will allow Bagstock to add — and would — give 
 her ears, and her ear-rings too, to be in Edith Granger's 
 place.” 
 
 " You are good enough to say so, major,” says Mr. 
 Dombey. 
 
 " Dombey,” returns the major, " you know it. Let us 
 have no false delicacy. You know it. Do you know it, 
 or do you not, Dombey ? ” says the major, almost in a 
 passion. 
 
 “ Oh, really, major — ” 
 
 " Damme, sir,” retorts the major, " do you know that 
 fact, or do you not ? Dombey ! Is old Joe your friend ? 
 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 ? ” 
 
 "My dear Major Bagstock,” says Mr. Dombey, with a 
 gratified air, "you are quite warm.” 
 
 " 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, in- 
 valided, 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 ? ” 
 
 " Major,” says Mr. Dombey, " I assure you that I am 
 really obliged to you. I had no idea of checking your 
 too partial friendship.” 
 
 " Not too partial, sir,” exclaims the choleric major. 
 " Dombey, I deny it ! ” 
 
 " Your friendship I will say then,” pursues Mr. Dom- 
 bey, "on any account. Nor can I forget, major, on 
 such an occasion as the present, how much I am iis.« 
 debted to it.” 
 
178 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Dombey,” says the major, with appropriate action, 
 that is the hand of Joseph Bagstock ; of plain old Joey 
 B., sir, if yon 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 th^ 
 late Duke of Kent, that it was the hand of Josh. ; a 
 rough and tough, and possibly an up- to- snuff, old vag- 
 abond. Hombey, may the present moment be the least 
 unhappy of our lives. God bless you ! 
 
 Now, enters Mr. Carker, gorgeous likewise, and smil- 
 ing like a wedding-guest indeed. He can scarcely let 
 Mr. Dombey's hand go, he is so congratulatory ; and h^ 
 shakes the major's hand so heartily at the same time,* 
 that his voice shakes too, in accord with his arms, as it 
 comes sliding from between his teeth. 
 
 ‘‘ The very day is auspicious," says Mr. Carker. The 
 brightest and most genial weather ! I hope I am not a 
 moraeat late ? " 
 
 Punctual to your time, sir," says the major. 
 
 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. Hombey — ‘‘ to leave a few poor rarities of flowers 
 for Mrs. Hombey. A man in my position, and so dis- 
 tinguished as to be invited here, is proud to offer some 
 homage in acknowledgment of his vassalage : and as I 
 have no doubt Mrs. Hombey is overwhelmed with w'hat 
 is costly and magnificent ; ” with a strange glance at his 
 patron ; I hope the very poverty of my offering, may 
 find favour for it.” 
 
 ‘‘Mrs. Hombey, that is to be,” returns Mr. Hombey, 
 condescendingly, “ will be very sensible of your atten- 
 tion, Carker, I am sure.” 
 
 “ And if she is to be Mrs. Hombey this morning, sir,” 
 says the major, putting down his coffee-cup, and looking 
 at his watch, “ it's high time we were off ! ” 
 
 Forth, in a barouche, ride Mr. Hombey, 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 propos- 
 es chairs in the vestry. Mr. Hombej^ prefers remaining 
 in the church. As he looks up at the organ. Miss Tos 
 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 in= 
 forms 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 179 
 
 is witlim tlie resources of Science to double Mm up, 
 witli one blow in the waistcoat. 
 
 Mr. Sownds and Mrs. Miff are eyeing Mr. Dombey 
 from a little distance, when the noise of approaching 
 wheels is heard, and Mr. Sownds goes out, Mrs. Miff, 
 meeting Mr. Dombey "s eye as it is withdrawn from the 
 presumptuous maniac up-stairs, who salutes him with 
 so much urbanity, drops a curtsey, and informs him that 
 she believes his good lady’’ is come. Then there is a 
 crowding and a whispering at the door, and the good 
 lady enters, with a haughty step. 
 
 There is no sign upon her face of last night’s suffer- 
 ing ; there is no tr in her manner, of the woman on 
 the bended knees, 2 . osingher wild head 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, in- 
 scrutable of will, resplendent and majestic in the zenith 
 of its charms, yet beating down, and treading on, the 
 admiration that it challenges. 
 
 There is a pause while Mr. Sownds the beadle glides 
 into the vestry for the clergyman and clerk. At this 
 juncture Mrs. Skewton speaks to Mr. Dombey ; more dis- 
 tinctly and emphatically than her custom is, and moving, 
 at the same time, close to Edith. 
 
 My dear Dombey,” says the good mama, “ I fear I 
 must relinquish darling Florence after all, and suffer 
 her to go home, as she herself proposed. After my loss 
 of to-day, my dear Dombey, I feel I shall -not have spir- 
 its, even for her society.” 
 
 ‘‘Had she not better stay with you?” returns the 
 bridegroom. 
 
 “I think not, my dear Dombey. No, I think not. I 
 shall be better alone. Besides, my dearest Edith will 
 be her natural and constant guardian when you return, 
 and I had better not encroach upon her trust, perhaps. 
 She might be jealous. Eh, dear Edith ? ” 
 
 The affectionate mama presses her daughter’s arm, as 
 she says this : perhaps entreating her attention earnestly. 
 
 “ 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. ” 
 
 Again, the good mother presses her daughter’s arm. 
 Mr. Dombey offers no additional remonstrance ; for the 
 clergyman and clerk appear ; and Mrs. Miff, and Mr. 
 Sownds the beadle, group the party in their proper places 
 at the altar rails. 
 
 “ Who giveth this woman to be married to this man ? ” 
 
 Cousin Feenix does that. He has come from Baden- 
 
180 
 
 WORKk* OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Baden on purpose. Confound it/’ Cousin Feenix says 
 -good-natured creature, Cousin Feenix — ‘‘ when we do 
 get a rich city fellow into the family, let us show him 
 some attention ; let us do something for him/’ 
 
 ‘'/give this woman to be married to this man,” saith 
 Cousin Feenix therefore. Cousin Feenix, meaning to go 
 in a straight line, but turning off sideways by reason of 
 his wilful legs, gives the wrong woman to be married to 
 this man, at first — to wit, a bridesmaid of som.e condition, 
 distantly connected with the family, and ten years Mrs. 
 Skewton’s junior — but Mrs. Miff, interposing her morti- 
 fied bonnet, dexterously turns him b^ck, and runs him, 
 as on castors, full at the "good lady whom Cousin 
 Feenix giveth to be married to this man accordingly. 
 
 And will they in the sight of Heaven — ? 
 
 Aye, that they will : Mr. Dombey says he will. And 
 what says Edith? Slie will. 
 
 So, from that day forward, for better for worse, for 
 richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and 
 to cherish, till death do them part, they plight their 
 troth to one another, and are married. 
 
 In a firm, free hand, the bride subscribes her name in 
 the register, when they adjourn to the vestry. " There 
 an’t a many ladies comes 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 bea * 
 die thinks it is a truly spanking signature, and worthy 
 of the writer — this, however, between himself and con 
 science. 
 
 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 hitn- 
 self as having been born, that morning. 
 
 The major now salutes the bride right gallantly, and 
 carries out that branch of military tactics in reference to 
 all the ladies : notwithstanding Mrs. Skewdon’s being 
 extremely hard to kiss, and squeaking shrilly in the 
 sacred edifice. The example is followed by Cousin Fee- 
 nix, 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 sw^eets that 
 linger on her lips. 
 
 There is a glow upon her proud cheek, and a flashing 
 in her eyes, that may be meant to stay him ; but it does 
 not, for he salutes her as the rest have done, and wishes 
 her all happiness. 
 
 " If wishes,” says he in a low voice, are not superflu- 
 ous, applied to such a union.” 
 
 "I thank you, sir,” she answers, with a curled lip; 
 and a heaving bosom. 
 
IN A FIRM, FREE HAND THE BRIDE SUBSCRIBES HER NAME IN THE REGISTER. 
 
 — Dombey and Son, Vol. Twelve, page 181 . 
 
m 
 
 WOSKS OF CHAKLBS DICKENS. . 
 
 But, does Edith feel still, as on the night when she 
 i:new that Mr. Domhey would return to offer his alli- 
 ance, 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 hand that grasps it firmly, and that her im- 
 perious glance droops in meeting his, and seeks the 
 ground ? 
 
 “1 am proud to see,’’ says Mr. Carker, with a servile 
 stooping of his neck, which the revelations making by 
 his eyes and teeth proclaim to be a lie, “ I am proud to 
 see that my humble offering is graced by Mrs. Dombey’s 
 hand, and permitted to hold so favoured a place in so 
 joyful an occasion. ” 
 
 Though she bends her head, in answer, there is some- 
 thing in the momentary action of her hand, as if she 
 would crush the flowers it holds, and fling them, with 
 contempt, upon the ground. But, she puts the hand 
 through the arm of her new husband, who has been 
 standing near, conversing with the major, and is proud 
 again, and motionless, and silent. 
 
 The carriages are once more at the church-door. Mr. 
 Dombey, with his bride upon his arm, conducts her 
 through the twenty families of little w^omen 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 entered 
 the same carriage. The major hands into a second car- 
 riage, Florence, and the bridesmaid who so narrowly es- 
 caped 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. 
 
 Miss Tox emerges from behind the cherubim’s leg, 
 when all is quiet, and comes slowly down, from the gal- 
 lery. Miss Tox’s eyes are red, and her pocket-handker- 
 chief 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 compara- 
 tively 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 
 
DOMBEY ANB SON. 
 
 183 
 
 amens and responses, with a devout growl, feels much 
 improved by liis 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 v/in- 
 ning 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, vrhen they are delayed by symp- 
 toms 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. 
 
 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, w'ith a tremble, of her childhood, when she was 
 lost, and of the visage of good Mrs. Brown ? 
 
 Now, there are more congratulations on this happiest 
 of days, and 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 confec- 
 tioner can brighten up, let him garnish the exhausted 
 negroes with as many flowers and loveknots as he will. 
 
 The pastry-cook has done his duty like a man, though, 
 and a rich breakfast is set forth. Mr, and Mrs. Chick 
 have joined the party, among others. Mrs. Chick ad« 
 mires that Edith should be, by nature, such a perfect 
 Dombey ; and is affable and confidential to Mrs. Skew^- 
 ton, 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 lias 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 )f pio 
 
184 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 tures looking down upon them, by any excess of mirth. 
 Cousin Feenix and the major are the gayest there ; but 
 Mr. Carker has a smile for the whole table. He has an 
 especial smile for the bride, who very, very, seldom 
 meets it. 
 
 Cousin Feenix rises, when the company have break- 
 fasted, and the servants have left the room ; and won- 
 derfully young he looks, with his white wristbands al- 
 most covering his hands (otherwise rather bony), and 
 the bloom of the champagne in his cheeks. 
 
 ‘‘ Upon my 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.” 
 
 The major very hoarsely indicates his approval. Mr. 
 Carker, bending his head forward over the table in the 
 direction of Cousin Feenix, smiles and nods a great 
 many times. 
 
 ‘"A — in fact it's not a — " Cousin Feenix beginning 
 again thus, comes to a dead stop. 
 
 Hear, hear ! ” says the major, in a tone of conviction. 
 
 Mr. Carker softly claps his hands, and bending for- 
 ward 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 ex- 
 press his sense of the good it has done him. 
 
 It is,” says Cousin Feenix, ‘‘an occasion in fact, 
 when the general usages of life may be a little departed 
 from, without impropriety ; and although I never was 
 an orator in my life, and when I was in the House of 
 Commons, and had the honour of seconding the address, 
 was — in fact, was laid up for a fortnight with the con- 
 sciousness of failure — '' 
 
 The major and Mr, Carker are so much delighted by 
 this fragment of personal history, that Cousin Feenix 
 laughs, and addressing them individually, goes on to 
 say : 
 
 And in point of fact, when I was devilish ill — still, 
 you know, I feel that a duty devolves upon me. And 
 when a duty devolves upon an Englishman, he is bound 
 to get out of it, in my opinion, in the best w^ay he can. 
 Well ! our family has had the gratification, to-day, of 
 connecting itself, in the person of my lovely and accom- 
 plished relative, whom I now see — in point of fact, iDres- 
 ent— ” 
 
 Here there is general applause. 
 
 “ Present,” repeats Cousin Feenix, feeling that it is a 
 neat point v. hich will bear repetition, — ‘‘ v.dth 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.'' 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 185 
 
 Cousin Feenix bows to Mr. Dombey ; Mr. Dombey sol- 
 emnly returns tbe bow ; everybody is more or less grati- 
 fied and affected by this extraordinary, and perhaps un- 
 precedented, appeal to the feelings. 
 
 ‘‘ I have not,'" says Cousin Feenix, enjoyed those op- 
 portunities 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 misfor- 
 tune 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 sljmess, and finally bringing it out with a jerk, 
 
 ‘ in another place V ” 
 
 The major falls into convulsions, and is recovered with 
 difficulty. 
 
 But I know sufficient of my friend Dombey,” resumes 
 Cousin Feenix in a graver tone, as if he had suddenly 
 become a sadder and a wiser man, to know that he is,in 
 point of fact, what may be emphatically called a — a mer- 
 chant— a British merchant — and a — and a man. And al- 
 though I have been resident abroad for some years (it 
 would give me great pleasure to receive my friend Dom- 
 bey, 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 affec- 
 tion on both sides.” 
 
 Many smiles and nods from Mr. Carker. 
 
 Therefore,” says Cousin Feenix, I congratulate the 
 family of which I am a member, on the acquisition of 
 2iy friend Dombey. I congratulate my friend Dombey 
 on his union with my lovely and accomplished relative, 
 v/ho 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 
 ©nd accomplished relative, on the present occasion.” 
 
 The speech of Cousin Feenix is received with great ap- 
 plause, and Mr. Dombey returns thanks on behalf of 
 himself and Mrs. Dombey. J. B. shortly afterwards pro- 
 poses Mrs. Skewton. The breakfast languishes when 
 Hiat is done, the violated hatchments are avenged, and 
 Edith rises to assume her travelling dress. 
 
 All the servants, in the meantime, have been break- 
 fasting below. Champagne has grown too common 
 among them to be mentioned, and roast fowls, raised 
 pies, and lobster salad, have become mere drugs. The 
 
186 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 very tall yonng man has recovered his spirits, and 
 again alludes to the exciseman. His comrade's eye be- 
 gins 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 dif- 
 ficulty in recalling the way. Mr. Towlinson has pro- 
 posed the happy pair ; to which the silver-headed but- 
 ler 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 
 210 one (Mrs. Perch included) in the light of an impossi- 
 bility. Words have arisen between the housemaid and 
 Hr. 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 kiiov^^ is to esteem, and to es- 
 teem 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 
 iJhanks 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 incon- 
 sistent intellects that can be led away by hair, but all he 
 hopes, is, he may npver hear of no foreigner never bon- 
 ing nothing out oi 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 tlie Bride is go- 
 ing away, hurry up-stairs to vritness her departure. 
 
 The chariot is at the door ; the Bride is descending to 
 the hall, where Mr. Dombey waits for her. Florence is 
 ready on the staircase to depart too ; and Miss Nipper, 
 who has held a middle state between the parlour and 
 the kitchen, is prepared to accompany her. As Edith 
 
DOMBEl AND SON. 
 
 187 
 
 appears, Florence hastens towards her, to bid her fare« 
 well. 
 
 Is Edith cold, that she should tremble ! Is there any- 
 thing unnatural or unwholesome in the touch of Flor- 
 ence, that the beautiful form recedes and contracts, as if 
 f.t 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 1 
 
 Mrs. Skewton, overpowered by her feelings as a 
 mother, sinks on her scfa in the Cleopatra attitude, 
 when the clatter of the chariot wheels is lost, and sheds 
 several tears. The major, coming with "ihe rest of the 
 company from table, endeavours to comfort her ; but she 
 will not be comforted on any terms, and so the maior 
 takes his leave. Cousin Feenix takes his leave, and Mr. 
 Carker takes his leave. The guests all go away. CleOr 
 patra, left alone, feels a little giddy from her strong 
 emotion, and falls asleep. 
 
 Giddiness prevails below stairs too. The very tall 
 young man whose excitement came on so soon, appears 
 to have his head glued to the table in the pantry, and 
 cannot be detached from it. A violent revulsion has 
 taken place in the spirits of Mrs. Perch, who is low oi^ 
 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. 
 
 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. Any one reviving the 
 notion of the ball, would be scouted as a malignant 
 idiot. 
 
 Mrs. Skewton sleeps up-stairs, two hours afterwards, 
 and naps are not yet over in the kitchen. The hatchments 
 in the dining-room look down on crumbs, dirty plates, 
 spillings of wine, half-thawed ice, stale discoloured heeh 
 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 serious- 
 
188 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ness ; 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 hut poorly, and to have the 
 pleasing duty of escorting that lady home by the next 
 omnibus. 
 
 Night closes in. Florence having rambled through 
 the handsome house, from room to room, seeks her own 
 chamber, where the care of Edith has surrounded her 
 with luxuries and comforts ; and divesting herself of 
 her handsome dress, puts on her old simple mourning 
 for dear Paul, and sits down to read, with Diogenes 
 winking and blinking on the ground beside her. But 
 Florence cannot read to-night. The house seems strange 
 and new, and there are loud echoes in it. There is a 
 shadow on her heart : she knows not why or what : but 
 it is heavy. Florence shuts her book, and gruff Dioge- 
 nes, who takes that for a signal, puts his paws upon 
 h^n* lap, and rubs his ears against her caressing hands. 
 But Florence cannot see him plainly, in a little time, for 
 there is a mist between her eyes and him, and her dead 
 brother and dead mother shine in it like angels. Wal- 
 ter, too, poor wandering ship- wrecked boy, oh, where is 
 he ! 
 
 The major don’t know ; that’s for certain ; and don’t 
 care. The major, having choked and slumbered, all 
 the afternoon, has taken a late dinner at his club, and 
 now sits over his pint of wine, driving a modest young 
 man, with a fresh-coloured face, at the next table (who 
 would give a handsome sum to be able to rise and go 
 away, but cannot do it) to the verge of madness, by 
 anecdotes of Bagstock, sir, at Dombey’s wedding, and 
 old Joe’s devilish gentlemanly friend. Lord 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. 
 
 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 togetherj when 
 the ^reat door clashes, and Mr. Sownds and Mrs. Miff, 
 treaaing the circle of their daily lives, unbroken as a 
 marriage ring, come in. Again the cocked hat and the 
 mortified bonnet stand in the back ground at the mar- 
 riage hour : and again this man taketh this woman, and 
 this woman taketh this man, on the solemn terms : 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 189 
 
 To have and to hold, from this day forward, fo? 
 better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in 
 health, to love and to cherish, until death do them part.” 
 
 The very words that Mr. Carker rides into town re- 
 peating, with his mouth stretched to the utmost, as he 
 picks his dainty way. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 The Wooden Midshipman goes to Pieces, 
 
 Honest Captain Cuttle, as the weeks flew over him in 
 his fortified retreat, by no means abated any of his pru- 
 dent provisions against surprise, because of the nonap- 
 pearance of the enemy. The captain argued that his 
 present security was too profound and wonderful to en- 
 dure much longer ; he knew that when the wind stood 
 in a fair quarter, the weathercock was seldom nailed 
 there ; and he was too well acquainted with the deter- 
 mined and dauntless character of Mrs. MacStinger, to 
 doubt that that heroic woman had devoted herself to the 
 task of his discovery and capture. Trembling beneath 
 the weight pf 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, avoid- 
 ing bonnets, as if they were worn by raging lions. 
 
 The captain never dreamed that in the event of his 
 being pounced upon by Mrs. MacStinger, in his walks, it 
 would be possible to offer resistance. He felt that it 
 could not be done. He saw himself, in his mind’s eye, 
 put meekly 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. 
 
 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 in- 
 struments well polished. 
 
190 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 But not to throw away a chance, and to secure to him- 
 self a means, in case of the worst, of holding communi- 
 cation with the external world ; Captain Cuttle soon 
 conceived the happy idea of teaching Roh 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 cap- 
 tain 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 ac- 
 complishment as a landsman could hope to reach, the 
 captain impressed these mysterious instructions on his 
 mind : 
 
 Now, my lad, stand by ! If ever Fm took — ” 
 
 Took, captain ! ” interposed Rob, with his round eyes 
 wide open. 
 
 '‘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 artermy 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 under- 
 stand, 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 arter wards ; if I answer in 
 another tune, do you stand off and on, and wait till I 
 throw out further signals. Do you understand them or- 
 ders, now?” 
 
 “ What am I to stand off and on of. Captain ? ” in. 
 quired Rob. “The horse-road ?” 
 
 “ Here’s a smart lad for you ! ” cried the captain, eye 
 ing him sternly, “ as don’t know his own native alpha- 
 bet ! Go away a bit and come back again alternate — d’ye 
 understand that?” 
 
 “Yes, captain,” said Rob. 
 
 ^ Very good, my lad, then,” said the captain, relent- 
 ing. “Doit!” 
 
 That he might do it the better. Captain Cuttle some- 
 times condescended, of an evening, after the shop was 
 shut, to rehearse the scene : retiring into the parlour for 
 the purpose, as into the lodgings of a supposititious Mac- 
 Stinger, 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 rea- 
 sonable precaution against an unrelenting fate. 
 
 Nevertheless, the captain did not tempt ill-fortune, by 
 Voing a whit more venturesome than before. Though 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 191 
 
 he considerea it a point of good breeding in himself, as a 
 general friend of the family, to attend Mr. Dombey's wed- 
 ding(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 hack- 
 ney cabriolet with both windows up ; and might have 
 scrupled even to make that venture, in his dread of Mrs. 
 MacStinger, but that the ladj^^s attendance on the ministry 
 of the Eeverend Melchisedech rendered it peculiarly un- 
 likely that she would be found in communion with the 
 Establishment. 
 
 The captain got safe home again, and fell into the or- 
 dinary routine of his new life, without encountering any 
 more direct alarm from the enemy, than was suggested 
 to him by the daily bonnets in the street. But, other sub- 
 jects began to lie heavier on the captaiids mind. Wal- 
 ter’s ship was still unheard of. No news came of old Sol 
 Gills. Florence did not even know of the old man’s dis- 
 appearance, and Captain Cuttle had not the heart to tell 
 her. Indeed the captain, as his own hopes of the gen- 
 erous, handsome, gallant-hearted youth, whom he had 
 loved, according to his rough manner, from a child, be- 
 gan to fade, and fade more and more from day to day, 
 shrunk with instinctive pain from the thought of ex- 
 changing a word with lilorence. If he had had good 
 news to carry to her, the honest captain would have 
 braved the newly decorated house and splendid furni- 
 ture — 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, which darkened every 
 hour, the captain alm-ost felt as if he were a new misfor- 
 tune and affliction to her ; and was scarcely less afraid 
 of a visit from Florence, than from Mrs. MacStinger 
 herself. 
 
 It was a chill dark autumn evening, and Captain Cut- 
 tie 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 bed-room of his old 
 friend, to take an observation of the weather, the cap- 
 tain’s heart died within him, when he saw how' wild and 
 desolate it was. Not that he associated the weather of 
 that time with poor Walter’s destiny, or doubted that if 
 Providence had doomed him to be lost and shipwrecked, 
 it was over, long ago ; but that beneath an outward in- 
 fluence quite distinct from the subject-matter of his 
 thoughts, the captain’s spirits sank, and his hopes turned 
 pale, as those of vriser men have often done before him, 
 and will often do again. 
 
 Captain Cuttle, addressing his face to the sharp wind 
 
192 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 and slanting rain, looked np at the heavy scud that was 
 hying 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 
 ware cooing like so many dismal breezes getting up. A 
 crazy weathercock of a midshipman with a telescope at 
 his eye, once visible from the street, but long bricked 
 out, creaked and complained upon his rusty pivot as the 
 shrill blast spun him round and round, and sported with 
 him cruelly. Upon the captain’s coarse blue vest the 
 cold rain-drops darted like steel beads ; and he could 
 hardly maintain himself aslant against the stiff nor’w^es- 
 ter that came pressing against him, importunate to top- 
 ple him over the parapet, and throw him on the pave- 
 ment below. If there were any Hope alive that evening, 
 the captain thought, as he held his hat on, it certainly 
 kept house, and wasn’t out of doors ; so the captain, 
 shaking his head in a despondent manner, went in to 
 look for it. 
 
 Captain Cuttle descended slowly to the little back par- 
 lour, 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 com- 
 posing 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 in- 
 struments ; but they obstinately worked out reckonings 
 for the missing ship, in spite of any opposition he could 
 offer, that ended at the bottom of the lone sea. 
 
 The wind still rushing, and the rain still pattering, 
 against the closed shutters, the captain brought to before 
 the wooden Midshipman upon the counter, and thought, 
 as he dried the little officer’s uniform with his sleeve, 
 how m^any 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 bexk par- 
 lour broken up, and scattered far and wide. Here was 
 no audience for lovely Peg, even if there had been any- 
 body 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 midship- 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 193 
 
 man'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. 
 
 As the captain, with a dejected face, stood revolving 
 these thoughts, and polishing the Midshipman, partly 
 in the tenderness of old acquaintance, and partly in the 
 absence of his mind, a knocking at the shop-door com- 
 municated a frightful start to the frame of Rob the Grin- 
 der seated on the counter, whose large eyes had been in- 
 tently fixed on the captain's face, and who had been 
 debating within himself, for the five hundreth time, 
 whether the captain could have done a murder, that he 
 had such an evil conscience, and was always running 
 away. 
 
 “ What's that ! " said Captain Cuttle, softly. 
 
 Somebody's knuckles, captain," answered Rob the 
 Grinder. 
 
 The captain, with an abashed and guilty air, imme- 
 diately sneaked 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 anrf allowed it to enter : which it did very 
 quickly, glad to get out of the driving rain. 
 
 ‘‘ A job for Burgess and Co. at any rate," said the vis- 
 itor looking over his shoulder compassionately at his own 
 legs, which were very wet and covered with splashes. 
 “Oh, how-de-do, Mr. Gills?" 
 
 The salutation was addressed to the captain, now 
 emerging from the back parlour with a most transparent 
 and utterly futile affectation of coming out by accident. 
 
 “Thankee," the gentleman went on to say in the 
 same breath ; “ I'm very well indeed, myself, I’m much 
 obliged to you. My name is Toots , — Mister Toots." 
 
 The captain remembered to have seen this young gen- 
 tleman 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 cap- 
 tain for a long time, and then falling on Rob the Grin- 
 der, in the absence of any other resource, shook hands 
 with him in a most affectionate and cordial manner. 
 
 “I say ! I should like to speak a word to you, Mr. 
 Gills, if you please," said Toots at length, with surpris- 
 ing presence of mind. “I say ! Miss D. O. M. yois, 
 know ! " 
 
 The captain, with responsive gravity and mystery, im^ 
 mediately waved his hook towards the little parlour^ 
 whither Mr. Toots followed him. 
 
 Yol. r-l 
 
194 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICK:^NS. 
 
 Oil I I beg your pardon thongli,” said Mr. Toots, 
 looking up at the captain^’s face, as lie sat down in a 
 chair by the fire, which the captain placed for him 
 
 you don't happen to know the Chicken at all ; do you 
 Mr. Gills 
 
 ‘‘ The Chicken ? said the captain. 
 
 "^The Game Chicken,'^ said Mr. Toots. 
 
 The captain shaking his head, Mr. Toots explained 
 that the man alluded to v^as the celebrated public char- 
 acter who had covered himself and his country with 
 glory in his contest with the Nobby Shropshire One ; but 
 this piece of information did not appear to enlighten the 
 captain very much. 
 
 Because he’s outside : that’s all,” said Mr. Toots. 
 
 But it’s of no consequence ; he won’t get very wet,^ 
 perhaps.” 
 
 I can pass the word for him in a moment,” said the 
 captain. 
 
 Well, if you would have the goodness to let him sit 
 in the. shop with your young man,” chuckled Mr. Toots, 
 
 I should be glad ; because you know he is easily of- 
 fended, and the damp’s rather bad for his stamina. /’M 
 call him in, Mr. Gills.” 
 
 ‘‘ With that, Mr. Toots, repairing to the shop-door, 
 sent a peculiar whistle into the night, which produced a 
 stoical gentleman in a shaggy white great-coat and a 
 flat-brimmed hat, with very short hair, a broken nose, 
 and a considerable tract of bare and sterile country behind 
 eaxh ear. 
 
 “ Sit down, Chicken,” said Mr. Toots. 
 
 The compliant Chicken spat out some small pieces of 
 straw on which he was regaling himself, and took in a 
 fresh supply from a reserve he carried in his hand. 
 
 “ There an’t no drain of nothing short handy, is 
 there ? ” said the Chicken, generally. “ This here sluic- 
 ing night is hard lines to a man as lives on his con- 
 dition. ” 
 
 Captain Cuttle proffered a glass of rum, which the 
 Chicken, throwing back his head, emptied into himself, 
 as into a cask, after proposing the brief sentiment, 
 “ Towards us ! ” Mr. Toots and the captain returning 
 then to the parlour, and taking their seats before the 
 fire, Mr. Toots began ; 
 
 “Mr. Gills—” 
 
 “ Awast ! ” said the captain. “ My name’s Cuttle.” 
 
 Mr. Toots looked greatly disconcerted, while the cap- 
 tain proceeded gravely : 
 
 “ Cap’en Cuttle is my name, and England is my nation, 
 this here is my dwelling-place, and blessed be creation 
 —Job,” said the captain, as an index to his authority. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 195 
 
 ‘^Oh ! I couldn’t see Mr. Gills, could I ? ” said Mr. 
 Toots; because — ” 
 
 ''If you could see Sol Gills, young gen’l’m’n, said 
 the captain, impressively, and laying his heavy hand op 
 Mr. Toots’s knee, "old Sol, mind you — with your own 
 eyes— as you sit there — you’d be wel comer to me, than a 
 wind astarn, to a ship becalmed. But you can’t see Sol 
 Gills. And why can’t you see Sol Gills ? ” said the capo 
 tain, apprised by the face of Mr. Toots that he was mako 
 ing a profound impression on that gentleman’s mind, 
 " Because he’s inwisible. ” 
 
 Mr. Toots in his agitation was going to reply that it 
 was of no consequence at all. But he corrected himself, 
 and said, "Lor bless me !” 
 
 " That there man,” said the captain, " has left me in 
 charge here by a piece of writing, but though he was 
 a’most as good as my sworn brother, I know no more 
 where he’s gone, or why he’s gone — if so be to seek his 
 nevy, or if so be along of being not quite settled in his 
 mind— than you do. One morning at daybreak, he went 
 over the side,” said the captain, " without a splash, 
 without a ripple. I have looked for that man high and 
 low, and never set eyes, nor ears, nor nothing else, upon 
 him, from that hour. ” 
 
 " But, good gracious. Miss Dombey don’t know — ” Mr. 
 Toots began. 
 
 " Why, I ask you, as a feeling heart,” said the cap- 
 tain, dropping his voice, " why should she know? Why 
 should she be made to know, until such time as there 
 warn’t any help for it ? She took to old Sol Gills, did 
 that sweet creetur, with a kindness, with a affability, 
 with a — what’s the good of saying so? you know her. ” 
 
 " I should hope so,” chuckled Mr. Toots, with a con- 
 scious blush that suffused his whole countenance. 
 
 " And you come here from her?” said the captain. 
 
 " I should think so,” chuckled Mr. Toots. 
 
 " Then all I need observe is,” said the captain, " that 
 you know a angel, and are chartered hy a angel.” 
 
 Mr. Tools instantly seized the captain’s liand, and re- 
 quested the favour of his friendship. 
 
 " 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. Lit- 
 tle 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 — admira- 
 ble 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 Dom« 
 
196 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 bey. Tbat’s wliat I've always said. Really tbougli, you 
 know/' said Mr. Toots, I should be very much obliged 
 if you cultivate my acquaintance." 
 
 Captain Cuttle receiVed this proposal in a polite man- 
 ner, but still without committing himself to its accept- 
 ance ; merely observing, Ay, ay, my lad. We shall 
 see, we shall see ; " and reminding Mr. Toots of his im- 
 mediate mission, by inquiring to what he was indebted 
 for the honour of that visit. 
 
 Why the fact is," replied Mr. Toots, ‘'that it's the 
 young woman I come from. Not Miss Dombey — Susan, 
 you know." 
 
 The captain nodded his head once, with a grave ex- 
 pression of his face, indicative of his regarding that 
 young woman with serious respect. 
 
 " And I'll tell you how it happens," said Mr. Toots. 
 " You know, I go and call sometimes, on Miss Dombey. 
 I don't go there on purpose, you know, but I happen to 
 be in the neighbourhood very often ; and when I find 
 myself there, why — why I call." 
 
 "Nat'rally," observed the captain. 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Toots. "I called this afternoon. 
 Upon my word and honour, I don’t think it's possible to 
 form an idea of the angel Miss Dombey was this after- 
 noon." 
 
 The captain answered with a jerk of his head, imply- 
 ing that it might not be easy to some people, but was 
 quite so, to him. 
 
 "As I was coming out," said Mr. Toots, " the young 
 woman, in the most unexpected manner, took me into 
 the pantry. " 
 
 The captain seemed, for the moment, to object to this 
 proceeding ; and leaning back in his chair, looked at Mr. 
 Toots with a distrustful, if not threatening visage. 
 
 " Where she brought out," said Mr. Toots, " this 
 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 ! " 
 
 Mr. Toots, endeavouring to concentrate his mental 
 powers on this question, unintentionally fixed the cap- 
 tain's eye, and was so much discomposed by its stem ex- 
 pression, that his difficulty in resuming the thread of 
 his subject was enhanced to a painful extent. 
 
 " Oh ! " said Mr. Toots after long consideration. " Oh, 
 ah I 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 
 
DOMBEY ANI) SON. 
 
 197 
 
 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 ! ” 
 
 The captain glanced at the newspaper in Mr. Toots’s 
 hand, and breathed short and hurriedly. 
 
 ‘'Well,” pursued Mr. Toots, “the reason why I’m 
 rather late is, because I went up as far as Finchley first, 
 to get some uncommonly fine chickweed that grows 
 there, for Miss Dombey ’s bird. But I came on here, di- 
 rectly afterwards. You’ve seen the paper, I suppose ? 
 
 The captain, who had become cautious of reading the 
 news, lest he should find himself advertised at full 
 length by Mrs. MacStinger, shook his head. 
 
 “Shall I read the passage to you?” inquired Mr. 
 Toots. 
 
 The captain making a sign in the aflBrmative, Mr. Toots 
 read as follows, from the Shipping Intelligence : 
 
 “ ‘ Southampton. The barque Defiance, Henry James, 
 Commander, arrived in this port to-day, with a cargo of 
 sugar, coffee and rum, reports that being becalmed on the 
 sixth day of her passage home from Jamaica, in’ — in 
 such and such a latitude, you know,” said Mr. Toots, 
 after making a feeble dash at the figures, and tumbling 
 over them. 
 
 “Ay !” cried the captain, striking his clenched hand 
 on the table. “ Heave a-head, my lad ! ” 
 
 “ — latitude,” repeated Mr. Toots, with a startled 
 glance at the captain, “ and longitude so-and-so, — ‘ the 
 lookout observed, half an hour before sunset, some 
 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 por- 
 tion of the stern on which the words and letters “ Son 
 and H — were yet plainly legible. No vestige of any 
 dead body was to be seen upon the floating 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 Bar- 
 badoes, are now set at rest for ever ; that she broke up 
 in the last hurricane ; and that every soul on board per^ 
 ished,’” 
 
 Captain Cuttle, like alL mankind, little knew hovsr 
 
198 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 much, hope had survived within him under discourage- 
 ment, until he felt its death-shock. During the reading 
 of the paragraph, and for a minufce 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 chimney-piece. 
 
 Oh, upon my word and honour,” cried Mr. Toots, 
 whose tender heart was moved by the captain’s unex- 
 pected distress, this is a most wretched sort of affair 
 this world is I Somebody’s always dying, or going and 
 doing something uncomfortable in it. I’m sure 1 never 
 should have looked forward so much, to coming into my 
 property, if I had known this. I never saw such a 
 world. It’s a great deal worse than Blimber’s.” 
 
 Captain Cuttle, without altering his position, signed 
 to Mr. Toots not to mind him ; and presently turned 
 round, with his glazed hat thrust back upon his ears, 
 and his hand composing and smoothing his brown face, 
 
 ‘‘ Wal’r, my dear lad,” said the captain, “ farewell I 
 Wal’r my child, my boy, and man, I loved you ! He 
 warn’t my flesh and blood,” said the captain, looking at 
 the fire — ‘‘I an’t got none — but something of what a 
 father feels w^hen he loses a son, I feel in losing Wal’r. 
 For why ? ” said the captain. ‘‘ Because it an’t one loss, 
 but a round dozen. Where’s that there young 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 mmsic? Gone down with Wal’r. Where’s that 
 there fresh lad, that nothing couldn’t tire nor put out, 
 and that sparkled up and blushed so, when we joked 
 him about Heart’s Delight, that he was beautiful to look 
 at ? Gone down with Wal’r. Where’s that there man’s 
 spirit, all afire, that wouldn’t see the old man hove down 
 for a minute, and cared nothing for itself? Gone down 
 with Wal’r. It an’t one Wal’r. There was a dozen 
 Wal’rs that I knowed, and loved, all holding round his 
 neck when he went down, and they’re a-holding round 
 mine now ! ” 
 
 Mr. Toots sat silent : folding and refolding the news- 
 paper as small as possible upon his knee. 
 
 And Sol Gills,” said the captain, gazing at the fire, 
 
 poor nevyiess 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 yoUy Sol, vdien 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 199 
 
 newspaper, away from liome, with no one as know’d 
 Wakr by, to say a word ; and broadslde-to you broach, 
 and down you pitch, head -foremost ! ’’ 
 
 Drawing a heavy sigh, the captain turned to Mr. 
 Toots, and roused himself to a sustained consciousness 
 of that gentleman's presence. 
 
 ‘‘My lad,"' said the captain, “you must tell the 
 young woman honestly that this here fatal news is too 
 correct. They don't romance, you see, on such pints. 
 It's entered on the ship's log, and that's the truest book 
 as a man can write. To-morrow morning," said the cap- 
 tain, “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 oS 
 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 de- 
 jection. 
 
 “Oh! I assure you," said Mr. Toots, “really I am 
 drp/adfully sorry. Upon my word I am, though I wasn't 
 acquainted with the party. Do you think Miss Dombey 
 will be very much affected. Captain Gills — I mean Mr. 
 Cuttle ? " 
 
 “ Why, Lord love you," returned the captain, with 
 something of compassion for Mr. Toots's innocence. 
 
 ‘ ‘ When she \varn't no higher than that, they were as 
 fond of one another as two young doves." 
 
 “ Were they though ! " said Mr. Toots, with a consider- 
 ably lengthened face. 
 
 “ They were made for one another," said the captain, 
 mournfully ; “ but what signifies that now?" 
 
 “ Upon my word and honour," cried Mr. Toots, blurt- 
 ing out his words through a singular combination of. 
 awkward chuckles and emotion, “ I'm even more sorry 
 than I was before. You know Captain Gills, I — I posi- 
 tively adore Miss Dombey ; — I — I am perfectly sore w^ith 
 loving her ; " the burst with which this confession forced 
 itself out of the unhappy Mr. Toots, bespoke the vehe- 
 mence of his feelings ; “ but what would be the good of 
 my regarding her in this manner, if I wasn't truly sorry 
 for her feeling pain, whatever was the cause of it. Mine 
 an't a selfish affection, you know," said Mr. Toots, in 
 the confidence engendered by his having been a witness 
 of the captain's tenderness. “It’s the sort of thing with 
 me. Captain Gills, that if I could be run over — or — or 
 trampled upon — or — dr 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," 
 
200 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 All this, Mr. Toots said a suppressed voice, to prevent 
 its reaching the jealous ears of the Chicken, who ob- 
 jected 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 con- 
 solingly on the back, and bade him cheer up. 
 
 ‘^Thank’ee, 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, 1 really 
 want a friend, and should be glad to have your acquaint- 
 ance. 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 Bombey, 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.” 
 
 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 gen- 
 tleman 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 demonstra- 
 tive of his ill-will : leaving the captain oppressed with 
 sorrow ; and Rob the Grinder elevated with joy, on ac- 
 count of having had the honour of staring for nearly 
 half an hour, at the conqueror of the Nobby Shropshire 
 One. 
 
 Long after Rob was fast asleep in his bed under the 
 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, sorrow- 
 ful and un refreshed. 
 
 As soon as the city offices were open, the captain is- 
 sued 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 or- 
 ders, left the shutters closed, and the house was as a 
 house of death. 
 
 It chanced that Mr, Carker was entering the office, as 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 201 
 
 Captain Cuttle arrived at the door. Receiving* the man- 
 ager’s henison gravely and silently. Captain Cuttle 
 made bold to accompany him into his own room. 
 
 ‘‘ Well, Captain Cuttle/’ said Mr. Carker, taking up 
 his usual position before the fire-place, and keeping on 
 his hat, "'this is a bad business.” 
 
 ''You have received the news as was in print yester- 
 day, sir? ” said the captain. 
 
 " Yes,” said Mr. Carker, "we have received it! It 
 was accurately stated. The under- writers suffer a con- 
 siderable loss. We are very sorry. No help ! Such is 
 life ! ” 
 
 Mr. Carker pared his nails delicately ^vith a penknife, 
 and smiled at the captain, who was standing by the door 
 looking at him. 
 
 "I excessively regret poor Gay,” said Carker, "and 
 the crew. I understand there were some of our very best 
 men among ’em. It always happens so. Many men 
 with families too. A comfort to reflect that poor Gay 
 had no family. Captain Cuttle ! ” 
 
 The captain stood rubbing his chin, and looking at the 
 manager. The manager glanced at the unopened let- 
 ters lying on his desk, and took up the newspaper. 
 
 " Is there anything I can do for you. Captain Cuttle ? ” 
 he asked, looking off it, with a smiling and expressive 
 glance at the door. 
 
 " I wish you could set my mind at rest, sir, on some- 
 thing it’s uneasy about,” returned the captain. 
 
 " Ay ! ” exclaimed the manager, " what’s that ? Come, 
 Captain Cuttle, I must trouble you to be quick, if you 
 please. I am much engaged.” 
 
 " Look’ee here, sir,” said the captain, advancing a 
 step. " Afore my friend WaTr went on this here disas- 
 trous voyage — ” 
 
 " Come, come. Captain Cuttle,” interposed the smiling 
 manager, " dont 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 allov/ance, 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, and the best cures for 
 such uneasiness at that.” 
 
 " My lad,” returned the captain, slowly — " you are 
 a’ most a lad to me and so I don’t ask your pardon for 
 that slip of a word, — if you find any pleasure in this 
 here sport, you an’t the gentleman I took you for, and if 
 you an’t the gentleman I took you for may be my mind 
 has call to be uneasy. Now that is what it is, Mr. Car- 
 
202 
 
 W0RB:S op CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ker. — Afore that poor lad went away, according to 
 orders, lie told me that he warn’t a going away for his 
 own good or for promotion, he know'd. It was my be- 
 lief 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 therefore make a 
 note — to know once more, -in a word, that I warn’t mis- 
 taken ; that I warn’t back’ard in my duty when I didn’t 
 tell the old man what Wal’r told me ; and that the wind 
 was truly in his sail, when he highsted of it for Bar- 
 badoes 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 obserwation of yours 
 that I might have fended off, my name is Ed’ard Cuttle, 
 and I ask your pardon. ” 
 
 Captain Cuttle,” returned the manager, with all pos- 
 sible politeness, I must ask you to do me a favour.” 
 
 ■ ''And what is it, sir ? ” inquired the captain. 
 
 " To have the goodness to walk off, if you please,” re- 
 joined the manager, stretching forth his arm, " and to 
 carry your jargon somewhere else.” 
 
 Every knob in the captain’s face turned white with as- 
 tonishment and indignation ; even the red rim on his 
 forehead faded, like a rainbow among the gathering 
 clouds. 
 
 " I tell you what. Captain Cuttle,” said the manager, 
 shaking his forefinger at him, and showing him all his 
 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 ! ” 
 
 The captain was absolutely rooted to the ground, and 
 speechless. 
 
 " Go,” said the good-humoured manager, gathering up 
 his skirts, and standing astride upon the hearth-rug, 
 " like a sensible fellow, and let us have no turning out, 
 or any such violent measures. If Mr. Dombey were here, 
 captain, you might be obliged to leave in a more igno- 
 minious manner, possibly. I merely say, Go ! ” 
 
 The captain, laying his ponderous hand upon his chest, 
 to assist himself in fetching a deep breath, looked at Mr. 
 Carker from head to foot, and looked round the little 
 
BOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 2oa 
 
 room, as if he did not clearly understand where he was„ 
 or in what company. 
 
 . ‘‘You are deep, Captain Cuttle,” pursued Carker, with 
 the easy and vivacious frankness of a man of the world 
 who knew the world too well to he ruffled by any discov- 
 ery of misdoing, when it did not immediately concern 
 himself ; but you are not quite out of soundings, either 
 — neither you nor your absent friend, captain. What 
 have you done with your absent friend, hey?” 
 
 Again the captain laid his hand upon his chest. After 
 drawing another deep breath, he conjured himself to 
 “ stand by ? ” But in a whisper. 
 
 “ You hatch nice little plots, and hold nice little coun- 
 cils, and make nice little appointments, and receive nice 
 little visitors, too, 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 run- 
 ners-away, should know better than that. Will you 
 oblige me by going ? ” 
 
 “ My lad,” gasped the captain, in a choked and trem- 
 bling voice, and with a curious action going on in the 
 ponderous 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. i5ut you and me will come alongside 
 o’ one another again, my lad,” said the captain, holding 
 up his hook, “if we live.” 
 
 “ It w.ill be anything but shrewd in you, my good fel- 
 low, if we do,” returned the manager, with, the same 
 frankness ; “ for you may rely, I give you fair warning, 
 upon my detecting and exposing you. I don’t pretend 
 to be a more moral man than my neighbours, my good 
 captain ; but the confidence of this House, or of any mem- 
 ber of this House, is not to be abused and undermined 
 while I have eyes and ears. Good day ! ” said Mr. Car- 
 ker, nodding his head. 
 
 Captain Cuttle, looking at him steadily (Mr. Carker 
 looked full as steadily at the captain), went out of the 
 office and left him standing astride before the fire, as 
 calm and pleasant as if there w'ere no more spots upon 
 his soul than on his pure white linen, and his smooth 
 sleek skin. 
 
 The captain glanced, in passing through the outer 
 counting-house, at the desk where he knew poor Walter 
 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 tapjied the famous last bottle but one of the 
 old Madeira, in the little back parlour. The association 
 
504 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 of ideas, thus awakened, did the captain a great deal of 
 good ; it softened him in the very height of bis anger, 
 and brought the tears into his eyes. 
 
 Arrived at the w^ooden Midshipman’s again, and sitting 
 down in a comer of the dark shop, the captain’s indig- 
 nation, strong as it was, could make no head against his 
 grief; Passion seemed not only to do wrong and vio- 
 lence to the memory of the dead, but to be infected by 
 death, and to droop and decline beside it. All the living 
 knaves and liars in the world, were nothing to the hon- 
 esty and truth of one dead friend. 
 
 The only thing the honest captain made out clearly, 
 in this state of mind, Elides the loss of Walter was, 
 that with him almost the whole world of Captain Cuttle 
 had been drowned. If he reproached himself some- 
 times, and keenly too, for having ever connived at Wal- 
 ter’s innocent deceit, he thought at least as often of the 
 Mr. Carker whom no sea could ever render up ; and the 
 ■ Mr. Dombey, who he now began to perceive was as far 
 beyond human recal ; and the ‘‘Heart’s Delight,” with 
 whom he must never foregather again ; and the Lovely 
 Peg, that teak-built and trim ballad, that had gone 
 ashore upon a rock, and split into mere planks and 
 beams of rhyme. . The captain sat in the dark shop, 
 thinking of these things, to the entire exclusion of his 
 own injury ; and looking with as sad an eye upon the 
 ground, as if in contemplation of their actual fragments 
 as they floated past him. 
 
 But the captain was not unmindful, for all that, of 
 such decent and respectful observances in mefnory of 
 poor Walter, as he felt within his power. Rousing him- 
 self, 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 slopselling es- 
 tablishments of which there is abundant choice at the 
 eastern end of London, purchased on the spot two suits 
 of mourning — one for Rob the Grinder, which was im- 
 mensely too small, and one for himself, which was im- 
 mensel}^ too large. He also provided Rob with a species 
 of hat, greatly to be admired for its symmetry and use- 
 fulness, 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 con- 
 nexion with the instrument business. In their several 
 garments, which the vendor declared to be such a mira- 
 cle in point of fit as nothing but a rare combination of 
 fortuitous circumstances ever brought about, and the 
 fashion of which was unparalleled wthin the memory 
 of the oldest inhabitant, and captain and Grinder im- 
 mediately arrayed themselves : presenting a spectacle 
 fraught with wonder to all who beheld it. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 205 
 
 In this altered form, the captain received Mr. Toots. 
 Fm took aback, mj lad, at present,” said the captain, 
 and will only confirm that there ill news. Tell the 
 young woman to break it gentle to the young lady, and 
 for neither of ’em never to think of me no more — 
 ’special, mind you, that is — though I will think of them, 
 'when night comes on a hurricane and seas is mountains 
 rowling for which overhaul your Doctor Watts, brother, 
 and when found make a note on. ” 
 
 The captain reserved, until some fitter time, the con- 
 sideration 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 fur- 
 ther precautions against surprise from Mrs. MacStinger, 
 but to abandon himself recklessly to chance, 'and be in- 
 different to what might happen. As evening came on, 
 he fell into a better frame of mind, however ; and spoke 
 much of Waiter 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 sym- 
 pathy, and making a feint of being virtuous, and treas- 
 uring up every word he said (like a young spy as he was) 
 with very promising deceit. 
 
 When Rob had turned in, and was fast asleep, the 
 captain trimmed the candle, put on his spectacles — he had 
 felt it appropriate to take to spectacles on entering into 
 the Instrument Trade, though his eyes were like a 
 hawk’s — and opened the prayer-book at the Burial Ser- 
 vice. And reading softly to himself, in the little back 
 parlour, and stopping now and then to wipe his eyes, 
 the captain, in a true and simple spirit, committed 
 Waiter’s body to the deep. 
 
m 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 Contrasts. 
 
 Turn we our eyes upon two liomes ; not lying side by 
 side, but wide apart, though both within easy range and 
 reach of the great city of London. 
 
 The first is situated in the green and wooded country 
 near Norwood. It is not a mansion ; it is of no preten- 
 sions as to size ; but it is beautifully arranged, and taste- 
 fully kept. The lawn, the soft, smooth slope, the flower- 
 garden, the clumps of trees where graceful forms of ash 
 and willow are not wanting, the conservatory, the rustic 
 verandah with sweet-smelling creeping plants entwined 
 about the pillars, the simple exterior of the house, the 
 well-ordered oflices, 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, excel- 
 lently blended, meet the eye at every turn ; in the furni- 
 ture its proportions admirably devised to suit the shapes 
 and sizes of the small rooms ; on the walls; upon the floors; 
 tinging and subduing the light that comes in through 
 the odd glass doors and windows here and there. There 
 are a few choice prints and pictures, too ; in quaint 
 nooks and recesses there is no want of books ; and there 
 are g-ames of skill and chance set forth on tables— fan- 
 tastic chess-men, dice, back-gammon, cards, and bil- 
 liards. 
 
 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 207 
 
 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 out- 
 side, and that the titles of the greater part qualify them 
 to be companions of the prints and pictures ? Is it that 
 the completeness and the beauty of the place is here 
 and there belied by an atfectation 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, w’hich gives a vague expres- 
 sion of himself to everything about him ? 
 
 It is Mr. Carker the manager who sits in the easy 
 chair. A gaudy parrot in a burnished cage upon the 
 table tears at the wires with her beak^ and goes walk/ 
 ing upside down, in its dome- top, shaking her house ana 
 screeching ; but Mr. Carker is indifferent to the bird, 
 and looks with a musing smile at a picture on the oppo- 
 site wall. 
 
 A most extraordinary accidental likeness, certainly,” 
 says he. 
 
 Perhaps it is a Juno ; perhaps a Potiphar’s wife ; per- 
 haps some scornful nymph — according as the Picture 
 dealers found the market, v/hen tliey christened it. It 
 is the figure of a woman, supremely handsome, who, 
 turning away, but with her face addressed to the spec- 
 tator, flashes her proud glance upon him. 
 
 It is like Edith. 
 
 With a passing gesture of his hand at the picture — 
 what ! a menace? No ; yet something like it. A wave 
 as if triumph? No; yet more like that. An insolent 
 salute wafted froffi his lips ? No ; yet like that too — he 
 resumes his breakfast, and calls to the chafing and im- 
 prisoned bird, who, coming down into a pendant gilded 
 hoop within the cage, like a great wedding-ring, swings 
 in it, for his delight. 
 
 The second home is on the other side of London, near 
 to where the busy great north road of bygone days is 
 silent and almost deserted, except by wayfarers who toil 
 along on foot. It is a poor, small house, barely and 
 sparely furnished, but very clean ; and there is even an 
 attempt to decorate it, shown in the homely flowers 
 trained about the porch and in the narrow garden. The 
 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-inortar heel a Ions: 
 
208 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 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 tail 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 c^mes occasionally, though he swears 
 every time to come no more — this second home is to be 
 found. 
 
 She who inhabits it, is she who left the first in her 
 devotion to an 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 
 fiower- garden, in which he never sets his foot, but 
 which is yet maintained, among all his costly alterations, 
 as if she had quitted it but yesterday, bear witness ! 
 
 Harriet Carter has changed since then, and on her 
 beauty there has fallen a heavier shade than Time of 
 his unassisted self can cast, all-potent as he is — the 
 shadow of anxiety and sorrow, and the daily struggle 
 of a poor existence. But it is beauty still ; and still a 
 gentle, quiet, and retiring beauty that must be sought 
 out, for it cannot vaunt itself ; if it could, it would be 
 what it is, no more. 
 
 Yes. This slight, small, patient figure, neatly dressed 
 in homely stuffs, and indicating nothing but the dull, 
 household virtues, that have so little in common with 
 the received idea of heroism and greatness, unless, in- 
 deed, any ray of them should shine through the lives of 
 the great ones of the earth, when it becom-es a constel- 
 lation and is tracked in Heaven straightway— this slight, 
 small, patient figure, leaning oh the man still young but 
 worn and gray, 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. 
 
 “It is early, John,” she said. “ Why do you go so 
 early ? ” 
 
 “ Not many minutes earlier than usual, Harriet. If I 
 have the time to spare, I should like, I think — it’s a 
 fancy — to walk once by the house where I took leave of 
 him.” 
 
 “ I wish I had ever seen or known him, John.” 
 
 “ It is better as it is, my dear, remembering his fate.” 
 
 But I could not regret it more, though I had known 
 him. Is not your sorrow mine ? And if I had, perhaps 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 309 
 
 you would feel tliat I was a Better companion to you in 
 speaking about bim, tiian I may seem now/’ 
 
 “ My dearest sister ! Is there anything within the 
 range of rejoicing or regi'et, in which I am not sure of 
 your companionship ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ I hope you think not, John, for surely there is no- 
 thing I ” 
 
 How could you be better to me, or nearer to me then, 
 than you are in this, or anything ? ” said her brother, 
 
 I feel that you did know him, Harriet, and that you 
 shared my feelings towards him.” 
 
 She drew the hand which had been resting on his 
 shoulder, round his neck, and answered, with some hesi- 
 tation : 
 
 ‘‘ No, not quite.” 
 
 True, true,” he said; '‘you think I might have 
 done him no harm if I had allowed myself to know him 
 better ? ” 
 
 “Think ! I know it.” 
 
 “ Designedly, Heaven kliows I would not,” he replied, 
 shaking his head mournfully : “ but his reputation was 
 too precious to be perilled by such association. Whe- 
 ther you share that knowledge, or do not, my dear — ” 
 
 “ I do not,” she said quietly. 
 
 “ It is still the truth, Harriet, and my mind is lighter 
 when I think of him for that which made it so much 
 heavier then.” He checked himself in his tone of mel- 
 ancholy, and smiled upon her as he said “ Good bye.” 
 
 “ 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.” 
 
 The cordial face she lifted up to his to kiss him, was 
 4is home, his life, his universe, and yet it was a portion 
 of his punishment and gi’ief ; 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 
 ©ver ripe and fresh. 
 
 She stood at the door looking after him, with her 
 hands loosely clasped in each other, as he made his way 
 over the 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, 
 mth a disorderly crop of beginnings of mean houses, 
 rising out of the rubbish, as if they had been unskilful- 
 ly 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. 
 
 / 
 
210 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Her pensive form was not long idle at tlie door. 
 There was daily duty to discharge, and daily work to do 
 —for such common-place spirits that are not heroic, 
 /)ften work hard with their hands — and Harriet was soon 
 busy with her household tasks. These discharged, and 
 the poor hcuse made quite neat and orderly, she counted 
 her little stock of money with an anxious face, and went 
 out thoughtfully to buy some necessaries for their table, 
 planning and contriving, as she went, how to save. So 
 sordid are the lives of such low natures, who are not 
 only not heroic to their valets and waiting-women, but 
 have neither valets nor waiting- women to be heroic to 
 withal ! 
 
 While she was absent, and there was no one in the 
 house, there approached it by a different way from that 
 the brother had taken, a gentleman, a very little past 
 his prime of life perhaps, but of a healthy florid hue, an 
 upright presence, and a bright clear aspect, that was 
 gracious and good-humoured. His eyebrows were still 
 black, and so was much of his hair ; the sprinkling of 
 gray observable among the latter, graced the former 
 very much, and showed his broad frank brow and hon- 
 j^st eyes to great advantage. 
 
 After knocking once at the door, and obtaining no re- 
 sponse, this gentleman sat down on a bench in the little 
 norch to wait. A certain skilful action of his fingers as 
 te hummed some bars, and beat time on the seat beside 
 him seemed to denote the musician ; and the extraor- 
 dinary satisfaction he derived from humming something 
 very slow and long, which had no recognizable tune, 
 seemed to denote th^at he was a scientific one. 
 
 The gentleman was still twirling a theme, which 
 seemed to go round and round and round, and in and in 
 and in, and to involve itself like a 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. 
 
 "‘You are come again, sir ! she said faltering. 
 
 “ I take that liberty,” he answered. “May I ask for 
 five minutes of your leisure ? ” 
 
 After a moment’s hesitation, she opened the door, and 
 gave him admission to the little parlour. The gentle^ 
 man sat down there, drew his chair to the table over 
 against her, and said, in a voice that perfectly corre- 
 sponded to his appearance, and with a simplicity that was 
 very engaging : 
 
 " ‘ Miss Harriet, you cannot be proud. You signified to 
 me, when I called t’other morning, that you were. Par- 
 don me, if I say that I looked into your face while yon 
 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.” 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 211 
 
 She was somewhat confused and agitated, and could 
 make no ready answer. 
 
 ‘‘It is the mirror of truth,” said her visitor, “and 
 gentleness. Excuse my trusting to it, and returning.” 
 
 His manner of saying these words, divested them en- 
 tirely of the character of compliments. It was so plain, 
 grave, unaffected, and sincere, that she bent her head, 
 as if at once to thank him and acknowledge his sincerity. 
 
 “The disparity between our ages,’' said the gentle- 
 man, “ and the plainness of my purpose, empower me, 
 I am glad to think, to speak my mind. That is my 
 mind ; and so you see me for the second time.” 
 
 “ There is a kind of pride, sir,” she returned, after a 
 moment’s silence, “ or what may be supposed to be pride, 
 which is mere duty. I hope I cherish no other.” 
 
 “ For yourself,” he said. 
 
 “ For myself.” 
 
 “ But — pardon me — ” suggested the gentleman. “ Poi 
 your brother John?” 
 
 “Proud of his love, I am,” said Harriet, looking full 
 upon her visitor, and changing her manner on the in- 
 stant — not that it was less composed and quiet, but that 
 there was a deep impassioned earnestness in it that made 
 the very tremble in her voice a part of her firmness, 
 “and proud of him. Sir, you who so strangely know 
 the story of his life, and repeated it to me when you 
 were here last — ” 
 
 “Merely to make my way into your confidence,” in- 
 terposed the gentleman. “ For Heaven’s sake, don’t sup* 
 pose — ” 
 
 “ I am sure,” she said, “ you revived it, in my hearing 
 with a kind and good purpose. I am quite sure of it.” 
 
 “ I thank you,” returned her visitor, pressing her hand 
 hastily. “ I am much obliged to you. You do me jus- 
 tice, I assure you. You were going to say, that I, who 
 knew the story of John Carker’s life — ” 
 
 “May think it pride in me,” she continued, “ when I 
 say that I am proud of him ! I am. You know the time 
 was when I was not — when I could not be — but that is 
 past. The humility of many years, the uncomplaining 
 expiation, the true repentance, the terrible regret, th^^ 
 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 !— 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 p 
 punishment that cannot be recalled ; while there is a 
 God above us to work changes in the hearts He made.*^ 
 
 “Your brother is an altered man,” returned the gen° 
 tleinan, compassionately. “ I assure you, I don’t doubi 
 it” 
 
WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ^'Hewasan altered man when he did wrong,” said 
 Harriet. “He is an altered man again, and is his true 
 self now believe me, sir.” 
 
 “But Ave go on,” said her visitor, rubbing his fore- 
 head, in an absent manner, with his hand, and then drum- 
 ming thoughtfully on the table, “ we go on in our clock, 
 work routine, from day to day, and can’t make out, or 
 follow, these changes. They — they’re a metaj)hysica^ 
 sort of thing. We — we haven’t leisure for it. We — 
 we haven’t courage. They’re not taught at schools or 
 colleges, and we don’t know how to set about it. In 
 short, we are so d d business-like,” said the gentle- 
 
 man, walking to the window, and back, and sitting down 
 again, in a state of extreme dissatisfaction and vexa- 
 ti ■ . 
 
 • 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 
 itnything ; that’s the fact. We go on taking everything 
 for granted, and so we go on, until whatever we do, 
 
 r md, bad, or indifferent, we do from habit. Habit is all 
 shall have to report, when I am called upon to plead to 
 my conscience on my death-bed. ‘ Habit,’ says I ; ‘ I 
 was deaf, dumb, blind, and paralytic, to a million things, 
 from habit.’ ‘Very business-like indeed, Mr. What’s- 
 your-name, ’ says Conscience, ‘ but it won’t do here ! ’ ” 
 The gentleman got up and walked to the window 
 again and back : seriously uneasy, though giving his un- 
 easiness this peculiar expression. 
 
 “Miss Harriet,” he said, resuming his chair, “I 
 wish you would let me serve you. Look at me ; I ought 
 to look honest, for I know I am so, at present. Do I ? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” she answered with a smile. 
 
 “ I believe every word you have said,” he returned. 
 I am full of self reproach that I might have known 
 this and seen this, and known you and seen you, any 
 time these dozen years, and that I never have. I hardly 
 know how I ever got here — creature that I am, not only 
 of my own habit, but of other people’s ! But having 
 done so, let me do something. I ask it in all honour 
 and respect. You inspire me with both, in the highest 
 degree. Let me do something.” 
 
 “We are contented, sir.” 
 
 “No, no, not quite,” returned the gentleman. “I 
 think not quite. There are some little comforts that 
 might smooth your life, and his. And his!” he re- 
 peated, fancying that had made some impression on her. 
 “ I have been in the habit of thinking that there was 
 nothing wanting to be done for hiin ; that it was all set" 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 213 
 
 tied and over : in short, of not thinking at all about it. 
 I am different now. Let me do something- for him. Yog 
 too/" said the visitor, with careful delicacy, liave need 
 to watch your health closely, for his sake, and I fear it 
 fails."" 
 
 “Whoever you maybe, sir,"" answered Harriet, rais- 
 ing her eyes to his face, “ I am deeply grateful to you. 
 I feel certain that in all you say, you have no object in 
 the world but kindness to us. But years have passed 
 since 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."" 
 
 The gentleman was moved, and put the hand she 
 held out to his lips, much as a tender father might kiss 
 the hand of a dutiful child. But more reverently. 
 
 “If the day should ever come,"" said Harriet, “ when 
 he is restored, in part, to the position he lost — "" 
 
 “Restored!"" cried the gentleman, quickly. “How 
 can that be hoped for ? In whose hands does the power 
 of any restoration lie ? It is no mistake of mine, surely, 
 to suppose that his having gained the priceless iDlessing 
 of his life, is one cause of the animosity shown to him 
 by his brother. "" 
 
 “You touch upon a subject that is never breathed be- 
 tween us ; not even between us,"" said Harriet. 
 
 “I beg your forgiveness,"" said the visitor. “ I should 
 have known it. I entreat you to forget that I have done 
 so, inadvertently. And now, as I dare urge no more — 
 as I am not sure that I have a right to do so—though 
 Heaven knows, even that doubt may be habit,"" said the 
 gentleman, rubbing his head, as despondently as before, 
 “let me ; though a stranger, yet no stranger ; ask two 
 favours."" 
 
 “ What are they ? "" she inquired. 
 
 “ The first, that if you should see cause to ch&ngi 
 your resolution, you will suffer me to be as your right 
 hand. My name shall then be at your service ; it is use- 
 less now, and always insignificant."" 
 
 “Our choice of friends,"" she answered, smiling faintly, 
 “ is not so great, that I need any time for considemtioHo 
 I can promise that."" 
 
 “ The second, that you will allow me sometimes, say 
 every Monday morning, at nine o"clock — habit again — I 
 must be business-like,"" said the gentleman, with ^ 
 whimsical inclination to quarrel with himself on that 
 head, “in walking past, to see you at the door or win* 
 
2U 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 dow. I don’t ask to come in, as your brother will be 
 gone out at that hour. I don’t ask to speak to you. 1 
 merely ask to see, for the satisfaction of my own mind, 
 that you are well, and without intrusion to remind you, 
 by the sight of me, that you have a friend — an elderly 
 friend, gray -haired already, and fast growing grayer—^ 
 whom you may ever command.” 
 
 The cordial face looked up in his ; confided in it ; and 
 promised. 
 
 ‘‘I understand, as before,” said the gentleman, rising, 
 “ that you purpose not to mention my visit to John Car- 
 ker, lest he should be at all distressed by my acquaint- 
 ance with his history. I am glad of it, for it is out of 
 the ordinary course of things, and — habit again ! ” said 
 the gentleman, checking himself impatiently, as if 
 there were no better course than the ordinary course ! ” 
 
 With that he turned to go, and walking, bare-headed, 
 to the outside of the little porch, took leave of her with 
 such a happy mixture of unconstrained respect and un- 
 affected interest, as no breeding could have taught, no 
 truth mistrusted, and nothing but a pure and single 
 heart expressed. 
 
 Many half-forgotten emotions were awakened in the 
 sister’s mind by this visit. It was so. very long since any 
 other visitor had crossed their threshold ; it was so very 
 long since any voice of sympathy had made sad music in 
 her ears ; that the stranger’s figure remained present to 
 her, hours afterwards, when she sat at the window, ply= 
 ing 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 recol- 
 lection of which that life was made. 
 
 Musing and working by turns : now constraining her= 
 self to be steady at her needle for a long time together, 
 and now letting her work fall, unregarded, on her lap, 
 and straying wheresoever her busier thoughts led, Har- 
 riet Carker found the hours glide by her, and the day 
 steal on. The morning, which had been bright and clear, 
 gradually became overcast ; a sharp wind set in ; the 
 rain fell heavily ; and a dark mist drooping over the dis- 
 tant town, hid it from the view. 
 
 She often looked with compassion, at such a time, 
 upon the stragglers who came wandering into London, 
 by the great highway hard-by, and who, footsore and 
 weary, and gazing fearfully at the huge town befoi*e 
 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 re- 
 jected them. Day after day, such travellers crept past. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 215 
 
 bnt always, as slie tliought, 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 church -yards, the prisons, the river, 
 fever, madness, vice, and death,— they passed on to the 
 monster, roaring in the distance, and were lost. 
 
 The chill wind was howling, and the rain was falling, 
 and the day was darkening moodily, when Harriet, rais- 
 ing her eyes from the v/ork on which she had long since 
 been engaged with unremitting constancy, saw one of 
 these travellers approaching. 
 
 A woman. A solitary v/oman 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 gray cloak by the 
 streaming wet ; no bonnet on her head, nothing to defend 
 her rich black hair from the rain, but a torn handker- 
 chief ; with the fluttering ends of which, and with her 
 hair, the wind blinded her so that she often stopped to 
 push them back, and look upon the way she was going. 
 
 She was in the act of doing so, when Harriet observed 
 her. As her hands, parting on her sun-burnt forehead, 
 swept across her face, and threw aside the hindrances 
 that encroached upon it, there was a reckless and regard- 
 less 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- worn an. 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 at- 
 tractions of the person ; of the many gifts of the Creator 
 flung to the winds like the wild hair ; of all the beautiful 
 ruin upon which the storm was beating and the night 
 was coming. 
 
 Thinking of this, she did not turn away with a deli- 
 cate indignation — too many of her own compassionate 
 and tender sex too often do — but pitied her. 
 
 Her fallen sister came on, looking far before her, try- 
 ing with her eager eyes to pierce the mist in which the 
 city was enshrouded, and glancing, now and then, from 
 side to side, with the bewildered and uncertain aspect of 
 a stranger. Though her tread was bold and courageous, 
 she was fatigued, and after a moment of irresolution, sat 
 down upon a heap of stones ; seeking no shelter from 
 the rain, but letting it rain on her as it would. 
 
 She was now opposite the house ; raising her head 
 after resting it for a moment on both hands, her eyes 
 met those of Harriet. 
 
 In a moment, Harriet was at the door ; and the cth^ 
 
216 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 rising froAi her seat at her heck, came slowly, and with 
 no conciliatory look, towards her. 
 
 Why do you rest in the rain said Harriet, gently. 
 
 Because I have no other resting- place,'’ was the reply. 
 
 But there are many places of shelter near here 
 This,” referring to the little porch, ‘‘is better than 
 where you were. You are very welcome to rest here.” 
 
 The wanderer looked at her in doubt and surprise, but 
 without any expression cf thankfulness; and sitting 
 down, and taking off one of her worn shoes to beat out 
 uhe fragments of stone and dust that were inside, showed 
 that her foot was cut and bleeding. 
 
 Harriet uttering an expression of pity, the travellei 
 looked up with a contemptuous and incredulous smile. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Why what's a torn foot to such as me ? '' she said. 
 
 And what's a torn foot in such as me, to such as you ? '' 
 
 “ Come in and wash it," answered Harriet, mildly, 
 “ and let me give you something to bind it up." 
 
 The woman caught her arm, and drawing it before hex 
 own eyes, hid them against it, and wept. Not like a 
 woman, but like a stern man surprised into that weak- 
 ness ; with a violent heaving of her breast, and struggle 
 for recovery, that showed how unusual the emotion was 
 with her. 
 
 She submitted to be led into the house, and, evidently 
 more in gratitude than in any care for herself, washed 
 and bound the injured place. 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 grati- 
 tude than with any evidence of concern in her own behalf, 
 she sat down in front of it, and umbinding the handker- 
 chief about her head, and letting her thick wet hair fall 
 down below her waist, sat drving it with the palms of 
 her hands, and looking at the blaze. 
 
 “ I dare say you are thinking," she said, lifting her 
 head suddenly, “ that I used to be handsome, once. I 
 believe I was — I know I was. Look here ! " 
 
 She held up her hair roughly with both hands ; seizing 
 it as if she would have torn it out ; then, threw it down 
 again, and fiung it back as though it were a heap of ser- 
 pents. 
 
 “ Are you a stranger in this place ? " asked Harriet. 
 
 “A stranger ! " she returned, stopping between each 
 short reply, and looking at the fire, “Yes. Ten or a 
 dozen year« a stranger. I have had no almanack where 
 I have been. Ten or a dozen years. I don't know this 
 part. It's much altered since I went away." 
 
 “ Have you been far ?" 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 217 
 
 '' 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 myseK. 
 
 . Heaven help you and forgive you I was the gentle 
 'answer. 
 
 Ah ! Heaven help me and forgive me ! '' she returned, 
 nodding her head at the fire. ‘ ' If man would help some 
 of us a little more, God would forgive us all the sooner 
 perhaps.'' 
 
 But she was softened by the earnest manner, and the 
 cordial face so full of mildness and so free from judg 
 ment of her, and said, less hardily : 
 
 “We may be about the same age, you and I. If Lam 
 older, it is not above a year or two. Oh, think of that ! " 
 
 She opened her arms, as though the exhibition of her 
 outward form would show the moral wretch she was ; and 
 letting them drop at her sides, hung down her head. 
 
 “ There is nothing we may not hope to repair; it is 
 never too late to amend," said Harriet. “You are 
 penitent — " 
 
 “ No," she answered “ I am not ! I can't be. I am no 
 such thing. Why should 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 ! " 
 
 She rose up, bound her handkerchief about her head, 
 and turned to move away. 
 
 “Where are you going ? " said Harriet. 
 
 “ Yonder," she answered, pointing with her hand. 
 “ To London." 
 
 “ Have you any home to go to?" 
 
 “ I think I have a mother. She's as much a mother, 
 as her dwelling is a home," she answered with a bitter 
 laugh. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Take this," cried Harriet, putting money in her hand. 
 “Try to do well. It is veiy little, but for one day it 
 may keep you from harm." 
 
 “ Are you married?" said the other, faintly, as she 
 took it. 
 
 “No. I live here with my brother. We have not 
 much to spare, or I would give you more." 
 
 “ Will you let me kiss you ?" 
 
 Seeing no scorn or repugnance in her face, the object 
 of her charity bent over her as she asked the question, 
 and pressed her lips against her cheek. Once more she 
 caught her arm, and covered her eyes with it ; and then 
 was gone. 
 
 Gone into the deepening night, and howling wind, 
 and pelting rain ; urging her way on towards the mist- 
 enshrouded city where the blurred lights gleamed ; and 
 with her black hair, and disordered head-gear, fluttering 
 round her reckless face. 
 
 # ,V<)L. 12 
 
218 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 Amther Mother and Daughter. 
 
 In an ugly and dark room, an old woman, ugly and 
 dark too, sat listening to tke wind and rain, and crouch- 
 ing over a meagre fire. More constant to the last-named 
 occupation than the first, she never changed her attitude, 
 unless, when any stray drops of rain fell hissing on the 
 smouldering embers, to raise her head with an awakened 
 attention to the whistling and pattering outside, and 
 gradually to let it fall again lower and lower and lower 
 as she sunk into a brooding state of thought, in which 
 the noises of the night were as indistinctly regarded as 
 is the monotonous rolling of a sea by one who sits in 
 contemplation on its shore. 
 
 There was no light in the room save that which the 
 fire afforded. Glaring sullenly from time to time like 
 the eye of a fierce beast half asleep, it revealed no ob- 
 jects that needed to be jealous of a better display. A 
 heap of rags, a heap of bones, a wretched bed, two or 
 three mutilated chairs or stools, the black walls and 
 blacker ceiling, were all its winking brightness shone 
 upon. As the old woman, with a gigantic and distorted 
 image of herself, thrown half upon the wall behind her, 
 half upon the roof above, sat bending over the few loose 
 bricks within which it was pent, on the damp hearth of 
 the chimney — for there was no stove — she looked as 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 be- 
 longed. 
 
 If Florence could have stood within the room and 
 looked upon the original of the shadow thrown upon the 
 wall and roof, as it cowered thus over the fire, a glance 
 might have sufficed to recall the figure of Good Mrs. 
 Brown ; notwithstanding that her childish recollection 
 of that terrible old woman was as grotesque and exag- 
 gerated a presentiment of the truth, perhaps, as the 
 shadow on the wall. But Florence was not there to look 
 on ; and Good Mrs. Brown remained unrecognized, and 
 sat staring at her fire, unobserved. 
 
 Attracted by a louder sputtering than usual, as the 
 rain came hissing down the chimney in a little stream, 
 the old woman raised her head, impatiently, to listen 
 
DOMBEY AND SON 
 
 21S 
 
 afresh. And this time she did not drop it again ; for 
 there was a hand upon the door, and a footstep in the 
 room. 
 
 Who’s that ? ”• she said, looking over her shoulder. 
 
 “One who brings you news,” was the answer, in a 
 wonifin’s voice. 
 
 “News? Wherefrom?” 
 
 “ From abroad. ” 
 
 “From beyond seas?” cried the old woman, starting 
 
 up. 
 
 “ Ay, from beyond seas.” 
 
 The old woman raked the fire together, hurriedly, and 
 going close to her visitor who had entered, and shut the 
 door, and who now stood in the middle of the room, put 
 her hand upon the drenched cloak, and turned the unre- 
 sisting figure, so as to have it in the full light of the 
 fire. She did not find what she had expected, whatever 
 that might be ; for she let the cloak go again, and ut- 
 tered a querulous cry of disappointment and misery. 
 
 “ What is the matter?” asked her visitor. 
 
 “ Oho ! Oho ! ” cried the old woman, turning her face 
 upward, with a terrible howl. 
 
 “ What is the matter? ” asked the visitor again. 
 
 “It’s not my gal !” cried the old woman, tossing up 
 her arms, and clasping lier hands above her head. 
 “ Where’s my Alice ? Where’s my handsome daughter ? 
 They’ve been the death of her ! ” 
 
 “ They’ve not been the death of her yet, if your name’s 
 Mar wood,” said her visitor. 
 
 “ Have you seen my gal, then ?” cried the old woman. 
 “ Has she wrote to me ? ” 
 
 “ She said you couldn’t read,” returned the other. 
 
 “ No more I can !” exclaimed the old woman, wring- 
 ing her hands. 
 
 “Have you no light here?” said the other, looking 
 round the room. 
 
 The old woman, mumbling and shaking her head, and 
 muttering to herself about her handsome daughter, 
 brought a candle from a cupboard in the corner, and 
 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. 
 
 “She sent to me by word of mouth then, my gal, 
 Alice?” mumbled the old woman, after waiting for some 
 moments. ‘ ‘ What did she say ? ” 
 
 “ Look,” returned the visitor. 
 
220 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 The old woman repeated the word in a scared uncertain 
 way ; and, shading her eyes, looked at the speaker, round 
 the room, and at the speaker once again. 
 
 Alice said look again mother;”' and the speaker 
 fixed her eyes upon her. 
 
 Again the old woman looked round the room, and 0 her 
 visitor, and round the room once more. Hastily seizing 
 the candle, and rising from her seat, she held it to the 
 visitor’s face, uttered a loud cry set down the light, and 
 fell upon her neck ! 
 
 ^^It’s my gal ! It’s my Alice ! It’s my handsome 
 daughter living and come hack ! ” screamed the old wom- 
 an, 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 I ” she 
 screamed again, dropping on the floor before her, clasping 
 her knees, laying her head against them, and still rock- 
 ing herself to and fro with every frantic demonstration 
 of which her vitality was capable. 
 
 “ 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 g*o, mother ; let go. Get up, and sit in your 
 chair. What good does this do ? ” 
 
 “She’s come back harder than she went !” cried the 
 mother, looking up in her face, and still holding to her 
 knees. “ She don’t care for me I after all these years, 
 and all the wretched life I’ve led ! ” 
 
 “ Why, mother I ” said Alice, shaking her ragged skirts 
 to detach the old woman from them: “there are two 
 sides to that. There have been years for me as well as 
 you, and there has been wretchedness for me as well as 
 you. Get up, get up ! ’ 
 
 Her mother rose, and cried, and wrung her hands, and 
 stood at a little distance gazing on her. Then she took 
 the candle again, and going round her, suweyed 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 “Hid you expect to see me return as youthful as I 
 went away, mother?” she said at length, turning her 
 eyes upon the old woman. “Hid you think a foreign 
 life, like mine, was good for good looks? One would 
 believe so, to hear you ! ” 
 

 “ she’s come back harder than she went !” CKAED THE MOTHER, 
 LOOKING UP IN HER P^CE, AND STILL HOLDING TO HER KNEES. 
 
 — Dombey and Son, Vol. Twelve, page 221. 
 
222 
 
 WOBKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 It an’t that cried the mother. She knows it !’* 
 
 What is it then ? ’’ returned the daughter. It had 
 best be something that don’t last, mother, or my way out 
 is easier than my way in.” 
 
 Hear that ! ” exclaimed the mother. After all these 
 J^ears she threatens to desert me in the moment of her 
 coming back again ! ” 
 
 I tell you, mother, for the second time, there have 
 been years for me as well as you,” said Alice. ‘‘ Come 
 back harder? Of course I have come back harder. 
 
 ^ What else did you expect ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Harder to me ! To her own dear mother ! ” cried the 
 old woman. 
 
 I don’t know who began to harden me, if my own 
 dear mother didn’t,” she returned, sitting with her folded 
 arms, and knitted browns, and compressed lips as if she 
 were bent on excluding, by force, every softer feeling 
 from her breast. Listen, mother, to a word or two. 
 If we understand each other now, we shall not fall out 
 any more, perhaps. I went away a girl, and have come 
 back a woman. I went away undutiful enough, and have 
 come back no better, you may swear. But have you been 
 very dutiful to me ? ” 
 
 “I !” cried the old woman. “ To my own gal ! A 
 mother dutiful to her own child ! ” 
 
 It sounds unnatural, don’t it ? ” returned the daugh- 
 ter, looking coldly on her with her stem, regardless, 
 hardy, beautiful face ; "‘but I have thought of it some- 
 times, in the course of my lone years, till I have got used 
 to it. I have heard some talk about duty first and last ; 
 but it has always been of my duty to other people. I 
 have wondered now and then — to pass away the time — 
 whether no one ever owed any duty to me.” 
 
 Her mother sat mowing, and mumbling, and shaking 
 her head, but w^hether angrily, or remorsefully, or in de- 
 nial, or only in her physical infirmity, did not appear. 
 
 “There was a child called Alice Marwood,” said the 
 daughter, with a laugh, and looking down at herself in 
 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.” 
 
 “ Nobody !” echoed the mother, pointing to herself and 
 striking her breast. 
 
 “ The only care she knew,” returned the daughter, 
 “ was to be beaten, and stinted, and abused sometimes ; 
 and she might have done better without that. She liv- 
 ed 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 mujch the worse for her. 
 She had better have been hunted and worried to death 
 for ugliness. ” 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 223 
 
 Go on ! go on ! ’’ exclaimed the mother, 
 am going on,” returned the mother. There was 
 a girl called Alice Marwood. She was handsome. She 
 was taught too late, and taught all wrong. She was 
 too well cared for, too well trained, too well helped on 
 too much looked after. You were very fond of her — you 
 were better off then. What came to that girl comes to 
 thousands every year. It was only ruin, and she was 
 born to it.” 
 
 ‘‘After all these years!” whined the old woman. 
 “ My gal begins with this.'” 
 
 “ She’ll soon have ended,” said the daughter. “There 
 was a criminal called Alice Marwood — a girl still, but 
 deserted and an outcast. And she was tried and she was 
 sentenced. And lord, how the gentlemen in the court 
 talked about it ! and how grave the judge was, on her 
 duty, and on her having perverted the gifts of nature — 
 as if he didn’t know better than anybody there, that 
 they had been made curses to her 1 — and how he preach- 
 ed 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.” 
 
 She folded her arms tightly on her breast, and laughed 
 in a tone that made the howl of the old woman musical, 
 
 “ So Alice Marwood 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 solemn • 
 ity, and more fine talk, and more strong arm, most likely, 
 and there will be an end of her ; but the gentle- 
 men 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.” 
 
 The old woman leaned her elbows on the table, and 
 resting her face upon her two hands, made a show of 
 being in great distress — or really was, perhaps. 
 
 “ There ! I have done, mother,” said the daughter, 
 v/ith a motion of her head, as if in dismissal of the sub- 
 ject. “ I have said enough. Don’t let you and I talk 
 of being dutiful, whatever we do. Your childhood was 
 like mine, I suppose. So much the worse for both of us. 
 I don’t want to blame you, or to defend myself ; why 
 should I ? That’s all over, long ago. But I am a 
 woman — not a girl, now — and you and I needn’t make a 
 show of our history, like the gentlemen in the court. 
 We know all about it, well enough.” 
 
 Lost and degraded as she was, there was a beauty in 
 
824 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 her, hotli of face and form, whicli, even in its worst ex- 
 pression, could not but be recognised as such by any one 
 regarding her with the least attention. As she subsided 
 into silence, and her face which had been harshly agita- 
 ted, 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 way-worn misery and fatigue 
 a ray of the departed radiance of the fallen angel. 
 
 Her mother, after watching her for some time without 
 speaking, ventured to steal her withered hand a little 
 nearer to her across the table ; and finding that she per- 
 mitted this, to touch her face and smooth her hair. 
 With the feeling, as it seemed, that the old woman was 
 at least sincere in this show of interest, Alice made no 
 movement to check her, so, advancing by degrees, she 
 bound up her daughter’s hair afresh, took off her 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. 
 
 '‘You are very poor, mother, I see,^^ said Alice, look» 
 ing round, when she had sat thus for some time. 
 
 " Bitter poor, my deary,’’ replied the old woman. 
 
 She admired her daughter, and was afraid of her. 
 Perhaps her admiration, such as it v/as, had originated 
 long ago, when she first found anything that was beauti- 
 ful 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. 
 
 “ How have you lived ? ” 
 
 "By begging, my deary.” 
 
 " And pilfering, mother ? ” 
 
 "Sometimes, Ally — in a very small way. I am old 
 and timid. I have taken trifles from children now and 
 then, my deary, but not often. I have tramped about 
 the country, pet, and I know what I know. I have 
 watched. ” 
 
 " Watched ? ” returned the daughter, looking at her. 
 
 "I have hung about a family, my deary,” said the 
 mother, even more humbly and submissively than be^ 
 fore. 
 
 " What family ? ” 
 
 " Hush, darling. Don’t be angry with me, I did it for 
 the love of you. In memory of my poor gal beyond 
 seas.” She put out her hand deprecating! y, and draw- 
 ing it back again, laid it on her lips. 
 
 " Years ago, my deary,” she pursued, glancing timid*- 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 22b 
 
 ly at the attentive and stern face opposed to her. 
 came across his little child, by chance.'' 
 
 Whose child?" 
 
 '^Not his, Alice deary ; don't look at me like that ; 
 not his. How could it be his? You know he has 
 none." 
 
 Whose then ? " returned the daughter. You said 
 his." 
 
 Hush, Ally ; you frighten me, deary. Mr. Dombey's 
 — only Mr. Dombey's. Since then, darling, I have seen 
 them often. I have seen him” 
 
 In uttering this last word, the old woman shrunk and 
 recoiled, as if with a sudden fear that her daughter 
 would strike her. But though the daughter's face was 
 fixed upon her, and expressed the most vehement pas- 
 sion, she remained still : except that she clenched her 
 arms tighter and tighter within each other, on her bosom, 
 as if to restrain them by that means from doing an in- 
 jury to herself, or some one else, in the blind fury of 
 the wrath that suddenly possessed her. 
 
 Little he thought who 1 was ! " said the old woman, 
 shaking her clenched hand. 
 
 ‘‘ And little he cared ! " muttered her daughter, be- 
 tween her teeth. 
 
 ‘"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." 
 
 “ He will thrive in spite of that," returned the daughter 
 disdainfully. 
 
 “ Ay, he is thriving," said her mother. 
 
 She held her peace ; for the face and form before her 
 were unshaped by rage. It seemed as if the bosom 
 would burst with the emotions that strove within it. 
 The effort that constrained and held it pent up, was no 
 less formidable than the rage itself : no less bespeaking 
 the violent and dangerous character of the woman who 
 made it. But it succeeded, and she asked, after a 
 silence : 
 
 “ Is he married ?" 
 
 No, deary," said the mother. 
 
 “ Going to be ? " 
 
 “Not that I know of, deary. But his master and 
 friend is married. Oh, we may give him joy ! We may 
 give 'em all joy ! " cried the old woman, hugging herseH 
 with her lean arms in her exultation. “ Nothing but 
 joy to us will come of that marriage. Mind me 1 " 
 
 The daughter looked at her for an explanation. 
 
 “ But you are wet and tired : hungry and thirsty," said 
 the old woman, hobbling to the cupboard ? “ and there's 
 
226 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 little liere, and little — ” diving down into her pocketj 
 and Jingling a few halfpence on the table — little here. 
 Have you any money, x4.1ice, deary ? '' 
 
 The covetous, sharp, eager face with which she 
 asked the question and looked on, as her daughter took 
 out of her bosom the little gift she had so lately re- 
 ceived, told almost as much of the history of this parent 
 and child as the child herself had told in words. 
 
 ‘‘ Is that all ? ” said the mother. 
 
 I have no more. I should not have this, but for 
 charity. 
 
 ‘*But for charity, eh, deary?” said the old woman, 
 Ibending 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 1 six and 
 six is twelve and six eighteen — so — we must make the 
 most of it. ril go buy something to eat and drink.” 
 
 With greater alacrity than might have been expected 
 in one of her appearance — for age and misery seemed to 
 have made her as decrepit as ugly — she began to occupy 
 her trembling hands in tying an old bonnet on her head, 
 and folding a torn shawl about herself : still eyeing the 
 money in her daughter's hand, with the same sharp de- 
 sire. 
 
 What joy is to come to us of this marriage, 
 mother ?” asked the daughter. ‘'You have not told me 
 that.” 
 
 “ The joy,” she replied, attiring herself, with fum- 
 bling fingers, "of no love at all, and much pride and 
 hate, my deary. The joy of confusion and strife among 
 'em, proud as they are, and of danger — danger, Alice ? ” 
 
 " What danger ?” 
 
 "/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 1 ” 
 
 Then, seeing that in the wondering earnestness with 
 which her daughter regarded her, her hand ; voluntarily 
 closed upon the money, the old woman made more speed 
 to secure it, and hurriedly added, " but I'll go buy some- 
 thing, I'll go buy something.” 
 
 As she stood with her hand stretched out before her 
 daughter, her daughter, glancing again at the money, 
 jjput it to her lips before parting with it. 
 
 " What, Ally I Do you kiss it ? ” chuckled the old 
 woman. " That's like me -I often do. Oh, it's so good 
 to us If ^ squeezing her own tarnished halfpence up to 
 her bag of a throat, " so good to us in everything but 
 not coming in heaps ! ” 
 
 "I kiss it, mother,” said the daughter, " or I did then 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 227 
 
 9^1 don’t know that I ever did before — for the giver’s 
 ^ake.” 
 
 "‘The giver, eh, deary?” retorted the old woman, 
 whose dimmed eyes glistened as she took it. Ay 1 
 fll kiss it for the giver’s sake, too, when the giver can 
 nake it go farther. But I’ll go spend it, deary. Fll be 
 tack directly.” 
 
 “ You seem to say you know a great deal, mother,” 
 sgaid the daughter, following her to the door with her 
 ^es. “You have grown very wise since we parted.” 
 
 “ Know ! ” croaked the old woman, coming back a step 
 or two, “I know more than you link. I know more 
 than Tie thinks, deary, as I’ll tell you by-and-by. I know 
 ail about him.” 
 
 The daughter smiled iueredulously. 
 
 “ 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.” 
 
 “ Where?” 
 
 “ 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 mile- 
 stone, where the stones are heaped ; to-morrow, deary, 
 if it’s fine, and you are in the humour. But I’ll go 
 spend — ” 
 
 “ Stop ! ” and the daughter flung herself upon her, 
 with her former passion raging like a fire. “ The sister 
 is a fair-faced devil, with brown hair ? ” 
 
 ITie old woman, amazed and terrified, nodded her head. 
 
 “ I see the shadow of him in her face ! It is a red 
 house standing by itself. Before the door, there is 8 
 small green porch,” 
 
 Again the old woman nodded, 
 
 “In which I sat to-day ! Give me back the money.” 
 
 “Alice! Deary!” 
 
 “ Give me back the money, or youTl be hurt.” 
 
 She forced it from the old woman’s hand as she spoke^ 
 and utterly indifferent to her complainings and entrea^ 
 ties, threw on the garments she had taken off, and hur« 
 rjed out, with headlong speed. 
 
 The mother followed, limping after her as she could^ 
 and expostulating with no more effect upon her than 
 upon the wind and rain and darkness that encompassed 
 them. Obdurate and fierce in her own purpose, and in 
 different to all besides, the daughter defied the weather 
 and the distance, as if she had known no travel or fa» 
 
228 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 tigue, and made for the house where she had been re- 
 lieT sd. 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 trav- 
 elled on in silence through the wet and gloom. If the 
 mother now and then uttered a word of complaint, she 
 stifled ^it lest her daughter should break away from her 
 and leave her behind ; and the daughter was dumb. 
 
 It was within an hour or so of midnight, when they 
 left the regular streets behind them, and entered on the 
 deeper gloom of that neutral ground where the house 
 was situated. The town lay in the distance, lurid and 
 lowering ; the bleak wind howled over the open space ; 
 all around was black, wild, desolate. 
 
 This is a fit place for me ! ” said the daughter, stop- 
 ping to look back. I thought so, when I was herq 
 before, to-day.” 
 
 Alice, my deary,” cried the mother, pulling h«r 
 gently by the skirt. “ Alice ! ” 
 
 “ What now, mother ? ” 
 
 ‘‘Don’t give the money back, my darling; pleas® 
 don’t. We can’t afford it. We want supper deary. 
 Money is money, whoever gives it. Say what you willj, 
 but keep the money.” 
 
 “ See there ! ” v/as all the daughter’s answer. “ That 
 is the house I mean. Is that it ? ” 
 
 The old woman nodded in the affirmative ; and a few 
 more paces brought them to the threshold. There was 
 the light of fire and candle in the room where Alice had 
 sat to dry her clothes ; and m her knocking at the door, 
 John Carker appeared from that room. 
 
 He was surprised to see such visitors at such an hour, 
 and asked Alice what she wanted. 
 
 “ I want your sister,” she said. “The woman who 
 gave me money to-day.” 
 
 At the sound of her raised voice, Harriet came out. 
 
 “ Oh !” said Alice. “You are here. Do you remem- 
 ber me ? ” 
 
 “Yes,” she answered, wondering. 
 
 The face that had humbled itself before her, looked 
 on her now with such invincible hatred and defiance ; 
 and the hand that had gently touched her aim, was 
 clenched with such a show of evil purpose, as if it would 
 gladiy strangle her ; that she drew her brother close to 
 her for protection. 
 
 “That I could speak with you and not know you ! 
 That I could come near you, and not feel what blood was 
 running in your veins, by the tingling of my own I ” said 
 Alice with a menacing gesture. 
 
 “ What do you mean ? What have I done ?” 
 
 Done I ” returned the other. “ You have sat me by 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 329 
 
 your Are ; you have gi ven me food and money ; you 
 have bestowed your compassion on me I You ! whose 
 name I spit upon ! ” 
 
 The old woman, with a malevolence that made her 
 ugliness quite awful, shook her withered hand at the 
 brother and sister in confirmation of her daughter, but 
 plucked her by the skirts again, imploring her to keep 
 the money. 
 
 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 I 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 F 
 Ruin upon all belonging to you I 
 
 As she said the words, she threw the money down up- 
 on the ground, and spurned it with her foot. 
 
 I tread it in the dust : I wouldn’t take it if it paved 
 my way to Heaven ! I wish the bleeding foot that 
 brought me here to-day, had rotted off, before it led me 
 to your house ! ” 
 
 Harriet, pale and trembling, restrained her brother, 
 and suffered her to go on unmolested. 
 
 '' It was well that I should be pitied and forgiven by you, 
 or any one of your name, in the first hour of my return ! 
 It was well that you should act the kind good lady to 
 me ! ril thank you when I die ; I’ll pray for you, and 
 all your race, you may be sure ! ” 
 
 With a fierce action of her hand, as if she sprinkled 
 hatred on the ground, and with it devoted those who 
 were standing there to destruction, she looked up at the 
 black sky, and strode out into the wild night. 
 
 The mother, who had plucked at her skirts again and 
 again in vain, and had eyed the money lying on the thres- 
 hold with an absorbing greed that seemed to concentrate 
 her faculties upon it, would have prowled about until 
 tbe 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 re- 
 turn to their dwelling : the old woman whimpering and 
 bemoaning their loss upon the road, and fretfully bewail- 
 ing, as openly as she dared, the undutifnl conduct of her 
 handsome girl in depriving her of a supper, on the very 
 first eight of their re-union. 
 
 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 nndutiful daughter lay 
 asleep. 
 
 Were this miserable mother, and this miserable daugh- 
 ter, only the reduction to their lowest grade, of certain 
 social vices sometimes prevailing higher up ? In ihk) 
 
230 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 round world of many circles within circles, do we malre 
 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 ? 
 
 Say, Edith Dombey I And Cleopatra, best of mothers^ 
 let us have your testimony ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 The Happy Pair, 
 
 The dark blot on the street is gone. Mr. Dombey’s 
 mansion, if it be a gap among the other houses any 
 longer, is only so because it is not to be vied with in its 
 brightness, and haughtily casts them off. The saying 
 is, that home is home, be it never so homely. If it hold 
 good in the opposite contingency, and home is home be 
 it never so stately, what an altar to the Household Gods 
 is raised up here ! 
 
 Lights are sparkling in the windows this evening, and 
 the ruddy glow of fires is warm and bright upon the 
 hangings and soft carpets, and the dinner waits to be 
 served, and the dinner-table is handsomely set forth, 
 though only for four persons, and the sideboard is cum- 
 brous with plate. It is the first time that the house has 
 been arranged for occupation since its late changes, and 
 the happy pair are looked for every minute. 
 
 Only second to the wedding morning, in the interest 
 and expectation it engenders among the household, is 
 this evening of the coming home. Mrs. Perch is in the 
 kitchen taking tea ; and has made the tour of the estab- 
 lishment, and priced the silks and damasks by the yard, 
 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 upward at the cornices, and downward at the car- 
 pets, and occasionally, in a silent transport of enjoy- 
 ment, taking a rule out of his pocket, and skirmishingly 
 measuring expensive objects, with unutterable feelings. 
 Cook is in high spirits, and says give Tier 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 231 
 
 Mrs. Perch a responsive murmur of support and appro, 
 hation. Ail 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 French- 
 man, and must be by the laws of nature. 
 
 At each new sound of wheels, they all stop, whatever 
 they are saying, and listen ; and more than once there 
 is a general starting up and a cry of Here they are !’* 
 But here they are not yet ; and cook begins to mourn 
 over the dinner, which has been put back tv/ice, and tli« 
 upholsterer’s foreman still goes lurking about the rooms, 
 undisturbed in his blissful reverie I 
 
 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 down-stairs, 
 drawing their heads together — for they always speak 
 softly when they speak of her— how beautiful Miss 
 Florence looks to-night, and what a sweet young lady 
 she has grown, poor dear ! A pause succeeds ; and then 
 cook, feeling as president, that her sentiments are 
 waited for, wonders whether — and there stops. The 
 housemaid wonders too, and so does Mrs. Perch, who 
 has the happy social faculty of always wondering when 
 other people wonder, without being at all particular 
 what she wonders at. Mr. 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 iM 
 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. 
 
 Mrs. Skewton, prepared to greet her darling daughter 
 and dear son-in-law with open arms, is appropriately at- 
 tired for that purpose in a very youthful costume, with 
 short sleeves. At present, however, her ripe charms are 
 blooming in the shade of her own apartments, whence 
 she has not emerged since she took possession of them a 
 few hours ago, and where she is fast growing fretful, on 
 account of the postj^onement of dinner. The maid who 
 ought to' be a skeleton, but is in truth a buxom damsel. 
 
232 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 is, on the other hand, in a most amiable state ; consider, 
 ing her quarterly stipend much safer than heretofore, 
 and foreseeing a great improvement in her board an(5 
 lodging. 
 
 Where are the happy pair, for whom this brave home 
 is waiting ? Do stean), 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 ? 
 
 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. 
 
 ‘ ‘ My sweetest Edith ! cries an agitated voice upon 
 the stairs. ‘‘My dearest Dombey!” and the short 
 sleeves wreath themselves about the happy couple in 
 turn, and embrace them. 
 
 Florence had come down to the hall too, but did not 
 advance : reserving her timid welcome until those nearer 
 and dearer transports should subside. But the eyes of 
 Edith sought her out upon the threshold ; and dismiss- 
 ing her sensitive parent with a slight kiss on the cheek, 
 she hurried on to Florence and embraced her. 
 
 “ How do you do, Florence ?’' said Mr. Dombey ,~put- 
 ting out his hand. 
 
 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 observ^ed in it some- 
 ^ing 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 I , 
 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 Llm, through her new and beau- 
 tiful mama. 
 
 “You will not be long dressing, Mrs. Dombey, I pre- 
 sume ? ” said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 “I shall be ready immediately.” 
 
 “ Let them send up dinner in a quarter of an hour.” 
 
 With that Mr. Dombey stalked aw’ay to his own dress- 
 ing-room, and Mrs. Dombey went up-stairs to hers, 
 Mrs. Skewton and Florence repaired to the drawing- 
 room, where that excellent mother considered it incum 
 bent on her to shed a few irrepressible tears, supposed 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 238 
 
 to be forced from her by her daughter's felicity ; an^ 
 which she was still drying, very^ gingerly, with a laced 
 comer of her pocket-handkerchief, when her son-in-law 
 appeared. 
 
 •'And lijw, my dearest Dombey, did you find that 
 delightfullest of cities, Paris?'' she asked, subduing her 
 emotion. 
 
 " It was cold, " returned Mr. Dombey. 
 
 "Gay as ever?" said Mrs. Skewton, "of course.” 
 
 "Not particularly. I thought it dull,” said Mr. 
 Dombey. 
 
 " Fie, my dearest Dombey I ” archly ; " dull I " 
 
 " It made that impression upon me, madam,” said Mr. 
 Dombey, with grave politeness. " I believe Mrs. Dom- 
 found it dull too. She mentioned once or twice that 
 she thought it so.” 
 
 " Why, you naughty girl ! ” cried Mrs. Skewton, ral- 
 lying her dear child, who now entered, "what dread- 
 fully heretical things have you been saying about 
 Paris ? ” 
 
 Edith raised her eyebrov/s with an air of weariness ; 
 and passing the folding-doors, which were thrown open 
 to display the suite of rooms in their new and handsome 
 garniture, and barely glancing at them as she passed, sat 
 down by Florence. 
 
 " My dear Dombey,” said Mrs. Skewton, "how charm- 
 ingly these people have carried out every idea that we 
 hinted. They have made a perfect palace of the house, 
 positively.” 
 
 "It is handsome,” said Mr. Dombey, looking round. 
 
 ' I directed that no expense should be spared ; and all 
 that money could do, has been done, I believe. ” 
 
 "And what can it^ not do, dear Dombey?” observed 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 " It is powerful, madam,” said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 He looked in a solemn way towards his wife, but not 
 a word said she. 
 
 " I hope, Mrs. Dombey,” addressing her after a mo- 
 ment's silence, with especial distinctness ; " that these 
 alterations meet with your approval?” 
 
 " They are as handsome as they can be,” she returned, 
 with haughty carelessness. " They should be so, of 
 course. And I suppose they are.” 
 
 An expression of scorn was habitual to the proud face, 
 ssnd seemed inseparable from it ; but the contempt with 
 which it received any appeal to admiration, respect, or 
 consideration on the ground of his liches, no matter how 
 slight or ordinary in itself, was a new and different ex- 
 pression, unequalled in intensity by any other of which 
 it was capable. Whether Mr. Dombey, wrapped in his 
 own greatness, was at all aware of this, or no, there had 
 
WORKO OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 not been wanting opportunities already for bis 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 ecomfully sur- 
 veyed the theme of his self-glorification. He might 
 have read in that one glance that nothing that his wealth 
 could do, though it were increased ten thousand fold, 
 could win him for its own sake, one look of softened recog- 
 nition from the defiant woman linked to him, but arrayed 
 with her whole soul against him. He might have read in 
 that one glance that even for its sordid and mercenary 
 influence upon herself, she spurned it, while she claimed 
 its utmost power as her right, her bargain — as the base 
 and worthless recompense for which she had become his 
 wife. He might have read in it that, ever baring her 
 own head for the lightning of her own contempt aifd 
 pride to strike, the m.ost innocent allusion to the power 
 of his riches degraded her anew, sunk her deeper in her 
 own respect, and made the blight and waste within her 
 more complete. 
 
 But dinner was announced, and Mr. Dombey led down 
 Cleopatra ; Edith and his daughter following. Sweeping 
 past the gold and silver demonstration on the sideboard 
 as if it were heaped-up dirt, and deigning to bestow no 
 look upon the elegances around her, she took her place 
 at his board for the first time, and sat, like a statue, at 
 the feast. 
 
 Mr. Dombey, being a good deal in the statue way him- 
 self, was well enough pleased to see his handsome wife 
 immovable and proud and cold. Her deportment being 
 always elegant and graceful, this as a general behaviour 
 was agreeable and congenial to him. Presidipg, there- 
 fore with his accustomed dignity, and not at all reflecting 
 on his wife by any warmth or hilarity of his own, he per- 
 formed his share of the honours of the table with a cool 
 satisfaction ; and the installation dinner, though not re- 
 garded down-stairs as a great success, or very promising 
 beginning, passed off, above, in a suflaciently polite, 
 genteel, and frosty manner. 
 
 Soon after tea, Mrs. Skewton, who affected to be quit© 
 overcome and worn out by her emotions of happiness, 
 arising ii^ the contemplations 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 mor@o 
 Thus, it happened that Florence, who had been up-stairs 
 to have some conversation with Diogenes, returning to 
 the drawing-room with her little work-basket, found no 
 one there but her father, who was walking to and fro, in 
 dreary magnificence. 
 
DOMBBY AND SON. 
 
 235 
 
 “ 1 beg your pardon. Shall I go away, papa ?” said 
 Florence faintly, hesitating at the door. 
 
 returned Mr. Dombey, looking round over his 
 shoulder ; you can come and go here, Florence, as you 
 please. This is not niy private room.’’ 
 
 Florence entered, and sat down at a distant little table 
 with her work : finding herself for the first time in her 
 life — for the very first time within her memory from her 
 infancy to that hour — alone with her father, as his' com- 
 panion. She, his natural companion, his only child, 
 who in her lonely life and grief had known the sulfering 
 of a breaking heart ; who, in her rejected love, had never 
 breathed his name to God at night, but with a tearful 
 blessing, heavier on him than a curse ; who had prayed 
 to die young, so she might only die in his arms ; who 
 had, all through, repaid the agony of slight and coldness, 
 and dislike, with patient unexacting love, excusing him, 
 and pleading for him, like his better angel ! ” 
 
 She trembled, and her eyes were dim. His 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 toward him, and yet shrunk 
 from his approach. Unnatural emotion in a cliild, inno- 
 cent of wrong ! Unnatural the hand that had directed 
 the sharp plough, which furrowed up her gentle nature 
 for the sowing of its seeds ! 
 
 Bent upon not distressing or offending him by her dis- 
 tress, 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 mthdrawing into a 
 shadowy corner at some distance where there was an 
 easy chair, covered his head with a handkerchief, and 
 composed himself to sleep. 
 
 It was enough for Florence to sit there, watching him; 
 ^mlng her eyes towards his chair from time to time ; 
 watching him with her thoughts, when her face was in- 
 tent upon her work ; and sorrowfully glad to think that 
 he couM sleep, while she was there, and that he was not 
 made restless by her strange and long- forbidden pres- 
 ence. 
 
 What would have been her thoughts if she had known 
 that he was steadily regarding her ; that the veil upon 
 liis face, by accident or by design, was so adjusted that 
 Ms sight was free, and that it never wandered from her 
 face an instant. That when she looked tov/ard him, in 
 (the obscure dark corner, her speaking eyes, more earnest 
 Bnd pathetic in their voiceless speech than all the orators 
 uf all the world, and impeaching him more nearly in their 
 mute address, met his, and did not know it. Thatwhen 
 
238 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 filie bent her bead again over her work, be drew bis 
 breath more easily, but with the same atteution locked 
 upon her still — upon her white brow and her falling hair, 
 and busy bands ; and once attracted, seemed to have no 
 power to turn his eyes away ! 
 
 And what were his thoughts meanwhile ? With what 
 emotions did he prolong the attentive gaze covertly di- 
 rected on his unknown daughter ? Was there reproach 
 to him in the quiet figure and the mild eyes ? Had he 
 begun to feel her disregarded claims, and did they touch 
 him home at last, and waken him to some sense of his 
 cruel injustice ? 
 
 There are yielding moments in the lives of the stern- 
 est and harshest men, though such men often keep their 
 secret well. The sight of her in her beauty, almost 
 changed into a woman without his knowledge, may 
 have struck out some such moments even in his life of 
 pride. Some passing thought that he had had a happy 
 home within his reach — ^had had a household spirit 
 bending at his feet*— had overlooked it in his stiii- 
 necked 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 
 ery wrung from me in the anguish of my heart, 0 
 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 sup- 
 planted in his affeotion, may have occasioned them. 
 The mere association of her as an ornament, with all 
 the ornament and pomp about him, may have been suffi- 
 cient. 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 the 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 in- 
 clined to speak to her, and call her to him. The words 
 
 Florence, come here 1” were rising to his lips — slowly 
 and with difficulty, they were so very strange — when 
 they were checked and stifled by a footstep on the stair. 
 
 It was his wife’s. She had exchanged her dinner dress 
 for a loose robe, and had unbound her hair, which fell 
 freely about her neck. But this was not the change in 
 that startled him. 
 
BOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 237 
 
 Florence, dear/’ slie said, I have been looking* for 
 Jhj'u everywhere/’ 
 
 As she sat dov/n by the side of Florence, she stooped 
 md kissed her hand. He hardly knew his wife. She 
 was so changed. It was not merely that her smile was 
 r 3 ew to him — though that he had never seen ; but her 
 ■iBanner, the tone of her voice, the light of her eyes, the 
 interest and confidence, and winning wish to please, ex- 
 pressed in all — this was not Edith. 
 
 “ Softly, dear mama. Papa is asleep.” 
 
 It was Edith now. She looked towards the corner 
 where he was, and he knew that face and manner very 
 well. 
 
 I scarcely thought you could be here, Florence.” 
 
 Again, how altered and how softened, in an instant ! 
 
 *'1 left here early/’ pursued Edith, purposely to sit 
 up-stairs and talk with you. But, going to your room, 
 I found my bird was flown, and I have been waiting 
 there ever since, expecting its return.” 
 
 If it had been a bird, indeed, she could not have taken 
 it more tenderly and gently to her breast, than she did 
 Florence. 
 
 “Come, dear !” 
 
 “Papa will not expect to find me, I suppose, whoa 
 he wakes,” hesitated Florence. 
 
 “ Do you think he will, Florence?” said Edith, look- 
 ing full upon her. 
 
 Florence drooped her head, and rose, and put up her 
 work-basket. Edith drew her hand through her arm, 
 and they went out of the room like sisters. Her very 
 step was different and new to him, Mr, Dombey thought, 
 as his eyes followed her to the door. 
 
 He sat in his shadov/y corner so long, that the church 
 clock 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 candle waned and went out ; ^ut r. 
 darkness gathered on his face, exceeding any that the 
 night could cast, and rested there. 
 
 Florence and Edith, seated before the fire in the re- 
 mote 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 wdth 
 the most amiable intentions he had made one of those 
 mistakes which will occasionally arise in the best regu- 
 lated dogs’ minds ; as a friendly apology for which he 
 
238 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Stuck kimself 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 counten- 
 ance, listening to the conversation. 
 
 It turned, at first, on Florence’s books and favourite 
 pursuits, and on the manner in which she had beguiled 
 the interval since the marriage. The last theme opened 
 up to her a subject which lay very near her heart, and 
 she said, with the tears starting to her eyes : 
 
 ‘ * Oh, mama ! I have had a great sorrow since that 
 day.” 
 
 “ You a great sorrow, Florence ! ” 
 
 ‘‘ Yes. Poor Walter is drowned.” 
 
 Florence spread her hands before her face, and wept 
 with all her heart. Many as were the secret tears which 
 Walter’s fate had cost her, they fiowed yet, when sh^ 
 thought or spoke of him. 
 
 But tell me, dear,” said Edith, soothing her. ‘‘Who 
 was Walter? What was he to you? ” 
 
 “ He was my brother, mama. After dear Paul died, 
 we said we would be brother and sister. I had known 
 him a long time — from a little child. He knew Paul, 
 who liked him very much ; Paul said almost at the last 
 ‘ Take care of Walter, dear papa I I was fond of him !’ 
 Walter had been brought in to see him, and was there 
 then — in this room.” 
 
 “ And did he take care of Walter ? ” inquired Edith, 
 sternly. 
 
 “Papa? He appointed him to go abroad. He was 
 drowned in shipwreck on his voyage, ” said Florence 
 sobbing. 
 
 “ Does he know that he is dead ? ” asked Edith. 
 
 “ I cannot tell, mama. I have no means of knowing. 
 Dear mama ! ” cried Florence, clinging to her as for 
 help, and hiding her face upon her bosom, “ Iknowtha^ 
 you have seen — ” 
 
 “ Stay ! Stop, Florence,” Edith turned so pale, and 
 spoke so earnestly, that Florence did not need her res- 
 training hand upon her lips. “ Tell me all about Wal. 
 ter first; let me understand this history all through.” 
 
 Florence related it, and everything belonging to it, 
 even down to the friendship of Mr. Toots, of whom shs 
 could hardly speak in her distress without a tearful 
 smile, although she was deeply grateful to him. When 
 she had concluded her account, to the whole of which 
 Edith, holding her hand, listened with close attention,, 
 and when a silence had succeeded, Edith said : 
 
 “ What is it that you know I have seea^ Florence?'* 
 That I am not,” said Florence, with the same mute 
 appeal and the same quick concealment of her face as 
 (before, “ that I am not a favourite child, mama. I never 
 
X)OMBEY AND SON. 
 
 239 
 
 iiaJve been. I have never known Jiow to be. I liave 
 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 encircle, 
 ing arms of her new mother. 
 
 Pale, even to her lips, and with a face that strove for 
 composure until its proud beauty was fixed as death, 
 Edith looked down upon the weeping girl, and once kiss- 
 ed her. Then gradually disengaging herself, and put- 
 ting Florence away, she said, stately and q uiet, as a 
 marble image, and in a voice that deepened as she spoke 
 but had no other token of emotion in it : 
 
 Florence, you do not know me ! Heaven forbid that 
 you should learn from me 
 
 ‘‘Not learn from you?” repeated Florence in sur- 
 prise. 
 
 “ That I should teach you how to love, or be loved. 
 Heaven forbid ! ” said Edith. “ If you could teach me, 
 that were better ; but it is too late. You are dear to me 
 Florence. I did not think that anything could ever be 
 so dear to me, as you are in this little time.” 
 
 She saw that Florence would have spoken here, sq 
 checked her with her hand, and went on. 
 
 “ I will be your true friend always. I will cherish 
 you as much, if not as well as any one in this world could. 
 You may trust in me — I know it and I say it, dear — - 
 with the whole confidence even of your pure heart. 
 There are hosts of women whom he might have married, 
 better and truer in all other respects than I am, Florence; 
 but there is not one who could come here, his wife, 
 whose heart could beat with greater truth to you than 
 mine does.” 
 
 “ I know it, dear mama!” cried Florence. “Prom 
 that first most happy day I have known it.^’ 
 
 “Most happy day!” Edith seemed to repeat the 
 words involuntarily, and went on. “ Though the merit 
 Ss not mine, for I thought little of you until I saw you, 
 let the undeserved reward be mine in your trust and 
 love. And in this — in this, Florence ; on the first night 
 of my taking up my abode here ; I am led on as it is 
 best I should be, to say it for the first and last time.” 
 
 Florence, without knowing why, felt almost afraid to 
 hear her proceed, but kept her eyes rivet ted on the 
 beautiful face so fixed upon her own. 
 
 “ Never seek to find in me,” said Edith, laying her 
 hand upon her breast, “ what is not here. Never if you 
 can help it, Florence, fall olf from me because it is not 
 here. Little by little you will know me better, and the 
 
240 
 
 V^ORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 iime will come wlien you will know me, as I know my- 
 self. Then, be as lenient to me as you can, and do not 
 turn to bitterness the only sweet remembrance I shall 
 have. ” 
 
 The tears that were visible in her eyes as she kept 
 them fixed on Florence, showed that the composed face 
 was but as a handsome mask ; but she preserved it, and 
 continued : 
 
 ‘‘ I have seen what you say, and know how true it is. 
 But believe me — you will soon, if you cannot now — 
 there is no one on this earth less qualified to set it right 
 or help you, Florence, than I. Never ask me why, or 
 speak to me about it or of my husband, more. There 
 should be, so far, a division, and a silence between us 
 two, like the grave itself.^' 
 
 She sat for some time silent ; Florence scarcely ven- 
 turing to lareathe 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 Flor- 
 ence good night, went quickly, and without looking 
 round. 
 
 But, when Florence was in bed, and the room was 
 dark except for the glow of the fire, Edith returned, and 
 saying that she could not sleep, and that her dressing 
 room was lonely, drew a chair upon the hearth, and 
 watched the embers as they died away. Florencs 
 watched them too from her bed, until the^L and the no- 
 ble figure before them, crowned with its flowing hair, 
 and in its thoughtful eyes reflecting back their light, be- 
 came confused and indistinct, and finally v/ere lost in 
 slumber. 
 
 In her sleep, however, Florence could not lose an 
 defined impression of what had so recently passed, 16 
 formed the subject of her dreams, and haunted her^ 
 now in one shape, now' in another ; but always oppres- 
 sively ; and with a sense of fear. She dreamed of seek- 
 ing her father in wildernesses, of following his track 
 up fearful heights, and down into deep mines and cav- 
 erns ; of being charged with something that w^ould re- 
 lease him from extraordinary suffering — she knew not 
 w'hat, 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 w^eeping. Theft a prospect opened, and a 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 241 
 
 river flowecl, and a pJaintive voice slie knew, cried, 
 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, v»^hile a figure such 
 as Walter’s used to be, stood near him, awfully serene 
 and still. In every vision, Edith came and went, some- 
 times to her joy, sometimes to her sorrow, until they 
 were alone upon the brink of a dark grave, and Edith 
 pointing down, she looked and saw — w^hat ! — another 
 Edith lying at the bottom. 
 
 In the terror of this dream, she cried out, and awoke 
 she thought. A soft voice seemed to whisper in her ear, 
 
 Florence, dear Florence, it is nothing but a dream I ” 
 and stretching out her arms, she returned the caress of 
 her new mama, who then went out at the door in th© 
 light of the gray morning. In a moment, Florence sat 
 up wondering v/hether this had really taken place of 
 not ; but she was only certain that it was gray morning 
 indeed, and that the blackened ashes of the fire w'ere on 
 the hearth, and that she was alone. 
 
 So passed the night on which the happy pair came 
 home. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 Housewarming, 
 
 Many 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 apart- 
 ments at which Major Bagstock was a frequent attend- 
 ant, and that Florence encountered no second look from 
 her father, although she saw him every day. Xor 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. 
 
 Florence, who had hoped for so much from this mar- 
 riage, could not help sometimes comparing the bright 
 house vrith the faded dreary place out of which it had 
 risen, and wondering when, in any shape, it would begin 
 to be a home ; for that it was no home then, for any 
 one, though everything went on luxuriously and regu- 
 larly, she had always a secret misgiving. Many an hour 
 of sorrov/ful refi.ection by day and night, and many ^ 
 VoL. 12 — K 
 
242 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 tear of blighted hope, Florence bestowed upon the as- 
 surance 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, Florenqe preferred to bear the 
 pain of this new wound, rather than encourage any faint 
 foreshado wings of the truth as it concerned her father ; 
 tender of him, even in her wandering thoughts. As for 
 his home she hoped it would become a better one, when 
 its state of novelty and transition should be over ; and 
 for herself, thought little, and lamented less. 
 
 If none of the new family were particularly at home 
 in private, it was resolved that 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. 
 
 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 thqi subject, sub- 
 joined 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. 
 
 The proceedings commenced by Mr. Dombey, in a 
 cravat of extraordinary height and stiflness, walking 
 restlessly about the drawing-room until the hour ap- 
 pointed 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON 
 
 243 
 
 by Mr. Dombey alone. The next stage of the proceed- 
 ings was Mr. Dombey sending his compliments to Mrs. 
 Dombey, with a correct statement of the time ; and the 
 next, the East India Director’s falling prostrate, in a 
 conversational point of view, and as Mr. Dombey was 
 not the man to pick him np, staring at the fire until 
 rescue appeared in the person of Mrs. Skewton ; whom 
 the Director, as a pleasant start in life for the evening, 
 mistook for Mrs. Dombey, and greeted with enthusiasm. 
 
 The next arrival was a Bank Director, reputed to be 
 able to buy up anything — human Nature generally, if 
 he should take it in his head to influence the money 
 market in that direction — but who was a wonderfully 
 modest-spoken man, almost boastfully so, and mentioned 
 his little place ” at Kingston-upon-Thames, and its 
 just being barely equal to giving Dombey a bed and a 
 chop, if he would come and visit it. Ladies, he said, it 
 was not for a man who lived in his quiet way to take 
 upon himself to invite — but if Mrs. Skewton and her 
 daughter, Mrs. Dombey, should ever find 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 aflord it. It seemed greatly 
 to delight and exhilarate him to say so ; and he beamed 
 on his audience afterwards, with his hands in his pock- 
 ets, and excessive satisfaction twinkling in his eyes. 
 
 Now Mrs. Dombey appeared, beautiful and proud, and 
 as disdainful and defiant of them all as if the bridal 
 v/reath upon her head had been a garland of steel spikes 
 put on to force concession from her which she would die 
 Booner than yield. With her was Florence. When 
 they entered together, the shadow of the night of the 
 return again darkened Mr. Dombey’s face. But unob- 
 served : for Florence did not venture to raise her eyes 
 to his, and Edith’s indifference was too supreme to take 
 the least heed of him. 
 
 The arrivals quickly became numerous. More direc- 
 tors, chairmen of public companies, elderly ladies carry- 
 ing burdens on their heads for full dress, Cousin Feenix, 
 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 
 
244 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 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, wander- 
 ing 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. 
 
 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 Threadneedl e-street, she was so rich, and looked so 
 unaccommodating ; Cousin Feenix took down Mrs. Dom- 
 bey ; Major Bagstock took down Mrs. Skewton ; the 
 young thing with the shoulders was bestow'ed, as an ex- 
 tinguisher, upon the East India Director ; and the re- 
 maining ladies were left on view in the drawing-room by 
 the remaining gentlemen, until a forlorn hope volun- 
 teered to conduct them do wm -stairs, and those brave 
 spirits with their captives blocked up the dining-room 
 door, shutting out seven mild men in the stony-hearted 
 hall. When all the rest were got in and were seated, 
 one of these mild men still appeared, in smiling confu- 
 sion, totally destitute, and unprovided for, and, escorted 
 bj^ the butler, made the complete circuit of the table 
 twice before his chair could be found, wdiich it finally 
 was, on Mrs. Dombey ’s left hand ; after which the mild 
 man never held up his head again. 
 
 Now, the spacious dining-room, wdth the company 
 seated round the glittering table, busy with their glit- 
 tering spoons, and knives and forks, and plates, might 
 have been taken for a growm up exposition of Tom Tid- 
 dler’s ground, where children pick up gold and silver. 
 Mr. Dombey, as Tiddler, looked his character to admira- 
 tion ; and tlie long plateau of precious metal frosted, 
 separating him from Mrs. Dombey, whereon frosted Cu- 
 pids offered scentless flo^vers to each of them, was alle- 
 gorical to see. 
 
 Cousin Feenix was in great force, and looked astonish- 
 ingly young. But he was sometimes thoughtless in his 
 good humour~his memory occasionally wandering like 
 his legs — and on this occasion he caused the company to 
 shudder. It happened thus. The young lady with the 
 back, who regarded Cousin Feenix with sentiments of 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 245 
 
 tenderness, Iiad entrapped the East India Director into 
 leading her to the chair next him ; in return for which 
 good office, she immediatel}^ 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 with- 
 drew 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 be* 
 half of Mrs. Skewton (they were sitting opposite, a littlo 
 lower down), whether that might not be considered pub- 
 lic property. 
 
 “Why, upon my life, said Cousin Feenix, “there’s 
 nothing in it ; it really is not worth repeating : in point 
 of fact, it’s merely an anecdote of Jack Adams. 1 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 a 
 slight impediment in his speech — man who sat for some- 
 oody’s borough. We used to call him in my parliament- 
 ary time W'. P. Adams, in consequence of his being 
 Warming Pan for a young fellow who was in his minor- 
 ity. Perhaps my friend Dombey may have known the 
 man ? ” 
 
 Mr. Dombey, who was as likely to have known Guy 
 Fawkes, replied in the negative. But one of the seven 
 mild men unexpectedly leaped into distinction, by saying 
 he had known him, and adding — “always wore Hessian 
 boots ! ” 
 
 “Exactly,” said Cousin Feenix, bending forward to 
 see the mild man, and smile encouragement at him down 
 the table, “ That was Jack. Joe wore — ” 
 
 “ Tops 1 ” cried the mild man, rising in public estima- 
 tion every instant. 
 
 “ Of course,” said Cousin Feenix, “you were intimate 
 with ’em?’’ 
 
 “I knew them both,” said the mild man. With 
 whom Mr. Dombey immediately took wine. 
 
 “Devilish good fellow. Jack ?” said Cousin Feenix, 
 again bending forward, and smiling. 
 
 “Excellent,” returned the mild man, becoming bold 
 on his success. “ One of the best fellows I ever knew.” 
 
 “ No doubt you have heard the story ? ” said Cousin 
 Feenix. 
 
 “ I shall know,” replied the bold mild man, “ when I 
 have heard your Ludship tell it.” With that, he leaned 
 back in his chair and smiled at the ceiling, as knowing 
 it by heart, and being already tickled. 
 
 “ In point of fact, it’s nothing of a story in itself,” said 
 
246 
 
 WOKKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Cousin Foenix, addressing the table with a smile, and a 
 g&y shake of his head, '‘and not worth a word of pre- 
 face. But it's illustrative of the neatness of Jack’s hu- 
 mour. The fact is, that Jack was invited down to a 
 marriage — which I think took place in Barkshire ? ” 
 
 “Shropshire,” said the bold mild man, finding him- 
 self appealed to. 
 
 “Was it? well ! In point of fact it might have been 
 in any shire,” said Cousin Feenix. “So, my friend be- 
 ing 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 in- 
 vited to the marriage of my lovely and accomplished 
 relative with my friend Dombey, didn’t require to be 
 asked tv^rice, and were devilish glad to be present on so 
 interesting an occaision. — Goes — Jack goes. Now, this 
 marriage was, in point of fact, the marriage of an un- 
 commonly fine girl with a man for whom she didn’t care 
 a button, but whom she accepted on account of his prop- 
 erty, 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,’ 
 said J ack. ‘ Not at all. It’s a perfectly fair and equal 
 transaction. S^e is regularly bought, and you may take 
 your oath /le is as regularly sold ! ’ ” 
 
 In his full enjoyment of this culminating point of his 
 story the shudder, which had gone all round the table 
 lilie an electric spark, struck Cousin Feenix, and he 
 stopped. Not a smile occasioned by the only general 
 topic of conversation broached that day, appeared on any 
 face. A profound silence ensued ; and the wretched 
 mild man, who had been as innocent of any real fore- 
 knowledge of the story as the child unborn, had the ex- 
 quisite misery of reading in every eye that he was re- 
 garded as the prime mover of the mischief. 
 
 Mr. Dombey’s face was not a changeful one, and be- 
 ing cast in its mould of state that day, showed little 
 ether apprehension of the story, if any, than that which 
 lie 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 re- 
 mained, externally, impassive and unconscious. 
 
 Through the various stages of rich meats and wines, 
 continual gold and silver, dainties of earth, air, fire, and 
 water, heaped-up fruits, and that unnecessary article in 
 Mr. Dombey’s banquets — ice — the dinner slowly made its 
 way ; the later stages being achieved to the sonorous 
 music of incessant double knocks, announcing the arri- 
 val of visitors, whose portion of the feast was limited to 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 247 
 
 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. 
 
 Mr. Domhey 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 thought- 
 ful 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. 
 
 There was a throng in the state-rooms up-stairs, in- 
 creasing every minute ; but still Mr. Dombey^s list of 
 visitors appeared to have some native impossibility of 
 amalgamation with Mrs. Dombey’s list, and no one 
 could have doubted which was which. The single ex- 
 ception to this rule perhaps v,^as 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. 
 
 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 drawm towards him 
 every now and then, by an attraction of dislike and dis- 
 trust that she could not resist. Yet her thoughts were 
 busy with other things ; for as she sat apart — not unad- 
 mired or unsought, but in the gentleness of her quiet spirit 
 —she felt how little part her father had in what was 
 going on, and saw, with pain, how ill at ease he seemed 
 to be, and how little regarded he was as he lingered 
 about near the door, for those visitors whom he wished 
 to distinguish with particular attention, and took them 
 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 con. 
 sultation of his wishes, or in welcome of his friends, 
 opened her lips. It was not the less perplexing or pain- 
 ful to Florence, that she w’^ho 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. 
 
248 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Happy Florence would liave been, might she have ven« 
 tnred 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. 
 
 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 be- 
 fore Mrs. Dombey at home, as should dazzle the senses 
 of that lady, and heap mortification, mountains high, oa 
 the head of Mrs. Skew ton. 
 
 “ But I am made,'’ said Mrs. Chick to Mr. Chick, ‘‘ of 
 no more account than Florence ! Who takes the small- 
 est notice of me ? No one ! " 
 
 “No one, my dear," assented Mr Chick, who was seated 
 by the side of Mrs. Chick against the wall, and could 
 gonsole himself, even there, by softly whistling. 
 
 “ Does it at all appear as if I was wanted here ex 
 claimed Mrs. Chick, with hashing eyes. 
 
 “ No, my dear, I don't think it does," said Mr. 
 Chick. 
 
 “ Paul's mad ! " said Mrs. Chick. 
 
 Mr. Chick whistled. 
 
 “ Unless you are a monster, which I sometimes think 
 you are," said Mrs. Chick with candour, “ don’t sit there 
 humming tunes. How any one with the most distant 
 feelings of a man, can see that mother-in-law of Paul's, 
 dressed as she is, going on like that, with Major Bag- 
 3 tock, for whom, among other precious things, we are in- 
 debted to your Lucretia Tox — ” 
 
 “ My Lucretia Tox, my dear ! ” said Mr. Chick as- 
 tounded. 
 
 “ Yes," retorted Mrs. Chick, with great severity, “ your 
 Lucretia Tox — 1 say how anybody can see that mother- 
 in-law of Paul's, and that haughty wife of Paul's, and 
 those indecent old frights with their backs and shoulders, 
 and in short this at home generally, and can hum — ,” on 
 which word Mrs. Chick laid a scornful emphasis that 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 m 
 
 made Mr. Chick start, I thank Heaven, a mystery 
 bo me I ’’ 
 
 Mr. Chick screwed his month into a form irreconcile. 
 able with humming or whistling, and looked very con. 
 templative. 
 
 But I hope I know what is due to myself,’’ said Mrs. 
 Chick, swelling with indignation, though Paul has for- 
 gotten what is due to me. I am not going to sit here, a 
 member of this family, to be taken no notice of. I am 
 not the dirt under Mrs. Dombey’s feet, yet — not quite 
 yet,” said Mrs. Chick, as if she expected to become so, 
 about the day after to-morrow. “ And I shall go. I will 
 not say (whatever I may think) that this affair has been 
 got up solely to degrade and insult me. I shall merely 
 go. I shall not be missed ! ” 
 
 Mrs. Chick rose erect with these words, and took the 
 arm of Mr. Chick, who escorted her from the room, after 
 half an hour’s shady sojourn there. And it is due to her 
 penetration to observe that she certainly was not missed 
 at all. 
 
 But she was not the only indignant guest ; for Mr. Dom- 
 bey’s list (still constantly in difficulties) were, as a body, 
 indignant with Mrs. Dombey’s list, for looking at them 
 through eye-glasses, and audibly wondering who all those 
 people were ‘ while Mrs. Dombey’s list complained of 
 weariness, and the young thing with the shoulders, de- 
 prived 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, 
 ffiad greater or less cause of complaint against Mrs. Dorn- 
 bey ; and the directors and chairman coincided in think- 
 ing that if Dombey must marry, he had better have mar- 
 ried somebody nearer his own age, not quite so handsome, 
 and a little better off. The general opiniv^n among this 
 class of gentlemen was, that it was a weak thing in Dom- 
 bey, and he’d live to repent it. Hardly anybody there, 
 except the mild men, stayed, or v^ent away, without con- 
 sidering 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 pire- 
 vailed ; and they made sarcastic jokes to one another, 
 and whispered disparagement on stairs and in bye-places. 
 The general dissatisfaction and discomfort so diffused it- 
 self, 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 
 
250 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS, 
 
 to a funeral out of mourning, with none of tho company 
 'remembered in the will. 
 
 At last, the guests were all gone, and the linkmen too ; 
 and the street.' crowded so long with carriages, was clear ; 
 and the dying lights showed no one in the rooms, but Mr. 
 Dombey and Mr. Carker, who were talking together 
 apart, and Mrs. Dombey and her mother : the former 
 seated on an ottoman ; the latter reclining in a Cleopatra 
 attitude, awaiting the arrival of her maid. Mr. Dombey 
 having finished his communication to Carker, the latter 
 advanced obsequiously to take leave. 
 
 trust,” he said, -'‘that the fatigues of this delight- 
 ful evening will not inconvenience Mrs. Dombey to-mor< 
 row.” 
 
 “Mrs. Dombey,” said Mr. Dombey, advancing, “has 
 sufficiently spared herself fatigue, to relieve you from 
 any anxiety of that land. I regret to say, Mrs. Dombey, 
 that 1 could have wished you had fatigued yourself a 
 little more on this occasion.” 
 
 She looked at him with a supercilious glance, that it 
 seemed not worth her while to protract, and turned away 
 her eyes without speaking. 
 
 “1 am sorry, madam,” said Mr. Dombey, “that you 
 should not have thought it your duty — ” 
 
 She looked at him again. 
 
 “ Tour duty, madam,” pursued Mr. Dombey, “ to have 
 received my friends with a little more deference. Some 
 of those whom you have been pleased to slight to-night 
 in a very marked manner, Mrs. Dombey, confer a dis- 
 tinction upon you, I must tell you, in any visit they pay, 
 you.” 
 
 “ Do you you know that there is some one here ?” she 
 returned, now looking at him steadily. 
 
 “No ! Carker 1 I beg that you do not. I insist that 
 you do not,” cried Mr. Domhey, 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 con- 
 fer a distinction upon me : ” and Mr. Dombey drew him- 
 self up, as having now rendered them of the highest 
 possible importance. 
 
 “I ask you,” she repeated, bending her disdainful 
 and steady gaze upon him, “do you know that there is 
 some one here, sir?” 
 
 “ I must entreat,” said Mr. Carker, stepping forward, 
 “ I must beg, I must demand, to be released. Slight 
 and unimportant as this difference is — ” 
 
 Mrs. Skewton, who had been intent upon her daugh® 
 ter’s face, took him up here. 
 
DO YOU KNOW THAT THERE IS SOME ONE HERE ? ’’ SHE RETURNED, NOW LOOKING AT HIM STEADILY. 
 
 — Dombey and Son, Vol. Twelve, page 251. 
 
252 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 sweetest Edith/’ she said, "and my dearest 
 Dombey ; oar excellent friend Mr. Carker, for so I am 
 sure I ought to mention him — ” 
 
 "Mr. Carker murmured, " Too much honour.” 
 
 " — has used the very words that were in my mind, 
 and that I have been dying, these ages, for an opportun- 
 ity of introducing. Slight and unimportant ! My sweet- 
 est Edith, and my dearest Dombey, do we not know that 
 any difference between you two — No, Flowers ; not now.” 
 
 Flowers was the maid, who, finding gentlemen pres- 
 ent retreated with precipitation. 
 
 " That any difference between you two,” resumed Mrs. 
 Skewton, " with the heart you possess in common, and 
 the excessively charming bond of feeling that there is 
 between you, must be slight and unimportant ? What 
 v/ords could better define the fact ? None. Therefore 
 I am glad to take this slight occasion — this trifling oc- 
 casion, that is so replete with Nature, and your indivi- 
 dual 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 ar- 
 tificial world, I never shall attempt to interpose between 
 you, at such a time, and never can much regret, after 
 all, such little flashes of the torch of What’s-his-name 
 — not Cupid, but the other delightful creature.” 
 
 There was a sharpness in the good mother’s glance at 
 both her children as she spoke, that may have been ex- 
 pressive of a direct and well-considered purpose hidden 
 between these rambling words. That purpose, provi- 
 dently 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. 
 
 " I have pointed out to Mrs. Dombey,” said Mr. Dom^ 
 bey, 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 ! ” 
 
 Mr. Carker bowed to the imperious form of the bride, 
 whose sparkling eye was fixed upon her husband ; and 
 stopping at Cleopatra's couch on his way out, raised to 
 his . lips the hand she graciously extended to him, in 
 lowly and admiring homage. 
 
 If his handsome wife had reproached him, or even 
 changed countenance, or broken the silence in which she 
 remained, by one word, now that they were alone (for 
 Cleopatra made off with all speed), Mr. Dombey would 
 have been equal to some assertion of his case against her^ 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 25B 
 
 But tlie intense, unutterable, withering scorn, with 
 which, after locking 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 in- 
 flexible resolve with which her every feature seemed to 
 bear him down, and put him by — he had no resource 
 against ; and he left her, with her whole overbearing 
 beauty concentrated on despising him. 
 
 Was he coward enough to watch her, an hour after- 
 wards, on the old well staircase, where he had once seen 
 Florence in the moonlight, toiling up with Paul ? Or was 
 he in the dark by accident, when, looking up, he saw 
 her coming, with a light, from the room where Florence 
 lay, and marked again the face so changed, which he 
 could not subdue ? 
 
 But, it could never alter as his own did. It never*, in 
 its utmost pride and passion, knew the shadow that had 
 fallen on his, in the dark corner, on the night of the re- 
 turn and often since ; and which deepened on it now as 
 be looked up. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 More Warnings than One. 
 
 Florence, Edith, and Mrs. Skewton were together 
 next day, and the carriage was waiting at the door to 
 take them out. For Cleopatra had her galley again now, 
 and Withers, no longer the wan, stood upright in a 
 pigeon-breasted jacket and military trousers, behind her 
 wheelless chair at dinner time, and butted no more. The 
 hair of Withers v/as radiant with pomatum, in these days 
 of down, and he wore kid gloves and smelt of the water 
 of Cologne. 
 
 They were assembled in Cleopatra’s room. The Ser- 
 pent of old Nile (not to mention her disrespectfully) was 
 reposing on her sofa, sipping her morning chocolate at 
 three o’clock in the afternoon, and Flowers the maid was 
 fastening on her youthful cuffs and frills, and perform- 
 ing 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 tri- 
 fled with them, like a breeze. 
 
 I think I am a little nervous this morning. Flowers,’* 
 said Mrs. Skewton. My hand quite shakes.” 
 
 ‘‘You were the life of the party last night, ma’am, you 
 know,” returned Flowers, “ and you suffer for it to-day, 
 you see.” 
 
 Edith, who had beckoned Florence to the window, and 
 
254 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 was looking out, wilL her back turned on the toilet of 
 her esteemed mother, suddenly withdrew from it, as if 
 it had lightened. 
 
 My darling child,’" cried Cleopatra languidly '‘you 
 aie not nervous ? Don’t tell me, my dear Edith, that 3mu, 
 so enviabl}" self-possessed, are beginning to be a martyr 
 too, like your unfortunately constituted mother ! With- 
 ers, some one at the door.” 
 
 Card, ma"am,” said Withers, taking it towards Mrs. 
 Dombey. 
 
 I^am going out,” she said, without looking at it. 
 
 My dear love,” drawled Mrs. Skewton, ‘‘ how very 
 odd to send that message without seeing the name I 
 Bring it here. Withers. Dear me, my love ; Mr. Carker, 
 too ! that very sensible person ! ” 
 
 I am going out,” repeated Edith, in so imperious a 
 tone, that Withers, going to the door, imperiously in- 
 formed the servant who was waiting, ‘‘Mrs. Dombey is 
 going out. Get along with you,” and shut it on him. 
 
 But the servant came back after a short absence,, and 
 whispered to Withers again, who once more, and not 
 very willingly, presented himself before Mrs. Dombey. 
 
 “ If you please, ma’am, Mr. Carker sends his respect- 
 ful compliments, and begs you would spare him one min 
 ute, if you could — for business, ma^am, if you please.” 
 
 “ Really, my love,” said Mrs. Skewton in her mildest 
 manner ; for her daughter’s face was threatening ; “if 
 you will allow me to offer a word, I should recom 
 mend — ” 
 
 “ Show him this way,” said Edith. As Withers dis^ 
 appeared to execute the command, she added, frowning 
 on her mother, “As he comes at your 'recommendation 
 let him come to your room.” 
 
 “May I — shall I go away ? ” asked Florence, hurriedly, 
 
 Edith nodded yes, but on her way to the door, Flof 
 ence met the visitor coming in. With the same disa 
 greeable 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 answ^er — had 
 scarcely had the honour to know her, last night, she was 
 so greatly changed — and held the door open for her to 
 pass out ; with a secret sense of power in her shrinking 
 from him, that all the deference and politeness of his 
 manner could not quite conceal. 
 
 He then bowed himself for a moment over Mrs. Skew’- 
 ton’s condescending hand, and lastly bowed to Edith. 
 Coldly returning his salute without looking at him, and 
 neither seating herself nor inviting him to be seated, she 
 waited for him to speak. 
 
 Entrenched iii her pride and powder, and wdth all the 
 
BOM BEY AND SON. 
 
 255 
 
 obduracy of lier spirit summoned about her, still lier old 
 ccnviction that sbe and her mother had been known by 
 this man in their worst colours, from their first acquaint- 
 ance ; 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 com- 
 manding face exacting his humility > her disdainful lip 
 repulsing him, her bosom angry at his intrusion, and the 
 dark lashes of her eye sullenly veiling their light, that 
 no ray of it might shine upon him — and submissively as 
 he stood before her, with an entreating injured manner, 
 but with complete submission to her will — she knew in 
 her own soul, that the cases w^ere reversed, and that th© 
 triumph and superiority were his, and that he knew it full 
 well. 
 
 “I have presumed,” said Mr. Carker, *'to solicit an 
 Interview, and I have ventured to describe it as being one 
 of business, because— 
 
 Perhaps you are charged by Mr. Dombey with some 
 message of reproof,” said Edith. You possess Mr. 
 Dombey’s confidence in such an unusual degree, sir, 
 that you w^ouid scarcely surprise me if that were your 
 business.” 
 
 ‘‘I have no message to the lady who sheds a lustre 
 upon his name,” said Mr. Carker. "‘But I entreat that 
 lady, on my own behalf, to be just to a very humble 
 claimant for justice at her hands — a mere dependent of 
 Mr. Dombey’s — which is a position of humility ; and to re- 
 flect upon my perfect helplessness last night, and the 
 impossibility of my avoiding the share that was forced 
 upon me in a very painful occasion.” 
 
 “ My dearest Edith,” hinted Cleopatra in a low voice, 
 as she held her eye-glass aside, ‘ " really very charming of 
 Mr. What’s-his marne. And full of heart ! ” 
 
 “ For I do,” said Mr. Carker, appealing to Mrs. Skew- 
 ton 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 oe nresent. So 
 slight a difference, as between the principals — between 
 those v/ho love each other with disinterested devotion, 
 and would make any sacrifice of self, in such a cause=-= 
 is nothing. As Mrs. Skewton herself expressed, with so 
 much truth and feeling, last night, it is nothing. ” 
 
 Edith could not look at him, but she said after a few 
 moments, 
 
 “ And your business, sir — ” 
 
 « Edith, my pet,” said Mrs. Skev/ton, all this time 
 
256 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Mr. Carker is standing ! My dear Mr. Carker, take a 
 seat, I beg/' 
 
 He offered no reply to tke mother, but fixed his eyes 
 on the proud daughter, as though he would onl 5 > 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 suprem- 
 acy and disrespect, but she had struggled against even 
 that concession ineffectually, and it was wrested from 
 her. That was enough ! Mr. Carker sat down. 
 
 May I be allowed, madam,” said Carker, turning his 
 white teeth on Mrs. Skewton like a light — a lady of 
 four excellent sense and quick feeling will give me 
 credit, for good reason, 1 am sure— to address what I 
 have to say, to Mrs, Bornbey, and to leave her to impart 
 it to you who are her best and dearest friend — next to 
 Mr. Dombey?” 
 
 Mrs. Skewton would have retired, but Edith stopped 
 her. Edith would have stopped Mm too, and indignantly 
 ordered him to speak openly or not at all, but that he 
 Baid in a low voice — ‘‘Miss Florence — the young lady 
 who has just left the room—” 
 
 Edith suffered him to proceed. She looked at him 
 now. As he bent forward, to be nearer, with the utmost 
 show of delicacy and respect, and with his teeth persua- 
 sively arrayed, in a self -depreciating smile, she felt as if 
 she could have struck him dead. 
 
 “ Miss Florence's position,” he began, “has been an 
 unfortunate one. I have a difficulty in alluding to it to 
 you, whose attachment to her father is naturally watch- 
 ful and jealous of every word that applies to him.” Al- 
 ways distinct and soft in speech, no language could de- 
 scribe 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. Bornbey 
 2 n his different way, and whose life is passed in admira- 
 tion of Mr. Dombey's character, may I say, without of ^ 
 fence to your tenderness as a wife, that Miss Florence 
 has unhappily been neglected— by her father. May 1 
 say by her father?” 
 
 Edith replied, “I know it.” 
 
 “You know it!” said Mr. Carker, with a great ap- 
 pearance of relief. “It removes a mountain from my 
 breast. May I hope you know how the neglect origin- 
 ated ; in what an amiable phase of Mr. Bombey's pride 
 '^-Kiharacter I mean ? ” 
 
 *‘You may pass that by, sir,” she returned, “and 
 ©ome the sooner to the end of what you have to say. ” 
 
 “Indeed, I am sensible, madam,” replied Carker, — 
 
 trust me, I am deeply sensible, that Mr. Bornbey can 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 257 
 
 require no justification in any tiling, to you. But, kindly 
 Judge of my breast by your own, and you will forgive 
 my interest in him, if, in its excess, it goes at all 
 astray/’ 
 
 What a stab to her proud heart, to sit there, face to 
 face with him, and have him tendering her false oath at 
 the altar again and again for her acceptance, and press- 
 ing it upon her like the dregs of a sickening cup she 
 could not own her loathing of, or turn away from I How 
 shame, remorse, and passion raged within her, when, 
 upright in her beauty before him, she knew that in her 
 spirit she w^as down at his feet 1 
 
 ‘‘Miss h^rence,” 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 re- 
 gret to say, with certain coasting sailors, of anything 
 but good repute, and a runaway old bankrupt.” 
 
 “ I have heard the circumstances, sir,” said Edith, 
 Sashing her disdainful glance upon him, “and I know 
 •>5hat you pervert them. You may not know it, I hope 
 so* 
 
 “Pardon me,” said Mr. Carker, “I believe that no- 
 body knows them so well as I. Your generous and 
 ardent nature, madam— the same nature which is so 
 nobly imperative in vindication of your beloved and 
 honoured husband, and which has blessed him as even 
 his merits deserve— I must respect, defer to, bov/ before. 
 But, as regards the circumstances, which is indeed the 
 business I presume 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 — frienrl, I 
 have fully ascertained them, in my execution of that 
 trust ; in my deep concern, which you can so well under- 
 stand, 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.” 
 
 She raised her eyes no higher than his mouth, but she 
 saw the means of mischief vaunted in every tooth it 
 contained. 
 
 “ Pardon me, madam,” he continued, “if, in my per- 
 plexity, /presume to take counsel with you, and to con- 
 sult your pleasure. I think I have observed that you 
 are greatly interested in Miss Florence ? ” 
 
258 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ■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 com- 
 posure on it, and distantly inclined her head in reply. 
 
 This interest, madam — so touching an evidence of 
 everything associated with Mr. Dombey being dear to 
 you—induces me to pause before I make him acquainted 
 with these circumstances, which, as yet, he does not 
 know. It so far shakes me, if I may make the confes- 
 sion, in my allegiance, that on the intimation of the least 
 desire to that effect from you, I v/ould suppress them.” 
 
 Edith raised her head quickly, and starting back, 
 bent her dark glance upon liirn^. He met it v/ith his 
 blandest and most deferential smile, and went on. 
 
 You say that as I described 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 asso- 
 ciation often repeated, on the part of Miss Florence, how- 
 ever 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 occasion* 
 ally contemplated it) of separation and alienation of her 
 from his home. Madam, bear with me, and remember 
 mv 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^stuhhorn- 
 ness, 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.” 
 
 She bent her glance upon him still ; hut, look as sted- 
 fast as she would, her haughty nostrils dilated, and her 
 breath came somewhat deeper, and her lip would slightly 
 curl as he described that in his patron to which they 
 must all bow down. He saw it ; and though his expres- 
 sion did not change, she knew he saw it. 
 
 ‘‘Even so slight an incident as last night’s,” he said, 
 “ if I might refer to it once more, would serve to illus- 
 strate my meaning, better than a greater one. Dombey 
 and Son know neither time, nor place, nor season, but 
 hear them all down. But I rejoice in its occurrence, for 
 it has opened the way for me to approach Mrs. Dombey 
 with this subject to-day, even if it has entailed upon me 
 the penalty of her temporary displeasure. Madam, in 
 the midst of my uneasiness and apprehension on this 
 subject, I was summoned by Mr. Dombey to Leamington. 
 Til ere I saw you. There I could not help knowing what 
 relation you would shortly occupy towards him — to hia 
 
WITHERS, MEETING HIBI ON THE STAIRS, STOOD AMAZED AT THE 
 BEAUTY OE HIS TEETH, AND AT HIS BRILLIANT SMILE. 
 
 — Dombey and Son, Vol. Twelye, page 859. 
 
260 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 endurin^r happiness and yours. There I resolved to 
 await the lime 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 betv/een two persons — as in such a mar 
 riage— 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 1 aspire to the 
 distinction of believing that my confidence is accepted, 
 and that I am relieved from my responsibility? 
 
 He long remembered the look she gave him — who could 
 see it, and forget it?— and the struggle that ensued 
 within her. At last, she said : 
 
 I accept it, sir. You will please to consider this 
 Matter at an end, and that it goes no further.’’ 
 
 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 
 when she rode out in her carriage presently, for a 
 great lady, as happy as she was rich and fine. But, they 
 had not seen her, just before,/ in her own room with* no 
 one by; and they had not heard her utterance of the three 
 words, ' ' Oh Florence, Florence ! ” 
 
 Mrs. Skewton, reposing on her sofa, and sipping her 
 chocolate, had heard nothing but the low word business, 
 for which she had a mortal aversion, insomuch that she 
 had long banished it from her vocabulary, and had gone 
 nigh, in a charming manner and with an immense 
 amount of heart (to say nothing of soul), to ruin divers 
 milliners and others in consequence. Therefore, Mrs. 
 Skewton asked no questions, and showed no curiosity. 
 Indeed, the peach- velvet bonnet gave her sufficient occu- 
 pation out of doors ; for being perched on the back of 
 her head, and the day being rather windy, it was frantic 
 to escape from Mrs. Skewton’s company, and would be 
 coaxed into no sort of compromise. When the carriage 
 was closed, and the wind shut out, the palsy played 
 among the artificial roses again, like an alms-house full 
 of superannuated zephyrs ; and altogether Mrs. Skewton 
 had enough to do, and got on but indifferently. 
 
 She got on no better towards night ; for when Mrs. 
 Dombey in her dressing-room, had been dressed and 
 waiting for her half an hour, and Mr. Dombey, in the 
 drawing-room, had paraded himself into a state of soL 
 ema fretf illness (they were all three going out to din- 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 261 
 
 ner), Flowers fhe maid appeared with a pale face to Mrs. 
 Dombey, saying : 
 
 ‘‘If you please, ma’am, I beg your pardon, but I can’t 
 do notWng with missis ! ” 
 
 What do you mean ? ” asked Edith. 
 
 ^^Well, ma’am,” replied the frightened maid, “I 
 hardly know. She’s making faces 1 ” 
 
 Edith hurried with her to her mother’s room. Cleopa- 
 tra was arrayed in full dress, with the diamonds, short- 
 sleeves, rouge, curls, teeth, and other juvenility all com- 
 plete ; but Paralysis was not to be deceived, had known 
 her for the object of its errand, and had struck her at 
 her glass, where she lay like a horrible doll that had 
 tumbled down. 
 
 They took her to pieces in very shame, and put the 
 little of her that was real on a bei 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 speech- 
 less, and staring at the ceiling, for days : sometimes 
 making inarticulate sounds in answer to such questions 
 as did she know who were present, and the like : some- 
 times giving no reply either by sign or gesture, or in her 
 unwinking eyes. 
 
 At length she began to recover consciousness, and in 
 some degree the power of niotion, 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 immedi- 
 ately provided, thinking she was going to make a will, 
 or write some last request ; and Mrs. Dombey being from 
 home, tbe maid awaited the result with solemn feelings. 
 
 After much painful scrawling and erasing, and putting 
 In of wrong characters, which seemed to tumble out of 
 the pencil of their own accord, the old woman produced 
 this document : 
 
 “Rose-coloured curtains.” 
 
 The maid being perfectly transfixed, and with tolerable 
 reason, Cleopatra amended the manuscript by adding two 
 words more, when it stood thus : 
 
 “Rose-coloured curtains for doctors.” 
 
 The maid now perceived remotely that she wished 
 these articles to be provided for the' better presentation 
 of her complexion to the faculty ; and as those in the 
 house who knew her best, liad no doubt of the correct- 
 ness of this opinion, v^hich she was soon able to establish 
 for herself, the rose-coloured curtains were added to he5 
 bed, and she mended with increased rapidity from that 
 hour. She was soon able to sit up, in curls and a laced 
 
362 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 cap and night-gown, and to have a iittle artificial bloom 
 dropped into tiie hollow caverns of her cheeks. 
 
 It was a tremendous sight to see this old woman in 
 her finery leering and mincing at Death, and playing off 
 her youthful tricks upon him as if he had been the 
 major ; but an alteration in her mind that ensued on 
 the X->aralytic stroke was fraught with as much mattei^ 
 for reflection, and was quite as ghastly. 
 
 Whether the weakening of her intellect made her 
 more cunning and false than before, or whether it con- 
 fused her between what she had assumed to be and what 
 she really had been, or whether it had awakened any 
 glimmering of remorse, which could neither struggle 
 into light nor get back into total darkness, or whether, 
 in the jumble of her faculties, a combination of these 
 effects had been shaken up, which is perhaps the more 
 likely supposition, the result was this : — That she becamo 
 hugely exact in respect of Edith’s affection and gratitude 
 and attention to her ; highly laudatory of herself as a 
 most inestimable parent ; and very jealous of having 
 any rival in Edith’s regard. Further, in place of re- 
 membering 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 incom- 
 parable mother ; and all this, with the weakness and 
 peevishness of such a state, always serving for a sarcas- 
 tic commentary on her levity and youthfulness. 
 
 '‘Where is Mrs. Dombey?” she would say to her 
 maid. 
 
 " Gone out, ma’am.” 
 
 " Gone out ! Does she go out to shun her mama, 
 Flowers ?” 
 
 " La bless you, no ma’am. Mrs. Dombey has only 
 gone out for a ride with Miss Florence.” 
 
 ‘^Miss Florence. Who’s Miss Florence? Don’t teE 
 me about Miss Florence. What’s Miss Florence to heiv 
 compared to me ? ” 
 
 The opposite display of the diamonds, or the peach- 
 velvet bonnet (she sat in the bonnet to receive visitors, 
 w'eeks 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 r«^ 
 main in a complacent state until Edith came to see her 1 
 when, at a glance of the proud face, she would relapsi 
 again . 
 
 " Well, I am sure, Edith !” she would cry, shaking 
 her head. 
 
 “ What is the matter, mother ? ” 
 
 “ Matter ! I really don’t know wliat is the matter. 
 The world is coming to such an artificial and ungrateful 
 istate, that I begin to think there’s no Heart — or anything 
 
BOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 2m 
 
 dt that sort — ^left in it, positively. Withers is more a 
 child :o 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 he more considered.” 
 
 What would you have, mother?” 
 
 Oh, a great deal, Edith,” impatiently. 
 
 Is there anything you want that you have not? 
 is your own fault if there be.” 
 
 ‘"My own fault!” beginning to whimper. ‘'The 
 parent I have been to you, Edith ; making you a com- 
 panion from your cradle ! And w'hen 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 itD 
 being my own fault.” 
 
 “Mother, mother, I reproach you with nothing. Wh^ 
 will you always dwell on this ? ” 
 
 “ Isn’t it natural that I should dwell on this, when I 
 am all affection and sensitiveness, and am wounded in 
 the cruellest way, whenever you look at me ? ” 
 
 “ I do not mean to wound you, mother. Have you no 
 remembrance of what has been said between us? Let 
 the Past rest. ” 
 
 “Yes, rest ! And let gratitude to me, rest ; and let 
 affection for me, rest ; and let me rest in my out-of-the- 
 way room, with no society and no attention, while you 
 find new relations to make much of, who have no earthly 
 claim upon you S Good gracious, Edith, do you know 
 what an elegant establishment you are at the head of ? ” 
 
 “ Yes. Hush ! ” 
 
 “ And that gentlemanly creature, Dombey? Do you 
 know that you are married to him, Edith, and that you 
 have a settlement, and a position, and a carriage, and 
 I don’t know what V’ 
 
 “ Indeed I know it, mother ; well.” 
 
 “As you would have had with that delightful good 
 soul— what did they call him ? — Granger — if he hadn’t 
 died. And who have you to thank for all this, Edith?” 
 
 “ You, mother ; you.” 
 
 “ Then put your arms round my neck, and kiss me ; 
 and show me, Edith, that you know there never was a 
 better mama than I have been to you. And don’t let me 
 become a perfect fright with teazing and wearing myself 
 at your ingratitude, or when I’m out again in society no 
 soul will know me, not even that hateful animal, the 
 major.” 
 
 But, sometimes, when Edith went nearer to her, and 
 bending down her stately head, put her cold cheek to 
 hers, the mother would draw back as if she were afraid 
 
264 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 of her, and would! fall into a fit of trembling, and cry 
 out that there was a wandering in her wits. And some^ 
 times she would entreat her, with humility, to sit down 
 on the chair beside her bed, and would look at her (as 
 she sat there brooding) with a face that even the rose- 
 coloured curtains could not make otherwise than seared 
 and wild. 
 
 The rose-coloured curtains blushed, in course of time, 
 on Cleopatra’s bodily recovery, and on her dress — more 
 juvenile than ever, to repair the ravages of illness — and 
 on the rouge, and on the teeth, and on the curls, and on 
 the diamonds, and the short sleeves, and the v/hole 
 wardrobe of the doll that had tumbled down before the 
 mirror. They blushed too, now and then, upon an in- 
 distinctness in her speech, which she turned off with a 
 girlish giggle, and on an occasional failing in her mem- 
 ory, that had no rule in it but came and went fantasti- 
 cally, as if in mockery of her fantastic self. 
 
 But, they never blushed upon a change in the new 
 manner of her thought and speech towards her daugh- 
 ter. And though that daughter often came within their 
 influence, they never blushed upon her loveliness irradi- 
 ated by a smile, or softened by the light of filial love, in 
 its stern beauty. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 Miss Tox improves an old Acquaintance. 
 
 The forlorn Miss Tox, abandoned by her friend 
 Louisa Chick, and bereft of Mr. Dombey’s countenance 
 — for no delicate pair of wedding cards, united by a sil- 
 ver 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 melan- 
 choly. For a time the Bird Waltz was unheard in Prin- 
 cess’s place, the plants were neglected, and dust col- 
 lected on the miniature of Miss Tox’s ancestor with the 
 powdered head and pigtail. 
 
 Miss Tox, however, was not of an age or of a disposi- 
 tion 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 powder-headed ancestor had not been under a cloud 
 for more than six weeks, when Miss Tox breathed on his ^ 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 265 
 
 benignant visage, and polished' him up with a piece of 
 wash-leather. 
 
 Still, Miss Tox was lonely, and at a loss. Her attach- 
 ments, 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 com- 
 position. 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 ^iay, at a considerable dis- 
 tance, so overpov^^ered her milky nature, that she was 
 fain to seek immediate refuge in a pastrycook's, and 
 there, in a musty little hack room usually devoted to the 
 consumption of soups, and pervaded by an oxtail atmos- 
 phere, relieve her feelings by weeping plentifully. 
 
 Against Mr. Dombey Miss Tox hardly felt that she 
 had any reason of complaint. Her sense of that gentle^ 
 man's magnificence was such, that once removed fiom 
 him, she felt as if her distance always had been immeas- 
 urable, and as if he had greatly condescended in tolerat- 
 ing her at all. No wife could he too handsome or to© 
 stately for him, according to Miss Tox's sincere opinion. 
 It v/as perfectly natural that in looking for one, he 
 should look high. Miss Tox with tears laid down this 
 proposition, and fully admitted it twenty times a day. 
 She never recalled the lofty manner in which Mr, Dom- 
 bey had made her subservient to his convenience and 
 caprices, and had graciously permitted her to be one of 
 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 re- 
 gard Mr. Dombey as one of the most impressive and dig- 
 nified of men." 
 
 Cut off, however, from the implacable Louisa, and 
 being shy of the major (whom pLe viewed with some 
 distrust now). Miss Tox found it very irksome to know 
 nothing of what was going on in Mr. Dombey' s estab- 
 lishment. And as she really had got into the habit of 
 considering Dombey and Son as the pivot on which the 
 world in g( leral 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 bolding 
 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. 
 
 VoL. 12 — L 
 
266 
 
 WORKS OJ' CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ^ At all events, towards tlie 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 lefreshment 
 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 w^as in either state. He seemed 
 to have made over all his own inheritance of fuming and 
 fretting to the engines '■vvlth which he was connected, 
 which panted, and gasped, and chafed, and wore them- 
 selves out in a most unsparing manner, while Mr. Toodle 
 led a mild and equable life. 
 
 Polly, my gal,” said Mr. Toodle, with a young Toodle 
 on each knee, and two more making tea for him, and 
 plenty more scattered about — Mr. Toodle was never out 
 of children, but always kept a good supply on hand — 
 
 You an't seen our Biler lately, have you 
 
 ‘‘No,” replied Polly, “ but he’s almost certain to look 
 In to-night. It’s his right evening, and he’s very regu- 
 lar.” 
 
 “ I suppose,” said Mr, Toodle, relishing his meal in- 
 finitely, “as our Biler is a doin’ now about as well as a 
 boy can do, eh, Polly ?” 
 
 “Oh ! he’s a doing beautiful ! ” responded Polly. 
 
 “He an’t got to be at all secret-like— has he, Polly?’* 
 inquired Mr. Toodle. 
 
 “ No ! ” said Mrs. Toodle, plumply. 
 
 “ I’m glad he an’t got to be at all secret-like, Polly, ' 
 observed Mr. Toodle in his slow and measured way, and 
 shovelling in his bread and butter with a clasp-knife, as 
 if he were stoking himself, “ because that don’t look 
 well ; do it, Polly?” 
 
 “ Why, of course it don’t father. How can you ask ! ” 
 
 “ You see, my boys and gals,” said Mr. Toodle, look- 
 ing 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 tun- 
 nels,* don't you play no secret games. Keep your whis- 
 tles going, and let’s know where you are.” 
 
 The rising Toodles set up a shrill murmur, expressive 
 of their resolution to profit by the paternal advice. 
 
 “ But what makes you say this along of Rob, father?” 
 asked his wife, anxiously. 
 
 “ Polly, old ’ooman,” said Mr. Toodle, “ I don’t know 
 as I said it partickler along o’ Rob, I’m sure. I starts 
 light with Rob only ; I comes to a branch ; I takes on 
 what I finds there ; and a whole train of ideas gets 
 coupled on to him, adore I knows where I am, or where 
 
DOMBSY AND SOX. 
 
 267 
 
 they comes from. What a Junction a man’s thoughts 
 is,” said Mr. Toodle, ‘‘ to-be-sure 1 ” 
 
 This profound rejection Mr. Toodle washed down 
 with a pint mug of tea, and proceeded to solidify with a 
 great weight of bread and batter ; charging his young 
 daughters meanwhile, to keep plenty of hot water in the 
 pot, as he was nncommon dry, and should take the in- 
 definite quantity of a sight of mugs,” before his thirst 
 was appeased. 
 
 In satisfying himself, however, Mr. Toodle v/as not re- 
 gardless of the younger branches about him, who, al- 
 though they had made their own evening repast, were 
 on the look-out for irregular morsels, as possessing a 
 relish. These he distributed now and then to the ex- 
 pectant circle, by holding out great wedges of bread and 
 butter, to be bitten at by the family in lawful succes- 
 sion, and by serving out small doses of tea in like man- 
 ner with a spoon ; which snanks had such a relish in the 
 mouths of these young Toodles, that, after partaking of 
 the same, they performed private dances of ecstasy 
 among themselves, and stood on one leg apiece, and 
 hopped, and indulged in other saltatory tokens of glad- 
 ness. These vents for their excitement found, they 
 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 convers- 
 ing on foreign subjects, and whispering confidentially. 
 
 Mr. Toodle, in the midst of this family group, and set- 
 ting an awful example to his children in the way of ap- 
 petite, was conveying the two young Toodles on his 
 knees to Birmingham by special engine, and was con- 
 templating the rest over a barrier of bread and butter, 
 when Rob the Grinder, in his sou’wester hat and mourn- 
 ing slops, presented himself, and v/as received with a 
 general rush of brothers and sisters. 
 
 ‘‘ Well, mother ! ” said Rob, dutifully kissing her ; 
 
 how are you, mother? ” 
 
 There’s my boy ! ” cried Polly, giving him a hug, 
 and a pat on the back. Secret ! Bless you, father, 
 not he ! ” 
 
 This was intended for Mr. Toodle’s private edification, 
 but Rob the Grinder, whose withers were not un wrung, 
 caught the words as they were spoken. 
 
 What 1 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 he 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 I” 
 
268 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 “■My poor boy !” cried Polly, “father didn’t mean 
 anything.” 
 
 If father didn’t mean anything,” blubbered the in- 
 jured Grinder, why did he go and say anything, 
 mother ? Nobody tiiinks half so bad of me as my own 
 father does. What a unnatural thing ! I wish some- 
 body’d take and chop my head off. Father wouldn’t 
 mind doing it, I believe, and I’d much rather he did that 
 than t’other.” 
 
 At these desperate words all the young Toodles 
 shrieked ; a pathetic effect, which the Grinder im- 
 proved 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 
 J)urple that Mr. Toodle in consternation carried him out 
 to the water-butt, and would have put him under the tap, 
 but for his being recovered by the sight of that instru- 
 ment. 
 
 Matters having reached this point, Mr. Toodle ex. 
 plained, and the virtuous feelings of his son being there^ 
 by calmed, they shook hands, and harmony reigned 
 again. 
 
 ‘‘Will you do as I do, Biler, my boy?” inquired his 
 father, returning to his tea with new strength. 
 
 “No, thank’ee, father. Master and I had tea to- 
 gether.” 
 
 “ And how is master. Bob ? ” said Polly. 
 
 “Well, I don’t know, mother ; not much to boast on. 
 There ain’t no bis’ness done, you see. He don’t know 
 anything about it, the cap’en don’t. There was a man 
 come into the shop this very day, and says ‘ I want a so- 
 and-so,’ he says — some hard name or another. ‘A 
 which ? ’ says the cap’en. ‘ A so-and-so,’ says the man. 
 ‘Brother,’ says the cap’en, ‘will you take a observation 
 round the shop?’ Well,’ says the man, ‘I’ve done it.’ 
 
 ‘ Do you see wot you want ? ’ says the cap’en. ‘ No, I 
 don’t,’ says the man. ‘ Do you know it wen you do see 
 it?’ ‘^ays the cap’en. ‘No, I don’t,’ says the man. 
 
 ‘ why, then I tell you w^ot, my lad,’ says the cap’en, 
 
 ‘ jOCl d better go back and ask wot it’s like, outside, for 
 no more don’t I ! ’” 
 
 That an’t the way to make money, though, is it?”, 
 said Polly. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Money, mother ! He’ll never make money. He has 
 such ways as I never see. He an’t a bad master though. 
 I’ll say that for him. But that an’t much to me, for I 
 don’t think I shall stop at him long.” 
 
 “ Not stop in your place, Rob ! ” cried his mother : 
 tvhile Mr. Toodle opened his eyes. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 269 
 
 Not in tlia.t place, p’raps/’ returned the Grinder, with 
 a wiuk. “I shouldn’t wonder — friends at court you 
 know — but never you mind, mother, just now ; I’m all 
 right, that’s all.” 
 
 The indisputable proof afforded in these hints, and in 
 the Grinder’s mysterious manner, of his not being sub- 
 ject to that failing which Mr. Toodle had, by implication 
 attributed to him, might have led to a renewal of his 
 v/rongs, and of the sensation in the family, but for the 
 opportune arrival of another visitor, who to Polly’s great 
 surprise, appeared at the door, smiling patronage and 
 friendship on all there. 
 
 How do you do, Mrs. Richards?” said Miss Tox. 
 
 ‘ I have come to see you. May I come in ? ” 
 
 The cheery face of Mrs. Richards shone with a hospi- 
 table reply, and Miss Tox, accepting the proffered chair 
 and gracefully recognizing Mr. Toodle on her way to it, 
 untied her bonnet strings, and said that in the first place 
 she must beg the dear children, one and all, to come and 
 kiss her. 
 
 The ill-starred youngest Toodle but one, who would 
 appear from the frequency of his domestic troubles, to 
 have been born under an unlucky planet, was prevented 
 from performing his part in this general salutation by hav- 
 ing fixed the sou’wester hat (with which he had been pre- 
 viously trifling) deep on his head, hind side before, and 
 being unable to get it off again ; which accident present- 
 ing 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. 
 
 You have almost forgotten me, sir, I dare say ? ” said 
 Miss Tox to Mr. Toodle. 
 
 '^No, ma’am, no,” said Toodle. ''But we’ve all on 
 us got a little older since then.” 
 
 " And how do you find yourself, sir?” inquired Miss 
 Tox blandly. 
 
 " Hearty, ma’am, thankee,” replied Toodle. "How 
 do you find ^wrself, ma’am. Do the rheumaticks keep 
 off pretty well, ma’am? We must all expect to grow 
 into ’em, as we gets on.” 
 
 " Thank you,” said Miss Tox. " I have not felt any 
 inconvenience from that disorder yet.” 
 
 " You’re wery fortunate, ma’am,” returned Mr. 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 am 
 other mug of tea. 
 
270 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 You never mean to saj, Mrs. Richards/^ cried' Miss 
 ToX, looking at Rob, “ that that is your—’' 
 
 Eldest, ma’am,” said Polly. “ Yes, indeed, it is. 
 That’s the little fellow, ma’am, that was the innocent 
 cause of so much.” 
 
 ''This here, ma’am,” said Toodle, "is him mth the 
 short legs — and they was,” said Mr. Toodle, with a 
 touch of poetry in his tone, " unusual short for leathers 
 — as Mr. Dombey made a Grinder on.” 
 
 The recollection almost overpowered Miss Tox. The 
 subject of it had a peculiar interest for her directly. 
 She asked him to shake hands, and congratulated his 
 mother on his frank, ingenuous face. Rob over- 
 hearing her, called up a look, to justify the eulogium, 
 but it was hardly the right look. 
 
 " And now, Mrs. Richards,” said Miss Tox, — and you 
 too, sir,” addressing Toodle — "I’ll tell you, plainly and 
 truly, what I have come here for. You may be aware, 
 Mrs. Richards — and, possibly you may be aware too, sir — 
 that a little distance has interposed itself between me 
 and some of my friends, and that where I used to visit 
 a good deal, I do not visit now.” 
 
 Polly, who, with a vroman’s tact, understood this at 
 once, expressed as much in a little look. Mr. Toodle who 
 bad not the faintest idea what Miss Tox was talking 
 about expressed that also, in a stare. 
 
 " Of course,” said Miss Tox, "how our little coclne.ss 
 has arisen is of no moment, and does not require to be 
 discussed. It is sufficient for me to say, that I have the 
 greatest possible respect for, and interest in, Mr. Dom- 
 bey ; ” Miss Tox’s voice faltered ; ‘ ‘ and everything that 
 relates to him.” 
 
 Mr. Toodle, enlightened, shook his head, and said he 
 had heerd it said, and, for his own part, he did think, as 
 Mr. Dombey was a difficult subject. 
 
 "Pray don’t say so, sir, if you please,” returned Miss 
 Tox. " Let me entreat you not to say so, sir, either now, 
 or at any future time. Such observations cannot but be 
 Very painful to me ; and to a gentleman, whose mind is 
 constituted as I am quite sure yours is, can afford no per- 
 manent satisfaction.” 
 
 Mr. Toodle. who had not entertained the least doubt 
 of offering a remark that would be received with acqui- 
 escence, was greatly confounded. 
 
 "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. Rich- 
 ards about the family, and about old times. And as 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 271 
 
 Mrs. Richards andl never had the least difference (though 
 I could wish no V/ 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, with- 
 out 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 alv/ays were." 
 
 Polly was gratihed, and showed it. Mr. Toodle didn’t 
 know whether he w^as gratified or not, and preserved a 
 stolid calmness. 
 
 "You see, Mrs. Richards," said Miss Tox — " and I hope 
 you see too, sir — there are many little ways in which I 
 can be slightly useful to you, if you will make no stran- 
 ger 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.” 
 
 Mr. Toodle, who had a great respect for learning, 
 jerked his head approvingly at his wife, and moistened 
 his hands with dawning satisfaction. 
 
 ' ' Then, not being a stranger, I shall be in nobody's 
 way," said Miss Tox, "and everything will go on just as 
 if I were not here. Mrs. Richards will do her mending, 
 or hei ironing, or her nursing, whatever it is, without 
 minding me : and youTl smoke your pipe, too, if you're so 
 disposed, sir, won't you ? " 
 
 "Thank'ee mum," said Mr. Toodle. '‘Yes : I'll take 
 my hit of backer.” 
 
 "Very good of you to say so, sir," rejoined Miss Tox, 
 "and I really do assure, you now, unfeignedly, that ii 
 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 hack to me, if you'll enter into this little 
 bargain comfortably, and easily, and good-naturedly, 
 without another word about it." 
 
 The bargain was ratified on the spot ; and Miss Tox 
 found herself so much at home already, that without- 
 delay she instituted a preliminary examination of the 
 children all round — which Mr. Toodle much admired-=- 
 and booked their ages, names, and acquirements, on a 
 piece of paper. This ceremony, and a little attendant 
 gossip, prolonged the time until after their usual hour 
 of going to bed, and detained Miss Tox at the Toodle 
 fireside until it was too late for her to walk home alone. 
 The gallant Grinder, however, being still there, politely 
 offered to attend her to her own door ; and as it was 
 something to Miss Tox, to be seen home by a youth whom 
 Mr. Pombey had first inducted into those manly garments 
 
212 
 
 WOEKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 whidi are rarely mentioned by name, she very readily 
 accepted the proposal. 
 
 After shaking hands with Mr. Toodle and Polly, and 
 kissing all the children. Miss Tox left the house, there- 
 fore, with unlimited popularity, and carrying away with 
 her so light a heart that it might have given Mrs. Chick 
 offence if that good lady could have w^eighed it. 
 
 Rob the Grinder, in his modesty, would have walked 
 behind, but Miss Tox desired him to keep beside her, for 
 conversational purposes ; and, as she afterwards ex- 
 pressed it to his mother, drew him out,” upon the road. 
 
 He drew out so bright, and clear, and shining, that 
 Miss Tox was charmed with him. The more Miss Tox 
 drew him out, the finer he came — like wire. There 
 never was a better or more promising youth — a more 
 affectionate, steady, prudent, sober, honest, meek, candid 
 young man — than Rob drew out that night. 
 
 I am quite glad,” said Miss Tox, arrived at her own 
 door, ‘‘ to know you. I hope you’ll consider me your 
 friend, and that you’ll come and see me as often as you 
 like. Do you keep a money-box ? ” 
 
 ‘'Yes ma’am,” returned Rob ; “ I’m saving up against 
 I’ve got enough to put in the Bank, ma’am.” 
 
 “ Very laudable indeed,” said Miss Tox. “ I’m glad 
 to hear it. Put this half crown into it, if you please.” 
 
 “ Oh thank you, ma’am,” replied Rob, “ but really I 
 couldn’t think of depriving you.” 
 
 “I commend your independent spirit,” said Miss Tox, 
 “ but it’s no deprivation, I assure you. I shall be of- 
 fended if you don’t take it, as a mark of my good wdll. 
 Good night, Robin.” 
 
 “ Good night, ma’am,” said Rob, “ and thank you ! ” 
 
 Who ran sniggering off to get change, and tossed it 
 away with a pieman. But they never taught 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 ra- 
 tionally said, let us have a better one. But, the govern- 
 ing 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’ Institu- 
 tion. 
 
KAN SNIGGERING OFF TO GET CHANGE, AND TOSSED IT AWAY 
 WITH A PIEMAN. 
 
 — Dombey and Sou, Vol. Twelve, page IJiS. 
 
274 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 Further Adventures of Captain Edward Cuttle^ Mariner. 
 
 Time, sure of foot and strong of will, had so pressetj 
 onward, that the year enjoined by the old Instrument- 
 maker, as the term duidng which his friend should re- 
 frain from opening the sealed packet accompanying 
 the letter he had left for him, was now nearly expired, 
 and Captain Cuttle began to look at it of an evening, 
 with feelings of mystery and uneasiness. 
 
 The captain, in his honour, would as soon have thou glifc 
 of opening the parcel one hour before the expiration .>f 
 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 lum ; 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 ad- 
 vantageous position on the whitewash. 
 
 In respect of Heart's Delight, the captain's parental 
 regard 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 mod- 
 esty he made the best atonement he could think of, by 
 putting himself out of the way of doing any harm to 
 any one, and, as it were, throwing himself overboard for 
 a dangerous person. 
 
 Self-buried, therefore, among the instruments, the 
 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 him- 
 self adrift from all such acquaintance, as he didn’t know 
 what magazine he mightn’t blow up, without meaning 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 275 
 
 of it. In tMs self-imposed retirement, tlie captain 
 passed .whole days and v/eeks without interchanging a 
 word with any one but Rob the Grinder, whom he es- 
 teemed 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. 
 
 The captain, did not, however, in his musings, ne- 
 glect his own improvement, or the mental culture of 
 Rob the Grinder. That young man was generally re- 
 quired to read out of some book to the captain, for one 
 hour every evening ; and as the captain implicitly be- 
 lieved 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. 
 
 Rob the Grinder, whose reverence for the inspired 
 writings, under the admirable system of the GrindeFs 
 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. 
 
 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 spec, 
 tacies, 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« 
 
276 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 book to tliat effect ; the wind then blowing (wMcli be 
 brst recorded) pretty fresh, west and by north ; ‘ having 
 changed in the night. 
 
 One of the captain's chief difficulties was Mr. Toots, 
 ViTho 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 Hombey was suspicious, 
 but the captain had a secret kindness for Mr. Toots's ap- 
 parent reliance on him, and forebore to decide against him 
 for the present ; merely eyeing him, with a sagacity not to 
 be described, whenever he approached the subject that 
 was nearest to his heart. 
 
 Captain 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 ? " 
 
 “Why, I’ll tell you what it is, my lad," replied the 
 captain, who had at length concluded on a course of 
 action ; “I've been turning that there, over." 
 
 “ Captain Gills, it's very kind of you," retorted Mr. 
 Toots. “ I'm much obliged to you. Upon my word and 
 honour, Captain Gills, it would be a charity to give me 
 the pleasure of your acquaintance. It really would." 
 
 “You see, brother,” argued the captain slowly, “I 
 don’t know you." 
 
 “But you never can know me. Captain Gills,” replied 
 Mr. Toots, steadfast to his point, “ if you don't give me 
 the pleasure of your acquaintance. " 
 
 The captain seemed struck by the originality and 
 power of this remark, and looked at Mr. Toots as if he 
 thought there w^as a great deal more in him than he had 
 expected. 
 
 “ Well said, my lad,” observed the captain, nodding 
 his head thoughtfully ; “and true. Now look'ee here : 
 You’ve made some observations to me, w^hich gives me 
 to understand as you admire a certain sweet creetur. 
 Hey?" 
 
 “ Captain Gills," said Mr. Toots, gesticulating vio- 
 lently wdth the hand in which he held his hat, “ Admi- 
 ration 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 consi 
 der it a compliment. If, at the sacrifice of all my proper- 
 ty, 1 could get transmigrated into Miss Dombey's dog— 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 277 
 
 I — I — really think I should never leave off wagging my 
 tail. I should be so perfectly happy. Captain Ghlls I ” 
 
 Mr. Toots said it with watery eyes, and pressed his 
 hat against his bosom with deep emotion. 
 
 My lad,’’ returned the captain, moved to compassion, 
 
 If you’re in amest — ” 
 
 "‘Captain Gills,” cried Mr. Toots, “I’m in such a 
 state of mind, and am so dreadfully in earnest, that if I 
 could swear to it, upon a hot piece of iron, or a live coal, 
 or melted lead, or burning sealing-wax, or anything of 
 that sort, I should be glad to hurt myself, as a relief to 
 my feelings.” And Mr. Toots looked hurriedly about 
 the room, as if for, some sufficiently painful means of ac- 
 complishing his dread purpose. 
 
 The captain pushed his glazed hat back upon his head, 
 stroked his face down with his heavy hand — making his 
 nose more mottled in the process — and planting himself 
 before Mr. Toots, and hooking him by the lappel of his 
 coat, addressed him in these words, while Mr. Toots 
 looked up into his face with much attention and some 
 wonder. 
 
 “If you’re in arnest, you see, my lad,” said the cap- 
 tain, “ you’re a object of clemency, and clemency is the 
 brightest jewel in the crown of a Briton’s head, for which 
 you’ll overhaul the constitution, as laid down in Rule 
 Britannia, and when found, that is the charter as them 
 garden angels was a singing of, so many times over. 
 Btand by I This here proposal o’ your’n takes me a lit- 
 tle 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 creatur’s 
 name must never be named nor referred to. I don’t 
 know what harm mayn’t have been done by naming it 
 too free afore now, and thereby I bring up short. D’ye 
 make me out pretty clear, brother?” 
 
 “ ¥/ell, 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.” 
 
 “Them,” said the captain, "" is the terms I offer. If 
 they’re hard upon you, brother, as mayhap they are, 
 give ’em a wide berth, sheer off, and part company 
 cheerily ! ” 
 
 “ Captain Gills,” returned Mr. Toots, “ I hardly know 
 how it is, but after what you told me when I came here 
 
278 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 for tlie first time, I-~I feel' that Fd rather think abou'f 
 Miss Dombey in your society than talk about her in al- 
 most 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, hold- 
 ing back his extended hand for a moment, '' and there- 
 fore 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 of her.” 
 
 “My lad,” said the captain, whose opinion of Mr. 
 Toots was much improved by this candid avowal, 
 man’s thoughts is like the winds, and^ nobody can’t an- 
 swer for ’em for certain, any length of time together. 
 Is it a treaty as to words ? ” 
 
 “As to words. Captain Gills,” returned Mr. TootS; 
 " I think I can bind myself.” 
 
 Mr. Toots gave Captain Cuttle his hand upon it, then 
 and there ; and the captain, with a pleasant and gracious 
 show of condescension, bestowed his acquaintance upon 
 him formally. Mr. Toots seemed much relieved and 
 gladdened by the acquisition, and chuckled rapturously 
 during the remainder of his visit. The captain, for his 
 part, was not ill pleased to occupy that position of pat- 
 ronage, and was exceedingly well satisfied by his own 
 prudence and foresight. 
 
 But rich as Captain Cuttle was in the latter quality, 
 he received a surprise that same evening from a no less 
 ingenuous and simple youth, than Rob the Grinder. That 
 artless lad, drinking tea at the same table, and bending 
 meekly over his cup and saucer, having taken sidelong 
 observations of his master for some time, who was read- 
 ing the newspaper with great difficulty, but much dig- 
 nity through his glasses, broke silence by saying — 
 
 “ Oh ! 1 beg your pardon, captain, but you mayn’t 
 
 be in want of any pigeons, may you, sir ?” 
 
 “ JTo, my lad,” replied the captain. 
 
 “Because I was wishing to dispose of mine, captain,” 
 said Rob. 
 
 “Ay, ay?” cried the captain, lifting up bis bushy 
 eyebrows a little. 
 
 “Yes, I’m going, captain, if you please,” said Rob. 
 
 Going ? Where are you going ?” asked the captain, 
 looking round at him over the glasses. 
 
 “ What? didn’t you know that I was going to leave 
 you, captain ? ” asked Rob, with a sneaking smile. 
 
 The captain put down the paper, took oft his specta- 
 cles, and brought his eyes to bear on the deserter. 
 
 “ Oh yes captain, I am going to give you warning. I 
 thought you’d have known that beforehand, perhaps,” 
 said Rob, rubbing his hands, and getting up. “ If you 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 279 
 
 could be so good' as provide yourself soon, captain, it 
 would be a great convenience to me. You couldn’t pro- 
 vide yourself by to-morrow morning, I am afraid, cap 
 tain ; could you, do you think ? ” 
 
 And you’re a going to desert your colours are you, 
 my lad?” said the captain, after a long examination of 
 his face. 
 
 Oh, it’s very hard upon a cove, captain,” cried the 
 tender 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 an’t because 
 I’m a servant and you’re a master, that you’re to go and 
 libel me. What wrong have I done ? Come, captain, 
 let me know what my crime is, will you ?” 
 
 The stricken Grinder wept, and put his coat-cuff in his 
 eye. 
 
 •‘Come, captain,” cried the injured youth, “give my 
 crime a name ! What have I been and done ? Have I 
 stolen any of the property ? Have I set the house a-fire ? 
 If I have, why don’t you give me in charge, and try it? 
 But to take away the character of a lad that’s been a good 
 servant to you, because he can’t afford to stand in his own 
 light for your good, what a injury it is, and what a bad 
 return for faithful service ! This is the way young coves 
 is spiled and drove wrong. I wonder at you, captain, I 
 do.” 
 
 All of which, the Grinder howled forth in a.lachrymose 
 whine, and backing carefully towards the door. 
 
 “ And so you’ve got another berth, have you, my lad ?” 
 said the captain, eyeing him intently. 
 
 “Yes, captain, since you put it in that shape, I ham 
 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, wdiich is for- 
 t’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 ham got another berth ; and 
 if it wasn’t for leaving you unprovided, captain, I’d go 
 to it now, sooner than I’d take them names from you, 
 because I’m poor, and can’t afford to stand in my own 
 light for your good. Why do you reproach me for being 
 poor, and not standing in my own light for your good, 
 captain ? How can you so demean yourself ? ” 
 
 “ Look ye here, my boy,” replied the peaceful captain. 
 “ Don’t you pay out no more of them words.” 
 
 “ Well, then, don’t you pay in no more of your words, 
 captain,” retorted the roused innocent, getting louder in 
 his whine, and backing into the shop. “ I’d sooner you 
 took my blood than my character/’ 
 
280 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 “Because,” pursued tlie captain calniiy, ^^you have 
 heerd, may be, of such a thing as a rope's end. ” 
 
 *‘Oh, have I though, captain?" cried the taunting 
 Grinder. '"No I haven't. I never heerd of any such a 
 article ! '' 
 
 Well,” said the captrin, it's my belief as you’ll 
 know more about it pretty soon, if you don't keep a 
 bright look out. I can read your signals, my lad. You 
 may go.” 
 
 Oh ! I may go at once, may I, captain ?” cried Rob, 
 exulting in his success. ""But mind ! I never asked to 
 go at once, captain. You are not to take away my char- 
 acter again, because you send me off of your own accord. 
 And you're not to stop any of my wages, captain ! ” 
 
 His employer settled the last point by producing the 
 tin canister and telling the Grinder's money out in full 
 upon the table. Rob, snivelling and sobbing, and griev- 
 ously wounded in bis feelings, took up the pieces one by 
 one, with a sob and a snivel for each, and tied them up 
 separately in knots in his pocket-handkerchief ; then 
 he ascended to the roof of the house and filled his hat 
 and pockets with pigeons : then, came down to his bed 
 under the counter and made up his bundle, snivelling 
 and sobbing louder, as if he w^ere cut to the heart by old 
 associations ; then be 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 grim 
 ning triumph. 
 
 The captain, left to himself, resumed his perusal of 
 the news as if nothing unusual or unexpected had taken 
 place, and went reading on with the greatest assiduity. 
 But never a word did Captain Cuttle understand, though 
 he read a vast number, for Rob the Grinder was scamper- 
 ing up one column and down another all through the 
 newspaper. 
 
 It is doubtful whether the worthy captain had ever 
 felt himself quite abandoned until now ; but now, old 
 Sol Gills, Walter, and Heart's Delight were lost to him 
 indeed, and now Mr. Carker deceived and jeered him 
 cruelly. They were all represented in the false 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 companmn of him as the last of the old ship's 
 company he had taken the command of the little mid- 
 shipman with him at his right hand ; he had meant to 
 do his duty by him, and had felt almost as kindly to- 
 wards 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, meanness into the 
 
DOMBEY ANB SON. 
 
 281 
 
 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. 
 
 Therefore Captain Cuttle read the newspaper with 
 profound attention and no comprehension, and therefore 
 Captain Cuttle said nothing whatever about Rob to him- 
 self, or admitted to himself that he was thinking about 
 him, or would recognize in the most distant manner that 
 Rob had anything to do with his feeling as lonely as 
 Robinson Crusoe. 
 
 In the same composed, business-like way, the captain 
 stepped over to Leadenhall Market in the dusk, and ef- 
 fected 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 mid- 
 shipman, and at the public-house to stop the traitor’s 
 beer. ‘‘ My young man,” said the captain, in explana- 
 tion to the young lady at the bar, ‘‘ my young man hav- 
 ing bettered himself, miss.” Lastly, the captain re- 
 solved to take possession of the bed under the counter, 
 and to turn-in there o’ nights instead of up -stairs, as 
 sole guardian of the property. 
 
 From this bed Captain Cuttle daily rose henceforth, 
 and clapped on his glazed hat at six o’clock in the morn- 
 ing, with the solitary air of Crusoe finishing his toilet 
 with his goat-skin cap ; and although his fears of a visi- 
 tation from the savage tribe, MacStinger, were some- 
 what 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 en- 
 countered a bonnet without a previous survey from his 
 castle of retreat. In the meantime (during which he re- 
 ceived 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 pro- 
 found meditation from much polishing and stowing away 
 of the stock, and from much sitting behind the counter 
 reading, or looking out of window, that the red rim 
 made on his forehead by the hard glazed hat, sometimes 
 ached again with excess of reflection. 
 
 The year being now expired, Captain Cuttle deemed it 
 expedient to open the packet ; but as he had always de- 
 signed 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 
 
282 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 nnusual delight the announceirient in the Shipping In- 
 telligence of the arrival of the Cautions Clara, Captain 
 John Bunsby, from a coasting voyage ; and to that phil- 
 osopher immediately despatched a letter by post, enjoin- 
 ing inviolable secrecy as to his place of residence, and 
 requesting to be favoured with an early visit, in the 
 evening season. 
 
 Bunsby, who was one of those sages who act upon 
 conviction, took some days to get the conviction tho- 
 roughly into his mind, that he had received a letter to 
 this efect. But, when he had grappled with the 
 fact and mastered it, he promptly sent his boy with the 
 message, ‘‘He’s a coming to-night.” Who, being in- 
 structed to deliver those words and disappear, fulfilled 
 his mission like a tarry spirit charged with a mysterious 
 warning. 
 
 The captain, well pleased to receive it, made prepara- 
 tion of pipes and rum and water, and awaited his visitor 
 in the back parlour. At the hour of eight, a deep low- 
 ing, as of a nautical bull, outside the shop-door, succeed 
 ed 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. 
 
 “Bunsby,” said the captain, grasping him by the 
 hand, “ what cheer, my lad, what cheer ?” 
 
 “ Shipmet,” replied the voice within Bunsby, unac- 
 companied by any sign on the part of the commander 
 himself, “Hearty, hearty.” 
 
 “ Bunsby ! ” said the captain, rendering irrepressible 
 homage to his genius, “ here you are ! a man as can 
 give an opinion as is brighter than diamonds — and give 
 me the lad with the tarry trousers as shines to me like 
 di’monds bright, for which you’ll overhaul the Stanf ell’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 sincere- 
 ly believed. 
 
 “Ay, ay?” growled Bunsby. 
 
 “Every letter,” said the captain. 
 
 “For vdiy?” 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 launcbed him 
 upon such a sea of speculation and conjecture — the sage 
 submitted to be helped olf with his pilot-coat, and ac- 
 companied his friend into the back parlour, where his 
 hand presently alighted on rum-bottle, from which 
 
DOMBET AND SON. 
 
 383 
 
 h3 brewed a stiff’ glass of grog ; and presently after- 
 wards on a pipe, wbich lie filled, lighted, and began to 
 smoke. 
 
 Captain' Cuttle, imitating his visitor in the matter of 
 these particulars, though the rapt and imperturbable 
 manner of the great commander was far above his 
 powers, sat in the opposite corner of the fireside, observ- 
 ing him respectfully, and as if he waited for some en- 
 couragement or expression of curiosity on Bunsby’s part 
 which should lead him to his own affairs. But as the 
 maJiogaiiy philosopher gave no evidence of being senti- 
 ent of anj^thing but warmth and tobacco, except once, 
 when taking his pipe from his lips to make room for his 
 glass, he incidentally remarked with exceeding gruff- 
 ness, that his name was Jack Bunsby — a declaration that 
 presented but small opening for conversation — the cap- 
 tain bespeaking his attention in a short complimentary 
 exordium, narrated the whole history of Uncle Sol’s de- 
 parture, with the change it had produced in his own life 
 and fortunes ; and concluded by placing the packet on 
 the table. 
 
 After a long pause Mr. Bunsby nodded his head. 
 
 “ Open ? ” said the captain. 
 
 Bunsby nodded again. 
 
 The captain accordingly broke the seal, and disclosed 
 to view two folded papers, of which he severally read the 
 indorsements, thus : '‘Last Will and Testament of Sol- 
 omon Gills.” "Letter for Ned Cuttle.” 
 
 Bunsby, with his eye on the coast of Greenland, 
 seemed to listen for the contents. The captain there- 
 fore hemmed to clear his throat, and read the letter 
 aloud. 
 
 " ‘ My dear Ned Cuttle. When I left home for the 
 West Indies’” — 
 
 Here the captain stopped, and looked hard at Bunsby, 
 who looked fixedly at the coast of Greenland. 
 
 — " ' in forlorn search of intelligence of my dear boy, 
 I knew that if you v/ere 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 he 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 — ” 
 
 Mr. Bunsby, who had a musical ear, suddenly bel- 
 lowed, " In the Bays of Biscay, O I” which so affected 
 
284 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 the good captain, as an appropriate tribute to departed 
 •worth, that he shook him by the hand in acknowledg- 
 ment, and was fain to wipe his eyes. 
 
 Well, well ! ’’ said the captain with a sigh, as the 
 lament of Bunsby ceased to ring and vibrate in the sky- 
 light. Affliction sore, long time he bore, and let us 
 overhaul the wollum, and there find it. 
 
 ‘"Physicians,’' observed Bunsby, “was in vain.” 
 
 “ Ay, ay, to be sure,” said the captain, “ what’s the 
 good b’ them in two or three hundred fathom o’ water ! ” 
 Then, returning to the letter, he read on : — “ ‘ But if he 
 should be by, when it is opened ; the captain invol- 
 untarily 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 I In case the accom- 
 panying 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 vrill respect my 
 wish, I know. God bless you for it, and for ail your 
 friendliness besides, to Solomon Gills.’ Bunsby!” 
 said the captain, appealing to him solemnly, “ what do 
 you make of this? There you sit, a man as has had his 
 head broke from infancy up’ards, and has got a new 
 opinion into it at every seam as has been opened. Now 
 what do you make o’ this ?” 
 
 “If so be,” returned Bunsby, with unusual prompti- 
 tude, “ as he’s dead, my opinion is he won’t come back 
 no more. If so be as he’s alive, my opinion is he will. 
 Do I say he will ? No. Why not ? Because the bear- 
 ings of this obserwation lays in the application on it.” 
 
 “ Bunsby 1 ” 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 ihe captain, quite confounded by admira- 
 tion, “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 — 
 Ix)rd 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 despatches. Now, what is your opinion, 
 Bunsby, as to stowing of these here papers away again, 
 and marking outside as they was opened, such a day, in 
 presence of John Bunsby and Ed’ard Cuttle ? ” 
 
 Bunsby, descrying no objection, on the coast of Green- 
 land 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 
 
BOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 285 
 
 cover, totally abstainfng, witli characteristic modesty, 
 from the use of capital letters. Captain Cuttle, having 
 attached his own left-handed signature, and locked up 
 the packet in the iron safe, entreated his guest to mix 
 another glass and smoke another pipe ; and doing the 
 like himself, fell a musing over the fire on the possible 
 fortunes of the poor old Instrument-maker. 
 
 And now a surprise occurred, so overwhelming and ter- 
 rific that Captain Cuttle, unsupported by the presence of 
 Bunsby, must have sunk beneath it, and been a lost man 
 from that fatal hour. 
 
 How the captain, even in the satisfaction of admitting 
 such a guest, could have only shut the door and not 
 locked it, of which negligence he was undoubtedly 
 guilty, is one of those questions that must for ever re- 
 main mere points of speculation, or vague charges 
 against destiny. But, by that unlocked door, at this 
 quiet moment, did the fell MacStinger dash into the 
 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 Cap- 
 tain Cuttle found himself in the very act of sitting 
 looking at her, before the calm face with which he 
 had been meditating, changed to one of horror and 
 dismay. 
 
 But, the moment Captain Cuttle understood the full 
 extent of his misfortune, self-preservation dictated an 
 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 con- 
 tusions, who only sought to hide himself in the bow- 
 els of the earth. In this gallant effort he would prob- 
 ably 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 in- 
 verting 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, per- 
 formed 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 in- 
 terposing Bunsby. 
 
. 286 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Tlie cries of tlie two elder MacStingers, and the wail- 
 ing of young Alexander, who may be said to have passed 
 a piebald cliildbood, 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 vio- 
 lent perspiration, stood meekly looking at Mrs. Mac- 
 Stinger, its terrors were at their height. 
 
 ‘‘Oh, Cap’en Cuttle, Cap’en Cuttle ! ’’ said Mrs. Mac- 
 Stinger, making her chin rigid, and shaking it in unison 
 with Avhat, but for the weakness of her sex, might be de- 
 scribed as her fist. “Oh, Cap'en Cuttle, Cap’en Cuttle,' 
 do you dare to look at me in the face, and not be struck 
 down in the herth ! 
 
 The Captain, who looked anything but daring, feebly 
 muttered “Stand by 
 
 ‘ ‘ Oh I was a weak and trusting fool when I took yoii 
 under my roof, Cap’en Cuttle, I was ! cried Mrs. Mac- 
 Stinger. “ To think of the iDenefits I’ve showered oaj 
 that man, and the v/ay in which I brought my children 
 up to love and honour him as if he was a father to ’em, 
 when there an’t a ’ousekeeper, no nor a lodger in our 
 street, don’t know that I lost money by that man, and 
 by his guzzlings and hiS muzzlings — Mrs. 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 v/oman, 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 I ” 
 
 Mrs. MacStinger stopped to fetch her b'^eath ; and her 
 face flushed with triumph in this second happy introduc- 
 tion of Captain Cuttle’s muzzlings. 
 
 “And he runs awa-a-a-ay !” cried Mrs. MacStinger, 
 with a lengthening out of the last syllable that made the 
 unfortunate captain regard himself as the meanest cf 
 men ; “ and keeps av/ay a twelvemonth ! From a wo- 
 man ! Sich is his conscience ! He hasn’t the courage to 
 meet her hi-i-i-igh,” long syllable again ; “ but steals 
 away like a felion. 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 ! ” 
 
 The young Alexander, interpreting this into a positive 
 promise, to be shortly redeemed, tumbled over with fear 
 aiid grief, and lay upon the floor, exhibiting tlie soles of 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 287 
 
 his shoes and making snch a deafening outcry, tha,t 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. 
 
 A pretty sort of a man is Cap’en Cuttle,’’ said Mrs. 
 BlacStinger, with a sharp stress on the first syllable of 
 the captain’s name, take on for — and to lose sleep for, 
 and to faint along of—and to think dead forsooth — and 
 to go up and down the blessed town like a mad woman, 
 asking questions after I Oh, a pretty sort of a man I Ha 
 ha ha ha ! He’s worth all that trouble and distress of 
 mind, and much more. That's nothing, bless you f Ha 
 ha ha ha ! Cap’en Cuttle,” said Mrs. MacStinger, with 
 severe re-action in her voice and manner, M wish to 
 know if you’re a-coming home.” 
 
 The frightened captain looked into his hat, as if he saw 
 nothing for it but to put it on, and give himself up. 
 
 Cap’en Cuttle,” repeated Mrs. MacStinger, in the 
 same determined manner, ‘‘ I wish to know if you’re 
 a-coming home, sir.” 
 
 The captain seemed quite ready to go, but faintly sug- 
 gested something to the effect of not making so much 
 noise about it.” 
 
 ‘‘Ay, ay, ay,” said Bunsby, in a soothing tone. “ Awast, 
 my lass, awast ! ” 
 
 “ And ’who may you be, if you please ! ” retorted Mrs. 
 MacStinger, vdth chaste loftiness. “ Hid 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 mis- 
 taking me for her. That is my only ways of accounting 
 for your familiarity, sir.” 
 
 “Come, come, my lass, awast, awast!” said Buns- 
 by. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 agoing to act as convoy home ; ” and Cap- 
 t-ain Cuttle, more to his confusion than if he had been put 
 in irons himself, for safe transport to Brig-place, saw the 
 
288 
 
 WOKKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 family pacifically filing off, v/itli Mrs. MacStinger at tlieir 
 kead. He liad scarcely time to take down his canister, 
 and stealthily convey some money into the hands of Ju- 
 liana MacStinger, his former favourite, atid Chowley, 
 who had the claim upon him that he was naturally of a 
 maritime build, before the Midshipman was abandoned 
 by thvem all ; and Bunsby, whispering that lie’A carry on 
 smart, and hail Ned Cuttle again before he went aboard, 
 shut the door upon himself, as the l^st member of the 
 party. 
 
 Some uneasy ideas that he must be walking in his sleep, 
 or that he had been troubled with phantoms, and not a 
 family of flesh and blood, beset the captain at first, v/heii 
 he went back to the little parlour, and found himself 
 alone. Illimitable faith in, and immeasurable admiration 
 of, the commander of the Cautious Clara, succeeded, and 
 threw the captain into a wondering trance. 
 
 Still, as time wore on, and Bunsby failed to reappear, 
 the captain began to entertain uncomfortable doubts of 
 another kind. Whether Bunsby had been artfully de- 
 coyed to Brig-place, and was there detained in safe cus- 
 tody as hostage for his friend ; in which case it would 
 become the captain, as a man of 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 wild 
 and savage places of the city. Above all, what it would 
 behoove him, Captain Cuttle, to do, in case of his hear- 
 ing no more, either of the MacStingers or of Bunsby, 
 which, in these wonderful and unforeseen conjunctions 
 ®f events, might possibly happen. 
 
 He debased all this until he was tired ; and still no 
 Bunsby. He made up^his bed under the counter, all 
 ready for turning in ; 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, v/as succeeded by 
 Bunsby’s hail. 
 
 The captain trembled to think that Mrs. MacStinger 
 was not to be got rid of, and had been brought back in a 
 coach. 
 
 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 hanled in, sat upon. Cap- 
 tain Cattle 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 ab9 
 
 sheets in the wind, or, in plain words, drunk. If was 
 diiScult, however, to be sure of this ; the commander 
 having no trace of expression in his face when sober. 
 Cuttle,’' said the commander, getting off the chest, 
 and opening the lid, are these here your traps?” 
 
 Captain Cuttle looked in and identified his property. 
 
 ‘‘Done pretty taut and trim, hey shipmet?” said 
 Bunsby. 
 
 The grateful and bewildered captain grasped him by 
 the hand, and was launching into a reply expressive of 
 his astonished feelings, when Bunsby disengaged him- 
 self by a jerk of his wrist, and seemed to make an ef- 
 fort 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 con- 
 sidered he had made a point. 
 
 As it was not his humour to be often sought, Captain 
 Cuttle decided not to go or send to him next day, or un- 
 til he should make his gracious pleasure known in such 
 wise, or failing that, until some little time should have 
 elapsed. The captain, therefore, renewed his solitary 
 life next morning, and thought profoundly, many morn- 
 ings, 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 Cap- 
 tain 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 ac- 
 customed nail, lest it should shock the old man on his 
 return. The captain had his presentiments, too some- 
 times, that he would come on such a day ; and one par- 
 ticular Sunday, even ordered a double allowance of din- 
 ner, he was so sanguine. But come, old Solomon did 
 not. And still the neighbours noticed how the seafaring 
 man in the glazed hat, stood at the shop door of an 
 evening, looking up and down the street. 
 
 VoL. :12 
 
 — ISI 
 
290 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 Domestic Relations. 
 
 It was not in tlie nature of things that a man of Mr. 
 Domhey’s mood, opposed to such a spirit as he had 
 raised against himself, should he softened in the imperi- 
 ous asperity of his temper ; or that the cold hard ar- 
 mour of pride in which he lived encased, should he made 
 more flexible hy constant collision with haughty scorn 
 and defiance. It is the curse of such a nature — it is a 
 main part of the heavy retrihution on itself it hears 
 within itself — that while deference and concession swell 
 its evil qualities, and are the food it grows upon, resist- 
 ance, 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 sup» 
 port and life from sweets and hitters ; howed down be- 
 fore, or unacknowledged, it still enslaves the breast in 
 which it has its throne ; and,- worshipped or rejected, is 
 as hard a master as the Devil in dark fables. 
 
 Towards his first wife, Mr. Dombey, in his cold and 
 lofty arrogance, had borne himself like the removed 
 being he almost conceived himself to be. 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 lower 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 pic- 
 tured himself haughtier than ever, with Edith’s haugh- 
 tiness subservient to his. He had never entertained the 
 possibility of its arrapng 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 con- 
 temptuous face upon him, this pride of his, instead of 
 withering, or hanging down its head beneath the shock, 
 put forth new shoots, became more concentrated and 
 intense, more gloomy, sullen, irksome, and unyielding, 
 than it had ever been before. 
 
 Who wears such armour, too, bears with him ever an- 
 other heavy retribution. It is of proof against concilia- 
 tion, love, and confidence ; against all gentle sympathy 
 from without, all trust, all tenderness, all soft emotion ; 
 but to deep stabs in the self-love, it is as vulnerable as 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 291 
 
 the bare breast to steel ; and such tormenting festers 
 rankle there, as follow on no other wounds, no, though 
 dealt with the mailed hand of pride itself, on weaker 
 pride, disarmed and thrown down. 
 
 Such wounds were his. He felt them sharply, in the 
 solitude of his old rooms ; whither he now began often 
 to retire again, and pass long solitary hours. It seemed 
 his fate to be ever proud and powerful ; ever humbled 
 and powerless where he would be most strong. Who 
 seemed fated to work out that doom ? 
 
 Who ? Who was it who could win his wife as she 
 had won his boy ! Who was it who had shown him that 
 new victory, as he sat in the dark corner ! Who ^vas 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. 
 
 Yes, and he would have it hatred, and he made it ha- 
 ired, though some sparkles of the light in which she had 
 appeared before him on the memorable night of his re- 
 turn 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 
 wortMer she promised to be of him, the greater claim he 
 was disposed to ante-date upon her duty and submission. 
 When had she ever shown him duty and submission ? 
 Did she grace his life — or Edith’s ? Had her attractions 
 been manife ded 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. 
 
 •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 si- 
 lenced the distant thunder with the rolling of his sea of 
 pride. He would bear nothing but his pride. And in 
 
292 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 fils pride, a heap of inconsistency, and misery, and self- 
 inflicted tormont, lie hated her. 
 
 To the moody, stubborn, sullen demon, that possessed 
 him, his wife opposed her different pride in its full force. 
 They never could have led a happy life together ; but 
 nothing could have made it more unhappy, than the 
 wilful and determined warfare of such elements. His 
 pride was set upon maintaining his magnificent suprem- 
 acy, 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 suf- 
 fered him tx> call her wife. 
 
 Mr. Dombey was resolved to shovr her that he was su. 
 preme. There must be no will but Ms. Proud he de- 
 sired 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. 
 
 He had been long communing with these thoughts, 
 when one night be 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 com« 
 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. 
 
 ‘‘Mrs. Dombey,” he said, entering, “I must beg leave 
 to havd a few words with you.” 
 
 “ To-morrow,” she replied. 
 
 “ There is no time like the present, madam,” he re- 
 turned. “You mistake your position. I am used to 
 choose my own times ; not to have them chosen for me. 
 I think you scarcely understand who and what I am, 
 Mrs. Dombey. ” 
 
 “ I think,” she answered, “that I understand you very 
 well.” 
 
 She looked upon him as she said so, and folding her 
 white arms, sparkling with gold and gems, upon her 
 swelling breast, turned away her eyes. 
 
 If she had been less handsome, and less stately in her 
 cold composure, she might not have had the power of 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 293 
 
 impressing him with the sense of disadvantage that pene- 
 trated tlii’ough 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), hut in a stedfast, haughty disregard of 
 costly things : and felt it more and more. Chaplets of 
 flowers, plumes of feathers, jewels, laces, silks and 
 satins ; look where he would, he saw riches, despised, 
 poured out, and made of no account. The very dia- 
 monds — a marriage gift- — that rose and fell impatiently 
 upon her bosom, seemed to pant to break the chain that 
 clasped them round her neck, and roll down on the floor 
 where she might tread upon them. 
 
 He felt his disadvantage, and he showed it. Solemn 
 and strange among this wealth of colour and voluptuous 
 glitter, strange and constrained towards its haughty 
 mistress, whose repellent beauty it repeated, and pre- 
 sented all around him, as in so many fragments of a 
 mirror, he was conscious of embarrassment and awk- 
 wardness. Nothing that ministered to her disdainful 
 self-possession could fail to gall him. Galled and irri- 
 tated with himself, he sat down, and went on in no im* 
 proved humour : 
 
 ‘‘Mrs. Hombey, it is very necessary that there should 
 be some understanding arrived at between us. Your 
 conduct does not please me, madam.’' 
 
 She merely glanced at him again, and again averted 
 her eyes ; but she might have spoken for an hour, and 
 expressed less. 
 
 “ I repeat, Mrs. Dombey, does not please me. I have 
 already taken occasion to request that it may be correct^ 
 ed. I now insist upon it.’' 
 
 “You chose a fitting occasion for your first remom 
 stance, sir, and you adopt a fitting manner and a fitting 
 word for your second. Yoii insist ! To me ! " 
 
 “Madam," said Mr. Hombey, with his most oifensive 
 air of state, “ I have made you my wife. You bear my 
 name. You are associated with my position and my re- 
 putation. 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 dependants." 
 
 “Which may you be pleased to consider me?" she 
 asked. 
 
 “Possibly I may think that my wife should partake — 
 or does partake, and cannot help herself — of both char- 
 acters, Mrs. Dombey." 
 
 She bent her eyes upon him steadily, and set her trem- 
 bling lips. He saw her bosom throb, and saw her face 
 
294 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ^tusli and turn white. All this he could know, and did : 
 but he could not know that one word was whispering in 
 the deep recesses of her heart, to keep her quiet ; and 
 that the word was Florence* 
 
 Blind idiot, rushing to a precipice I He thought she 
 stood in awe of Mm I 
 
 ‘"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 dis- 
 agreeable to me. I have to insist upon a total change in 
 all these respects. I know that in the novelty of pos- 
 sessing a tithe of such means as fortune has placed at 
 your disposal, ladies are apt to run into a sudden ex- 
 treme. There has been more than enough of that ex- 
 treme. I beg that Mrs. Granger’s very different experi- 
 ences may now come to the instruction of Mrs. Dombey.” 
 
 Still the fixed look, the trembling lips, the throbbing 
 breast, the face now crimson and now white ; and still 
 the deep whisper Florence, Florence, speaking to her in 
 the beating of her heart. 
 
 His insolence* of self-importance dilated as he saw this 
 alteration in her. Swollen no less by her past scorn of 
 him, and his so recent feeling of disadvantage, that by 
 her present submission (as he took it to be), it became 
 too mighty for his breast, and burst all bounds. ^Yhy, 
 who could long resist his lofty will and pleasui*e ! He 
 had resolved to conquer her, and look here ! 
 
 “ You will further please, madam,” said Mr. Dombey, 
 in a tone of sovereign command, “to understand distinct- 
 ly, 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. 1 require it as 
 my right. In short I vrill have it. I consider it no un- 
 reasonable return for the worldly advancement that has 
 befallen you ; and I believe nobody will be surprised, 
 either at its being required from you, or at your making 
 it. — To me — to me ! ” he added, with emphasis. 
 
 No word from her. No change in her. Her eyes 
 Upon him. 
 
 “ I have learnt from your mother, Mrs. Dombey,” 
 said Mr. Dombey, with magisterial importance, “ what 
 no doubt you know, namely, that Brighton is recommend- 
 ed for her health. Mr. Carker has feen so good — ” 
 
 She changed suddenly. Her face and bosom glowed 
 as if the red light of an angry sunset had been flung 
 upon them. Not unobservant of the change, and putting 
 his own interpretation upon it, Mr. Dombey resumed : 
 
 “ Mr. Carker has been so good as to go down and 
 lecure a house there, for a time. On the return of the 
 
DOMBBY AND SON. 
 
 295 
 
 ^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), 
 bf a very respectable reduced person there, a Mrs. Pip- 
 bbin, formerly employed in a situation of trust in my 
 family, to act as housekeeper. An establishment like 
 this, presided over but nominally, Mrs. Dombey, requires 
 a competent head/’ 
 
 She had changed her attitude before he arrived at 
 these words, and now sat — still looking at him fixedly — 
 turning a bracelet around and round upon her arm ; not 
 winding it about with a light womanly touch, but press- 
 ing and dragging it over the smooth skin, until the white 
 limb showed a bar of red. 
 
 “ I observed,” said Mr. Dombey — and this concludes 
 what I deem it necessary to say to you at present, Mrs. 
 Dombey — I observed a moment ago, madam, that my 
 allusion to Mr. Carker was received in a peculiar man- 
 ner. On, the occasion of my happening to point out to 
 you, before that confidential agent, the objection I had 
 to your mode of receiving my visitors, you were pleased 
 to object to his presence. You will have to get the bet- 
 ter of that objection,, madam, and to accustom yourseli 
 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 v ife 
 and who was perhaps sufficiently willing to exhibit h/> 
 power to that gentleman in a new and triumphal:. . 
 aspect, ‘"Mr. Carker being in my confidence, Mrs. ®on 
 bey, may very well be in yours to such an extent. /. 
 hope, Mrs. Dombey,” he continued, after a few moments 
 during which, in his increasing haughtiness, he had im- 
 proved on his idea, “ I may not find it necessary ever to 
 intrust Mr. Carker with any message of objection or re- 
 monstrance to you ; but as it would be derogatory to my 
 position and reputation to be frequently holding trivial 
 disputes with a lady upon whom I have conferred the 
 highest distinction that it is in my power to bestow, I 
 shall not scruple to avail myself of his services if I see 
 occasion.” 
 
 “ And now,” he thought, rising in his moral magnifi- 
 cence, and rising a stiffer and more impenetrable man 
 than ever, “ she knows me and my resolution.” 
 
 The hand that had so pressed the bracelet was laid 
 heavily upon her breast, but she looked at him still, with 
 an unaltered face, and said in a low voice : 
 
 “ Wait ! For God’s sake ! I must speak to you.” 
 
 Why did she not, and what was the inward struggle 
 that rendered her incapable of doing so, for minutes, 
 
296 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 while, in the strong constraint she put upon her face, 
 it was as fixed as any statue^s — looking upon him with 
 neither yielding nor unyielding, liking nor hatred, pride 
 nor humility : nothing but a searching gaze. 
 
 ‘‘ Did I ever tempt you to seek my hand? Did I ever 
 use any art to win you ? Was I ever more conciliating 
 to you when you pursued me, than I have been since our 
 marriage ? Was I ever other to you than I am ? '' 
 
 It is wholly unnecessary, madam,’' said Mr. Dom- 
 bey, '’to enter upon such discussions.” 
 
 “ Did you think I loved you? Did you know I did 
 not ? Did you ever care, man ! for my heart, or propose 
 to yourself to win the worthless thing ? Was there any 
 poor pretence of any in our bargain ? Upon your side, 
 or on mine ? ” 
 
 These questions,” said Mr. Dombey, are all wide 
 of the purpose, madam.” 
 
 She moved between him and the door to prevent his 
 going away, and drawing her majestic figure to its 
 height, looked steadily upon him still. 
 
 ‘‘ You answer each of them. You answer me before 
 I speak, I see. How can you help it ; you who know the 
 miserable truth as well as I? Now, tell me. If I loved 
 you to devotion, could I do more than render up my 
 whole will and being to you, as you have just demanded ? 
 If my heart were pure and all untried, and you its idol, 
 could you ask more ; could you have more ! ” 
 
 Possibly not, madam,” he returned coolly. 
 
 You know how different I am. You see me looking 
 on you now, and you can read the warmth of passion for 
 you that is breathing in my face.” Not a curl of the 
 proud lip, not a flash of the dark eye, nothing but the 
 same intent and searching look, accompanied these 
 words. ‘‘You know my general history. You have 
 spoken of my mother. Do you think you can degrade, 
 or bend or break, m^to submission and obedience ? ” 
 
 Mr. Dombey smiled, as he might have smiled at an in- 
 quiry whether he thought he could raise ten thousand 
 pounds. 
 
 “If there is anything unusual here,” she said, with s 
 slight motion of her hand before her brow, which did 
 not for a moment flinch from its immovable and other, 
 wise 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 re- 
 ply to something in his face ; “ to appeal to you.” 
 
 Mr. Dombey, with a slightly condescending bend of 
 his chin that rustled and cracked his stiff cravat, sat 
 down on a sofa that was near him, to hear the appeal. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 297 
 
 If you can believe that I am of such a nature now,”— ^ 
 he fancied he saw tears ^listenin^ in her eyes, and he 
 thought, complacently, that he had forced them from her, 
 though none fell on her check, 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 weigh to it. In 
 the dark end to which we are tending, and may come, 
 we shall not involve ourselves alone (that might not be 
 much), but others.” 
 
 Others ! He knew at whom that word pointed and 
 frowned heavily. 
 
 I speak to you for the sake of others. Also your 
 own sake ; and for mine. Since our marriage, you have 
 been arrogant to me ; and I have repaid you in kind. 
 You have shown to me and every one around us, every 
 day and hour, that you think I am graced and distin- 
 guished by your alliance. I do not think so, and have 
 shown that too. It seems you do not understand, or (so 
 far as your power can go) intend that each of us shall 
 take a separate course / and you expect from me instead, 
 a homage you will never have.” 
 
 Although her face was still the same, there was em- 
 phatic confirmation of this Never,” in the very breath 
 she drew. 
 
 ‘‘ I feel no tenderness towards you ; that you know. 
 You would care nothing for it, if I did or could. I know 
 as well that you feel none towards me. But we are 
 linked together ; and in the knot that ties us, as I have 
 said, others are bound up. We must both die ; we are 
 both connected with the dead already, each by a little 
 child. Let us forbear.” 
 
 Mr. Bombey took a long respiration, as if he would 
 have said. Oh ; was this all ! 
 
 There is no wealth,” she went on, turning paler as 
 she watched him, v/hile 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 nor 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 for- 
 bear 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 friend- 
 ship, or some fitness for each other, may arise between 
 us. I will try to hope so, if you will make the endea- 
 vour too ; and I will look forward to a better and a hap- 
 pier use of age than I have made of youth or prime.” 
 
 Throughout she had spoken in a low plain voice, that 
 
298 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 neither rose nor fell ; ceasing, she dropped the hand with 
 which she had enforced herself to be so passionless an(J 
 distinct, but not the eyes with which she had so steadily 
 observed him. 
 
 Madam,” said Mr. Dombey, with his utmost dignity, 
 “ I cannot entertain any proposal of this extraordinary 
 nature.” 
 
 She looked at him yet, without the least change. 
 
 ''I cannot,” said Mr. Dombey, rising as he spoke, 
 
 consent to temporise or treat with you, Mrs. Dombey, 
 upon a subject as to which you are in possession of my 
 opinions and expectations. I have stated my ultimatum^ 
 madam, and have only to request your very serious at- 
 tention to it,” 
 
 To see the face change to its old expression, deepened 
 in intensity ! To see the eyes droop as from some mean 
 and odious object ! To see the lighting of the haughty 
 brow ! To see scorn, anger, indignation, and abhorrence 
 starting into light, and the pale blank earnestness vanish 
 like a mist ! He could not choose but look, although he 
 looked to his dismay. 
 
 ‘‘ Go, sir ! ” she said, pointing with an imperious hand 
 towards the door. ‘‘ Our first and last confidence is at 
 an end. Nothing can make us stranger to each other 
 than we are henceforth.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ I shall take my rightful course, madam, ” said Mr. 
 Dombey, undeterred, you may be sure, by any general 
 declamation.” 
 
 She turned her back upon him, and, without reply, 
 sat down before her glass. 
 
 place my reliance on your improved sense of duty, 
 ^md more correct feeling, and better reflexion, madam,” 
 said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 She answered not one word. He saw no more expression 
 of any heed of him, in the mirror, than if he had been 
 an unseen spider on the wall, or beetle on the floor, or 
 rather than if he had been the one or other, seen and 
 crushed when she last turned from him, and forgotten 
 among the ignominious and dead vermin of the ground. 
 
 He looked back, as he went out at the door, upon the 
 well-lighted and luxurious room, the beautiful and glit- 
 tering 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 he betook 
 himself to his old chamber of cogitation, carrying away 
 with him a vivid picture in his mind of all these things, 
 and a rambling and unaccountable speculation (such as 
 sometimes comes into a man’s head) how they would all 
 look when he saw them next. 
 
 For the rest, Mr. Dombey was very taciturn, and very 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 299 
 
 dignified, and very confident of carrying out his pur 
 pose ; and remained so. 
 
 He did not design accompanying the family to Brigh- 
 ton ; hut 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 
 ujjon the wane, and turning of the earth, earthly. 
 
 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. Bombey, either Grangeby,’' or Bomber,'’ or in- 
 differently, both. 
 
 But she was youthful, very youthful, still ; and in her 
 youthfulness she appeared at breakfast, before going 
 away, in a new bonnet, made express, and a travelling 
 robe that was embroidered and braided like an old baby's. 
 It was not easy to put her into a fly-away bonnet now, 
 or to keep the bonnet in its place on the back of her poor 
 nodding head, when it was got on. In this instance, it 
 had not only the extraneous effect of being always on 
 one side, but of being perpetually tapped on the crown 
 by Flowers the maid, who attended in the background 
 during breakfast to perform that duty. 
 
 ^'Now my dearest Grangeby," said Mrs. Skewton, 
 
 you must positively prom," she cut some of her words 
 short, and cut out others altogether, come down very 
 soon." 
 
 ‘"I said just now, madam," returned Mr. Bombey, 
 loudly, and laboriously, that I am coming in a day or 
 two." 
 
 Bless you. Bomber ! " 
 
 Here the major, who was come to take leave of the 
 ladies, and who was staring through his apoplectic eyes 
 at Mrs. Skewton's face, with the disinterested composure 
 of an immortal being, said : 
 
 Begad, ma'am, you don't ask old Joe to come ! " 
 
 "‘Sterious wretch, who's he?" lisped Cleopatra. But 
 a tap on the bonnet from Flowers seeming to jog her 
 memory, she added, Oh ! You mean yourself, you 
 naughty creature ! " 
 
 ‘‘Bevilish queer, sir," whispered the major to Mr. 
 Bombey. 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 
 
300 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 —Your slave — Joe, ma'am? Here! Here's the man ^ 
 Here are the Bagstock bellows, ma'am !" cried the major, 
 striking himself a sounding blow on the chest. 
 
 ‘ * My dearest Edith — Grangeby — it's most trordinry 
 thing," said Cleopatra, pettishly, '‘that Major — " 
 
 " Bagstock ! J. B. I " cried the major, seeing that she 
 faltered for his name. 
 
 "Well, it don't matter," said Cleopatra, "Edith, my 
 love, you know 1 never could remember names — what 
 was it ? oh, a most trordinry thing that so many people 
 want come down see me. I'm not going for long. I'm 
 coming back. Surely they can wait, till I come back 1 " 
 
 Cleopatra looked all round the table as she said it, and 
 appeared very uneasy, 
 
 " I won't have visitors—really don't want visitors,'* 
 she said ; " little repose — and all that sort of thing — is 
 what I quire. No odious brutes Cxiust proach me till 
 I've shaken off this numbness ; " and in a grisly resump- 
 tion of her coquettish ways, she made a dab at the major 
 with her fan, but overset Mr. Dombey's breakfast cup 
 instead, which was in quite a different direction. 
 
 Then she called for Withers, and charged him to see 
 particularly that word was left about some trivial alter- 
 ations 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 
 sirangelyat the major who couldn't help loolang strange- 
 ly 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 w^ere playing castanets. 
 
 Edith alone never lifted her eyes to any face at the 
 table, and never seemed dismayed by anything her 
 mother said or did. She listened to her disjointed talk, 
 or at least, turned her head towards her when ad- 
 dressed ; 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, how- 
 ever 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 her- 
 self neglected bv it ; always with an attraction towards it. 
 
DOMBBY AND SON. 
 
 301 
 
 that never fluctuated like her other ideas, but had con- 
 stant possession of her. From Edith she would some- 
 times look at Florence, and back again at Edith in a 
 manner that was wild enough ; and sometimes she would 
 try to look elsewhere, as if to escape from her daughter’s 
 face ; but back to it she seemed forced to come, although 
 it never sought hers unless sought, or troubled her with 
 one single glance. 
 
 The breakfast concluded, Mrs. Skewton, affecting to 
 lean girlishly upon the major’s arm, but heavily sup- 
 ported on the other side by Flowers the maid, and 
 propped up behind by Withers the page> was conducted 
 
 the carriage, which was to take her, Florence, and 
 j^dith to Brighton. 
 
 ‘‘ And is Joseph absolutely banished ? ” said the major, 
 thrusting in his purple face over the steps. Damme, 
 ma’am, is Cleopatra so hard-hearted as to forbid her 
 faithful Antony Bagstock to approach the presence ? ” 
 
 “ Go along ! ” said Cleopatra, I can’t bear you. You 
 shall see me when I come back, if you are very good.” 
 
 ‘^Tell Joseph, he may live in hope, ma’am,” said the 
 major ; '‘or he’ll die in despair.” 
 
 Cleopatra shuddered and leaned back. " Edith, my 
 dear,” she said. “ Tell him — ” 
 
 "What?” 
 
 " Such dreadful words,” said Cleopatra. " He uses 
 such dreadful words ! ” 
 
 Edith signed to him to retire, gave the word to go on, 
 and left the objectionable major to Mr. Dombey. To 
 whom he returned, whistling. 
 
 "I’ll tell you what, sir,” said the major, with his 
 hands behind him, and his legs very wide asunder, " a 
 fair friend of ours has removed to Queer-street.” 
 
 " What do you mean mj?jor ? ” inquired Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " I mean to say, Dombey,” returned the major, "that 
 jou’ll soon be an orphan-in-law.” 
 
 Mr. Dombey appeared to relish this waggish descrip- 
 tion of himself so very little that the major wound up 
 with the horse’s cough, as an expression of gravity. 
 
 "Damme, sir,” said the major, "there is no use In 
 disguising a fact. Joe is ^lunt, sir. That’s his nature. 
 If you take old Josh at all, you take him as you And 
 him ; and a de-vilish rusty, old rasper, of a close-toothed, 
 J. B. file, you do find him. Dombey,” said tbe major, 
 " your wife’s mother is on the move, sir.” 
 
 " I fear,” said Mr. Dombey, with much philosophyt 
 " that Mrs. Skewton is shaken.” 
 
 " Shaken, Dombey ! ” said the major. " Smashed I ” 
 
 "Change, however,” pursued Mr. Dombey, "and at- 
 tention may do much yet.” 
 
 " Don’t believe it, sir, ” returned the major. " Damme, 
 
302 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 sir, slie never wrapped up enough. If a man don’t wrap 
 up,' ’ said the major, taking in another button of his bufC 
 waistcoat, he has nothing to fall back upon. But some 
 people will die. They v^ill 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 Bag- 
 stock stamina, sir, would do all the good in the world to 
 the human breed.” 
 
 After imparting this precious piece of information, the 
 major, who was certainly true-blue, whatever other en- 
 dowments he may have possessed or wanted, coming 
 within the genuine old English” classification, which 
 has never been exactly ascertained, took his lobster-eyes 
 and his apoplexy to the dub and choked there all day. 
 
 Cleopatra, at one time fretful, at another self-compla- 
 cent, sometimes awake, sometimes asleep, at all times 
 juvenile, reached Brighton the same night, fell to pieces 
 as usual, and was put away in bed ; where a gloomy 
 fancy might have pictured a more potent skeleton than 
 the maid who should have been one, watching at the 
 rose-coloured curtains, which were carried down to shed 
 their bloom upon her. 
 
 It was settled in high council of medical authority 
 that she should take a -carriage airing every day, and 
 that it was important she should get out every day and 
 walk if she could. Edith was ready to attend her — 
 always ready to attend her, with the same mechanical 
 attention and immovable beauty— and they drove out 
 alone ; for Edith had an uneasiness in the presence of 
 Florence, now that her mother was worse, and told 
 Florence, with a kiss, that she would rather they two went 
 alone. 
 
 Mrs. Skewton, on one particn,lar day, was in the irreso= 
 lute, 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 j 
 when she herself was halting along with the joint sup- 
 port of Withers and a stick, and Edith was walking by 
 her side, and the carriage slowly following at a little dis- 
 tance. 
 
 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 303 
 
 querulous satisf action 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 ridg^ 
 before them, two other figures, which in the distance, 
 were so like an exaggerated imitation of their own, that 
 Edith stopped. 
 
 Almost as she stopped, the two figures stopped ; and 
 that one which to Edith^s thinking was like a distorted 
 shadow of her mother, spoke to the other, earnestly, and 
 with a pointing hand towards them. That one seemed 
 inclined to turn back, but the other, in which Edith 
 recognised enough that was like herself to strike hei 
 with an unusual feeling, not quite free from fear, came 
 on ; and then they came on together. 
 
 The greater part of this observation, she made while 
 walking towards them, for her stoppage had been 
 momentary. Nearer observation showed her that they 
 were poorly dressed, as wanderers about the country ; 
 that the younger woman carried knitted work or some 
 such goods for sale ; and that the old one toiled on 
 empty-handed. 
 
 And yet, however far removed she was in dress, in 
 dignity, in beauty, Edith could not but compare the 
 younger woman with herself, still. It may have been 
 that she saw upon her face some traces which she knew 
 were lingering in her own soul, if not yet written on 
 that index ; but, as the woman came on, returning her 
 gaze, fixing her shining eyes upon her, undoubtedly 
 presenting something of her own air and stature, and 
 appearing to reciprocate her own thoughts, she felt a 
 chill creep over her, as if the day were darkening, and 
 the wind were colder. 
 
 They had now come up. The old woman holding out 
 her hand importunately, stopped to beg of Mrs. Skewton. 
 The younger one stopped too, and she and Edith looked 
 in one another's eyes. 
 
 What is that you have to sell ?" said Edith. 
 
 Only this," returned the woman, holding out her 
 wares, without looking at them. "‘I sold myself long 
 ago." 
 
 My lady, don't believe her," croaked the old woman 
 to Mrs. Skewton ; don't believe what she says. She 
 loves to talk like that. She's my handsome and unduti- 
 f ul daughter. She gives me nothing but reproaches, ma- 
 lady, for all I have done for her. Look at her now, my 
 lady, how she turns upon her poor old mother with her 
 looks." 
 
 As Mrs. Skewton drew her purse out with a trembling 
 hand and eagerly fumbled for some money, which the 
 other old woman greedily watched for — their heads all 
 
804 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 but toucbiiig ill their hurry and decrepitude — Edith 
 interposed : 
 
 I have seen you/" addressing the old woman, ‘‘ be- 
 fore.” 
 
 "‘Yes, my lady,” with a curtsey. “Down in War- 
 wickshire. The morning among the trees. When you 
 wouldn’t give me nothing. But the gentleman, he give 
 me something ! O, bless him, bless him ! ” mumbled the 
 ol^ woman, holding up her skinny hand, and grinning 
 frightfully at her daughter. 
 
 “It’s of no use attempting to stay me, Edith !” said 
 Mrs. Skewton, angrily anticipating an objection from 
 her. “You know nothing about it. I v/on’t be dissuaded. 
 I am sure this is an excellent woman, and a good 
 mother.” 
 
 “ Yes, mj lady, yes,” chattered the old woman, holding 
 out her ava,ricious hand. “ Thankee, my lady. Lord 
 bless you, my lady. Sixpence more, my pretty lady, as 
 a good mother yourself.” 
 
 “And treated undutifully enough, too, my good old 
 creature, sometimes, I assure you,” said Mrs. Skewton, 
 whimpering. “ There ! Shake hands with me. You’re 
 a very good old creature — full of what’s-his-name — and 
 all that. You’re all affection and et cetera, an’t you ? ” 
 
 “ Oh yes, my lady ! ” 
 
 “Yes, I’m sure you are ; and so’s that gentlemanly 
 creature Grangeby. I must really shake hands with you 
 again. And now you can go, you know ; and I hope,” 
 addressing the daughter, “ that you’ll show more grati- 
 tude, and natural what’s-its-name, and all the rest of it 
 — but I never did remember names — for there never was 
 a better mother than the good old creature’s been to you. 
 Come, Edith !” 
 
 As the ruin of Cleopatra tottered off whimpering, and 
 wiping its eyes with a gingerly remembrance of rouge in 
 their neighbourhood, the old woman hobbled another 
 way, mumbling and counting her money. Not one word 
 more, nor one other gesture, had been exchanged be- 
 tween 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 awak- 
 ening from a dream, passed slowly on. 
 
 “ You’re a handsome woman,” muttered her shadow, 
 looking after her ; “ but good looks won’t save us. And 
 you’re a proud woman ; but pride won’t save us. We 
 had need to know each other when we meet again I ” 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 305 
 
 CHAPTER XLI 
 
 New Voices in the Waves. 
 
 AlIj 2® 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 noon their trackless Sight ; the white 
 arms beckon, in the moonlight, to the invisible country 
 far away. 
 
 With a tender melancholy pleasure, Florence finds her- 
 self 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 mur- 
 mur 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 marvel- 
 lous song. 
 
 And gentle Mr. Toots, who wanders at a distance, look- 
 ing v/istfully 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 eter- 
 nal madrigal in praise of Florence. Yes ! and he faintly 
 understands, poor Mr. Toots, that they are saying some- 
 thing 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 pres- 
 ent 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 Lark ey "Boy. 
 
 But Mr. Toots takes courage, when they whisper a kind 
 thought to him ; and by slow degrees and with many in- 
 decisive stoppages on the way, approaches Florence. 
 Stammering and blushing, Mr. Toots affects amazement 
 when he comes near her,^and says (having followed close 
 on the carriage in which she travelled, every inch of the 
 way from London, loving even to be choked by the dust 
 of its wheels) that he never was so surprised in all his 
 life. 
 
 ‘'And you’ve brought Diogenes, too. Miss Dombey I” 
 says Mr. Toots, thrilled through and through by the touch 
 of the small hand so pleasantly and frankly given him. 
 
 No doubt Diogenes is there, and no doubt Mr. Toots has 
 
306 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 reason to observe Iiim, for lie comes straiglitwav at Mr. 
 Toots’s legs, and tumbles over himself in the desperation 
 with which he makes at him, like a very dog of Montar^ 
 gis. But he is checked by his sweet mistress, 
 
 Down, Di, down. Don't you remember who first made 
 us friends, Di ? For shame ! ” 
 
 Oh ! Well may Di lay his loving cheek ^against her 
 hand, and run off, and run back, and run round her, bark- 
 ing, and run headlong at anybody coming by, to show his 
 devotion. Mr. Toots would run headlong at anybody, 
 too. A military gentleman goes past, and Mr. Toots 
 would like nothing better than to run at him, full tilt. 
 
 '‘Diogenes is quite in his native air, isn't he, Miss 
 Dombey ? " says Mr. Toots. 
 
 Florence assents, with a grateful smile. 
 
 "Miss Dombey," says Mr. Toots, "beg your pardon, 
 but if you would like to walk to Blimber's, I — I am going 
 there. " 
 
 Florence puts Jier arm in that of Mr. Toots without a 
 lycxrd, and they^walk away together, with Diogenes 
 going on before. Mr. Toots’s legs shake under him ; 
 and though he is splendidly dressed, he feels misfits, 
 and sees wrinkles, in the masterpieces of Burgess and 
 Co., and wishes he had put on that brightest pair of 
 boots. 
 
 Doctor Blimber's house, outside, has as scholastic and 
 studious an air as ever ; and up there is the window 
 where she used to look for the pale face, and where 
 the pale face brightened when it saw her, and the wasted 
 little hand waved kisses as she passed. The door is 
 opened by the same weak-eyed young man, whose im- 
 becility of grin at sight of Mr. Toots is feebleness of 
 character personified. They are shown into the doctor's 
 study, where blind Homer and Minerva gave them au- 
 dience as of yore, to the sober ticking of the great clock 
 in the hall ; and where the globes stand still in their 
 accustomed places, as if the world were stationary too, 
 and nothing in it ever perished in obedience to the uni- 
 versal law, that, while it keeps it on the roll calls 
 everything to earth. 
 
 And here is Doctor Blimber, with his learned legs ; and 
 here is Mrs. Blimber, with her sky-blue cap ; and here 
 is Cornelia, with her sandy little row of curls, and her 
 bright spectacles, still working like a sexton in the 
 graves of languages. Here is the table upon which he 
 sat forlorn and strange, the " new boy" of the school; 
 and hither comes the distant cooing of the old boys, at 
 their old lives in the old room on the old principle ! 
 
 "Toots ! " says Doctor Blimber, "I am very glad to 
 see you. Toots." 
 
 Mr. Toots chuckles in reply. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 307 
 
 Also to see you, Toots, in siicli good company,” says 
 Doctor Blimber. 
 
 ^Mr. Toots, with a scarlet visage, explains that he has 
 met Miss Dombey by accident, and that Miss Dombey 
 wishing, like himself, to see the old place, they have 
 come together. 
 
 ‘‘ You will like,” says Doctor Blimber, to step among 
 our young friends, Miss Dombey, no doubt. All fellow 
 students of yours. Toots, once. I think we have no new 
 disciples in our little portico, my dear,” says Doctor 
 Blimber to Cornelia, since Mr. Toots left us.” 
 
 Except Bitlierstone,” returns Cornelia. 
 
 Ay, truly,” says the doctor. Bitherstone is new 
 to Mr. Toots.” 
 
 New to Florence, too, almost ; for, in the school-room, 
 Bitherstone — no longer Master Bitherstone of Mrs. Pip- 
 chin’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 Doc- 
 tor Blimber’s highest pressure ; but in the yawn of Bith- 
 erstone there is malice and snarl, and he has been heard 
 to say that he wishes he could catch old Blimber ” in 
 India. He’d precious soon find himself carried up the 
 country by a few of his (Bitherstone’s) coolies, and 
 handed over to the Thugs ; he can tell him that. 
 
 Briggs is still grinding in the mill of knowledge ; and 
 Toser, too ; and Johnson, too ; and all the rest ; the older 
 pupils being principally engaged in forgetting, with 
 prodigious labour, everything they knew when they were 
 younger. All are as polite and pale as ever ; and among 
 them, Mr. Feeder, B.A., with his bony hand and bristly 
 head, is still hard at it ; with his Herodotus stop on just 
 at present, and his other barrels on a shelf behind him. 
 
 A mighty sensation is created, even among these grave 
 young 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 fash- 
 ion of whose jewelry, whispers go about, behind hands ; 
 the bilious Bitherstone, who is not of Mr. Toots’s time, 
 affecting to despise the latter to the smaller boys, and 
 saying he knows better, and that he should like to see 
 him coming that sort of thing in Bengal, where his 
 mother has got an emerald belonging to him, that was 
 taken out of the foot-stool of a rajah. Come now ! 
 
 Bewildering emotions are awakened also by the sight 
 of Florence, with whom every young gentleman imme- 
 diately falls in love, again ; except, as aforesaid, the 
 
308 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 bilious Bitberstone, wbo declines to do so, out of contra- 
 diction. Black jealousies of Mr. Toots arise, and Briggs 
 is of opinion that he anT so very old after all. But this 
 disparaging insinuation is speedily made nought by Mr. 
 Toots saying aloud to Mr. Feeder, B. A. , How are you. 
 Feeder ? ” and asking him to come and dine with him 
 to-day at the Bedford ; in right of which feats he might 
 set up as Old Parr, if he chose, unquestioned. 
 
 There is much shaking of hands, and much bowing, 
 and a great desire on the part of each young gentleman 
 to take Toots down in Miss Hombey’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, ‘‘Gentle- 
 men, we will now resume our studies.” For that and 
 little else is what the doctor hears the sea say, or has 
 heard it saying all his life. 
 
 Florence then steals away and goes up-stairs to the old 
 bedroom with Mrs. Blimber and Cornelia ; Mr. Toots, 
 who feels that neither he nor anybody else is wanted 
 there, stands talking to the doctor at the study-door, or 
 rather hearing the doctor talk to him, and wondering how 
 he ever thought the study a great sanctuary, and the 
 doctor, with his round turned legs, like a clerical piano- 
 forte, an awful man. Florence soon comes down and 
 takes leave ; Mr. Toots takes leave ; and Diogenes, who 
 has been worrying the weak-eyed young man pitilessly 
 all the time, shoots out at the door, and barks a glad 
 defiance down the cliff ; while ’Melia, and another of the 
 doctor's female domestics, look out of an upper window, 
 laughing “ at that there Toots,” and saying of Miss 
 Dombey, “ But really though, now — ain’t she like her 
 brother, only prettier ? ” 
 
 Mr. Toots, who saw when Florence came down that 
 there were tears upon her face, is desperately anxious 
 and uneasy, and at first fee.rs that he did wrong in pro- 
 posing the visit. But he is soon relieved by her saying 
 she is very glad to have been there again^ and by her 
 talking quite cheerfully about it all, as they walked on 
 by the sea. What with the voices there, and her sweet 
 voice when they come near Mr. Dombey’s house, and Mr. 
 Toots must leave her, he is so enslaved that he has not a 
 scrap of free-will left ; when she gives him her hand at 
 parting, he cannot let it go. 
 
 “ Miss Dombey, I beg your pardon,” says Mr. Toots, 
 in a sad fluster, “ but if you would allow me to — to — ” 
 
 The smiling and unconscious look of Florence brings 
 him to a dead stop. 
 
 “If you would allow me to — if you would not consider 
 it a liberty, Miss Dombey, if I v;as to — vrithout any en- 
 
DOMBEY A:s^D SON. 
 
 809 
 
 couragement at all, if I was to hope, you know,’" gays 
 Mr. Toots. 
 
 Florence looks at him inquiringly. 
 
 “Miss Dombey,’' says Mr. Tqots, 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 pos 
 sible that you — ” 
 
 “ Oh if you please, don’t ! ” cries Florence, for the 
 m.oment quite alarmed and distressed. “Oh, piray don’t, 
 Mr. Toots. Stop, if you please. Don’t say any more. 
 As a kindness and a favour to me, don’t.” 
 
 Mr. Toots is dreadfully abashed, and his mouth opens. 
 
 “ You have been so good to me,” says Florence,* “ I am 
 so grateful to you, I have such reason to like you for 
 being a kind friend to me, and I do like you so much ; ” 
 and here the ingenuous face smiles upon him with the 
 pleasantest look of honesty in the world ; “that I am 
 sure you are only going to say good bye ! ” 
 
 “Certainly, Miss Dombey,” says Mr. Toots, “I — 1-— 
 that’s exactly what I mean. It’s of no consequence. ” 
 
 ' ‘ Good bye ! ” cries Florence. 
 
 “ Good bye. Miss Dombey I” 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 conse- 
 quence in the world.” 
 
 Poor Mr. Toots goes home to his hotel in a state of 
 desperation, locks himself into his bedroom, flings him- 
 self upon his bed, and lies there for a long time ; as if it 
 were of the greatest consequence, nevertheless. But 
 Mr. Feeder, B.A., is coming to dinner, which happens 
 well for Mr. Toots, or there is no knowing when he 
 might get up again. Tdr. Toots is obliged to get up to 
 receive him, and to give him hospitable entertainment. 
 
 And the generous influence of that social virtue, hos- 
 pitality (to make no mention of wine and good cheer), 
 opens Mr. Toots’s heart, and warms him to conversation. 
 He does not tell Mr. Feeder, B.A., v/hat passed at the 
 comer of the square ; but when Mr. Feeder asks him 
 “When it is to come off?” Mr. Toots replies, “that 
 there are certain subjects” — v/hich 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 have him out, doctor or no 
 doctor ; but he supposes it’s only his ignorance. Mr. 
 Feeder says he has no doubt of it. 
 
 Mr. Feeder, however, as an intimate friend, is not ex^ 
 
310 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 cinded from the subject. Mr. Toots merely requires 
 that it should be mentioned mysteriously, and with feel- 
 ing. After a few glasses of wine, he gives Miss Dom- 
 hey’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 wliere 
 to find him, either by post or parcel. Mr. Feeder like- 
 wise says, that if he may advise, he would recommend 
 Mr. Toots to learn the guitar, or, at least, the flute ; for 
 women like music when you are paying your addresses 
 to 'em, and he has found the advantage of it himself. 
 
 This brings Mr. Feeder, B.A., to the confession that 
 he has his eye upon Cornelia Blimber. He informs Mr. 
 Toots that lie don't object to spectacles, and that if the 
 doctor were to do the handsome thing and give up the 
 business, why, there they are — provided for. He says 
 it's his opinion that when a man has made a handsome 
 sum by his business, he is bound to give it up ; and that 
 Cornelia would be an assistance in it which any man 
 might be proud of. Mr. Toots replies by launching 
 wildly out into Miss Dombey's praises, and by insinua- 
 tions that sometimes he thinks he should like to blow 
 his brains out. Mr. Feeder strongly urges that it would 
 be a rash attempt, and shows him, as a reconcilement to 
 existence, Cornelia's portrait, spectacles and all. 
 
 Thus these quiet spirits pass the evening ; and when 
 it has yielded place to night, Mr. Toots walks home 
 with Mr. Feeder, and parts with him at Doctor Blim- 
 ber's door. But Mr. Feeder only goes up the steps, and 
 when Mr. Toots is gone, comes down again, to stroll 
 upon the beach alone, and think about his prospects. 
 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 look- 
 ing at the outside of the house, and thinking that the 
 doctor will first paint it, and put it into thorough repair. 
 
 Mr. Toots is likewise roaming up and down, outside 
 the casket that contains his jewel ; and in a deplorable 
 condition of mind, and not unsuspected by the police, 
 gazes at a window where he sees a light, and which he 
 has no doubt is Florence's. But it is not, for that is 
 Mrs. Skewton's room ; and while Florence, sleeping in 
 another chamber, dreams lovingly, in the midst of the 
 old scenes, and their old associations live again, the 
 figure which in grim reality is substituted for the patient 
 boy's on the same theatre, once more to connect it — but 
 how differently ! — with decay and death, is stretched 
 there, wakeful and complaining. Ugly and haggard it 
 
— Dombey and Son, Vol. Twelye, page 311 
 
812 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 lies upon its bed of unrest ; and by it, in the terror of 
 her un impassioned loveliness — for it has terror in the 
 sutferer’s failing eyes — sits Edith. What do the waves 
 say, in the stillness of the night to them ! 
 
 Edith, what is that stone arm raised to strike me. 
 Don't you see it ? ” 
 
 There is nothing, mother, but your fancy." 
 
 ‘'But my fancy! Everything is my fancy. Look! 
 Is it possible that you don't see it 1 " 
 
 “ Indeed, mother, there is nothing. Should I sit un- 
 moved if there were any such thing there ? " 
 
 “ Unmoved? " looking wildly at her—" it's gone now 
 — and why are you so unmoved ? That is not my fancy, 
 Edith. It turns me cold to see you sitting at my side." 
 
 “I am sorry, mother." 
 
 “Sorry ! You seem always sorry. But it is not for 
 me I " 
 
 With that, she cries ; and tossing her restless head 
 from side to side upon her pillow, runs on about neg- 
 lect, and the mother she has been, and the mother the 
 good old creature was, whom they met, and the cold re- 
 turn the daughters of such mothers make. In the midst 
 of her incoherence, she stops, looks at her daughter, 
 cries out that her wits are going, and hides her face 
 upon the bed. 
 
 Edith, in compassion, bends over her and speaks to 
 her. The sick old woman clutches her round the neck, 
 and says, with a look of horror. 
 
 “ Edith I we are going home soon ; going back. You 
 mean that I shall go home again ? '' 
 
 “Yes mother, yes." 
 
 “ And what he said — what's his name, I never could 
 remember names — major — that dreadful word, when we 
 came away — it's not true ? EdUh ! " with a shriek and 
 a stare, “ it's not that that is tlie matter with me." 
 
 Night after night, the light burns in the window, and 
 the figure lies upon the bed, and Edith sits beside it, 
 and the restless waves are calling to them both the 
 whole night long. Night after night, the waves are 
 hoarse with repetition of their mystery ; the dust lies 
 piled upon the shore ; the sea-birds soar and hover ; the 
 winds and clouds are on their trackless flight ; the 
 white arms beckon, in the moonlight, to the invisible 
 country far away. 
 
 And still the sick old woman looks into the corner, 
 where the stone arm — part of a figure of some tomb, she 
 says — is raised to strike her. At last it falls ; and then 
 a dumb old woman lies upon the bed, and she is crooked, 
 and shrunk up, and half of her is dead. 
 
 Such is the figure, painted and patched for the sun to 
 mock, that is drawn slowly through the crowd from day 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 818 
 
 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 dovm to the margin of the sea, and stationed 
 there ; but on which no wind can J)low freshness, and 
 for which the murmer of the ocean has no soothing 
 word. She lies and listens to it by the hour ; but its 
 speech is dark and gloomy to her, and a dread is on her 
 face, and when her eyes wander over the expanse, they 
 see but a broad stretch of desolation between earth and 
 heaven. 
 
 Florence she seldom sees, and when she does, is angry 
 wdth and mows at Edith is beside her always, and keeps 
 Florence away ; and Florence, in her bed at night, 
 trembles at the thought of death in such a shape, and 
 often wakes and listens, thinking it has come. No one 
 attends on her but Edith. It is better that few eyes 
 should see her ; and her daughter watches alone by the 
 bedside. 
 
 A shadow even on that shadowed face, a sharpening 
 even of the sharpened features, and a thickening of the 
 veil before the eyes into a pall that shuts out the dim 
 world, is come. Her wandering hands upon the coverlet 
 join feebly palm to palm, and move towards her daugh- 
 ter ; and a voice not like hers, not like any voice that 
 speaks our mortal language — says ‘‘ For I nursed you ! ” 
 
 Edith, v/ithout a tear, kneels down to bring her voice 
 closer to the sinking head, and answers : 
 
 Mother, can you hear me ? ” 
 
 Staring wide, she tries to nod in answer. 
 
 Can you recollect the night before I married 
 
 The head is motionless, but it exy^resses somehow that 
 she does. 
 
 I told you then that I forgave your part in it, and 
 prayed God to forgive my own. I told you that the past 
 was at an end between us. I say so now, again. Kiss 
 me, mother.^’ 
 
 Edith touches the white lips, and for a moment all is 
 still. A moment afterwards, her mother, with her girl- 
 ish laugh, and the skeleton of the Cleopatra manner, 
 rises in her bed. 
 
 Draw the rose-coloured curtains. There is something 
 else upon its flight besides the wind and clouds. Draw 
 the rose-coloured curtains close ! 
 
 Intelligence of the event is sent to Mr. Dombey in 
 town, who waits upon Cousin Feenix (not yet able to 
 make up his mind for Baden-Baden), who has just re- 
 (Jeived it too. A good-natured creature like Cousin Fee- 
 nix is the very man for a marriage or a funeral, and his 
 position in the family renders it right that he should be 
 consulted. 
 
 Von. 12 — N 
 
814 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Dombey,*’ says Cousin Feenix, upon nay soul, I 
 am very much shocked to see you on such a melancholy 
 occasion. My poor aunt ! She was a devilish lively 
 woman/' 
 
 Mr. Dombey replies, '' Very much so." 
 
 “ And made up," said Cousin Feenix, really young, 
 you know, considering. I am sure, on the day of your 
 marriage, I thought she ^ was good for another twenty 
 years. In point of fact, I said so to a man at Brooks's — 
 little Billy Joper — you know him, no doubt— man with a 
 glass in his eye ? " 
 
 Mr. Dombey bows a negative. In reference to the 
 obsequies," he hints, ''whether there is any sugges- 
 tions — " 
 
 "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 Mau- 
 soleum down at my place, in the park, but Fm afraid it's 
 in bad repair, and, in point of fact, in a devil of a state. 
 But for being a little out at elbows, I should have had it 
 put to rights ; but I believe the people come and make 
 pic-nic parties there inside the iron railings,” 
 
 Mr. Dombey is clear that this won't do. 
 
 " There's an uncommon good church in the village," 
 says Cousin Feenix, thoughtfully ; pure specimen of 
 the Anglo-Norman style, and admirably well sketched 
 too by Lady Jane Finchbury — woman with tight stays — 
 but they've spoilt it with whitewash, I understand, and 
 it’s a long journey." 
 
 " Perhaps Brighton itself," Mr. Dombey suggests. 
 
 " Upon my honour, Dombey, I don't thing we could 
 do better," says Cousin Feenix. " It's on the spot, you 
 see, and a very cheerful place." 
 
 " And when," hints Mr. Dombey, " would it be con- 
 venient ? ” 
 
 "I shall make a point," says Cousin Feenix "of 
 pledging myself for any day you thinli best. I shall 
 have great pleasure (melancholy pleasure, of course) in 
 
 following my poor aunt to the confines of the in point 
 
 of fact, to the grave,” says Cousin Feenix, failing in the 
 other turn of speech. 
 
 "Would Monday do for leaving town?" says Mr. 
 Dombey. 
 
 " Monday would suit me to perfection," replies Cousin 
 Feenix. Therefore Mr. Dombey arranges to take Cousin 
 Feenix down on that day, and presently takes his leave, 
 attended to the stairs by Cousin Feenix, who says, at 
 parting, "I'm really excessively sorry, Dombey, that 
 you should have so much trouble about it ; " to which 
 Mr. Dombey answers, "Not at all.” 
 
 At the appointed time. Cousin Feenix and Mr. Dom^ 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 315 
 
 bey meet, and go down to Brighton, and representing, 
 in their two selves, all the other mourners for the de- 
 ceased lady’s loss, attend her remains to their place of 
 rest. Cousin Feenix, sitting in the mourning-coach, rec- 
 ognises innumerable acquaintances on the road, but 
 takes no other notice of them, in decorum, than check- 
 ing them off aloud, as they go by, for Mr. Dombey’s in- 
 formation, 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 musn’t mention it. 
 
 So Edith’s mother lies unmentioned of her dear friends, 
 who are dear to the waves that are hoarse with repeti- 
 tion of their mystery, and blind to the dust that is piled 
 upon the shore, and to the white arms that are beckon- 
 ing, 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 lis- 
 tening to its waves, has dank weed cast up at her feet, 
 to strew her path in life withal. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 Confidential and Accidental. 
 
 Attiked 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 alS 
 regardless within of the captain and the Midshipman, ex- 
 cept when he devoted a few minutes of his leisure time 
 to crowing over those inseparable worthies, and recall- 
 ing, with much applauding music from that brazen in- 
 strument, his conscience, the triumphant manner in 
 which he had disembarrassed himself of their company, 
 now served his patron, Mr. Carker. Inmate of Mr. 
 Carker’s house, and serving about his person, Rob kept 
 
316 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 his round eyes on the white teeth with fear and trem*» 
 bling, and felt that he had need to open them wider than 
 ever. 
 
 He could not have quaked more, through his whole 
 being, before the teeth, though he had come into the 
 service of some powerful enchanter, and they had been 
 his strongest spells. The boy had a sense of power and 
 authority in this patron of his that engrossed his whole 
 attention and exacted his most implicit submission and 
 obedience. He hardly considered himself safe in think- 
 ing 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 eu' 
 thralment, that, hardly daring to think at all, but with 
 his mind filled with a constantly dilating impression of 
 his patron’s irresistible command over him, and power of 
 doing anything with him, he would stand watching his 
 pleasure, and trying to anticipate his orders, in a state 
 of mental suspension, as to all other things. 
 
 Rob had not informed himself perhaps — in his then 
 state of mind it would have been an act of no common 
 temerity to inquire — whether he yielded so completely 
 to this influence in any part, because he had floating sus- 
 picions of his patron’s being a master of certain treach- 
 erous arts in which he had himself been a poor scholar 
 at the Grinders’ School. But certainly Rob admired him 
 as well as feared him. Mr. Carker, perhaps, was better 
 acquainted with the sources of his power, which lost 
 nothing by his management of it. 
 
 On the very night when he left the captain’s service, 
 Rob, after disposing of his pigeons, and even making a 
 bad bargain in his hurry, had gone straight down to Mr. 
 Carker’s house, and hotly presented himself before his 
 new master with a glowing face that seemed to expect 
 commendation. 
 
 ‘^Wliat, scapegrace!” said Mr. Carker, glancing at 
 his bundle. ‘ " Have you left your situation and come to 
 me?” 
 
 '‘Oh if you please, sir,” faltered Rob, “you said, you 
 know when I. come here last — ” 
 
 “/said,” returned Mr. Carker, “what did I say?” 
 
 “ If you please, sir, you didn’t say nothing at all, sir,’' 
 returned Rob, warned by the manner of this inquiry, 
 and very much disconcerted. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 317 
 
 His patron looked at him with a wide display of gums, 
 and shaking his forefinger, observed : 
 
 ‘"You’ll come to an evil end, my vagabond friend, J 
 foresee. There’s ruin in store for you.” 
 
 “Oh if you please, don’t, sir !” cried Rob, with his 
 legs trembling under him. “I’m sure, sir, I only want 
 to work for you, sir, and to v/ait upon you, sir, and to do 
 faithful whatever I’m bid, sir.” 
 
 “ Y'ou had better do faithfully whatever you are bid,” 
 returned his patron, “if you have anything to do with 
 me.” 
 
 “Yes, I know that, sir,” pleaded the submissive Roh| 
 “ I’m sure of that, sir. If you’ll only be so good as try 
 me, sir 1 And if you ever find me out, sir, doing any- 
 thing against your wishes, I give you leave to kill me.” 
 
 “You dog!” said Mr. Carker, leaning back in his 
 chair, and smiling at him serenely. “ That’s nothing to 
 what I’d do to you, if you tried to deceive me.” 
 
 “Yes, sir,” replied the abject Grinder, “ I’m sure you 
 would be down upon me dreadful, sir. I wouldn’t at- 
 tempt for to go and do it, sir, not if I was bribed with 
 golden guineas.” 
 
 Thoroughly checked in his expectation of commenda- 
 tion, the crest-fallen Grinder stood looking at his patron, 
 and vainly endeavouring not to look at him, with the 
 uneasiness which a cur will often manifest in a similar 
 situation. 
 
 ‘ ‘ So you have left your old service, and come here to 
 ask me to take you into mine, eh ? ” said Mr. Carker. 
 
 “Yes, if you please, sir,” returned Rob, who, in doing 
 so, had acted on his patron’s own instructions, but dared 
 not justify himself by the least insinuation to that effect. 
 
 “Well ! ” said Mr. Carker. “You know me, boy ? ” 
 
 “ Please, sir, yes, sir,” returned Rob, fumbling with 
 his hat, and still fixed by Mr. Carker’s eye, and fruitless- 
 ly endeavouring to unfix himself. 
 
 Mr. Carker nodded. ‘ ‘ Take care then 1 ” 
 
 Rob expressed in a number of short bows his lively 
 understanding of this caution, and was bowing himself 
 back to the door, greatly relieved by the prospect of 
 getting on the outside of it, when his patron stopped 
 him. 
 
 “ Halloa ! ” he cried, calling him roughly back. 
 “ You have been — shut that door.” 
 
 Rob obeyed as if his life had depended on his alacrity. 
 
 “You have been used to eavesdropping. Do you know 
 what that means ?” 
 
 “Listening, sir?” Rob hazarded, after some embar- 
 rassed reflection. 
 
 His patron nodded. “ And watching, and so forth.” 
 wouldn’t do such a thing here, sir,” answered 
 
WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Bi8 
 
 Bob ; upon my word and honour, I wouldn’t, sir, I 
 wish I may die if I would, sir, for anything that could 
 be promised to me. I should consider it as much as all 
 the world was worth, to offer to do such a thing, unless 
 I was ordered, sir.” 
 
 “ You had better not. You have been used, too, to 
 babbling and tattling,” said his patron, with perfect 
 coolness. Beware of that here, or you’re a lost ras- 
 cal,” and he smiled again, and again cautioned him with 
 his forefinger. 
 
 The Grinder’s breath came short and thick with con- 
 sternation. He tried to protest the purity of his inten- 
 tions, but could only stare at the smiling gentleman in a 
 stupor of submission, with which the smiling gentleman 
 seemed well enough satisfied, for he ordered him down- 
 stairs, after observing him for some moments in silence, 
 and gave him to understand that he was retained in his 
 employment. 
 
 This was the manner of Rob the Grinder’s engagement 
 by Mr. Carker, and his awe-stricken devotion to that 
 gentleman had strengthened and increased, if possible, 
 Vith every minute of his service. 
 
 It was a service of some months’ duration, when early 
 one morning, Rob opened the garden gate to Mr. Horn 
 bey, who was come to breakfast with his master, by 
 appointment. At the same moment his master himself 
 came, hurrying forth to receive the distinguished guest, 
 and give him welcome with ail his teeth. 
 
 I never thought,” said Carker, when he had assisted 
 him to alight from his horse, to see you here. I’m 
 sure. This is an extraordinary day in my calendar. Iso 
 occasion is very special to a man like you, who may do 
 ' anything ; but to a man like me, the case is widely dif- 
 ferent.” 
 
 You have a tasteful place here, Carker,” said Mr. 
 Dombey, condescending to stop upon the lawn, to look 
 about him. 
 
 “ You can afford to say so, ” returned Carker. Thank 
 
 you.” 
 
 Indeed,” said Mr. Dombey, in his lofty patronage, 
 
 any one might say so. As far as it goes, it is a very 
 commodious and well-arranged place — quite elegant.” 
 
 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 none the less. Will 
 you walk in ?” 
 
 Mr. Dombey, entering the house, noticed, as he had 
 reason to do, the complete arrangement of the rooms, 
 and the numerous contrivances for comfort and effect 
 that abounded there. Mr. Carker, in his ostentation of 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 319 
 
 humility, received this notice with a deferential smile, 
 and said he understood its delicate meaning, and appre- 
 ciated it, but in truth the cottage was good enough for 
 one in his position — better, perhaps, than such a man 
 should occupy, poor as it was. 
 
 But perhaps to you, who are so far removed, it really 
 does look better than it is,’' he said, with his false moath 
 distended to its fullest stretch. Just as nionarchs im- 
 agine attractions in the lives of beggars.” 
 
 He directed a sharp glance and a sharp smile at Mr. 
 Dombey as he spoke, and a sharper glance, and a sharper 
 smile yet, when Mr. Dombey, drawing himself up before 
 the fire, in the attitude so often copied by his second in 
 command, looked round at the pictures on the walls. 
 Cursorily as his cold eye wandered over them, 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 particul ar, Carker hardly seemed 
 to breathe, his sidelong scrutiny was so catlike and vigi- 
 lant, but the eye of his great chief passed from that, as 
 from the others, and appeared no more impressed by it 
 than by the rest. 
 
 Carker looked at it— it was the picture that resembled 
 Edith — as if it were a living thing ; and with a wicked, 
 silent laugh upon his face, that seemed in part addressed 
 to it, though it was all derisive of the great man stand- 
 ing so unconscious beside him. Breakfast was soon set 
 upon the table : and, inviting Mr. Dombey to a chair 
 which had its back towards this picture, he took his own 
 seat opposite to it as usual. 
 
 Mr. Dombey was even graver than it was his custom to 
 be, and quite silent. The parrot, swinging in the gilded 
 hoop within her gaudy cage, attempted in vain to attract 
 notice, for Carker was too observant of his visitor to heed 
 her ; and the visitor, abstracted in meditation, looked 
 fixedly, not to say sullenly, over his stifl! neckcloth, with- 
 out raising his eyes from the tablecloth. As to Rob, who 
 was in attendance, all his faculties and energies Avere 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. 
 
 AIIoav me,” said Carker, suddenly, to ask hovf 
 Mrs. Dombey is ? ” 
 
 He leaned forAvard obsequiously, as he made the in- 
 quiry, with his chin resting on his hand ; and at the 
 same time his eyes went up to the picture, as if he said 
 to it, Now, see, how I will lead him on 1 ” 
 
 Mr. Dombey reddened as he answered : 
 
320 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Mrs. Dombey is quite well. You remind me, Carker, 
 of some conversation that I wish to have with you.” 
 
 Robin, you can leave us,” said his master, at whose 
 mild tones Robin started and disappeared, with his eyes 
 fixed on his patron to the last. ‘'You don’t remember 
 that boy, of course ? ” he added, when the immeshed 
 Grinder was gone. 
 
 “No,” said Mr. Dombey, with magnificent indiffer- 
 ence. 
 
 “ Not likely that a man like you would. Hardly pos- 
 sible,” murmured Carker. ‘ ‘ But he is one of that fam- 
 ily from whom you took a nurse. Perhaps you may re- 
 member having generously charged yourself with his 
 education ? ” 
 
 “Is it that boy?” said Mr. Dombey, with a frown. 
 “He does little credit to his education, I believe.” 
 
 “Why, he is a young rip, I am afraid,” returned Car- 
 ker, with a shrug. “ He bears that character. But the 
 truth is, I took him into my service because, being able 
 to get no other employment, he conceived (had been 
 taught at home, I dare say) that he had some sort of 
 claim upon you, and was constantly trying to dog your 
 heels with his petition. And although my defined and 
 recognized connexion with your affairs is merely of a 
 business character, still I have that spontaneous interest 
 in everything belonging to you, that — ” 
 
 He stopped again, as if to discover whether he had 
 led Mr. Dombey far enough yet. And again, with his 
 chin resting on his hand, he leered at the picture. 
 
 “Carker,” said Mr. Dombey, “ I am sensible that you 
 do not limit your — ” 
 
 “Service,” suggested his smiling entertainer. 
 
 “ No ; I prefer to say your regard,” observed Mr. 
 Dombey, very sensible, as he said so, that he was paying 
 him a handsome and flattering compliment, “ to our mere 
 business relations. Your consideration for my feelings, 
 hopes, and disappointments, in the little instance you 
 have just now mentioned, is an example in point. I am 
 obliged to you, Carker.” 
 
 Mr. Carker bent his head slowly, and very softly 
 rubbed his hands, as if he were afraid by any action to 
 disturb the current of Mr. Dombey’s confidence. 
 
 “ Your allusion to it is opportune,” said Mr. Dombey, 
 after a little hesitation, “ for it prepares the way to 
 what I was beginning to say to you, and reminds me 
 that that involves no absolutely new relations between 
 us, although it may involve more personal confidence on 
 my part than I have hitherto — ” 
 
 “Distinguished me with,” suggested Carker, bending 
 his head again : “ I will not say to you how honoured I 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 321 
 
 am ; for a man like you well knows how much honour 
 he has in his power to bestow at pleasure.” 
 
 Mrs. Dombey and myself,” said Mr. Dombey, passing 
 this compliment with august self-denial, are not quite 
 agreed upon some points. We do not appear to under- 
 stand each other yet. Mrs. Dombey has something to 
 learn.” 
 
 “ Mrs. Dombey is distinguished by many rare attrac- 
 tions ; and has been accustomed, no doubt, to receive 
 much adulation,” said the smooth, sleek watcher of his 
 slightest look and tone. "‘But where there is affection, 
 duty, and respect, any little mistakes engendered by 
 such causes are soon set right.” 
 
 Mr. Dombey’s thoughts instinctively flew back to the 
 face that had looked at him in his wife’s dressing-room, 
 when an imperious hand was stretched towards the door ; 
 and remembering the affection, duty, and respect, ex- 
 pressed in it, he felt the blood rush to his own face quite 
 as plainly as the watchful eyes upon him saw it there. 
 
 “Mrs. Dombey and myself,” he went on to say, “ had 
 some discussion, before Mrs. Skewton’s death, upon the 
 causes of my dissatisfaction ; of which you will have 
 formed a general understanding from having been a wit- 
 ness of what passed between Mrs. Dombey and myself 
 on the evening when you were at our — at my house.” 
 
 “When I so much regretted being present,” said the 
 smiling Carker. “ Proud as a man in my position nec- 
 essarily 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 emi- 
 nent by bearing your name, I almost regretted that night, 
 I assure you, that I had been the object of such especial 
 good fortune.” 
 
 That any man could, under any possible circumstances, 
 regret the being distinguished by his condescension and 
 patronage, was a moral phenomenon which Mr. Dombey 
 could not comprehend. He therefore responded, with a 
 considerable accession of dignity. “ Indeed ! And why, 
 Carker ? ” 
 
 “ I fear,” returned the confidential agent, “ that Mrs. 
 Dombey, never very much disposed to regard me with 
 favourable interest — one in my position could not expect 
 that, from a lady naturally proud, and v/hose pride be- 
 comes her so well — may not easily forgive my innocent 
 part in that conversation. Your displeasure is no light 
 matter, you must remember ; and to be visited with it 
 before a third party — ” 
 
 “Carker,” said Mr. Dombey, arrogantly; “I presume 
 that I am the first consideration ? ” 
 
 “Oh ! Can there be a doubt about it?” replied the 
 
32S 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 other, with the impatience of a man admitting a notori- 
 ous and incontrovertible fact. 
 
 ‘'Mrs. Dombey becomes a secondary consideration, 
 v/hen we are both in question, I imagine,'’ said Mr. 
 Dombey. ' ' Is that so ? " 
 
 " Is it so?" returned Carker, “ Do you know better 
 than any one, that you have no need to ask ?" 
 
 “ Then I hope, Carker," said Mr. Dombey, "that your 
 regret in the acquisition of Mrs. Dombey's displeasure, 
 may be almost counterbalanced by your satisfaction in 
 retaining iny confidence and good opinion." 
 
 "I have the misfortune, I find," returned Carker, "to 
 have incurred that displeasure. Mrs. Dombey has ex- 
 pressed it to you?" 
 
 "Mrs. Dombey has expressed various opinions," said 
 Mr. Dombey, with majestic coldness and indifference, 
 "in which I do not participate, and which I am not in^ 
 dined to discuss, or to recall, I made Mrs. Dombey ac, 
 quainted, some time since, as I have already told you, 
 with certain points of domestic deference and submission 
 on which I felt it necessary to insist, I failed to con- 
 vince Mrs. Dombey of the expediency of her immediate- 
 ly altering her conduct in those respects, with a view to 
 her own peace and welfare, and my dignity ; and I in- 
 fomied Mrs. Dombey that if 1 should find it necessary to 
 object or remonstrate again, I should express my opinion 
 to her through yourself, my confidential agent." 
 
 Blended with the look that Carker bent upon him, 
 was a devilish look at the picture over his head, that 
 struck upon it like a flash of lightning. 
 
 "Now Carker," said Mr. Dombey, "Ido not hesitate 
 to say to you that I uill 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 wall have the goodness 
 to undertake this charge, w^hich, coming from me, is 
 not unacceptable to you, 1 hope, whatever regret you 
 may politely profess — for which I am obliged to you on 
 behalf of Mrs. Dombey ; and you wall have the goodness, 
 I am persuaded, to discharge it as exactly as any other 
 commission." 
 
 "You know," said Mr, Carker, " that you have only 
 to command me." 
 
 "I know," said Mr. Dombey, with a majestic indication 
 of assent, "that I have only to command you. It is 
 necessary that I should proceed in this. Mrs. Dombey 
 is a lady undoubtedly highly qualified, in many respects, 
 to—" 
 
 " To do credit even to your choice," suggested Carker, 
 Wdtli a fawning show of teeth. 
 
 " Yes ; if you please to adopt that form of wwds," 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 323 
 
 said Mr. Dorabey, in his tone of state ; and at present 
 I do not conceive that Mrs. Dombey does that credit to 
 it, to which it is entitled. There is a principle of oppo- 
 sition in Mrs. Dombey that must be eradicated ; that 
 must be overcome : Mrs. Dombey does not appear to un- 
 derstand, ’’ said Mr. Dombey, forcibly, ‘"that the idea 
 of opposition to Me is monstrous and absurd.” 
 
 We, in the City, know you better,” replied Carker, 
 with a smile from ear to ear. 
 
 "‘You know me better,” said Mr. Dombey. “I hope 
 so. Though, indeed, I am bound to do Mrs. Dombey 
 the justice of saying, however inconsistent it may seem 
 with her subsequent conduct (which remains unchanged), 
 that on my expressing my disapprobation and determina- 
 tion 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 neces- 
 sity of making you the bearer of yet more unwelcome 
 and explicit communications, if she has not the good 
 sense and the proper feeling to adapt herself to my 
 wishes as the first Mrs. Dombey did, and I believe I 
 may add, as any other lady in her place would.” 
 
 “ The first Mrs. Dombey lived very happily,” said 
 Carker. 
 
 “The first Mrs. Dombey had great good sense,” said 
 Mr. Dombey, in a gentlemanly toleration of the dead, 
 “and very correct feeling.” 
 
 “Is Miss Dombey like her mother, do you think 
 said Carker. 
 
 Swiftly and darkly, Mr. Dombey's face changed. His 
 confidential agent eyed it keenly. 
 
 “I have approached a painful subject,” he said, in a 
 soft regretful tone of voice, irreconcileable with his 
 eager eye. “Pray forgive me. I forget these chains 
 of association in the interest I have. Pray forgive me. ” 
 
 But for all he said, his eager eye scanned Mr. Dorn- 
 bey's downcast face none the less closely ; and than it 
 shot a strange triumphant look at the picture, as ap-^ 
 pealing to it to bear witness how he led him on again, 
 and what was coming. 
 
 “Carker,” said Mr. Dombey, looking here and there 
 upon the table, and speaking in a somewhat altered and 
 
324 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 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 be- 
 haviour towards my daughter.'' 
 
 " Pardon me," said Mr. Carker, "I don't quite under- 
 stand. " 
 
 "Understand then," returned Mr. Dombey, "that 
 you may make that — that you mil make that, if you 
 
 E lease — matter of direct objection from me to Mrs. Dom- 
 ey. You will please to tell her that her show of de- 
 votion 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, im- 
 mediately, 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 great- 
 ness, " you will have the goodness not to omit or slur 
 this point, but to consider it a very important part of 
 your instructions." 
 
 Mr. Carker bowed his head, and rising from the table, 
 and standing thoughtfully before the fire, with his hand 
 to his smooth chin, looked down at Mr. Dombey with the 
 evil slyness of some monkish carving, half human and 
 half brute ; or like a leering face on an old water-spout. 
 Mr. Dombey, recovering his composure by degrees, or 
 cooling his emotion in his sense of having taken a high 
 position, sat gradually stiffening again,and looking at the 
 parrot as she swung to and fro, in her great wedding ring. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Carker, after a silence, 
 suddenly resuming his chair, and drawing it opposite 
 Mr. Dom bey's, "but let me understand. Mrs. Dombey 
 is aware of the probability of your making me the organ 
 of your displeasure ? " 
 
 "Yes," replied Mr. Dombey. "I have said so." 
 "Yes," rejoined Carker, quickly ; "but why?" 
 "Why!" Mr. Dombey repeated, not without hesita- 
 tion. " Because I told her." 
 
 "Ay," replied Carker. "But why did you tell her? 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 835 
 
 You see,” lie continued with a smile, and softly laying 
 his velvet hand, as a cat might have laid its sheathed claws, 
 on Mr. Dombey'sarm ; '"if I perfectly understand what 
 is in your mind, I am so much more likely to be useful, 
 and to have the happiness of being effectually employed. 
 I think I do understand. I have not the honour of Mrs. 
 Dombey's good opinion. In my position, I have no 
 reason to expect it ; but I take the fact to be, that I have 
 not got it ? ” 
 
 " Possibly not,” said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 "Consequently,” pursued Carker, "your making 
 these communications to Mrs. Dombey through me, is 
 sure to be particularly unpalatable to that lady ? ” 
 
 " It appears to me,” said Mr. Dombey, with haughty 
 reserve, and yet with some embarrassment, "that Mrs. 
 Dombey ’s views upon the subject form no part of it as 
 it presents itself to you and me, Carker. But it may 
 be so.” 
 
 "And — pardon me — do I misconceive you,” said Car- 
 ker, ' when I think you descry in this, a likely means of 
 humbling Mrs . Dombey ’s pride — I use the word as ex- 
 pressive of a quality which, kept within due bounds, 
 adorns and graces a lady so distinguished for her beauty 
 and accomplishments— and, not to say of punishing her, 
 but of reducing her to the submission you so naturally 
 and justly require ?” 
 
 " I am not accustomed, Carker, as you know,” said 
 Mr. Dombey, "to give such close reasons for any course 
 of conduct I think proper to adopt, but I will gainsay 
 nothing of this. If you have any objection to found 
 upon it, that is indeed another thing, and the mere state- 
 ment that you have one will be sufficient. But I have 
 not supposed, I confess, that any confidence I could in- 
 trust to you, would be likely to degrade you — ” 
 
 " Oh ! I degraded ! ” exclaimed Carker. " In your 
 service ! ” 
 
 " — or to place you,” pursued Mr. Dombey, "in a 
 false position.” 
 
 ‘ ' / 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 — foi* is 
 she not your wife ! — no new cause of dislike ; but a wish 
 from you is, of course, paramount to every other con- 
 sideration on earth. Besides, when Mrs. Dombey is con- 
 verted 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 
 
336 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 her pleasure and privilege to garner np a great store 
 every day. 
 
 Mr. Dombey seemed at the moment, again to see her 
 with her hand stretched out towards the door, and again 
 to hear through the mild speech of his confidential agent 
 an echo of the words, Nothing can make us stranger 
 to each other than we are henceforth ! ” But he shook 
 off the fancy, and did not shake in his resolution, and 
 said, “ Certainly, no doubt. ” 
 
 “ There is nothing more,'' quoth Carker, drawing his 
 chair back to its old place —for they had taken little 
 breakfast as yet — and pausing for an answer before he 
 sat down. 
 
 '"Nothing," said Mr. Dombey, "but this. You will 
 be good enough to observe, Carker, that no message to 
 Mrs. Dombey with which you are or may be charged, 
 admits of reply. You will be good enough to bring me 
 no reply. Mrs. Dombey is informed that it does not be- 
 come me to temporise or treat upon any matter that is at 
 issue between us, and that what I say is final." 
 
 Mr. Carker signified his understanding of these creden- 
 tials, and they fell to breakfast with what appetite thSy 
 might. The Grinder also, in due time, re- appeared, 
 keeping his eyes upon his master without a moment's 
 respite, and passing the time in a reverie of worshipful 
 terror. Breakfast concluded, Mr. Dombey's horse was 
 ordered out again, and Mr. Carker mounting his own, 
 they rode off for the City together. 
 
 Mr. Carker was in capital spirits, and talked much. 
 Mr. Dombey received his conversation with the sovereign 
 air of a man who had a right to be talked to, and occa- 
 sionally 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 a round trot stumbled on some loose 
 stones, threw him, rolled over him, and lashing out 
 with his iron shod feet, in his struggles to get up, kicked 
 him. 
 
 Mr. Carker, quick of eye, steady of hand, and a good 
 horseman, was afoot, and had the struggling animal 
 upon his legs and by the bridle, in a moment. Other- 
 wise 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. Dom- 
 bey, now, if she knew it ! " 
 
 " Mr. Dombey being insensible, and bleeding from the 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 321 
 
 head and face, v/as carried by certain menders of the 
 road, under Carker's direction, to the nearest public- 
 .house, which was not for off, and where he was soon 
 attended by divers surgeons, who arrived in quick suc- 
 cession from all parts, and who seemed to come by some 
 mysterious instinct, as vultures are said to gather aht)iut 
 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, comlDated 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, v/liich was a long operation, and he at length 
 left to repose, Mr. Carker mounted his horse again, and 
 rode away to carry the intelligence home. 
 
 Crafty and cruel as his face was at the best of times, 
 though it was a sufficiently fair face as to form and regu- 
 larity of feature, it was at its worst when he set forth 
 on this errand ; animated by the craft and cruelty of 
 thoughts within him, suggestions of remote possibility 
 rather than of design or plot, that made him ride as if 
 he hunted men and women. Drawing rein at length, 
 and slackening in his speed, as he came into the more 
 public roads, he checked his white legged horse into 
 picking his way along as usual, and hid himself beneath 
 his sleek, hushed, crouching manner, and his ivory smile 
 as he best could. 
 
 He rode direct to Mr. Dombey’s house, alighted at the 
 door and begged to see Mrs. Dombey on an affair of im- 
 portance. The servant who showed him to Mr. Dom- 
 bey’s own room soon returned to say that it was not Mrs. 
 Dombey’s hour for receiving visitors, and that he begged 
 pardon for not having mentioned it before. 
 
 Mr. Carker, w’ho was quite prepared for a cold recep- 
 tion, wrote upon a card that he must take the liberty of 
 pressing for an interview, and that he would not be so 
 bold as to do so, for the second time (this he underlined), 
 if he were not equally sure of the occasion being suffici- 
 ent for his justification. After a trifling delay, Mrs. 
 Dombey’s maid appeared and conducted him to a morn- 
 ing room up' itairs, where Edith and Florence were to- 
 gether. 
 
 He had never thought Edith half so beautiful before. 
 Much rshe admired the graces of her face and fonn, and 
 freshly as they dwelt within his sensual remembrance, 
 he had aever thought her half so beautiful. 
 
3^8 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 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 irrepressi- 
 ble expression of the new power he held ; and it was his 
 triumph to see the glance droop and falter, and to see 
 that Edith half rose up to receive him. 
 
 He was very sorry, he was deeply grieved ; he could’nt 
 say with what unwillingness he came to prepare her for 
 the hitelligence 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. Dom- 
 bey— 
 
 Florence uttered a sudden cry. He did not look at her, 
 but at Edith. Edith composed and re-assured her. She 
 uttered no cry of distress. No, no. 
 
 Mr. Dombey had met with an accident in riding. His 
 horse had slipped, and he had been thrown. 
 
 Florence wildly exclaimed that he was badly hurt ; 
 that he was killed ! 
 
 No. Upon his honour, Mr. Dombey, though stunned at 
 first, was soon recovered, and though certainly hurt was 
 in no kind of danger. If this were not the truth, he, 
 the distressed intruder, never could have had the cour- 
 se to present himself before Mrs. Dombey. It was the 
 truth indeed, he solemnly assured her. 
 
 All this he said as if he were answering Edith, and 
 not Florence, and with his eyes and his smile fastened 
 on Edith. 
 
 He then went on to tell her where Mr. Dombey was 
 lying, and to request that a carriage might be placed at 
 his disposal to bring him home. 
 
 ""Mama,’^ faltered Florence in tears, "Mf I might 
 venture to go ! 
 
 Mr. Carker, having his eyes on Edith when he heard 
 these words, gave her a secret look and slightly shook 
 his head. He saw how she battled with herself before 
 she answered him with her handsome *eyes, but he 
 wrested the answer from her — he showed her that hs 
 would have it, or that he would speak and cut Florence 
 to the heart — and she gave it to him. As he had looked 
 at the picture in the morning, so he looked at her after- 
 wards, when she turned her eyes away. 
 
 I am directed to request,” he said, that the' new 
 house-keeper — Mrs. Pipchin, I think, is the name — ” 
 
 Nothing escaped him. He saw, in an instant, that she 
 was another slight of Mr. Dombey's on his wife. 
 
 — may be informed that Mr. Dombey wishes to have 
 his bed prepared in his own apartments down-stairs, as 
 he prefers those rooms to any other. I shall return to 
 Mr. Dombey almost immediately. That every possible 
 attention has been paid to his comfort, and that he is the 
 
DOMBBY AND SON. 
 
 829 
 
 object of every possible solicitude, I need not assure 
 you, madam. Let me again say, there is no cause for 
 the least alarm. Even you may be quite at ease, be- 
 lieve me.” 
 
 He bowed himself out, with his extremest show of 
 deference and conciliation ; and having returned to Mr. 
 Dombey's room, and there arranged for a carriage being 
 sent after him to the City, mounted his horse again, 
 and rode slowly thither. He was very thoughtful as he 
 went along, and very thoughtful there, and very thought- 
 ful in the carriage on his way back to the place where 
 Mr. Dombey had been left. It was only when sitting 
 by that gentleman's couch that he was quite himself 
 again, and conscious of his teeth. 
 
 About the time of twilight, Mr. Dombey, grievously 
 afflicted with aches and pains, was helped into his car- 
 riage, and propped with cloaks, and pillows 't)n 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. Car- 
 ker remained in attendance until he was safe in bed, and 
 then, as he declined to receive any female visitor, but 
 the excellent Ogress who presided over his household, 
 waited on Mrs. Dombey once more, with his report on 
 her lord's condition. 
 
 He again found Edith alone with Florence, and he 
 again addressed the whole of his soothing speech to 
 Edith, as if she were a prey to the liveliest and most af- 
 fectionate anxieties. So earnest he was in his respectful 
 sympathy, that, on taking leave, he ventured — with one 
 more glance towards Florence at the moment — to take 
 her hand, and bending over it, to touch it with his lips. 
 
 Edith did not withdraw the hand, nor did she strike 
 Ms 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 blov/, it was bruised, and bled ; and held it from 
 her, near the shining fire, as if she could have thrust it 
 in and burned it. 
 
 Far into the night she sat alone, by the sinking blaze, 
 in dark and threatening beauty, watching the murky 
 shadows looming on the wall, as if her thoughts were 
 tangible, and cast them there. Whatever shapes of out- 
 rage and affront, and black foreshadowing^s of things 
 
S30 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 that might happen, flickered, indistinct and. giant-like, 
 before her, one resented figure marshalled them against 
 her. And that figure was her husband. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 The Watches of the Night. 
 
 Florence, long since awakened from her dream, 
 mournfully observed the estrangement between her 
 father and Edith, and saw it widen more and more, and 
 knew that there was great bitterness between them 
 every day. Each day’s added knowledge deepened the 
 shade upon her love and hope, roused up the old sorrow 
 that had slumbered for a little time, and made it even 
 heavier to bear than it had been before. 
 
 It had been hard — ^how hard may none but Florence 
 ever know ! — to have the natural affection of a true and 
 earnest nature turned to agony ; and slight, or stern re- 
 pulse, substituted for the tenderest protection and the 
 dearest care. It had been hard to feel in her deep heart 
 what she had felt, and never know the happiness of one 
 touch of response. But it was much more hard to be 
 compelled to doubt either her father or Edith, so affec- 
 tionate and dear to her, and to think of her love for 
 each of them, by turns, with fear, distrust, and won- 
 der. 
 
 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 un- 
 happy by such treatment, and had pined away and died ? 
 Then she would think how proud and stately Edith was 
 to every one but her, with what disdain she treated him, 
 how distantly she kept apart from him, and what she had 
 said on the night when she came home ; and quickly it 
 Vonld 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 ingrati- 
 tude ; 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 the misery of both, and whispering 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 331 
 
 doubts of her own duty to both, Florence in ber wider 
 and expanded love, and by the side of Edith, endured 
 more, than when she had hoarded up her undivided se- 
 cret in the mournful house, and her beautiful mama had 
 never dawned upon it. 
 
 One exquisite unhappiness that would have far out- 
 weighed this, Florence was spared. She never had the 
 least suspicion that Edith by her tenderness for her 
 widened the separation from her father, or gave him 
 new cause of dislike. If Florence had conceived the 
 possibility of such an effect being wrought by such a cause 
 what grief she would have felt, what sacrifice she would 
 have tried to make, poor loving girl, how fast and sure 
 her quiet passage might have been beneath it to the 
 presence of that higher Father who does not reject His 
 children’s love, or spurn their tried and broken hearts. 
 Heaven knows ! But it was otherwise, and that was 
 well. 
 
 No word was ever spoken between Florence and 
 Edith now, on these subjects. Edith had said there 
 ought to be between them, in that wise, a division, and 
 a silence like the grave itself : and Florence felt that she 
 was right. 
 
 In tWs 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. Car- 
 ker, who withdrew near midnight. 
 
 "'And nice company he is. Miss Ploy, ” said - Susan 
 Nipper. " Oh, he’s a precious piece of goods ! If ever 
 he wants a character don’t let him come to me whatever 
 he does, that’s all I tell him.” 
 
 "Dear Susan,” urged Florence, "‘don’t !” 
 
 "" Oh it’s very well to say " don’t ’ Miss Floy, ” returned 
 the Nipper, much exasperated ; ‘ ‘ but raly begging your 
 pardon we’re coming to such passes that it turns all 
 the blood in a person’s body into pins and needles, with 
 their pints all ways. Don’t mistake me. Miss Floy, I 
 don’t mean nothing again your ma-in-law who has al- 
 ways 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 ! ” 
 
 " Papa thinks well of Mrs. Pipchin, Susan,” returned 
 Florence, "" and has a right to choose his housekeeper, you 
 know. Pray don’t ! ” 
 
 "" 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.” 
 
332 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Susan was unusually emphatic and destitute of punc- 
 tuation in her discourse on this night, which was the 
 night of Mr. Domhey's being brought home, because, 
 having been sent down- stairs by Florence to inquire 
 after him, she had been obliged to deliver her message 
 to her mortal enemy Mrs. Pipchin ; who, without carry- 
 ing it in to Mr. Dombey had taken upon herself to re° 
 turn what Miss Nipper called a huffish answer, on her 
 own responsibility. This, Susan Nipper construed into 
 presumption on the part of that exemplary suiferer 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 attach- 
 ment to one in the different station which Florence oc- 
 cupied, Susan was very jealous, and her jealousy natu- 
 rally 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 back-ground 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. 
 
 Susan,” said Florence, who was sitting thoughtfully 
 at her table, ‘ ‘ it is very late. I shall want nothing more 
 to-night.” 
 
 Ah, Miss Floy ! ” returned the Nipper, I am sure I 
 often wish for them old times when I sat up with you 
 hours later than this and fell asleep through being tired 
 out when you was as broad awake as spectacles, but 
 you’ve ma’s-in-law to come and sit with you now Miss 
 Floy and I’m thankful for it I’m sure. I’ve not a word 
 to say against ’em.” 
 
 ‘‘I shall not forget who was my old companion when 
 I had none, Susan,” returned Florence, gently, ‘'never ! ” 
 And looking up, she put her arm round the neck of her 
 humble friend, drew her face down to hers, and bidding 
 her good night, kissed it ; which so mollified Miss Nip- 
 per, that slie fell a sobbing. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 833 
 
 Now my dear Miss Floy,” said Susan, 'Met me go 
 down- stairs again and see how your pa is, I know you’re 
 wretched about him, do let me go down-stairs again and 
 knock at his door my own self/’ 
 
 “No,” said Florence, “go to bed. We shall hear 
 more in the morning. I will inquire myself in the morn- 
 ing. Mama has been down, I dare say ; ” Florence 
 blushed, for she had no such hope ; “or is there now, 
 perhaps. Good night ! ” 
 
 Susan was too much softened to express her private 
 opinion on the probability of Mrs. Dombey’s being in at- 
 tendance on her husband* ; and silently withdrew. Flo- 
 rence, 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. 
 
 Among such reflections there rose up, as there had 
 risen up all day, the image of her father, wounded and 
 in pain, alone in his own room, untended by those who 
 should be nearest to him, and passing the tardy hours in 
 lonely suffering. A frightened thought which made her 
 •start and clasp her hands — though it was not a new one 
 in her mind — that he might die, and never see her or 
 pronounce her name, thrilled her whole frame. In her 
 agitation she thought, and trembled while she thought 
 of once more stealing down-stairs, and venturing to his 
 door. 
 
 She listened at her own. The house was quiet, and 
 all the lights were out. It was a long, long time, she 
 thought, since she used to make her nightly pilgrim- 
 ages to this 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 ! 
 
 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 
 
384 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 staircase, listening as she went, and drew near to his 
 room. No one was stirring in the house. The door was 
 I artly open to admit air ; and all was so still within, 
 that she could hear the burning of the fire, and count 
 the ticking of the clock that stood upon the chimney- 
 piece. 
 
 She looked in. In that room the housekeeper wrapped 
 in a blanket was fast asleep in an easy-chair before the 
 fire. The doors between it and the next were partly 
 closed, and a screen was drawn before them ; but there 
 was a light there, and it shone upon the cornice of his 
 be i. 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. 
 
 It was as great a start to come upon his sleeping face 
 as if she had not expected to see it. Florence stood ar- 
 rested on the spot, and if he had awakened then, must 
 have remained there. 
 
 There was a cut upon his forehead, and they had been 
 wetting his hair, which lay bedabbled and entangled on 
 the pillow. One of his arms, resting outside the bed, 
 was bandaged up, and he was very white. But it was 
 not this, that after the first quick glance, and first assur- 
 ance of his sleeping quietly, held Florence rooted to the 
 ground. It was something very different from this, and 
 more than this, that made him look so solemn in her 
 eyes. 
 
 She had never seen his face in all her life, but there 
 had been upon it — or she fancied so — some disturbing 
 consciousness of her. She had never seen his face in 
 all her life, but hope had sunk within her, and her timid 
 glance had drooped before its stern, unloving, and repelF 
 ing harshness. As she looked upon it now, she saw it, 
 for the first time, free from the cloud that had darkened 
 her childhood. Calm, tranquil night, was reigning in 
 its stead. He might have gone to sleep, for anything 
 she saw there, blessing her. 
 
 Awake, unldnd father ! Awake now, sullen man I 
 The time is fiitting by ; the hour is coming with an 
 angry tread. Awake I 
 
 There was no change upon his face ; and as she 
 watched it, awfully, its motionless repose recalled the 
 faces that were gone. So they looked, so would he ; so 
 she, his weeping child, who should say when ! so all the 
 world of love and hatred and indifference around them I 
 When that time should come, it would not be the heavier 
 to him, for this that she was going to do ; and it might 
 fall something lighter upon her. 
 
 She stole close to the bed, and drawing in her breath^ 
 bent down, and softly kissed him on the face, and laid 
 her own for one brief moment by its side, and put the 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 335 
 
 arm, with which she dared not touch him, round about 
 him on the pillow. 
 
 Awake, doomed man, while she is near ! The time is 
 hitting by ; the hour is coming with an angry tread ; its 
 foot is in the house. Awake ! 
 
 In her mind, she prayed to God to bless her father, 
 and to soften him towards her, if it might be so ; and if 
 not, to forgive him if he was wrong, and pardon her the 
 prayer, which almost seemed impiety. And doing so, 
 and* looking back at him with blinded eyes, and steal, 
 ing timidly away, passed out of his room, and crossed 
 the other and was gone. 
 
 He may sleep on now. He may sleep on while he 
 may. But let him look for that slight figure w^hen he 
 wakes, and find it near him when the hour is come ! 
 
 Sad and grieving was the heart of Florence as she 
 crept up-stairs. The quiet house had grown more dis- 
 mal since she came down. The sleep she had been look- 
 ing on, in the dead of night, had the solemnity to her 
 of death and life in one. The secrecy and silence of her 
 own proceeding made the night secret, silent, and op- 
 pressive. She felt unwdlling, almost unable to go on to 
 her own chamber ; and turning into the drawing-rooms, 
 where the clouded moon was shining through the blinds, 
 looked out into the empty streets. 
 
 The wind was blowing drearily. The lamps looked 
 pale, and shook as if they were cold. There was a dis- 
 tant glimmer of something th.at 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 infiuence, as if in some hidden natural an 
 tipathy to it ; and now it was very, very gloomy. 
 
 Her mama had not come to her room that night, 
 which was one cause of her having sat late out of her 
 bed. In her general uneasiness, no less than in her ar- 
 dent longing to have somebody to speak to, and to break 
 this spell of gloom and silence, Florence directed her 
 steps towards the chamber where she slept. 
 
 The door was not fastened within, and yielded 
 smoothly to her hesitating hand. Bhe was surprised to 
 find a bright light burning ; still more surprised, on look- 
 ing in, to see that her mama, but partially undressed, 
 was sitting near the ashes of the fire, v/hich had crum- 
 bled 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 her grasp with which she held the el- 
 bows of her chair as if about to start up, Florence saw 
 such fierce emotion that it terrified her. 
 
 “ Mama ! ” she cried, what is the matter I 
 
886 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 EditL. started : looking at lier witli suck a strange dread 
 ir ker face, tkat Florence was more frigktened tkan 
 before. 
 
 Mama ! said Florence, hurriedly advancing. Dear 
 mama ! wkat is the matter 
 
 ‘‘ I have not been well,’’ said Edith, shaking, and still 
 looking at her in the same strange way. I have had 
 bad dreams, my love.” 
 
 And not yet been to bed, mama ? ” 
 
 No,” she returned. Half-waking dreams.” 
 
 Her features gradually softened ; and suffering Flor- 
 Ciice to come close to her, within her embrace, she said 
 in a tender manner, ‘‘ But what does my bird do here ! 
 What does my bird do here ! ” 
 
 I have been uneasy, mama, in not seeing you to- 
 night, and in not knowing how papa was ; and I — ” 
 
 Florence stopped there, and said no more. 
 
 Is it late?” asked Edith, fondly putting back the 
 curls that mingled with her own dark hair, and strayed 
 upon her face. 
 
 ‘‘Very late. Near day.” 
 
 “ Near day ! ” she repeated with surprise. 
 
 “Dear mama, what have you done to your hand?” 
 said Florence. 
 
 Edith drew it suddenly away, and, for a moment, 
 looked at her with the same strange dread (there was a 
 sort of wild avoidance in it) as before ; but she presently 
 said “ Nothing, nothing. A blow.” And then she said, 
 “ My Florence ! ” And then her bosom heaved, and she 
 was weeping passionately. ^ 
 
 “Mama!” said Florence. “Oh mama, what can i 
 do, what should I do, to make us happier? Is there 
 anything ? ” 
 
 “ Nothing,” she replied. 
 
 “ Are you sure of that ? Can it never be ? If I speak 
 now of what is in my thoughts, in spite of what we have 
 agreed,” said Florence, “ you will not blame me, will 
 you ?” 
 
 “It is useless,” she replied, ‘ useless. I have told 
 you, dear, that I have had bad dreams. Nothing can 
 change them, or prevent their coming back.” 
 
 “ I do not understand,” said Florence, gazing on her 
 agitated face, which seemed to darken as slae looked. 
 
 “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 lias been galled and goaded, through 
 many shameful years, and has never recoiled except upon 
 itself ; a pride that has debased its owner with the con- 
 sciousness 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 337 
 
 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.’’ 
 
 She neither looked nor spoke to Florence now, but 
 went on as if she were alone. 
 
 I have dreamed,” she said, of such indifference and 
 callousness, arising from this self-contempt ; this wretch- 
 ed, ineflScient, miserable pride ; that it has gone on with 
 listless steps even to the altar, yielding to the old, fam- 
 iliar, beckoning finger, — oh mother, oh mother ! — while 
 it spurned it ; and willing to be hateful to itself for once 
 and for all, rather than to be stung daily in some new 
 form. Mean, poor thing ! ” 
 
 And now with gathering and darkening ^emotion, she 
 .looked as she had looked when Florence entered. 
 
 And I have dreamed,” she said, “ that in a first late 
 effort to achieve a purpose, it has been trodden on, and 
 trodden down, by a base foot, but turns and looks upon 
 him. I have dreamed that it is wounded, hunted, set 
 upon by dogs, but that it stands at bay, and will not 
 yield ; no, that it cannot if it would ; but that it is urged 
 on to hate him, rise against him, and defy him ! ” 
 
 Her clenched hand tightened on the trembling arm 
 she had in hers, and as she looked down on the alarmed 
 and wondering face, her own subsided. Oh Florence ! ” 
 she said, I think I have been nearly mad to-night !” 
 and humbled her proud head upon her neck, and wept 
 again. 
 
 Don’t leave me ! be near me I I have no hope but in 
 you ! ” These words she said a score of times. 
 
 Soon she grev/ 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 ly- 
 ing down herself, sat by her, amd bade her try to sleep., 
 ‘'For you are v/eary, dearest, and unhappy, and should 
 rest.” 
 
 “ I am indeed unhappy, dear mama, to-night,” said 
 Florence. But you are weary and unhappy, too.” 
 
 “ Hot when you lie asleep so near me, sweet.” 
 
 They kissed each other, and Florence, worn out, grad- 
 ually fell into a gentle slumber ; but as her eyes closed 
 on the face beside her, it was so sad to think upon the 
 face down-stairs, that her hand drew closer to Edith for 
 some comfort ; yet, even in the act, it faltered, lest it 
 should be deserting him. So, in her sleep, she tried to 
 reconcile the two together, and to show them that she 
 loved them both, but could not do it, and her waking 
 grief was part of her dreams. 
 
 Edith, sitting by, looked down at the dark eyelashes 
 lying wet on the flushed cheeks, and looked with gentle- 
 Toi.. 12 
 
838 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ness and pity, for slie knev/ tlie trutli. 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 r 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 A Separation. 
 
 With the day, though not so early as the sun, uprose 
 Miss Susan Nipper. There was a heaviness in this 
 young maiden's esceedingly 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. 
 
 In a word, she had formed a determination, and an 
 aspiring one : it being nothing less than this— to pene-» 
 trate to Mr. Dombey's presence, and have speech of that 
 gentleman alone. “I have often said I would," she re- 
 marked, in a threatening manner, to herself, that morn- 
 ing, with many twitches of her head, “ and now I will! " 
 
 Spurring herself on to the accomplishment of this 
 desperate design, with a sharpness that was peculiar to 
 herself, Susan Nipper haunted the hall and staircase 
 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 pretense of having 
 sat up all night, was dozing in her own room, and that 
 Mr. Dombey was lying on his sofa, unattended. 
 
 With a twitch — not of her head merely, this time, but 
 of her whole self — the Nipper went on tiptoe to Mr. 
 Bombey's door, and knocked. “Come in!" said Mr. 
 Bombey. Susan encouraged herself with a final twutch, 
 and went in. 
 
 Mr. Bombey, 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. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 339 
 
 ''What do you want?’’ said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 "If you please, sir, I wish to speak to you,” said 
 Susan. • 
 
 Mr. Dombey moved his lips as if he were repeating 
 the words, but he seemed so lost in astonishment at the 
 presumption of the young woman as to be incapable of 
 giving them utterance. 
 
 "I have been in your service, sir,” said Susan Nipper, 
 with her usual rapidity, "now twelve year a waiting 
 on Miss Floy my own young lady who couldn’t speak 
 plain when I first come here and I was old in this house 
 when Mrs. Richards was new, I may not be Meethosalem, 
 but I am not a child in arms.” 
 
 Mr. Dombey, raised upon his arm, and looking at her, 
 offered no comment on this preparatory statement of 
 facts. 
 
 " There never was a dearer or a blesseder young lady 
 than is my young lady, sir,” said Susan, " and I ought 
 to know a great deal better than some for I have seen 
 her in her grief and I have seen her in her joy (there’s 
 not been much of it) and I have seen her with her brother 
 and 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 is 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. ” 
 
 Mr. Dombey turned yet paler than his fall had made 
 him, with indignation and astonishment ; and kept his 
 eyes upon the speaker as if he accused them, and his 
 ears too, of playing him false. 
 
 "No one could be anything but true and faithful to 
 Miss Floy, sir,” pursued Susan, "and I take no merit 
 for my service of twelve year, for I love her — yes, 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.” 
 
 "What do you mean, woman !” said Mr. Dombey, 
 glaring at her. " How do you dare ? ” 
 
 " What I mean, sir, is to speak respectful and without 
 offence, but out, and how I dare I know not but I do 1 ” 
 said Susan. " Oh ! you don’t know my young lady sir 
 you don’t indeed, you’d never know so little of her, if 
 you did.” 
 
 Mr. Dombey, in a fury, put his hand out for the bell- 
 rope ; but there was no bell-rope on that side of the fiii'e, 
 and he could not rise and cross to the other without as- 
 
840 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 distance. The quick eye of the Nipper detected his 
 helplessness immediately, and now, as she afterwards 
 observed, she felt that she had got him. 
 
 ‘"Miss Floy,” said Susan Nipper, “ is the most devoted 
 and most patient and most dutiful and beautiful of 
 daughters, there an't no gentlemen, 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 I” cried Susan Nipper, bursting into tears, “than 
 bring the sorrow on her tender heart that I have seen it 
 suffer in this house ! ” 
 
 “Woman,” cried Mr. Dombey, “leave the room.” 
 
 “ Begging your pardon, not even if I am to leave the 
 situation, sir,” replied the stedfast Nipper, “in which I 
 have been so many years and seen so much — although I 
 hope you’d never have the heart to send me 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, Fd do it ! And I’ve made my mind 
 up to go on.” 
 
 Which was rendered no less clear by the expression of 
 Susan Nipper’s countenance, than by her words. 
 
 “ There an’t a person in your service, sir,” pursued 
 the black-eyed, “that has always stood more in awe of 
 you than me and you may think how true it is when I 
 make so bold as say that I have hundreds and hundreds 
 of times thought of speaking to you and never been able 
 to make my mind up to it till last night, but last night 
 decided of me.” 
 
 Mr. Dombey, in a paroxysm of rage made another 
 grasp at the bell- rope that was not there, and, in its ab- 
 sence, pulled his hair rather than nothing. 
 
 “ I have seen,” said Susan Nipper, “ Miss Floy strive 
 and strive when nothing but a child so sweet and patient 
 that the best of women might have copied from her, I’vo 
 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 to- 
 wards one’s betters, is not to be a worshipper of graven 
 images, and I will and must speak ! ” 
 
 “Is there anybody there?” cried Mr. Dombey, calling 
 
DO YOU CALL IT MANAGING THIS ESTABLISHMENT, MADAM f ” SAID MR. DOMBEY. 
 
 —Dombey and Son, Vol. Twelye, page 341 
 
 
342 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 out. Where are the men ? where are the women? Is 
 there no one there 
 
 I left my dear young lady out of bed late last night/* 
 said Susan, nothing checked, ‘‘and I know why, for you 
 was ill sir and she didn’t know how ill and that was 
 enough to make her wretched as I saw it did. — I may not 
 be a peacock ; but I have my eyes — and I sat up a little 
 in my own room, thinking she might be lonesome and 
 might want me, and I saw her steal down-stairs and 
 come to this door as if it was a guilty thing to look at 
 her own pa, and then steal back again and go into them 
 lonely drawing-rooms, a-crying so, that I could hardly 
 bear to hear it. I can not "bear to hear it,*’ said Susan 
 Nipper, wiping her black eyes, and fixing them undaunt- 
 edly on Mr. Dombey’s infuriated face. “ It’s not the 
 first time I have heard it, not by many and many a time 
 you don’t know your own daughter, sir, you don’t know 
 what you’re doing, sir, I say to some and all,” cried 
 Susan Nipper, in a final burst, “that it*s a sinful 
 shame ! ” 
 
 “ Why, hoity, toity !” cried the voice of Mrs. Pipchin, 
 as the black bombazeen garments of that fair Peruvian 
 Miner swept into the room. “ What’s this, indeed ! ” 
 
 Susan favoured Mrs. Pipchin with a look she had in- 
 vented expressly for her when they first became ac- 
 quainted, and resigned the reply to Mr. Dombey. 
 
 “ 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 rea- 
 son to inquire. Do you know this woman ? ” 
 
 “ I know very little good of her, sir,” croaked Mrs. 
 Pipchin. “How dare you come here, you hussy? 
 along with you ! ” 
 
 But the inflexible Nipper, merely honouring Mrs. Pip- 
 chin with another look, remained. 
 
 “ Do you call it managing this establishment, madam,” 
 said Mr. Dombey, “ to leave a person like this at liberty 
 to come and talk to me I A gentleman— in his own 
 house — in his own room — assailed v/ith the impertinences 
 of women servants ! ” 
 
 “ Well sir,” returned Mrs. Pipchin, with vengeance 
 in her hard gray eye, “ I exceedingly deplore it : nothing 
 can be more irregular ; nothing can be more out of 
 all bounds and reason ; but I regret to say, sir, that this 
 young woman is quite beyond control. She has been 
 spoiled by Miss Dombey, and is amenable to nobody. 
 You know you’re not,” said Mrs. Pipchin, sharply, and 
 shaking her head at Susan Nipper. ‘For shame, you 
 hussy ! Go along with you ! ” 
 
 “ If you find people in my service who are not to be 
 controlled, Mrs. Pipchin,” said Mr. Dombey, turning 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 343 
 
 back towards the fire, ‘^you know what to do with tiiem, 
 I presume. You know what you are here for ? Take 
 her away. 
 
 Sir, I know what to do,’' retorted Mrs. Pipchin, 
 
 and of course shall do it. Susan Nipper,” snapping 
 her up particularly short, a month’s warning from this 
 hour. ” 
 
 Oh, indeed,” cried Susan, loftily. 
 
 ^^Yes,” returned Mrs. Pipchin, '‘and don’t smile at 
 me, you minx, or I’ll know the reason why ! Go along 
 with you this minute ! ” 
 
 " I intend to go this minute, you may rely upon it,” 
 said the voluble Nipper. "1 have been in this house 
 waiting on my young lady a dozen year and I won’t stop 
 in it one hour under notice from a person owning to the 
 name of Pipchin, trust me, Mrs. P.” 
 
 " A good riddance of bad rubbish ! ” said that wrath- 
 ful old lady. “Get along with you, or I’ll have you 
 carried out ! ” 
 
 “ My comfort is,” said Susan, looking back at Mr. 
 Pombey, “ 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 Pip- 
 chinses— 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 ex^ 
 haustion which would be a Jubilee !” 
 
 With these words. Miss Nipper preceded her foe out 
 of the room ; and walking up-stairs to her own apart- 
 ment in great state, to the choking exasperation of the 
 ireful Pipchin, sat down among her boxes and began to 
 ciy. 
 
 From this soft mood she was soon aroused, with a very 
 wholesome and refreshing effect, by the voice of Mrs* 
 Pipchin outside the door. 
 
 “Does that bold-faced slut,” said the fell Pipchin, 
 “ intend to take her warning, or does she not ? ” 
 
 Miss Nipper replied from within that the person de- 
 scribed 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. 
 
 “ 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 gentlewoman who has seen better 
 days ? ” 
 
 To which Miss Nipper rejoined from her castle, that 
 she pitied the better days that had seen Mrs. Pipchin ; 
 
344 
 
 WOBKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 and that for her part she considered the worst days in 
 the year to be about that lady’s mark, except that they 
 were much too good for her. 
 
 “ But you needn’t trouble yourself to make a noise at 
 my door,” said Susan Nipper, nor to contaminate the 
 keyhole with your eye, Fm packing up and going you 
 may take your affidavit.” 
 
 The Dowager expressed her lively satisfaction at this 
 intelligence, and with some general opinions upon young 
 hussies as a race, and especially upon their demerits 
 after being spoiled by Miss Dombej, withdrew to pre^^ 
 pare the Nipper’s wages. Susan then bestirred herself 
 to get her trunhs in order, that she might make an im- 
 mediate and dignified departure ; sobbing heartily all 
 the time, as she thought of Florence. 
 
 The object of her regret was not long in coming to 
 her, for the news soon spread over the house that Susan 
 Nipper had had a disturbance with Mrs. Pipchin, and 
 that they had both appealed to Mr. Dombey, and that 
 there had been an unprecedented piece of work in Mr. 
 Dombey’s room, and that Susan was going. The latter 
 part of this confused rumour, Florence found to be so 
 correct, that Susan had locked the last trimk and was 
 sitting upon it with her bonnet on, when she came into 
 her room. 
 
 Susan!” cried Florence. ‘'Going to leave me! 
 S’ou 1 ” 
 
 “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 Ploy for worlds ! ” 
 
 “Susan!” said Florence. “My dear girl, my old 
 friend ! What shall I do without you ? Can you bear 
 to go away so ? ” 
 
 “No-n-o-o, my darling dear Miss Floy, I can’t indeed,” 
 sobbed Susan. “But it can’t be helped, I’ve done my 
 duty, miss, I have indeed. It’s no fault of mine. I am 
 quite resi-igned. I couldn’t stay my month or I could 
 never leave you then ray 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 door-post, my own dear. ” 
 
 “ What is it ! Why is it ? ” said Florence. “ Won’t 
 you tell me ? ” For Susan was shaking her head. 
 
 “No-n-no, my darling,” returned Susan. “Don’t ask 
 me, for I mustn’t, and whatever you do don’t put in a 
 word for me to stop, for it couldn’t be and you’d only 
 wrong yourself, and as God bless you my own precious 
 and forgive me any harm I have done, or any temper I 
 have shown in all these many years ! ” 
 
 With which entreaty, very heartily delivered, Susan 
 hugged her mistress in her arms. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 345 
 
 ** 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!” 
 
 “ Where will you go, Susan? ” asked her weeping mis- 
 tress. 
 
 I’ve got a brother down in the country miss — a far- 
 mer 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’ Bank 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 oppor- 
 tunely broken by the voice of Mrs. Pipchin talking down- 
 stairs ; on hearing which, she dried her red and swollen 
 eyes, and made a melancholy feint of calling jauntily to 
 Mr. Towlinson to fetch a cab and carry down her boxes. 
 
 Florence, pale and hurried and distressed, but withheld 
 from useless interference even here, by her dread of 
 causing any new division between her father and his 
 wife (whose stern, indignant face had been a warning to 
 her a few moments since), and by her apprehension of 
 being in some way unconsciously connected already with 
 the dismissal of her old servant and friend, followed, 
 weeping, down-stairs to Edith’s .dressing-room, whither 
 Susan betook herself to make her parting curtsey. 
 
 “ Now, here’s the cab, and here’s the boxes, and get 
 along with you, do ! ” said Mrs. Pipchin, presenting her- 
 self at the same moment. I beg your pardon, ma’am, 
 but Mr. Dombey’s orders are imperative.” 
 
 Edith, sitting under the hands of her maid — she was 
 going out to dinner — preserved her haughty face, and 
 took not the least notice. 
 
 “There’s your money,” said Mrs. Pipchin, who, in 
 pursuance of her system, and in recollection of the Mines, 
 was accustomed to rout the servants about, as she had 
 routed her young Brighton boarders ; to the everlasting 
 acidulation of Master Bitherstone, “ and the sooner this, 
 house sees your back the better.” ^ 
 
 Susan had no spirits even for. the look that belonged 
 to Mrs. Pipchin by right ; so she dropped her curtsey to 
 Mrs. Donibey (who inclined her head without one word, 
 and whose eye avoided every one but Florence), and gave 
 one last parting hug to her young mistress, and received 
 her parting embrace in return. • Poor Susan’s face at this 
 crisis, in the 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 
 
346 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 tlie most extraordinary physiognomical phenomena ever 
 witnessed. 
 
 I beg your pardon, miss, Fm sure,” said Towlinson, 
 outside the door with the boxes, addressing Florence, 
 
 but Mr. Toots is in the dining-room, and sends his com- 
 pliments, and begs to know how Diogenes and master 
 is.” 
 
 Quick as thought, Florence glided out and hastened 
 down-stairs, where Mr. Toots, in the most splendid vest- 
 ments, was breathing very hard with doubt and agitation 
 on the subject of her coming. 
 
 ‘ " Oh, how de do. Miss Dombey,” said Mr. Toots, 
 
 God bless my soul 1 ” 
 
 This last ejaculation was occasioned by Mr. Toots’s deep 
 concern at the distress he saw in Florence’s face : which 
 caused him to stop short in a fit of chuckles, and become 
 an image of despair. 
 
 “Dear Mr. Toots,” said Florence, “ you are so friendly 
 to me, and so honest, that I am sure I may ask a favour 
 of you.” 
 
 “ Miss Dombey,” returned Mr. Toots, if you’ll only 
 name one, you’ll — you’ll give me an appetite. To which,” 
 said Mr. Toots, with some sentiment, “ I have long been 
 a stranger.” 
 
 “ Susan, who is an old friend of mine, the oldest friend 
 I have,” said Florence, “is abojit to leave here suddenly, 
 and quite alone, poor girl. She is going home, a little 
 way into the country. • Might I ask you to take care of 
 her until she is in the coach ? ” 
 
 “ Miss Dombey,” returned Mr. Toots, “ you really do 
 me an honour and a kindness. This proof of your con- 
 fidence, after the manner in which I was Beast enough 
 to conduct myself at Brighton — ” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Florence, hurriedly — “ no— don’t think jf 
 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 I ” And Florence in her earnestness thanked 
 him again and again ; and Mr. Toots in Ms earnestness, 
 hurried, away — ^but backwards, that he might lose no 
 glimpse of her. 
 
 FlorenceTiad 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 Su- 
 san shake hands with the servants all round, and turn 
 
 f 
 
“miss DOMBEY,'’ returned MR. TOOTS, “ IF YOU’LL ONLY NAME 
 ONE, you’ll — you’ll GIVE ME AN APPETITE TO WHICH 
 I HAVE LONG BEEN A STRANGER.” 
 
 —Dombey and Son, Vol. Twelve, page 347. 
 
348 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 once to look at her old home ; and she saw Biogenes 
 bound out after the cab, and want to follow it, and testi- 
 fy an impossibility of conviction that he had no longer 
 any property in the fare ; and the door was shut, and the 
 hurry over, and her tears flowed fast for the loss of an old 
 friend, whom no one could replace. No one. No one. 
 
 Mr. Toots, like the leal and trusty soul he was, stopped 
 the cabriolet in a twinkling, and told Susan Nipper of 
 his commission, at which she cried more then before. 
 
 “ Upon my soul and body ! ’’ said Mr. Toots, taking his 
 seat beside her, 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 Domhey.’' 
 
 Susan abandoned herself to her grief now, and it really 
 was touching to see her. 
 
 ‘‘ I say,” said Mr. Toots, now, don’t I at least I mean 
 now do, yau know ! ” 
 
 Bo what, Mr. Toots ? ” cried Susan. 
 
 << Why, come home to my place, and have some dinner 
 before you start,” said Mr. Toots. My cook’s a most 
 respectable woman — one of the most motherly people I 
 ever saw-— and she’ll be delighted to make you comfort- 
 able. Her son,” said Mr. Toots, as an additional recom- 
 mendation, was educated in the Blue-coat School, and 
 blown up in a powder mill.” 
 
 Susan accepting this kind offer, Mr. Toots conducted 
 her to his dwelling, where they were received by the 
 matron in question who fully justified his character of 
 her, and by the Chicken who at first supposed, on seeing 
 a lady in the vehicle, that Mr. Bombey had been doubled 
 up, agreeably to his old recommendation, and Miss Bom- 
 bey abducted. This gentleman awakened in Miss Nipper 
 some considerable astonishment; for, having been de- 
 feated by the Larkey Boy, his visage was in a state of 
 such great dilapidation, as to be hardly presentable in so- 
 ciety with comfort to the beholders. The Chicken him- 
 self 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 heav- 
 ily 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 inconve- 
 niences, until he had been gone into and finished. 
 
 After a good repast, and much hospitality, Susan set 
 out for the coach-office in another cabriolet, with Mr. 
 Toots inside, as before, and the Chicken on the box, who, 
 whatever distinction he conferred on the little party by 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 349 
 
 the moral weight and heroism of his character, was 
 sca,rcely 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. 
 
 The night-coach by which Susan was to go, v/as 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 a step, and putting in 
 a face tliat by the light of the lamp was anxious and 
 confused, he said abruptly : 
 
 “ I say, Susan 1 Miss Dombey, you know — ” 
 
 "‘Yes, sir.” 
 
 “ Do you think she could — you know — eh ?” 
 
 “ I beg your pardon, Mr. Toots,” said Susan, "■ but I 
 don't hear you.” 
 
 “ Do you think she could be brought, you know — not 
 exactly at once, but in time — in a long time — to — to love 
 me, you know ! There ! ” said poor Mr, Toots. 
 
 “ Oil dear no !” returned Susan, shaking her head. 
 
 I should say never. Ne — ver ! ” 
 
 “ Thank'ee I ” said Mr. Toots. “ It's of no conse- 
 quence. Good night. It's of no consequence, 
 thank'ee 1” 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 The Trusty Agent. 
 
 Edith went out alone that day, and returned home 
 early. It was but a few minutes after ten o’clock, when 
 her carriage rolled along the street in which she lived. 
 
 There was the same enforced composure on her face, that 
 there had been when she was dressing ; and the wreath 
 upon her head encircled the same cold and steady brow. 
 But it would have been better to have seen its leaves 
 and flowers reft into fragments by her passionate hand, 
 or rendered shapeless by the fitful searches of a throb- 
 bing and bewildered brain for any resting place, than 
 adorning such tranquillity. So obdurate, so unapproach- 
 able, so unrelenting, one would have thought that nothing 
 could soften such a woman's nature, and that everything 
 in life had hardened it. 
 
 Arrived at her own door, she was alighting, when 
 Gome one coming quietly from the hall, and standing 
 bareheaded, offered her his arm. Th servant being 
 
350 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 thrust aside, she had no choice hut to touch it ; and she 
 then knew whose arm it was. 
 
 How is jour patient, sir she said, with a curled 
 lip. 
 
 He is better,^’ returned Carker. He is doing very 
 well. I have left him for the night. 
 
 She bent her head, and was passing up the staircase, 
 v/hen he followed and said, speaking at the bottom : 
 
 “Madam ! Maj^ I beg the favour of a minute’s au- 
 dience ? ” 
 
 She stopped and turned her eyes back. “ It is an un- 
 seasonable time, sir, and I am fatigued. Is your bush 
 ness urgent ? ” 
 
 “It is very urgent,” returned Carker. “ As I am so 
 fortunate as to have met you, let me press my petition,” 
 
 She looked down for a moment at his glistening 
 mouth ; and he looked up at her, standing^above him in 
 her stately dress, and thought, again, how beautiful she 
 was. 
 
 “ Where is Miss Dombey ? ” she asked the servant, 
 aloud. 
 
 “ In the morning room, ma’am.” 
 
 “ Show the way there !” Turning her eyes again on 
 the attentive gentleman at the bottom of the stairs, and 
 informing him with a slight motion of her head, that he 
 was at liberty to follow, she passed on. 
 
 “ I beg your pardon ! madam ! Mrs. Dombey I ” cried 
 the soft and nimble Carker, at her side in a moment. 
 “ May I be permitted to entreat that Miss Dombey is not 
 present ? ” 
 
 She confronted him, with a quick look, but with the 
 same self-possession and steadiness. 
 
 “ I would spare Miss Dombey,” said Carker, in a low 
 voice, “ the knowledge of what I have to say. At least, 
 madam, I would leave it to you to decide w^hether 
 she shall know of it or not. I owe that to you. It is 
 my bounden duty to you. After our former interview, 
 it would be monstrous in me if I did otherwise.” 
 
 She slowly withdrew her eyes from his face, and turn- 
 ing to the servant, said, “some other room.” He led 
 the way to a drav/ing-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 lit- 
 tle distance. 
 
 “Before I hear you sir,” said Edith, when the door was 
 closed, “ I wish you to hear me.” 
 
 “To be addressed by Mrs. Dombey,” he returned, 
 “even in accents of unmerited reproach, is an honour I 
 so greatly esteem, that although I were not her servant 
 
DOMBEY AND SQN. 
 
 351 
 
 in all things,! should defer to such a wish, most readily.^ 
 If you are charged by the man whom, you have just 
 now left, sir ; ” Mr. Carker raised his eyes, as if he were 
 going to counterfeit surprise, but she met them, and stop- 
 ped him, if such were his intention ; "‘with any mes- 
 sage to me, do not attempt to deliver it, for I will not 
 receive it. I need scarcely ask you if you are come on 
 such an errand. I have expected you some time/’ 
 
 “It is my misfortune,” he replied, “to be here, 
 wholly against my will, for such a purpose. Allow me 
 to say that I am here for two purposes. That is one.” 
 
 “That one, sir,” she returned, “is ended. Or, if 
 you retiirn to it — ” 
 
 “ 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?” 
 
 “Sir,” returned Edith, bending her dark gaze full 
 upon him, and speaking with a rising passion that in- 
 flated 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 do not know better, 
 sir : I have seen it in your every glance, and heard it in 
 your every vrord — 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 ! Injus^ 
 tic© I If I had done justice to the torment you have 
 made me feel, and to my sense of the insult you have 
 put upon me, I should have slain you ! ” 
 
 She had asked him why he did this ? Had she not 
 been blinded by her pride and wrath, and self-humilia- 
 tion, — which she v/as, fiercely as she bent her gaze upon 
 him, — she would have seen the answer in his face. To 
 bring her to this declaration. 
 
 She saw it not, and cared not whether it was there or 
 no. She saw only the indignities and struggles she hai 
 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. 
 
 He did not shrink beneath her gaze, but stood, until 
 such outward signs of her anger as had escaped her con=* 
 
352 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 trol subsided, v/itb the air of a man who had his suffi- 
 cient reply in reserve and would presently deliver it. 
 And he then spoke, looking straight into her kindling 
 eyes. 
 
 Madam, he said, I know, and knew before to- 
 day, that I have found no favour with you ; and I knew 
 why. Yes. I knew why. You have spoken so openly 
 to me ; I am so relieved by the possession of your confi- 
 dence — ” 
 
 ‘‘ Confidence she repeated, with disdain. 
 
 He passed it over. 
 
 — that I will make no pretence of concealment. I 
 did see from the first, that there was no affection on 
 your part, for Mr. Dombey — how could it possibly exist 
 between such different subjects ! And I have seen, 
 since, that stronger feelings than indifference have been 
 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 ? ” 
 
 ‘‘Was it for you, sir,” she replied, “to feign that 
 other belief, and audaciously to thrust it on me day by 
 day?” 
 
 “Madam, it was,” he eagerly retorted. “If I had 
 done less, if I had done anything but that, I should not 
 be speaking to you thus ; and I foresaw — who could bet- 
 ter foresee — for who has had greater experience of Mr. 
 Dombey than myself ? — that unless your character 
 should prove to be as yielding and obedient as that of 
 his first submissive lady, which I did not believe — ” 
 
 A haughty smile gave him reason to observe that he 
 might repeat this. 
 
 “ I say, which I did not believe, — the time was likely 
 to come, when such an understanding as we have now 
 arrived at, would be serviceable. ” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Serviceable to whom, sir ? ” she demanded scorn- 
 full y. 
 
 “ 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 dis- 
 tasteful to one whose aversion and contempt,” with 
 great expression, “ are so keen.” 
 
 “ It is honest in you, sir,” said Edith, “ to confess to 
 your ‘ limited commendation,' and to speak in that tone 
 of .disparagement, even of him : being his chief coun- 
 sellor and flatterer ! ” 
 
 “Counsellor, — yes,” said Carker. “Flatterer — no. 
 A little reservation I fear I must confess to. But our in 
 terest and convenience commonly oblige many of us to 
 make professions that we cannot feel. We have part- 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 353 
 
 nersliips of interest and convenience, friendships of in- 
 terest and convenience, dealings of interest and con- 
 venience, marriages of interest and convenience, every 
 day.^^ 
 
 She hit her blood-red lip ; but without wavering in 
 the dark, stern watch she kept upon him. 
 
 Madam, said Mr. Carker, sitting down in a chair 
 that was near her, with an air of the most profound and 
 most considerate respect, ‘‘why should I hesitate now, 
 being altogether devoted to your service, to speak plainly 1 
 It was natural that a lady endowed as you are, should 
 think it feasible to change her husband's character in 
 some respects, and mould him to a better form." 
 
 “ It was not natural to me, sir," she rejoined. “ I had 
 never any expectation or intention of that kindi^" 
 
 The proud undaunted face showed him it was resolute 
 to wear no mask he offered, but was set upon a reckless 
 disclosure of itself, indifferent to any aspect in which it 
 might present itself to such as he. 
 
 “At least it was natural," he resumed, “that you 
 should deem it quite possible to live with Mr. Dombey as 
 his wife, at once without submitting to him, and without 
 coming into such violent collision with him. But madam, 
 you did not know Mr. Dombey (as you have since ascer- 
 tained), when you thought that. You did not know how 
 exacting and how proud he is, or how he is, if I may saj 
 so, the slave of his own greatness,^nd 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." 
 
 His teeth gleamed through his malicious relish of this 
 conceit, as he went on talking : 
 
 “Mr. Dombey is really capable of no more true con- 
 sideration for you, madam, than for me. The comparison 
 is an extreme one ; I intend it to be so ; but quite j ust. 
 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 ex 
 istence 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 indi 
 vidual 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." 
 
354 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Bhe watched him still attentively. But he watched 
 her too ; and he saw that this indication of a knowledge 
 m his part, of something that had passed between her- 
 self and her husband, rankled and smarted in her 
 haughty breast, like a poisoned arrow. 
 
 I do not recall all this to widen the breach between 
 yourself and Mr. Dombey, madam — Heaven forbid ! 
 what would it profit me — but as an example of the hope- 
 lessness of impressing Mr. Dombey with a sense that 
 anybody is to be considered when he is in question. We 
 v/ho are about him, have, in our various positions, done 
 our part, I dare say, to confirm him in his way of think- 
 ing ; 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 sub- 
 missive and dependent persons, who have bowed the 
 knee, and bent the neck, before him. He has never 
 known what it is to have angry pride and strong resent- 
 ment opposed to him.’’ 
 
 “But he will know it now!” she seemed to say; 
 though her lips did not part, nor her eyes falter. He 
 saw the soft down tremble once again, and he saw her 
 lay the plumage of the beautiful bird against her bosom 
 for a moment ; and he unfolded one more ring of the 
 coil into which he had gathered himself. 
 
 “Mr. Dombey, thougha most honourablegentleman,” 
 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 v/hat 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 I ” 
 
 Edith laughed. How harshly and unmusically need 
 not be described. It is enough that he was glad to hear 
 her. 
 
 “Madam,” he resumed, “I have done with this. 
 Your own opinions are so strong, and, I am persuaded, 
 so unalterable,” he repeated those words slowly and 
 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. 
 
DOM BEY AND SON. 
 
 355 
 
 in this unhappy matter, I am yours, and- the indignation 
 with which I regard the part I am required to fill ! 
 
 She sat as if she were afraid to take her eyes from his 
 face. 
 
 And now to unwind the last ring of the coil ! 
 
 ‘‘It is growing late,'’ said Carker, after a j>ause, “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 de- 
 monstrations of regard for Miss Dombey.” 
 
 “ Cautious ! What do you mean 
 
 “To be careful how you exhibit too much affection 
 for that young lady." 
 
 “ Too much affection, sir ! " said Edith, knitting her 
 broad brow and rising. “ Who judges my affection, or 
 measures it out. You ? " 
 
 “ It is not I who do so." He was, or feigned to be, 
 perplexed. 
 
 “ Who then? " 
 
 “ Can you not guess who then ? " 
 
 “I do not choose to guess," she answered. 
 
 “Madam," he said after a little hesitation ; meantime 
 they had been, and 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 pos- 
 sess your confidence, though the way to it has been 
 through your displeasure, I must violate the injunction 
 you have laid upon me." 
 
 “You know that you are free to do so, sir," said Edith. - 
 “ Do it." 
 
 So pale, so trembling, so impassioned ! He had not 
 miscalculated the effect, then ! 
 
 “ His instructions were," he said, in alow voice, “ that 
 I should inform you that your demeanour towards Miss 
 Dombey is not agreeable to him. That it suggests com- 
 parisons 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." 
 
 “ That is a threat," she said. 
 
 “ That is a threat," he answered in his voiceless man- 
 ner of assent : adding aloud, “ but not directed against 
 you . " 
 
 Proud, erect, and dignified, as she stood confronting 
 him ; and looking him as she did, with her full bright 
 Basiling eye ; and smiling as she was, with scorn and 
 bitterness ; she sunk as if the ground had dropped be- 
 
356 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 neath her, and in an instant would have fallen on the 
 floor, but that he caught her in his arms. As instanta- 
 neously she threw him off, the moment that he touched 
 her, and, drawing back, confronted him again, immova- 
 ble, with her hand stretched out. 
 
 Please to leave me. Say no more to-night.’^ 
 
 “ I feel the urgency of this,” said Mr. Carker, ^‘because 
 it is impossible to say what unforeseen consequences 
 might arise, or how soon, from your being unacquainted 
 with his state of mind. I understand Miss Dombey is 
 concerned, now, at the dismissal of her old servant, 
 which is likely to have been a minor consequence in it- 
 self. You don’t blame me for requesting that Miss Dom- 
 bey might not be present. May I hope so ? ” 
 
 I do not. Please leave me, sir.” 
 
 ‘‘I knew that your regard for that 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. 
 
 No more to-night. Leave me, if you please.” 
 
 I shall be here constantly in my attendance upon him, 
 and in the transaction of business matters. You will al- 
 low me to see you again, and to consult what should be 
 done, and learn your v/ishes ?” 
 
 She motioned him towards the door. 
 
 “I cannot even decide whether to tell him I have spoken 
 to you yet ; or to lead him to suppose that I have deferred 
 doing so, for want of opportunity, or for any other 
 reason. It will be necessary that you should enable m© 
 to consult with you very soon.” 
 
 “ At any time but now,” she answered. 
 
 ‘'You will understand, when I wish to see you, that 
 Miss Dombey is not to be present; and that I seek an inter- 
 view as one who has the happiness to possess your confi- 
 dence, and who comes to render you every assistance in 
 his power, and, perhaps, on many occasions, toward off 
 evil from her ? ” 
 
 Looking at him still with the same apparent dread of 
 releasing him for a moment from the influence of her 
 steady gaze, whatever that might be, she answered, 
 “ Yes ! ” and once more bade him go. 
 
 He bowed, as if in compliance ; but turning back, 
 when he had nearly reached the door, said : 
 
 “I am forgiven, and have explained my fault. May 
 I — for Miss Dombey's sake, and for my own — take your 
 hand before I go ? ” 
 
 She gave him the gloved hand she had maimed last 
 night. He took it in one of his and kissed it, and with- 
 drew, And w^hen he had closed the door, he waved the 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 357 
 
 hand with which he had taken hers, and thrust it in his 
 breast. 
 
 CHAPTER XLYI. 
 
 Recognizant and Reflective. 
 
 Among 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 atfairs of the House laid open to him. Always ac- 
 tive and penetrating in such matters, his lynx-eyed vig- 
 ilance 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 leis- 
 ure — 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 
 oflSces 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, couid not withhold the tribute of his admiration 
 from this zealous conduct., although it much contracted 
 his domestic enjoyments ; and again, and again, expati- 
 ated to Mrs. Perch (now nursing twins) on the industry 
 and acuteness of their managing gentleman in the City. 
 
 The same increased and sharp attention that Mr. 
 Carker bestowed on the business of the House, he applied 
 to his own personal affairs. Though not a partner in 
 the concern— a distinction hitherto reserved solely to 
 inheritors of the great name of Dombey — he was in the 
 receipt of some per centage on its dealings ; and, par- 
 ticipating 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 
 
358 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 even offered on tlie Stock-Exchange that Jem was going 
 to marry a rich widow. 
 
 Yet these cares did not in the least interfere v/ith Mr. 
 Carker’s watching of his chief, or with his cleanness, 
 neatness, sleekness, or any cat-like quality he possessed 
 It was not so much that there was a change in him, in 
 reference to any of his habits, as that the whole man 
 was intensified. Everything that had been observable 
 in him before, was observable now, but with a greater 
 amount of concentration. He did each single thing, as 
 if he did nothing else — a pretty certain indication in a 
 man of that range of ability and purpose, that he is doing 
 something which sharpens and keeps alive his keenest 
 powers. 
 
 The only decided alteration in him, was, that as 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 gen- 
 tleman’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 des- 
 tination, or some sudden chance or effort roused him. 
 
 Walking his white-legged horse, thus, to the count- 
 ing-house of Dombey and Son one day, he was as uncon- 
 scious 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 re- 
 touched his hat to attract attention, and trotted along on 
 foot, by his master’s side, prepared to hold his stirrup 
 when he should alight. 
 
 See where he goes !” cried one of these two women, 
 an old creature, who stretched out her shrivelled arm 
 to point him out to her companion, a young woman, who 
 stood close beside her, withdrawn like herself into a 
 gateway. 
 
 Mrs. Brown’s daughter looked out, at this bidding on 
 the part of Mrs. Brown ; and there were wrath and ven- 
 geance in her face. 
 
 “ I never thought to look at him again,” she said, in a 
 lov/ voice ; but it’s well I should, perhaps. I see. I 
 see ! ” 
 
 Not changed ! ” said the old woman, with a look of 
 eager malice. 
 
 He changed!” returned the other. '‘What for? 
 What has he suffered ? There is change enough for 
 twenty in me. Isn’t that enough ? ” 
 
 “See where he goes!” muttered the old woman, 
 watching her daughter with her red eyes ; “so easy and 
 so trim, a’ horse-back, while we are in the mud — ” 
 
 “ And of it,” said her daughter impatiently. “We 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 359 
 
 ^re mud underneatli liis horse's feet. What should we 
 be ? 
 
 In the intentness with which she looked after him 
 again, she made a hasty gesture with her hand when the 
 old woman began to reply, as if her view could be ob- 
 structed by mere sound. Her nqiother watching her, and 
 not him, remained silent ; until her kindling glance sub- 
 sided, and she drew a long breath, as if in the relief of 
 his being gone. 
 
 ‘‘Deary!’’ said the old woman then. “Alice! 
 Handsome gal I Ally ! ” She gently shook her sleeve 
 to arouse her attention. “ Will you let him go like that, 
 when you can wring money from him. Why, it’s a 
 wickedness, my daughter.” 
 
 “ Haven’t I told you, that I will not have money from 
 him ? ” she returned. “ And don’t you yet believe me ? 
 Did I take his sister’s money ? Would I touch a penny, 
 if I knew it, that had gone through his white hands — 
 unless, it was, indeed, that I could poison it, and send it 
 back to him ? Peace, mother, and come away.” 
 
 “ And him so rich ? ” murmured the old woman. 
 
 And us so poor ! ” 
 
 “ Poor in not being able to pay him any of the harm 
 we owe him,” returned her daughter. “Let him give 
 me that sort of riches, and I’ll take them from him and 
 use them. Come away. It’s no good looking at his 
 horse. Come away, mother ! ” 
 
 But the old woman, for whom the spectacle of Rob 
 the Grinder returning down the street, leading the rider- 
 less 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 what- 
 ever doubts she entertained, resolved as he drew nearer, 
 glanced at her daughter with brightened eyes and with 
 her finger on her lip, and emerging from the gateway at 
 the moment of his passing, .touched him on the shoulder* 
 
 “ Why, where’s my sprightly Rob been, all this time !** 
 she said, as he turned round. 
 
 The sprightly Rob, whose sprightliness was very much 
 diminished by the salutation, looked exceedingly dis- 
 mayed, and said, with the water rising in his eyes : 
 
 “Oh why can’t you leave a poor cove alone. Misses 
 Brown, when he’s getting an honest livelihood and con- 
 ducting himself respectable ? What do you come and de- 
 prive a cove of his character for, by talking to him in 
 the streets, when he’s taking his master’s horse to a hon- 
 est stable — a horse you’d go and sell for cats’ and dogs’ 
 meat if you had your way I Why, I thought,” said th© 
 Grinder, producing his concluding remark as if it were 
 the climax of all his injuries, “ that you was dead long 
 ago I ” 
 
360 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ‘‘ 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-fan- 
 cying tramps and bird-catchers.** 
 
 ‘‘ Let the birds be, will you Misses Brown ? ** retorted 
 Rob, in a tone of the acutest anguish. I think a cove 
 had better have to do with lions than them little cree- 
 turs, 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 Grrinder uttered, as 
 it were under protest, and with great exasperation and 
 vindictiveness. 
 
 ‘‘ 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 sported 
 and cheated with, where to find him — ** 
 
 Will you hold your tongue. Misses Brown ?** inter- 
 rupted 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 ruin- 
 ing a cove for ? At your time of life too ! when you 
 ought to be thinking of a variety of things 1 ** 
 
 What a gallant horse ! ** said the old woman, pat. 
 ting the animars neck. 
 
 Let him alone, will you Misses Brown ? ** cried Rob, 
 pushing away her hand. You’re enough to drive a 
 penitent cove mad ! ** 
 
 “ Why, what hurt do I do him, child ? ’* returned the 
 old woman. 
 
 ‘‘ Hurt ? ** said Rob. He*s got a master that would 
 find it out if he was touched with a straw.** x\ndhe blew 
 upon jibe place where the old w^omaifls hand had rested 
 for a moment, and smoothed it gently with his finger, as 
 if he seriously believed wdiat he said. 
 
 The old woman looking back to mumble and mouth at 
 her daughter, who followed, kept close to Rob’s heels as 
 he walked on with the bridle in his hand ; and pursued 
 the conversation. 
 
 ‘‘ A good place, Rob, eh ? ** said she. You*re in luck, 
 my child.** 
 
 ‘‘ Oh don*t talk about luck. Misses Brown,*’ returned 
 the wretched Grinder, facing round and stopping. If 
 you*d never come, or if you’d go aw'ay, then indeed a 
 cove might be considered tolerable lucky. Can’t you go 
 along, Misses Brown, and not toiler me ? ** blubbered 
 Rob, with sudden defiance. “ If the young woman’s a 
 friend of yours, why don’t she take you away, instead of 
 letting you make yourself so disgraceful ! ” 
 
 ‘‘ What ! ” croaked the old w'oman, putting her fae© 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 36 ' 
 
 close to liis, with a malevolent grin npon it that puck- 
 ered up the loose skin down in her very throat. Do 
 you deny your old chum ! Have- you lurked to my house 
 fifty times, and slept- sound in a corner when you had no 
 other bed but the paving-stones, and do you talk to me 
 like this ! Have I bought and sold with you, and helped 
 you in my way of business, schoolboy, sneak, and y^diat 
 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 ovm 
 shadow, and do you turn on me with your bold looks I 
 ril go ! Come Alice/’ 
 
 “ Stop, Misses Brown !” cried the distracted Grinder, 
 
 What are you doing of? Don’t put yourself in a pas- 
 sion ! Don’t let her go, if you please. I haven’t meant 
 any oSence. I said ‘how d’ye do,’ at first, didn’t I ? But 
 vou wouldn’t answer. How do you do ? Besides, ” said 
 kob, piteously, “ look here ! How can a cove stand talk- 
 ing in the street with his master’s prad a wanting to be 
 took to be rubbed down, and his master up to every indi- 
 vidgle thing that happens?” 
 
 The old woman made a show of being partially ap- 
 peased, but shook her head, and mouthed and muttered 
 still. 
 
 “ Come along to the stables, and have a glass of some- 
 thing that’s good for you. Misses Brov/n, 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 v*^asn’t for the horse ! ” 
 
 With this apology. Bob turned away, a rueful picture 
 of despair, and walked his charge down a bye-street. 
 The old woman, mouthing at her daughter, followed 
 close upon him. The daughter followed. 
 
 Turning into a silent little square or court yard that 
 had a great church tower rising above it, and a packer’s 
 warehouse, and a bottle-maker’s warehouse, for its places 
 of business, Rob the Grinder delivered the white-legged 
 horse to the hostler of a quaint stable at the corner ; and 
 inviting Mrs. Brown and her daughter to seat themselves 
 upon a stone bench at the gate of that establishment, 
 soon reappeared from a neighbouring public house with 
 a pewter measure and a glass. 
 
 “ Here’s master — Mr. Carker, child ! ” said the old wo- 
 man, slowly, as her sentiment before drinking. “ Lord 
 bless him ! ” 
 
 “ Why, I didn’t tell you who he was,” observed Rob, 
 with staring eyes. 
 
 “We know him by sight,” said Mrs. Brown, whose 
 working mouth and nodding head, stopped for the mo- 
 ment, in the fixedness of her attention. “We saw him 
 VoL. 12 
 
862 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 pass this morning, afore lie got oif his horse ; when you 
 were ready to take it.’' 
 
 ^ ‘ Ay, ay ? ” returned Rob, appearing to wish that his 
 readiness had carried him to any other place. — ^Yhat’s 
 the matter with her ? Won’t she drink ! ” 
 
 This inquiry had reference to Alice,’ who, folded in her 
 cloak, sat a little apart profoundly inattentive to his 
 ®ffer of the replenished glass. 
 
 The old woman shook her head. Don’t mind her,” 
 she said ; ‘‘ She’s a strange creetur, if you know’d her, 
 Rob. But Mr. Carker — ” 
 
 “Hush!” said Rob, glancing cautiously up at the 
 packer’s, and at the bottle maker’s, as if, from any one 
 of the tiers of the warehouses, Mr. Carker might be look- 
 ing down. “Softly.” 
 
 “ Why, he ain’t here ! ” cried Mrs. Brown. 
 
 “ I don’t know that,” muttered Rob, whose glance even 
 wandered to the church tower, as if he might be there, 
 with a supernatural power of hearing. 
 
 “ Good master ? ” inquired Mrs. Brown. 
 
 Rob nodded his head ; and added in a low voice, 
 “ precious sharp. ” 
 
 “ Lives out of town, don’t he, lovey ? ” said the old wo- 
 man. 
 
 “ When he’s at home,” returned Rob ; “ but we don’t 
 live at home just now.” 
 
 “ Where then ? ” asked the old woman. 
 
 “ Lodgings ; up near Mr. Dombey’s,” returned Rob. 
 
 The younger woman fixed her eyes so searchingly up- 
 on him, and so suddenly, that Rob was quite confounded, 
 and offered the glass again, but with no more effect upon 
 her than before. 
 
 “Mr. Dombey — you and I used to talk about him, 
 sometimes, you know,” said Rob to Mrs. Brown. “ Yoii 
 used to get me to talk about him. ” 
 
 The old woman nodded. 
 
 “Well, Mr. Dombey, he’s had a fall from his horse,” 
 said Rob, unwillingly; “and my master has to be up 
 there, more than usual, either with him, or Mrs. Dombey, 
 or some of ’em ; and so we’ve come to town.” 
 
 “ Are they good friends, lovey ? ” asked the old woman. 
 
 “ Who ?” retorted Rob. 
 
 “ He and she ? ” 
 
 “ What, Mr. and Mrs. Dombey,” said Rob “ How 
 should / know !” 
 
 “ Not them — Master and Mrs. Dombey, chick, ’ replied 
 J;he old woman, coaxingly. 
 
 “ I don’t know,” said Rob, looking round him again. 
 “ I suppose so. How curious you are. Misses Brown ! 
 Least said soonest mended.” 
 
 “Why there’s no harm in it 1 ” exclaimed the old worn- 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 863 
 
 an, with a laugh and a clap of her hands. Sprightly 
 Roh has grown tame since he has been well off ! There’s 
 no harm in it.” 
 
 ‘‘No, there’s no harm in it I know,” returned Rob, 
 with the same distrustful glance at the packer’s and the 
 bottle-maker’s, and the church ; “ but blabbing, if it’s 
 only about the number of buttons on my master’s coat 
 won’t do. I tell you it won’t do with him. A cove had 
 better drown himself. He says so. I shouldn’t have so 
 much as told you what his name was, if you hadn’t known 
 it. Talk about somebody else.” 
 
 As Rob took another cautious survey of the yard, the 
 bid woman made a secret motion to her daughter. It 
 was momentary, but the daughter, with a slight look of 
 intelligence, withdrew her eyes from the boy’s face, and 
 sat folded in her cloak as before. 
 
 “ Rob, lovey ?” said the old woman, beckoning him to 
 the other end of the bench. “ You were always a pet 
 and favourite of mine. Now, weren’t you ? Don’t you 
 know you were ? ” 
 
 “Yes, Misses Brown,” replied the Grinder, with a very 
 bad grace. 
 
 “ And you could leave me ! ” said the old woman, fling- 
 ing her arms about his neck. “ You could go away, and 
 grow almost out of our knowledge, and never come to tell 
 your poor old friend how fortunate you were, proud lad ! 
 Oho, oho ! ” 
 
 “ Oh here’s a dreadful go for a cove that’s got a master 
 wide awake in the neighbourhood !” exclaimed the 
 wretched Grinder. “ To be howled over like this here ! ” 
 Won’t you come and see me, Robby?” cried Mrs. 
 Brown. “ Oho, won’t you ever come and see me ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, I tell you ! Yes, I will !” returned the Grinder. 
 
 “ That’s my own Rob ! That’s my lovey ! ” said Mrs. 
 Brov»^n, drying the tears upon her shrivelled face, and 
 giving him a tender squeeze. “ At the old place Rob?” 
 
 “ Yes,” replied the Grinder. 
 
 “Soon, Robby, dear? ’’cried Mrs. Brown; “and of^ 
 ten?” 
 
 “Yes. Yes. Yes,” replied Rob. “ I will indeed, up- 
 on my soul and body.” 
 
 “And then,” said Mrs. Brown, with her arms uplifted 
 towards the sky, and her head thrown back and shaking, 
 “ if he’s true to his word. I’ll never come a-near him, 
 though I know where he is, and never breathe a syllable 
 about him ! Never ! ” 
 
 This ejaculation seemed a drop of comfort to the mis- 
 erable Grinder, who shook Mrs. Brovv^n 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 follow- 
 
364 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 lug her daughter, turned back, with her finger stealthily 
 raised, and asked in a hoarse whisper for some money. 
 
 shilling, 'dear !” she said, with her eager> avari- 
 cious face, ‘^or sixpence! For old acquaintance sake, 
 Fm so poor. And my handsome gal — looking over her 
 shoulder — ‘‘she's my gal, Rob — half starves me.'' 
 
 But as the reluctant Grinder put it in her hand, her 
 daughter, coming quietly back, caught the hand in hers, 
 and twisted out the coin. 
 
 “ What," she said, “mother ! always money ! money 
 from the first, and to the last. Do you mind so little 
 what I said but now ? Here. Take it I " 
 
 The old woman uttered a moan as the money was re- 
 stored, but without in any other way opposing its restor- 
 ation, hobbled at her daughter's side out of the yard, and 
 along the bye street upon which it opened. The astom 
 ished 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 refer- 
 ence to some one of whom they spoke), and a crooning 
 feeble imitation of it on the part of Mrs. Brown, that 
 made him earnestly hope he might not be tlie subject of 
 their discourse. 
 
 With the present consolation that they were gone, 
 and with the prospective comfort that Mrs. Brown could 
 not live forever, and was not likely to live long to trou' 
 ble him, the Grinder, not otherwise regretting his mis- 
 deeds 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 re- 
 ceive his master's orders. 
 
 There his master, so subtile 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 warn- 
 ings and threats ; and more powerful with him than any 
 words. 
 
 Alone again, in his own room, Mr. Carker applied 
 himself to work, and worked all day. He saw many 
 visitors ; over-looked 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 
 
DOMBEY AKJ) SON. 
 
 B65 
 
 papers from Ills table was made at last, lie fell into Ms 
 thoughtful mood once more. 
 
 He was standing in his accustomed place and attitude, 
 with his eyes intently hxed 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 \Vas 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 the office- 
 floor, said : 
 
 Well, John Carker, and what brings you here ? ’’ 
 
 His brother pointed to the letters, and was again with- 
 drawing. 
 
 ‘‘I wonder/’ said the manager, ‘' that you can come 
 and go, without inquiring how our master is.” 
 
 “We had word this morning, in the counting-house, 
 that Mr. Dombey was doing well,” replied his brother. 
 
 You are such a meek fellow,” said the manager 
 with a smile “ — but you have grown so, in the course 
 of years~that if any harm came to him, you’d be miser- 
 able, I dare swear now.” 
 
 “ I should be truly sorry, James,” returned the other. 
 
 “He v/ould be sorry 1” 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 de- 
 votion too, he would have me believe !” 
 
 “I would have you believe nothing, James,” returned 
 the other. Be as j list to me as you would to any 
 other man below you. You ask a question, and I an- 
 swer it.” 
 
 “And have you nothing, spaniel,” said the manager, 
 with unusual irascibility, “ to complain of in him? No 
 proud treatment to resent, no insolence, no foolery of 
 state, no exaction of any sort ! What the devil ! are 
 you man or mouse ? ” 
 
 “ It would be strange if any two persons could be to- 
 gether for so many years, especially as superior and in- 
 ferior, without each having something to complain of in 
 the other — as he thought, at all events,” replied John 
 Carker. “But apart from my history here — 
 
 “ His history here ! ” exclaimed the manager. “ Why, 
 there it is. The very fact that makes him an extreme 
 case, put him out of the whole chapter ! Well ?” 
 
 “ Apart from that, which, as you hint, gives me a 
 reason to be thankful that I alone (happily for all the 
 rest) possess, surely there is no one in the house who 
 
366 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 would not say and feei at least as mucli. You do not 
 think that anybody here would be indifferent to a mis- 
 chance or misfortune happening to the head of the 
 House, or anything than truly sorry for it ? 
 
 You have good reason to be bound to him too!” 
 said the manager, contemptuously, Why, don’t you 
 believe that you are kept here, as a cheap example, 
 and a famous instance of the clemency of Dombey 
 and Son, redounding to the credit of the illnstilous 
 House ? ” 
 
 No,” replied the brother, mildly, I have long be- 
 lieved that I am kept here for more kind and disinter- 
 ested reasons.” 
 
 “But you were going,” said the manager, with the ' 
 snarl of a tiger-cat, “to recite some Christian precept, I 
 observed.” 
 
 “ Nay, James,” returned the other, “ though the tie of 
 brotherhood between us. has been long broken and thrown 
 away — ” 
 
 Who broke it, good sir ? ” said the manager. 
 
 “ I, by my misconduct. I do not charge it upon you.’' 
 
 The manager replied, with that mute action of his 
 bristling mouth, “Oh, you don’t charge it upon me!’’ 
 and bade him go on. 
 
 “ I say, though there is not that tie between us, do not 
 I entreat, assail me with unnecessary taunts, or misin- 
 terpret what I say, or would say. I was only going to 
 suggest to you that it would be a mistake to suppose 
 that it is only you, who have been selected here, above 
 all others, for advancement, confidence, and distinction 
 (selected in the beginning, I know, for your great ability 
 and trustfulness), and who communicate more freely 
 with Mr. Dombey than any one, and stand, it may be 
 said, on equal terms with him, and have been favoured 
 and enriched by him — that it would be a mistake to sup- 
 pose that it is only you who are tender of his welfare 
 and reputation. There is no one in the house, from 
 yourself down to the lowest, I sincerely believe, who 
 does’not participate in that feeling.” 
 
 “ You lie,” said the Manager, r^ with sudden anger. 
 
 “ You’re a hypocrite, John Carter, and you lie !” 
 
 “ James ! ” cried the other, flushing in his turn. 
 
 “ What do you mean by these insulting words? Why 
 do you so basely use them to me, unprovoked ? ” 
 
 “ I tell you,” said the manager, “ that your hypocrisy 
 and meekness- -that all the hypocrisy and meekness of 
 this place — is not worth that to me,” snapping his thumb 
 and Anger, “ and that I see through it as if it were 
 air I There is not a man employed here, standing be- 
 tween myself and the lowest in place (of whom you are 
 very considerate, and with reason, for he is not far off), 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 867 
 
 who wouldn’t be glad at heart to see his master hum Died; 
 who does not hate him, secretly : who does not vidsh 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 ! ” 
 
 1 don’t know,” said his brother, whose roused feel- 
 ings had soon yielded to surprise, who may have 
 abused your ear with such representations : or why you 
 have chosen to try me, rather than another. But that 
 you have been trying me, and tampering with me, I am 
 now sure. You have a different manner and a different 
 aspect from any that I ever saw in you. I will only say 
 to you, once more, you are deceived.” 
 
 I know I am,” said the manager. I have told you 
 
 so.” 
 
 "‘Not by me,” returned his brother. By your in- 
 formant, if you have one. If not, by your own thoughts 
 and suspicions.” 
 
 I have no suspicions,” said the manager. “ Mine are 
 certainties. You pusillanimous, abject, cringing dogs ! 
 All making the same show, all canting the same story, 
 all whining the same professions, all harbouring the 
 transparent secret.” 
 
 His brother withdrew, without saying more, and shut 
 the door as he concluded. Mr. Carker the manager 
 drew a chair close before the fire, and fell to beating the 
 coals softly with the poker. 
 
 The faint-hearted, fawning knaves,” he muttered, 
 with his two shining rows of teeth laid bare. There’s 
 not one among them, v/ho wouldn’t feign to be so shock- 
 ed and outraged — ! Bah I There’s not one among 
 them, but if he had at once the power, and the wit and 
 daring to use it, would scatter Dombey’s pride and lay 
 it low, as ruthlessly as I rake out these ashes.” 
 
 As he broke them up, and strewed them in the grate, 
 he looked on with a thoughtful smile, at what he was 
 doing. Without the same queen beckon er too ! ” he 
 added presently; and there is a pride there, never to 
 he forgotten-^witness our own acquaintance ! ” With 
 that he fell into a deeper reverie, and sat pondering over 
 the blackening grate, until be rose up like a man who 
 had been absorbed in a book, and looking around him 
 took his hat and gloves, went to where his horse v/as 
 waiting, mounted, and rode away through the lighted 
 streets ; for it was evening. 
 
 He rode near Mr. Domhey’s house ; and falling 
 into a walk as he approached it, looked up at the win- 
 dows. The window where he had once seen Florence 
 sitting with her dog attracted his attention first, though 
 tnere was no light in it ; but he smiled as he carried 
 
368 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 his eyes up the tall front of the house, and seemed to 
 leave that object superciliously behind. 
 
 “ Time was/’ he said, when it was well to watch 
 even your rising* little star, and know in what quarter 
 there were clouds, to shadow you if needful. But a 
 planet has arisen, and you are lost in its light.” 
 
 He turned the white-legged horse, round the street 
 corner, and sought one shining window from among 
 those at the back of the house. Associated with it was 
 a certain stately presence, a gloved hand, the remem- 
 brance how the feathers of a beautiful bird’s wing had 
 been showered down upon the floor, and how the light 
 white down upon a robe had stirred and rustled, as in 
 the rising of a distant storm. These were the things he 
 carried with him as he turned away again, and rode 
 through the darkening and deserted parks at a quick 
 rate. 
 
 In fatal truth, these were associated with a woman, a 
 proud woman, who hated him, but who by slow and sure 
 degrees had been led on by his craft, and her pride and 
 resentment, to endure his company, and little by little to 
 receive him as one who had the privilege to talk to her 
 of her own deflant disregard of her own husband, and 
 her abandonment of high consideration for herself. 
 They were associated wit^h a woman who hated him 
 deeply, and who knew him, and who mistrusted him be- 
 cause 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 rea- 
 son ; since its depths, too far down for her threatening 
 eye to pierce, though she could see into them dimly, lay 
 the dark retaliation, whose faintest shadow seen once 
 and shuddered at, and never seen again, would have 
 been sufficient stain upon her soul. 
 
 Did the phantom of such a woman flit about him on 
 tiis ride ; true to the reality, and obvious to him ? 
 
 Yes. He saw her in his mind, exactly as she was. 
 She bore him company with her pride, resentment, 
 hatred, all as plain to him as her beauty ; with nothing 
 plainer to him than her hatred of him. He saw her 
 sometimes haughty and repellant at his side, and some- 
 times down among his horse’s feet, fallen and in the 
 dust. But he always saw her as she was, without dis- 
 guise, and watched her on the dangerous way that sho 
 was going. 
 
 And when his ride was over, and he Avas newly 
 dressed, and came into the light of her bright room vdth 
 his bent head, soft voice, and soothing smile, he saw her 
 yet as plainly. He eA^en suspected the mystery of the 
 gloved hand, and held it all the longer in his own for 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 369 
 
 that suspicion. Upon the dangerous way that she was 
 going, he was still ^ and not a footprint did she mark 
 upon it, but he set his own there, straight. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 The Thmiderbolt. 
 
 The barrier between Mr. Dombey and his wife, was 
 not weakened by time. Ill-assorted couple, unhappy in 
 themselves and in each other, bound together by no tie 
 but the manacle that joined their fettered hands, and 
 straining that so harshly, in their shrinking asunder, 
 that it wore and chafed to the bone. Time, consoler of 
 affliction and softener of anger, could do nothing to help 
 them. Their pride, however different in kind and ob- 
 ject, 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 ev- 
 erything within their mutual reach, and made their mar- 
 ri^e way a road of ashes. 
 
 Let us be just to him : In the monstrous delusion of 
 his life, swelling with every grain of sand that shifted 
 in its glass, he urged her on, he little thought to what, 
 or considered how ; but still his feeling towards her, 
 such as it was, remained as at first. She had the grand 
 demerit of unaccountably putting herself in opposition 
 to the recognition of his vast importance, and to the 
 acknowledgment of her complete submission to it, and 
 so far it was necessary to correct and reduce her ; but 
 otherwise he still considered her, in his cold way, a lady 
 capable of doing honour, if she would, to his choice and 
 name, and of reflecting credit on his proprietorship. 
 
 Now, she with all her might of passionate and proud 
 resentment, bent her dark glance from day to day, and 
 hour to hour — from that night in her own chamber, when 
 she had sat gazing at the shadows on the wall, to the 
 deeper night fast coming — upon one figure directing a 
 crowd of humiliations and exasperations against her ; 
 and that figure, still her husband’s. 
 
 Was Mr. Dombey’s master- vice that ruled him so inex- 
 orably, an unnatural characteristic ? It might be worth 
 while, sometimes, to inquire what Nature is, and how 
 men work to change her, and whether, in the enforced 
 distortions so produced, it is not natural to be unnatural. 
 Coop any son or daughter of our mighty mother within 
 narrow range, and bind the prisoner to one idea, and 
 foster it by servile worship of it on the part of the few 
 timid or designing people standing round, and what is 
 
370 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Nature to the willing captive who has never risen up upon 
 the wings of a free mind — drooping and useless soon— to 
 see her in her comprehensive truth ! 
 
 Alas ! are there are 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, l3dng 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 human- 
 ity 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 poison- 
 ous to health and life ; and have every sense, conferred 
 upon our race for its delight and happiness, offended, 
 sickened, and disgusted, and made a channel by which 
 misery and death alone can enter. Vainly attempt to 
 think of any simple plant, or flower, or wholesome weed, 
 that, set in this foetid bed, could have its natural growth, 
 or put its little leaves forth to the sun as God designed 
 it. And then, calling up some ghastly child, with stunted 
 form, and wicked face, hold forth on its unnatural sin- 
 fulness, and lament its being, so early, far away from 
 Heaven — but think a little of its having been conceived, 
 and born and bred in Hell ! 
 
 Those who study the physical sciences, and bring them 
 to bear upon the health of man, tell us that if the nox- 
 ious 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 the town. But if the 
 moral pestilence that rises with them, and, in the eternal 
 laws of outraged Nature, is inseparable from them, could 
 be made discernible too, how terrible the revelation ! 
 Then should we see depravity, impiety, drunkenness, 
 theft, murder, and a long train of nameless sins against 
 the natural affections and repulsions of mankind, over- 
 hanging 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 371 
 
 should we stand appalled to know, that where we gen, 
 erate disease to strike our children down and entail itself 
 on unborn generations, there also we breed, by the same 
 certain process, infancy that knows no innocence, youth 
 without modesty or shame, maturity that is mature in 
 nothing but in suffering and in guilt, blasted old age 
 that is a scandal on the form we bear. Unnatural 
 humanity ! When we shall gather grapes from thorns, 
 and figs from thistles ; when fields of grain shall spring 
 up from the offal in the by ways of our wicked cities, and 
 roses bloom in the fat church-yards that they cherish ] 
 then we may look for natural humanity, and find it grow* 
 ing from such seed. 
 
 Oh for a good spirit who would take the house-tops off, 
 with a more potent and benignant hand than the lame 
 demon in the tale, and show a Christian people what 
 dark shapes issue from amidst their homes, to swell the 
 retinue of the Destroying Angel as he moves forth among 
 them ! For only one night’s view of the pale phantoms 
 rising from the scenes of 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 j 
 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 them- 
 selves, like creatures of one common origin, owning one 
 duty to the Father of one family, and tending to one 
 common end, to make the world a better place ! 
 
 Not the less bright and blest would that day be for 
 rousing some who never have looked out upon the world 
 of human life around theni, 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 develop- 
 ment when once begun, as the lowest degradation known. 
 
 But no such day had ever dawned on Mr. Dombey, or 
 his wife ; and the course of each was taken. 
 
 Through six months that ensued upon his accident, 
 they held the same relations one tov»^ards the other. A 
 marble rock could not have stood more obdurately in his 
 way than she ; and no chilled spring, lying uncheered by 
 any ray of light in the depths of a deep cave, could be 
 more sullen or more cold than he. 
 
 The hope that had fluttered within her when the pro- 
 mise 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 na,ture of hope left, that Edith 
 
872 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 and lier father might he happier together in some dis- 
 tant 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 be- 
 fore, or only remembered as a sorrowful delusion. 
 
 Florence loved him still, but by degrees, had come to 
 love him rather as some dear one who had been, or who 
 might have been, than as the hard reality before her 
 eyes. Something of the softened sadness with which 
 she loved the memory of little Paul, or 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 tp her, and that partly for this 
 reason, partly for his share in those old objects of her 
 affection, and partly for the long association of him with 
 hopes that were withered and tendernesses he had fro- 
 zen, she could not have told ; but the father whom she 
 loved began to be a vague and dreamy idea to her ; 
 hardly more substantially connected with her real life, 
 than the image she would sometimes conjure up of her 
 dear brother yet alive, and growing to be a man, who 
 would protect and cherish her. 
 
 The change, if it may be called one, had stolen on her 
 like the change from childhood to womanhood, and had 
 come with it. Florence was almost seventeen, when, in 
 her lonely musings, she was conscious of these thoughts. 
 
 She was often alone now, for the old association be- 
 tween her and her mama was greatly changed. At the 
 time of her father’s accident, and when he was lying in 
 his room down-stairs, Florence had first observed that, 
 Edith avoided her. Wounded and shocked, and yet um 
 able to reconcile this with her affection when they did 
 meet, she sought her in^ her own room at night, once 
 more. 
 
 ‘‘Mama,” said Florence, stealing softly to her side, 
 “have I have offended you?’*' 
 
 Edith answered “ No.” 
 
 “ I must have done something,” said Florence. “Tell 
 me what it is. You have changed your manner to me, 
 dear mama. I cannot say how instantly I feel the least 
 change ; for 1 love you with my whole heart.” 
 
 “As I do you,” said Edith. “Ah, Florence, believe 
 me never more than now ! ” 
 
 “Why do you go away from me so often, and keep 
 away?” asked Florence. And why do you sometimes 
 look so strangely on me, dear mama? You do so, do you 
 not?” 
 
 Edith signified assent with her dark eyes. 
 
 Why,” returned Florence imploringly. “ Tell m© 
 
DOMBBT AISD SON. 
 
 S io 
 
 wliy, that I may know how to please you better ; and 
 tell me this shall not be so any more.” 
 
 ‘ “My Florence/’ answered Edith, taking the hand that 
 embraced her neck, and looking into the eyes that looked 
 into hers so lovingly, as Florence knelt upon the ground 
 before her ; “ why it is, I cannot tell you. It is neither 
 for me to say nor you to hear ; but that it is, and that it 
 must be, I know. Should I do it if I did not?” 
 
 “Are ice to be estranged, mama?” asked Florence, 
 gazing at her like one frightened. 
 
 Edith’s silent lips formed “ Yes.” 
 
 Florence looked at her with increasing fear and won- 
 der, until she could see her no more through the blind- 
 ing tears that ran down her face. 
 
 “Florence ! my life !” said Edith, hurriedly, listen to 
 me. I cannot bear to see this grief. Bo calmer. You 
 see that I am composed, and is it nothing to me ? ” 
 
 She resumed her steady voice and manner as she said 
 the latter words, and added presently : 
 
 “ Not wholly estranged. Partially : and only that, m 
 appearance, Florence, for in my own breast I am still 
 the same to you, and ever will be. But what I do is not 
 done for myself.” 
 
 “ Is it for me, mama?” asked Edith. 
 
 “It is enough,” said Edith, after a pause, “to know 
 what it is ; why, matters little. Dear Florence, it is 
 better — it is necessary — it must be — that our association 
 should be less frequent. The confidence there has been 
 between us must be broken off.” 
 
 “ When?” cried Florence. “Oh, mama, when ? ” 
 
 “ Now,” said Edith. 
 
 “ For all time to come?” asked Florence. 
 
 “ I do not say that,” answered Edith. “ I do not know 
 that. Nor will I say that companionship between us, 
 is, at the best, an ill-sorted and unholy union, of which 
 I might have known no good could come. My way here 
 has heen through paths that you will never tread, and my 
 way henceforth may lie — God knows — I do not see it — ” 
 
 Her voice died away into silence ; and she sat, looking 
 at Florence, and almost shrinking from her, with the 
 same strange dread and wild avoidance that Florence 
 had noticed once before. The same dark pride and rage 
 succeeded, sweeping over her form and features like an 
 angry chord across the.stnings of a wild harp. But no 
 softness or humility ensued on that. She did not lay 
 her head down now, and weep, and say that she had no 
 hope but in Florence. She held it up as if she were a 
 beautiful Medusa, looking on him, face to face, to strike 
 him dead. Yes, and she would have done it if she had 
 had the charm. 
 
 “ Mama,” said Florence anxiously, “ there is a change 
 
374 
 
 WORKS OF CHi.ELSS DICKENS. 
 
 in you, in more than what you say to me, which alarms 
 me* Let me stay with you a little. 
 
 ‘‘ No,” said Edith, no dearest. I am best left alone 
 now, and I do best to keep apart from you, of all else. 
 Ask me no questions, hut believe that what I am when I 
 seem fickle or capricious to you, I am not of my own 
 will, or for myself. Believe, though we are stranger to 
 each other than we have been, that I am unchanged to 
 you within. Forgive me for having ever darkened your 
 dark home — I am a shadow on it, I know well— and let 
 us never speak of this again.” 
 
 Mama,” sobbed Florence. we are not to nart f ” 
 
 We do this that we may not part,” said Edith. Ask 
 no more. Go, Florence ! My love and my remorse go 
 with you 1 ” 
 
 She embraced her, and dismissed her j and as Florence 
 passed out of her room, Edith looked on the retiring 
 figure, as if her good angel went out in that form, and 
 left her to the haughty and indignant passions that now 
 claimed her for their own, and set their seal upon her 
 brow. 
 
 From that hour, Florence and she were, as they had 
 been, no more. For days together, they would seldom 
 meet, except at table, and when Mr. Dombey was present. 
 Then Edith, imperious, inflexible, and silent, never 
 looked at her. Whenever Mr. Carker was of the party, 
 as he often was, during the progress of Mr. Dombey’s 
 recovery, and afterwards, Edith held herself more re- 
 moved from her, and was more distant towards her, 
 than at other times. Yet she and Florence never en- 
 countered, 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 uncon- 
 scious, in her slumber, of such visits, Florence would 
 sometimes awake, as from a dream of those words, 
 softly spoken, and would seem to feel the touch of lips 
 upon her face. But less and less often as the months 
 went on. 
 
 And now the void in Florence’s own heart began again, 
 indeed, to make a solitude around her. As the image 
 of the father whom she loved had insensibly become a 
 mere abstraction, so Edith, following the fate of all the 
 rest about whom her affection^ 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 hy 
 little, the chasm between them widened and seemed 
 deeper ; little by little, all the pov/er of earnestness and 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 375 
 
 tenderness slie had shown, was frozen up in the bold, 
 angry hardihood with which she stood, upon the brink 
 of a deep precipice unseen by Florence, daring to look 
 down. 
 
 There was but one consideration to set against the 
 heavy loss of Edith, and though it was slight comfort to 
 the 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 
 tfhem with no doubts. 
 
 So she tried to do. At 'times, and often too, wonder- 
 ing speculations on the cause of this change in Edith, 
 would obtrude themselves upon her mind and frighten 
 her ; but in the calm of its abandonment once more to 
 silent grief and loneliness, it was not a curious mind. 
 Florence had only to remember that her star of promise 
 was clouded in the general gloom that hung upon the 
 house, and to weep and be resigned. 
 
 Thus living, in a dream wherein the overflowing love 
 of her young heart expended itself on airy forms, and in 
 a real world where she had experienced little but the 
 rolling back of that strong tide upon itself, Florence grew 
 to be seventeen. Timid and retiring as her solitary life 
 had made her, it had not embittered her sweet temper, 
 or her earnest nature. A child in innocent simplicity ; a 
 woman in her modest self-reliance, and her deep inten- 
 sity of feeling ; both child and woman seemed at once 
 expressed in her fair face and fragile delicacy of shape, 
 and gracefully to mingle there ; — as if the 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 strange ethereal light that seemed to 
 rest upon her head, and always in, a certain pensive 
 air upon her beauty, there was an expression, such as 
 had been seen in the dead boy ; and the council in the 
 Servants" Hall whispered so among themselves, and shook 
 their heads, and ate and drank the more, in a closer bond 
 of good-fellowship. 
 
 This observant body had plenty to say of Mr. and 
 Mrs. Dombey, and of Mr. Carker, who appeared to be a 
 mediator between them, and who came and went as if 
 he were trying to make peace, but never could. They 
 all deplored the uncomfortable state of aifairs, and all 
 agreed that Mrs. Pipchin (whose unpopularity was not 
 to be surpassed) had some hand in it ; but, upon the 
 whole, it was agreeable to have so good a subject for a 
 rallying point, and they made a great deal of it, and en- 
 joyed Aemselves very much. 
 
376 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 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 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 ! wa^ that Miss Dombey, in 
 the corner? Very pretty, but a little delicate and 
 thoughtful in appearance ! ” 
 
 None the less so, certainly, for her life of the last six 
 months, Florence took her seat at the dinner-table, on 
 the day before the second anniversary of her father’s 
 marriage to Edith (Mrs. Skewton had been lying stricken 
 with paralysis when the first came round), with an un- 
 easiness, amounting to dread. She had no other war- 
 rant for it, than the occasion, the expression of her 
 father’s face, in the hasty glance she caught of it, and 
 the presence of Mr. Carker, which, always unpleasant 
 to her, was more so on this day, than she had ever felt 
 it before. 
 
 Edith was richly dressed, for she and Mr. Dombey 
 were engaged in the evening to some large assembly, 
 and the dinner-hour that day was late. She did not 
 appear until they were seated at the table, when Mr, 
 Carker rose and led her to her chair. Beautiful and 
 lustrous as she was, there was that in her face and air 
 which seemed to separate her hopelessly from Florence, 
 and from every one, for ever more. And yet, for an in- 
 stant, Florence saw a beam of kindness in her eyes, when 
 they were turned on her, that made the distance to which 
 she had withdrav/n herself, a greater cause of sorrow^ 
 and regret than ever. 
 
 There was very little said at dinner. Florence heard 
 her father speak to Mr. Carker sometimes on business 
 matters, and heard him softly reply, but she paid little 
 attention to what they said, and only wished the dinner 
 at an end. When the dessert was jdaced upon the 
 table, and they were left alone, with no servant in at- 
 tendance, Mr. Dombey, who had been several times clear- 
 ing his throat in a manner that argued no good, said : 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 377 
 
 Mrs. Dombey, you know, I suppose, that I have in- 
 structed the housekeeper that there will be some com- 
 pany to dinner here to-morrow. 
 
 do not dine at home,” she answered. 
 
 ‘'Not a large party,” pursued Mr. Dombey, with an 
 indiiferent assumption of not having heard her ; “ merely 
 some twelve or fourteen. My sister. Major Bags took, 
 and some others whom you know but slightly,” 
 
 “ I do not dine at home,” she repeated. 
 
 “However doubtful reason I may have, Mrs. Dom 
 bey,"’ 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. Dom- 
 bey—” 
 
 “I have none,” she said. 
 
 “ Madam,” cried Mr. Dombey, striking his hand upon 
 the table, “ hear me, if you please. I say, if you have 
 no respect for yourself — ” 
 
 “ And I say I have none,” she answered. 
 
 He looked at her ; but the face she showed him in re- 
 turn would not have changed, if death itself had looked. 
 
 •' Carker,” said Mr. Dombey, turning more quietly to 
 that gentleman, “ as you have been my medium of com- 
 munication with Mrs. Dombey on former occasions, and 
 as I choose to preserve the decencies of life, so far as I 
 am individually concerned, I will trouble you to have 
 the goodness to inform Mrs. Dombey that if she has no 
 respect for herself, I have some respect for and 
 
 therefore insist on my arrangements for to-morrow.” 
 
 “Tell your sovereign master, sir,” said Edith, “that 
 I will take leave to speak to him on this subject by-and- 
 by, and that I will speak to him alone.” 
 
 “Mr. Carker, madam,” said her husband, “being in 
 possession of the reason which obliges me to refuse you 
 that privilege, shall be absolved from the delivery of 
 any such message.” He saw her eyes move, while he 
 spoke, and followed them with his own. 
 
 “Your daughter is present, sir,” said Edith. 
 
 “My daughter will remain present,” said Mr. Dom- 
 bey. 
 
 Florence, who had risen, sat down again, hiding her 
 face in her hands, and trembling. 
 
 “My daughter, madam” — -began Mr. Dombey. 
 
 But Edith stopped him, in a voice which, although not 
 raised in the least, was so clear, emphatic, and distinct, 
 that it might have been heard in a whirlwind. 
 
 “ I tell you I will speak to you alone,” she said. “ If 
 you are not mad, heed what I say.” 
 
 “ I have authority to speak to you, madam,” returned 
 
378 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 her husband, when and where I please ; and it is my 
 pleasure to speak here and now/’ 
 
 She rose up as if to leave the room ; but sat down 
 again, and looking at him with all outward composure, 
 said, in the same voice : 
 
 ‘‘You shall ! ” 
 
 “I must tell you first, that there is a threatening ap- 
 pearance in your manner, madam,” said Mr. Dombey, 
 “ which does not become you.” 
 
 She laughed. The shaken diamonds in her hair started 
 and trembled. There are fables of precious stones that 
 would turn pale, their wearer being in danger. Had 
 these been such, their imprisoned rays of light would 
 have taken flight that moment, and they would have 
 been as dull as lead. 
 
 Carker listened, with his eyes cast down. 
 
 “ As to my daughter, madam,” said Mr. Dombey, re- 
 suming the thread of his discourse, “it is by no means 
 inconsistent with her duty to me, that she should know 
 what conduct to avoid. At present you are a very strong 
 example to her of this kind, and I hope she may profit 
 by it.” 
 
 “I would not stop you now,” returned his wife, im- 
 movable in eye, and voice, and attitude ; “I would not 
 Hse and go away, and save you the utterance of one 
 word, if the room were burning.” 
 
 Mr. Dombey moved his head, as if in a sarcastic ac- 
 knowledgment of the attention, and resumed. But not 
 with so much self-possession as before ; for Edith’s 
 quick uneasiness in reference to Florence, and Edith’s 
 indifference to him and his censure, chafed and galled 
 him like a stiffening wound. 
 
 “Mrs. Dombey,” said he, “it may not be inconsistent 
 With my daughter’s improvement to know how very 
 inuch to be lamented, and how necessary to be corrected, 
 a stubborn disposition is, especially when it is indulged 
 in — unthaokfully indulged in, I will add — after the 
 gratification of ambition and interest. Both of which, 
 I believe, had some share in inducing you to occupy 
 your present station at this board.” 
 
 “ No ! I would not rise, and go away, and save you 
 the utterance of one word,” she repeated, exactly as be- 
 fore, “if the room were burning.” 
 
 “It may be natural enough, Mrs. Dombey,” he pur- 
 sued, “ that you should be uneasy in the presence of 
 any auditors of these disagreeable truths ; though why 
 — ” he could not hide his real feelings here, or keep his 
 eyes from glancing gloomily at Florence — “ why any one 
 can give them greater force and point than myself, whom 
 they so nearly concern, I do not pretend to understand. 
 It may be natural enough that you should object to hear. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 379 
 
 In anybody's presence, tbat there is a rebellious principle 
 within you which you cannot curb too soon ; which you 
 must curb, Mrs. Dombey ; and which, I regret to sav, 1 
 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 com- 
 pany in a becoming manner. " 
 
 “So it is not enough," said Edith, “ that you know 
 what has passed between yourself and me ; it is not 
 enough that you can look here," pointing at Carker, who 
 still listened, with his eyes cast down, “ and be reminded 
 of the affronts you have put upon me ; it is not enough 
 that you can look here," pointing to Florence with 
 hand that slightly trembled for the first and only time, 
 “and think of what you have done, and of the ingenh 
 ous 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 I " 
 
 This was not the way to 'minister to Mr. Dombey ’s 
 greatness. The old feeling was roused by what she said 
 7nto 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 power- 
 ful where he was powerless, and everything where he 
 was nothing ! 
 
 He turned on Florence, as if it were she who had 
 spoken, and bade her leave the room. Florence with 
 her covered face obeyed, trembling and weeping as she 
 went. 
 
 “I understand, madam," said Mr. Dombey, with an 
 angry flush of triumph, “the spirit of opposition that 
 turned your affections in that channel, but they havo 
 been met, Mrs. Dombey ; they have been met, and turned 
 back ! " 
 
 “ The worse for you ! " she answered, with her voice 
 and manner still unchanged. “ Ay ! " for he turned 
 sharply when she said so^ “what is the worse for me^ 
 
380 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Vs twenty million times tlie worse for you. Heed that, 
 if you heed nothing else.’"" 
 
 The arch of diamonds spanning her dark hair, flashed 
 and glittered like a starry bridge. There was no warn, 
 ing in them, or they would have turned as dull and dim 
 as tarnished honour. Carker still sat and listened, with 
 hitf eyes cast down. 
 
 ‘‘ Mrs. Dombey,” said Mr. Dombey, resuming as much 
 as he could of his arrogant composure, “you will not 
 conciliate me, or turn me from any purpose, by this 
 course of conduct.” 
 
 “It is the only truth 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 re- 
 pressible by any human effort. I will do nothing that 
 you ask.” 
 
 “ I am not accustomed to ask, Mrs. Bombey,” he ob- 
 served ; “I direct.” 
 
 “ I will hold no place in your house to-morrow, or oa 
 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, 1 would keep it as a day of 
 shame. Self-respect ! appearances before the world! 
 what are these to "me ? You have done all you can to 
 make them nothing to me, and they are nothing.” 
 
 “ Carker,” said Mr. Dombey, speaking with knitted 
 brows, and after a moment’s consideration, “ Mrs. Dom- 
 bey is so forgetful of herself and me in all this, and 
 places me in a position so unsuited to my character, that 
 I must bring this state of matters to a close .” 
 
 “Release me, then,” said Edith, immovable in voice, 
 in look, and bearing, as she had been throughout, “ from 
 the chain by which I am bound. Let me go.” 
 
 “ Madam?” exclaimed Mr. Dombey. 
 
 “ Loose me. Set me free I” 
 
 “Madam?” he repeated, “Mrs. Dombey?” 
 
 “ Tell him,” said Edith, addressing her proud face to 
 Carker, “that I wish for a separation between us. That 
 there had better be one. That I recommend it to him. 
 Tell him it may take place on his own terms — his wealth 
 is nothing to me — but that it cannot be too soon.” 
 
 “Good Heaven, Mrs. Dombey!” said her husband, 
 with supreme amazement, “ do you imagine it possible 
 that I could ever listen to such a proposition ? Do you 
 know who I am, madam ? Do you know what I repre- 
 sent ? Did you ever hear of Dombey and Son ? People 
 to say that Mr. Dombey — Mr. Dombey I — was separated 
 from his wife ! Common people to talk of Mr. Dombey 
 and his domestic affairs ! Do you seriously think Mrs. 
 Dombey, that 1 would permit my name to be handed 
 about in such connexion ? Pooh, pooh, madam I Fie 
 
DOM«BEY AN?® SON. 
 
 381 
 
 for skame I Yom^re absurd/* Ms*. Dombey absolutely 
 laughed. 
 
 But not as she did. She had better have been dead 
 than laugh as she did, in reply, with her intent look 
 fixed upon him. He had better have been dead, than 
 sitting there, in his magnificence, to hear her. 
 
 “No, Mrs. Dombey,"' he resumed, “no, madam, 
 There is no possibility of separation between you and 
 me, and therefore I the more advise you to be awakened 
 to a sense of duty. And, Carker, as I was about to say 
 to you — 
 
 Mr. Carker, who had sat and listened all this time, 
 now raised his eyes, in which there was a bright un- 
 natural light. 
 
 “ — As I was about to say to you,"’ resumed Mr. Dom- 
 bey, “ 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 allov/ myself to be thwarted by anybody — any- 
 body, Carker — or to suffer anybody to be paraded as a 
 stronger motive for obedience in those who owe obedi- 
 ence to me than I am myself. The mention that has 
 been made of my daughter, and the use that is made of 
 my daughter, in opposition to me, are unnatural. 
 Whether my daughter is in actual concert with Mrs. 
 Dombey, I do not know, and do not care ; but after what 
 Mrs. Dombey has said to-day, and my^ daughter has 
 heard to-day, I beg you to make known to Mrs. Dombey, 
 that if she continues to make this house the scene of 
 contention it has become, I shall consider my daughter 
 responsible in some degree, on that lady’s own avowal, 
 and shall visit her with my severe displeasure. Mrs. 
 Dombey has asked ‘ whether it is not enough,’ that she 
 had done this and that. You will please to answer no, 
 it is not enough.” 
 
 “A moment!” cried Carker, interposing, “permit 
 me ! painful as my position is, at the best, and unusually 
 painful in seeming to entertain a different opinion from 
 you,” addressing Mr. Dombey, “I must ask, had you 
 not better re-consider the question of a separation. I 
 know how incompatible it appears with your high public 
 position, and I know how determined you are, when you 
 give Mrs. Dombey to 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 beiny unjust to anotherc 
 
WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 almost intolerable ? Does this not seem like — I do not 
 saj it is — sacrificing Mrs. Dombey to the preservation 
 of your pre-eminent and unassailable position ? ” 
 
 Again the light in his eyes fell upon her, as she stood 
 looking at her husband : now with an extraordinary and 
 awful smile upon her face. 
 
 ‘‘ Carker,’" returned Mr. Dombey, with a supercilious 
 frown, and in a tone that was intended to be final, “ you 
 mistake your position in offering advice to me on such a 
 point, and you mistake me (I am surprised to find) in the 
 character of your advice. I have no more to say.^’ 
 
 Perhaps,’^ said Carker, with an unusual and in- 
 definable taunt in his air, "mistook my position, 
 
 when you honoured me with the negotiations in which I 
 have been engaged here ’’ — with a motion of his hand 
 towards Mrs. Dombey. 
 
 ‘"Not at all, sir, not at all,” returned the other 
 haughtily. ""You were employed — ” 
 
 "" Being an inferior person, for the humiliation of Mrs. 
 Dombey. I forgot. Oh, yes, it was expressly under- 
 stood ! ” said Carker. "" I beg your pardon ! ” 
 
 As he bent his head to Mr. "Dombey, with an air of 
 deference that accorded ill with his words, though they 
 were humbly spoken, he moved it round towards her, 
 and kept his watching eyes thalhway. 
 
 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 glit- 
 tering heap. Without a word, without a shadow on the 
 fire of her bright eye, without abatement of her awful 
 smile, she looked on Mr. Dombey to the last, in moving 
 to the door ; and left him. 
 
 Florence had heard enough before quitting the room, 
 to know that Edith loved her yet ; that she had stiffered 
 for her sake ; and that she had kept her sacrifices quiet, 
 lest they should trouble her peace. She did not want to 
 speak to her of this — she could not, remembering to 
 whom she was opposed — but she wished, in one silent 
 and affectionate embrace, to assure her that she felt it 
 all, and thanked her. 
 
 Her father went out alone, that evening, and Florence 
 issuing from her own chamber soon afterwards, went 
 about the house in search of Edith, but unavailingly. 
 She was in her own rooms, where Florence had long 
 ceased to go, and did not dare to venture now, lest she 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 383 
 
 should unconsciously engender nev/ trouble. Still Flor- 
 ence, hoping to meet her before going to bed, changed 
 from room to room, and wandered through the house so 
 splendid and so dreary, without remaining anywhere. 
 
 She was crossing a gallery of communication that 
 opened at some little distance on the staircase, and was 
 only lighted on great occasions, when she saw, through 
 the opening, which was an arch, the figure of a man 
 coming down some few stairs opposite. Instinctively 
 apprehensive of her father, whom she supposed it was, 
 she stopped, in the dark, gazing through the arch into 
 the light. But it w’as Mr. Carker coming down alone, 
 and looking over the railing into the hall. No bell was 
 rung to announce his departure, and no servant was in 
 attendance. He went down quietly, opened the door 
 for himself, glided out, and shut it softly after him. 
 
 Her invincible repugnance to this man, and perhaps 
 the stealthy act of watching any one, which, even under 
 such innocent circumstances, is in a manner guilty and 
 oppressive, made Florence shake from head to foot. 
 Her blood seemed to run cold. As soon as she could — 
 for at first she felt an insurmountable dread of moving 
 — she went quickly to her own room and locked her 
 door ; but even then, shut in with her dog beside her, 
 felt a chill sensation of horror, as if there were danger 
 brooding somewhere near her. 
 
 It invaded her dreams and disturbed the whole night. 
 Rising in the morning, unrefreshed, and with a heavy 
 recollection of the domestic unhappiness of the preced- 
 ing day, she sought Edith again, in all the rooms, and 
 did so, from time to time, all the morning. But she re- 
 mained in her own chamber, and Florence saw nothing 
 of her. Learning, however, that the projected dinner 
 at home was put off, Florence thought it likely that she 
 would go out in the evening to fulfil the engagement 
 she had spoken of : and resolved to try and meet her, 
 then, upon the staircase. 
 
 When the evening had set in, she heard, from the 
 room in which set 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, com- 
 ing down alone. 
 
 What was Florence’s affright and wonder when, at 
 sight of her, wdth her tearful face, and outstretched 
 arms, Edith recoiled and shrieked ! 
 
 ''Don’t come near me 1 she cried. Keep away ! 
 Let me go by ! ” 
 
 “ Mama ! ” said Florence. 
 
 ''Don’t call me by that name ! Don’t speak to me ! 
 Don’t look at me ! — Florence ! ” shrinking back, as Flor- 
 ence moved a step towards her, "don’t touch me ! ” 
 
384 
 
 WORK8 OF CHARLES DICKENS- 
 
 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, 
 cravded by her like some lov/er animal, sprang up, and 
 fied away. 
 
 Florence dropped upon the stairs in a swoon ; and was 
 found there by Mrs. Pipchin, she supposed. She knew 
 nothing more, until she found herself lying on her own 
 bed, with Mrs. Pipchin and some servants standing 
 round her. 
 
 Where is mama?’’ was her first question. 
 
 Gone out to dinner,” said Mrs. Pipchin. 
 
 And papa?” 
 
 “Mr. Dombey’s in his own room. Miss Dombey,” said, 
 Mrs. Pipchin, “ and the best thing you can do, is to take 
 o:fi your things and go to bed this minute.” This was 
 the sagacious woman’s remedy for all complaints, par- 
 ticularly lowness of spirits, and inability to sleep ; for 
 which offences many young victims in the days of the 
 Brighton Castle had been committed to bed at ten o’clock 
 in the morning. 
 
 Without promising obedience, but on the plea of de- 
 siring to be very quiet, Florence disengaged herself, as 
 soon as she could, from the ministration of Mrs. Pipchin 
 and her attendants. Left alone, she thought of what 
 had happened on the staircase, at first in doubt of its 
 reality ; then with tears ; then with an indescribable and 
 terrible alarm, like that she had felt the night before. 
 
 She determined not to go to bed until Edith returned, 
 and if she ’ could not speak to her, at least to be sure 
 that she was safe at home. What indistinct and shadowy 
 dread moved Florence to this resolution, she did not 
 know, and did not dare to think. She only knew that 
 until Edith came back, there was no repose for her 
 aching head or throbbing heart. 
 
 The evening deepened into night ; midnight came ; no 
 Edith. 
 
 Florence could not read, or rest a moment. She 
 paced her own room, opened the door and paced the 
 staircase-gallery outside, looked out of window on the 
 night, listened to the wind blowing and the rain fall- 
 ing, sat down and watched the faces in the fire, got up 
 and watched the moon flying like a storm-driven ship 
 through the sea of clouds. 
 
 All the house w^as gone to bed, except two servants 
 who were w'aiting the return of their mistress, down- 
 stairs. 
 
 One o’clock. -The carriages that rumbled in the dis- 
 tance, turned away, or stopped short, or 'went past ; the 
 silence gradually * deepened, and w^as more and more 
 
DOMBEY AND SOX. 
 
 885 
 
 rarely broken, save by a rush of wind or sweep of rain. 
 Two o’clock. No Editli. 
 
 Florence, more agitated, paced lier room ; and paced 
 the gallery outside ; and looked out at the night, blurred 
 and wavy with the rain-drops on th'e glass, and the tears 
 in her own eyes ; and looking up at the hurry in the sky, 
 so different from the repose below, and yet so tranquil 
 and solitary. Three o’clock. There ivas a terror in 
 every ash that dropped out of the fire. No Edith yet. 
 
 More and more agitated, Florence paced her room, and 
 paced the gallery, and looked out at the moon with a 
 new fancy of her likeness to a pale fugitive hurrying 
 away and hiding her guilty face. Four struck I Five 1 
 No Edith yet. 
 
 But now there was some cautious stir in the house ; 
 and Florence found that Mrs. Pipchin had been awak- 
 ened by one of those who sat u]:), 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 v/hen he was 
 told his wife had not come home. He dispatched a mes- 
 senger to the stables to inquire whether the coachman 
 v/as there ; and while the man was gone, dressed himself 
 very hurriedly. 
 
 The man came back, in great haste, bringing the 
 coachman with him, who said he had been at home and 
 in bed since ten o’clock. He had driven his mistress to 
 her old house in Brook-street, where she had been met 
 by Mr. Carker- — 
 
 Florence stood upon the very spot w^here she had seen 
 him- coming down. Again she shivered with the name- 
 less terror of that sight, and had hardly steadiness 
 enough to hear and understand what followed. 
 
 — -Who had told him, the man went on to say, that his 
 mistress would not v/ant the carriage to go home in ; and 
 had dismissed him. She saw her father turn white in 
 the face, and heard him ask in a quick, trembling voice, 
 for Mrs. Hombey’s maid. The whole house was roused | 
 for she was there in a moment, very pale too, and speak- 
 ing incoherently. 
 
 She said she liad dressed her mistress early— -full two 
 hours before she went out — and had been told, as she 
 often was, that she would not be wanted at night. She 
 had just come from her mistress’s rooms, but — 
 
 "‘But what ! what was it?” Florence heard her father 
 demand like a madman. 
 
 “ But the inner dressing-room was locked, and th^kej 
 gone.” 
 
 Her father seized a candle that was flaming on the 
 ground — some one had put it down there, and forgotten 
 it— and came running up-stairs with such fury, that 
 
386 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Florence, m lier fear, had hardly time to Gy before him. 
 She heard him striking in the door, as she ran on, with 
 her hands wildly spread, and her hair streaming, and 
 her face like a distracted person’s, back to her own room. 
 
 When the door yielded, and he rushed in, what did 
 he 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 wheu 
 he should see them next ! 
 
 Heaping them hack into the drawers, and locking them 
 up in a rage of haste, he saw some papers on the table. 
 The deed of settlement he had executed on their mar. 
 riage, and a letter. He read that she was gone. He 
 read that he was 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 tri - 
 umphant face with his bare hand. 
 
 Florence, not knowing what she did, put on a shawl 
 and bonnet, in a dream of running through the streets 
 until she found Edith, and then clasping her* in her 
 arms, to save and bring her back. But when she hurried 
 out upon the staircase, and saw the frightened servants 
 going up and down with lights, and whispering together, 
 and falling away from her father as he passed down, she 
 awoke to a sense of her own powerlessness ; and hiding 
 In one of the great rooms that had been made gorgeous 
 for t/i'is, felt as if her heart would burst with grief. 
 
 Compassion for her father was the first distinct emo- 
 tion that made head against the flood of sorrow w^hich 
 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. Al- 
 though she did not know, otherwise than through the 
 suggestions of a shapeless fear, the full extent of his 
 calamity, he stood before her wronged and deserted , 
 and again her yearning love impelled her to his side. 
 
 He was not long away : for Florence was yet weeping 
 m the great room and nourishing these thoughts, when 
 she heard him come back. He ordered the servants to 
 set about their ordinary occupations, and wen^ into his 
 own apartment, Avhere he trod so heavily that she could 
 hear him walking up and down from end to end. 
 
 Yielding, at once, to the impulse of her aflection, timid 
 
DOMBEY AND SON, 
 
 387 
 
 at all other times, hut bold in its truth to him in his ad 
 versitj, and undaunted by past repulse, Florence, dressed 
 as she was, hurried down-stairs. As she set her light 
 foot in the hall, he came out of his room. She hastened 
 towards him unchecked, with her arnis stretched out, 
 and crying “Oh dear, dear papa f ” as if she v/ould have 
 clasped him round the neck. 
 
 And so she would have done. But in his frenzy, he 
 lifted up his cruel arm, and struck her, crosswise, with 
 that heaviness that she tottered on the marble floor ■ 
 and as he dealt the blow he told her what Edith was, 
 and bade her follow her, since they had always been in 
 league. 
 
 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. 
 
 Kan 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 free- 
 dom of the morning ; and Florence, with her head bent 
 down to hide her agony of tears, was in the streets. 
 
 CHAPTER XLYIII. 
 
 The Flight of Florence. 
 
 In the wildness of her sorrow, shame, and terror, the 
 forlorn girl hurried through the sunshine of a bright 
 morning, as if it were the darkness of a winter night. 
 Wringing her hands and weeping bitterly, insensible to 
 everything but the deep v/ound in her breast, stunned by 
 the loss of all she loved, left like the sole survivor on a 
 lonely shore from the wreck of a great vessel, she fled 
 without a thought, without a hope, without a purpose, 
 but to fly somewhere — anywhere. 
 
 The cheerful vista of the long street, burnished by the 
 morning light, the sight of the blue sky and airy 
 clouds, the vigorous freshness of the day, so flushed and 
 so rosy in its conquest of the night, awakened norespou* 
 
888 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 sive feelings in lier so Lnrt bosom. Some where, any. 
 where, to hide her head ! somewhere anywhere, for 
 refuge, never more to look upon the place from which 
 she fled ! 
 
 But there were people going to and fro ; there were 
 opening shops, and servants at the doors of houses ; 
 there was the rising clash and roar of the day's struggle. 
 Florence saw surprise and curiosity in the faces flitting 
 past' her ; saw long shadows coming back upon the pave- 
 ment : and heard voices that were strange to her asking 
 her where she went, and what the matter was ; and 
 though these frightened her the more at first, and made 
 her hurry on the faster, they did her the good service of 
 recalling her in some degree, to herself, and reminding 
 her of the necessity of greater composure. 
 
 Where to go ? Still somewhere, anywhere ! still going 
 on ; but where I She thought of the other only time 
 she had been lost in the wide wilderness of London — 
 though not lost as now— and went that way. To the home 
 of Walter's uncle. 
 
 Checking her sobs, and drying her swollen eyes, and 
 endeavouring to calm the agitation of her manner, so as 
 to avoid attracting notice, Florence, resolving to keep to 
 the more quiet streets as long as she could, was going on 
 more quietly herself, when a familiar little shadow darted 
 past upon the sunny pavement, stopped short, wheeled 
 about, came close to her, made off again, bounded round 
 and round her, and Diogenes, panting for breath, and 
 yet making the street ring with his glad bark, was at her 
 feet. 
 
 Oh, Di ! oh, dear, true, faithful Di, how did you 
 come here ! How could I ever leave you, Di, who would 
 never leave me ! " 
 
 Florence bent down on the pavement, and laid his 
 rough, old, loving, foolish head against her breast, and 
 *diej got up together, and went on together ; Di more ofi 
 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 continu- 
 ally stopping, in the midst of a thousand extravagances, 
 to look back at Florence, and bark until all ►the dogs 
 within hearing answered, and all the dogs who could 
 come out, came out to stare at him. 
 
 With this last adherent, Florence hurried away in the 
 advancing morning, and the strengthening sunshine, to the 
 city. The roar soon grew more loud, the passengers 
 more numerous, the shops more busy, until she was 
 carried onward in a stream of life setting that way, and 
 flowing indifferently, past marts and mansions, prisons. 
 
FLORENCE MADE A MOTION WITH HER HAND TOWARDS HIM, REELED, AND FELL UPON THE FLOOR. 
 
 — Dombey and Son, Vol. Twelve, page S89 
 
390 
 
 WORKS OF CHAKLiUS DICKENS. 
 
 churclies, market-places, wealtli, poverty, good and evil, 
 like the broad river, side by side with it, awakened from 
 its dreams of rushes, willows, and green moss, and roll- 
 ing on, turbid and troubled, among the works and cares of 
 men, to the deep sea. 
 
 At length the quarters of the little Midshipman arose 
 in view. Nearer yet, and the little Midshipman himself 
 was seen upon his post, intent as ever, on his observa- 
 tions. Nearer yet, and the door stood open, inviting her 
 to enter, Florence, who had again quickened her pace, 
 as she approached the end of her journey, ran across the 
 road (closely followed by Diog'enes, whom the bustle 
 had somewhat confused), ran in, and sank upon the 
 threshold of the well -remembered little parlour. 
 
 The captain, in his glazed hat, was standing over the 
 fire, making his morning’s cocoa, with that elegant tri- 
 fle, his watch, upon the chimney-piece, for easy refer- 
 ence during the progress of the cookery. Hearing & 
 footstep and the rustle of a dress, the captain turned 
 with a palpitating remembrance of the dreadful Mrs. 
 MacStinger, at the instant when Florence made a motion 
 with her hand towards him, reeled, and fell upon the 
 floor. 
 
 The captain, pale as Florence, pale in the very knobs 
 upon his face, raised her like a baby, and laid her on the 
 same old sofa upon which she had slumbered long ago. 
 
 It’s Heart’s Delight !” said the captain, looking in- 
 tently in her face. It’s the sweet creetur growl’d a 
 woman ! ” 
 
 Captain Cuttle was so respectful of her, and had such 
 a reverence for her, in this new character, that he would 
 not have held her in his arms, while she was uncon- 
 scious, for a thousand pounds. 
 
 “ My Heart’s Delight ! ” said the captain, withdrawing 
 to a little distance, with the greatest alarm and sym- 
 pathy depicted on his countenance. If you can hail 
 Ned Cuttle wdtli a finger, do it ! ” 
 
 But Florence did not stir. 
 
 My Heart’s Delight!” said the trembling captain. 
 ^‘For the sake of Wai’r drowuded in the briny deep, 
 turn to, and histe up something or another, if able I ” 
 
 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 lier lips and fore- 
 head, put hack her hair, covered her feet with his own 
 coat which he pulled oft* for the purpose, patted her 
 hand — so small in his, that he was struck with wonder 
 V/heu he touched it — and seeing that her eyelids quiv- 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 391 
 
 ered, and that lier lips began to move, continued these 
 Restorative applications with a better heart. 
 
 Cheerily,'' said the captain. “Cheerily? Stand 
 by, my pretty one, stand by ! There ! You're better 
 now. Steady's the word, and steady it is. Keep her 
 so ! Drink a little drop o' this here," said the captain. 
 “ There you are ! What cheer now, my pretty, what 
 cheer now ? ” 
 
 At this stage of her recovery. Captain Cuttle, vdth an 
 Imperfect association of a Watch with a Physician’s 
 treatment of a patient, took his own down from the 
 mantel-shelf, and holding it out on his hook, and taking 
 Florence's hand in his, looked steadily from one to the 
 other, as expecting the dial to do something. 
 
 “ What cheer, my pretty ? " said the captain. “ What 
 cheer now 2 You've done her some good my lad, 1 be- 
 lieve," 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 afternoon, and you're a watch as can be 
 ekalled by few and excelled by none. What cheer, my 
 lady lass ! " 
 
 “Captain Cuttle! Is it you!" exclaimed Florence, 
 raising herself a little. 
 
 “Yes, yes, my lady lass,” said the captain, hastily 
 deciding in his own mind upon the superior elegance of 
 that form of address, as the most courtly he could think 
 
 ^ Is Walter's uncle here?" asked Florence. 
 
 “Here, pretty!" returned the captain. “He an't 
 been here this many a long day. He an't been heerd 
 on, since he sheered oif arter poor Wal'r. But," said 
 the captain, as a quotation, “Though lost to sight, 
 to memory dear, and England, Home, and Beauty ! " 
 
 “ Do you live here ?” asked Florence. 
 
 “ Yes, my lady lass/' returned the captain. 
 
 “Oh Captain Cuttle!” cried Florence, putting her 
 hands together, and speaking wildly. “ Save me ! keep 
 me here ! Let no one know where I am ! I’ll tell you 
 what has happened by-and-by, when I can. I have no 
 one in the world to go to. Do not send me away ! " 
 
 “ Send away, my lady lass ! " exclaimed the cap- 
 tain. “ You, my Heart's Delight ! Stay a bit ! We’ll 
 put up this here dead-light, and take a double turn on 
 the key !" 
 
 With these words, the captain, using his one hand 
 and his hook with the greatest dexterity got out the 
 shutter of the door, put it up, made it all fast, and 
 locked the door itself. 
 
 When he came back to the side of Florence, she took 
 liis hand, and kissed it. The helplessness of the action. 
 
392 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 fhe appeal it made to him, the confidence i t expressed, 
 the unspeakable sorrow in her face, the pain of mind 
 she had too plainly suffered, and was suffering then, his 
 knowledge of her past history, her present lonely, worn, 
 and unprotected appearance, all so rushed upon the 
 good captain together, that he fairly overflowed with 
 compassion and gentleness. 
 
 “My lady lass,’’ said the captain, polishing the 
 bridge of his nose with his arm until it shone like bur- 
 nished copper, “ don’t you say a word to Ed’ard Cuttle, 
 imtil such times as you finds yourself a riding smooth 
 tnd easy ; which won’t be to-day, nor yet to-morrow. 
 And as to giving of you up, or reporting where you are, 
 yes verily, and by God’s help, so I won’t. Church cate- 
 chism, make a note on 1 ” 
 
 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 con- 
 cluded. 
 
 Florence could do but one thing more to thank him, 
 and to show him how she trusted in him ; and she did 
 j1t. Clinging to this rough creature as the last asylum 
 of her bleeding heart, she laid her head upon his honest 
 shoulder, and clasped him round his neck, and would 
 have kneeled down to bless him, but that he divined 
 her purpose, and held her up like a true man. 
 
 “ Steady I ” said the captain. ** Steady ! You^re too 
 weak to stand, you see, my pretty, and must lie down 
 here again. There, there I ” To see the captain lift her 
 on the sofa, and cover her vith 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 Gilis’s room, and fall asleep 
 Inhere, like a angel.” 
 
 Captain Cuttle patte4 Diogenes when he made allu 
 sion 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 fiy at the 
 captain or to offer him his friendship ; and he had ex- 
 pressed that conflict of feeling by alternate waggings 
 of his tail, and displays of his teeth, with now and then 
 a growl or so. But by this time his doubts were all re- 
 moved. It was plain that he considered the captain one 
 of the most amiable of men, and a man whom it was an 
 honour to a dog to know. 
 
 In evidence of these convictions, Diogenes attended 
 on the captain while he made some tea and toast, and 
 showed a lively interest in his housekeeping. But H 
 was in vain for the kind captain to make such prepara- 
 tions for Florence, who sorely tried to do some honour 
 
DOMBET AND SON. 
 
 393 
 
 to them, but could touch nothing, and could only weep 
 and weep again. 
 
 ‘‘Well, well 1 said the compassionate captain, 
 “ arter turning in, my Heart's Delight, you'll get more 
 way upon you. Now, I’ll serve out your allowance, my 
 lad.” To Diogenes. “And you shall keep guard on 
 your mistress aloft."” 
 
 Diogenes, however, although he had been eyeing his 
 intended breakfast with a watering mouth and glisten- 
 ing 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 v/ere bent on mining his 
 way out. 
 
 “Can there be anybody there ! ” asked Florence, in 
 alarm. 
 
 “ No, my lady lass,” returned the captain. “ Who’d 
 stay there, without making any noise I Keep up a good 
 heart, pretty. It’s only people going by.” 
 
 But for all that, Diogenes barked and barked, and 
 burrowed and burrowed with pertinacious fury ; and 
 whenever he stopped to.listen, appeared to receive some 
 new conviction into his mind, for he set to, harking 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 oK again, 
 in another paroxysm, before touching a morsel. 
 
 “If there should be some one listening and watching,” 
 whispered Florence. “ Some one who saw me come — 
 wko followed me, perhaps,” 
 
 “ It ain’t the young woman, lady lass, is it ? ” said the 
 captain, taken with a bright idea. 
 
 “Susan?” said Florence, shaking her head. “Ah 
 no ! Susan has been gone from me a long time.” 
 
 “Not deserted, I hope?” said the captain. “ Don^t 
 say that that there young woman’s run, my pretty ! ” 
 
 “ Oh, no, no ! ” cried Florence. “ She is one of the 
 truest hearts in the world ! ” 
 
 The captain was greatly relieved by this reply, and 
 expressed his satisfaction by taking off his hard glazed 
 liat, and dabbing his head all over with his handker- 
 chief rolled up like a ball observing several times, with 
 infinite complacency, and with a beaming countenance, 
 that he know’d it. 
 
 “ So you’re quiet now, are you, brother ? ” said the cap- 
 tain to Diogenes. “ There warn’t nobody there, my lady 
 lass, bless you ! ” 
 
 Diogenes was not so sure of that. The door still had 
 an attraction for him at intervals ; and he went snuifing 
 about it, and growling to himself, unable to forget the 
 subject. This incident,. coupled with the captam’s obser- 
 
394 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES ’DICKENS. 
 
 vation of Florence's fatigue and faintness, decided liina 
 to prepare Sol Gills’s chamber as a place of retirement for 
 her immediately. He therefore hastily betook himself 
 to the top of the house, and made the best arrangement 
 of it that his imagination and his means suggested. 
 
 It was very clean already ; and the captain, being an 
 orderly man, and accustomed to make things ship-shape, 
 converted the bed into a couch, by covering it all over 
 with a clean white drapery. By a similar contrivance, the 
 captain converted the little dressing-table into a species 
 of altar, on which he set forth two silver teaspoons, a 
 flower-pot, a telescope, his celebrated watch, a pocket- 
 comb, and a song-book, as a small collection of rarities, that 
 made a choice appearance. Having darkened the window, 
 and straightened the pieces of carpet on the floor, the 
 captain surveyed these preparations with great delight, 
 and descended to the little parlour again, to bring Flor- 
 ence to her bower. 
 
 Nothing would induce the captain to believe that it 
 was possible for Florence to walk up-stairs. If he could 
 have got the idea into his head, he would have considered 
 it an outrageous breach of hospitality to allow her to do 
 so. Florence was too weak to dispute the point, and the 
 captain carried her up out of hand, laid her down, and 
 covered her with a great watch coat. 
 
 “My lady lass! ’’said the captain, “you’re as safe 
 here as if you was at the top of St.Pau /s Cathedral, with 
 the ladder cast off. Sleep is what you want, afore ail 
 other things, and may you be able to show yoursdlf 
 smart with that there balsam for the still small voice of 
 a wownded mind 1 When there’s any thing 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 tip- toe out of the rooiru 
 
 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 thresh 
 old, keeping a bright look-out, and sweeping the whole 
 street with his spectacles, 
 
 “ How de do. Captain Gills?” said a voice beside him. 
 The captain, looking down, found that he had been 
 boarded by Mr. Toots while sweeping the horizon. 
 
 “ How are you, my lad?” replied the captain. 
 
 “ Well, I’m pretty well, thank’ee, Captain Gills,” said 
 Mr. Toots. “ You know I’m never quite what I could 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 395 
 
 Wisli to oe, now. I don’t expect that I ever shall be any 
 more.” 
 
 Mr. Toots never approached any nearer than this to the 
 great theme of his life, v/hen in conversation with Cap- 
 tain Cuttle, on account of the agreement between them. 
 
 ‘'Captain Gills,” said Mr. Toots, “if I could have 
 the pleasure of a word with you, it’s — it’s rather particu- 
 lar.” 
 
 “ Why, you see my lad,” replied the captain, leading 
 the way into the parlour, “ I an’t what you may call ex- 
 actly free this morning ; and therefore if you can clap on 
 a bit, I should take it kindly.’^ 
 
 “Certainly Captain Gill,” replied Mr. Toots, who sel- 
 dom had any notion of the captain’s meaning. “ To clap 
 on, is exactly what I could wish to do. Naturally.” 
 
 “If so be, my lad,” returned the captain. “ Do it ! ” 
 
 The captain was so impressed by the possession of his 
 tremendous secret — by the fact of Miss Dombey being at 
 that moment under his roof, while the innocent and un- 
 conscious 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 him- 
 self appeared to have some secret reason foi’ being in a 
 nervous state, was so unspeakably disconcerted by the 
 captain’s stare, that after looking at him vacantly for 
 some time in silence, and shifting uneasily on his chair, 
 he said : 
 
 “ I beg your pardon. Captain Gills, but you don’t hap- 
 pen to see anything particular in me, do you ? ” 
 
 “ No, my lad,” returned the captain. “ No. ” 
 
 “ Because you know,” said Mr. Toots, with a chuckle, 
 “ I KNOW I’m wasting away. You needn’t at all mind 
 alluding to that. I — I should like it. Burgess & Co. 
 have altered my measure, I’m in that state of thinness. 
 It’s a gratification to me. I — I am glad of it. I—l’d a 
 great deal rather go into a decline, if I could. I’m a 
 mere brute 3/ou know, grazing upon the surface of the 
 earth. Captain Gills.” 
 
 The more Mr. Toots went on in this way, the more the 
 captain was weighed down by his secret, and stared at 
 him. What with this cause of uneasiness, and his desire 
 to get rid of Mr. Toots, the captain was in such a scared 
 and strange condition, indeed, that if he had been in con- 
 versation v/ith a ghost, he could hardly have evinced 
 greater discomposure. 
 
 “ But I was going to say, Captain Gills,” said Mr. Toots. 
 ** Happening to be this way early this morning— to tell 
 ^©u the truth, I was coming to breakfast with you. As 
 lo sleep, you know I never sleep now. I might be a 
 
396 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Watcliman, except that I don^t get any pay, and lie’s got 
 nothing on his mind.” 
 
 Carry on, my lad ! ” said the captain, in an admoni 
 lory voice. 
 
 Certainly, Captain Gills,” said Mr. Toots. ‘‘ Per^ 
 fectly true ! Happening to be this way early this morn. 
 kig (an hour or so ago), and finding the door shut — ” 
 
 What I were you waiting there, brother ? ” demand- 
 ed the captain. 
 
 Not at all. Captain Gills/’ returned Mr. Toots. 1 
 didn’t stop a moment. 1 thought you were out. But 
 the person said— by the bye, you don't keep a dog do 
 you. Captain Gills ? ” 
 
 The captain shook his head. 
 
 To be sure,” said Mr. Toots, that’s exactly what 1 
 said. I knew you didn’t. There is a dog. Captain Gills, 
 connected with — but excuse me. That’s forbidden 
 ground.” 
 
 The captain stared at Mr. Toots until he seemed to 
 swell to twice his natural size ; and again the perspira- 
 tion broke out on the captain’s forehead, when he thought 
 of Diogenes taking it into his head to come down and 
 make a third in the parlour. 
 
 “ The person said,” continued Mr. Toots, ‘‘ that he had 
 heard a dog barking in the shop : which I knew couldn’t 
 be, and I told him so. But he was as positive as if he 
 had seen the dog.” 
 
 “ "What person,' my lad ?” inquired the captain. 
 
 “ Why, you see there it is. Captain Gills,” said Mr. 
 Toots with a perceptible increase in the nervousness of 
 his manner. “ It’s not for me to say what may have 
 taken place, or what may not have taken place. Indeed, 
 I don’t know. I get mixed up v/ith all sorts of things 
 that 1 don’t quite understand, and I think there’s some- 
 thing rather weak in my in my head, in short.” 
 
 The captain nodded his own as a mark of assent. 
 
 “ But the person said, as we were walking away,” con- 
 tinued Mr. Toots, “ that you knew what, under existing 
 circumstances, might occur — he said ‘ might,’ very strong- 
 ly — and that if you were requested to prepare yourself, 
 you wmuld, no doubt, come prepared.” 
 
 “ Person, my lad !” the captain repeated. 
 
 “I don’t know what person, I’m sure. Captain Gills.” 
 replied Mr. Toots, “ I haven’t the least idea. But com- 
 ing to the door, I 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, Iliad the pleasure of your 
 acquaintance — you had given me the pleasure of your ac- 
 quaintance, after some persuasion ; and be said, if that 
 was the case, would I say to you what I ham said, about 
 existing circumstances and coming prepared, and as sooa 
 
jDOMBEY and son. 
 
 ^97 
 
 as ever I saw you., would I ask you to step round tlie cor- 
 ner, if it v/as 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, Fll 
 wait here ’till you come back. ” 
 
 The captain, divided between his fear of compromising 
 Florence in some way by not going, and his horror of leav- 
 ing Mr. Toots in possession of the house with a chance of 
 finding out the secret, was a spectacle of mental disturb- 
 ance that even Mr. Toots could not be blind to. But 
 that young gentleman, considering his nautical friend as 
 merely in a state of preparation for the interview he was 
 going to have, was quite satisfied, and did not review his 
 own discreet conduct without chuckles. 
 
 At length the captain decided, as the lesser of two 
 evils, to run round to Brogley’s the broker’s : previously 
 locking the door that communicated with the upper part 
 of the house, and putting the key in his pocket. If so 
 be,” said the captain to Mr. Toots, with not a little shame 
 and hesitation, ‘‘as you’ll excuse my doing of it, brother.” 
 
 “ Captain Gills,” returned Mr. Toots, “whatever you 
 do, is satisfactory to me.” 
 
 The captain thanked him heartily, and promising to 
 come back in less than five minutes, v/ent out in quest 
 of the person who had intrusted Mr. Toots with this mys- 
 terious message. Poor Mr. Toots, left to himself, lay 
 down upon the sofa, little thinking who had reclined 
 there last, and, gazing up at the sky-light and resigning 
 himself to visions of Miss Dombey, lost all heed of time 
 and place. 
 
 It v/as 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 hack, he was very pale 
 indeed, and greatly agitated, and even looked as if he 
 had been shedding tears. He seemed to have lost the 
 faculty of speech, until he had been to the cupboard and 
 taken a dram of rum from the case-bottle, when he 
 fetched a deep breath, and sat down in a chair with his 
 hand before his face. 
 
 ‘'^Captain Gills,” said Toots, kindly, “I hope and 
 *«*ust there’s nothing wrong ? ” 
 
 “ Tliank’ee my lad, not a bit,” said the caiDtain. 
 “ Quite contrairy.” 
 
 “You have the appearance of being overcome, Cap- 
 tain Gills,” observed Mr. Toots. 
 
 “ Why my lad, I am took aback,” the captain admit- 
 ted. “I am.” 
 
 “ Is there anything I can do, Captain Gills?” inquir- 
 ed Mr. Toots. “ If there is make use of me.” 
 
 The captain removed hi^ hand from his face, looked 
 
398 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 at him witli a remarkable expression of pitj^ and ten- 
 derness, and took him by the hand, and shook it 
 hard. 
 
 No thank'ee,’’ said the captain. Nothing. Only 
 I’ll take it as a favour if you'll part company for the pre 
 sent. I believe, brother," wringing "his hand again, 
 
 that, after Wal'r, and on a different model, you're as 
 good a lad as ever stepped. " 
 
 .Upon my word and honour Captain Gills," returned 
 Mr. Toots, giving the captain's hand a preliminary slap 
 before shaking it again, it's delightful to me to pos 
 sess your good opinion. Thank'ee." 
 
 And bear a hand and cheer up," said the captain, 
 patting him on the back. “ What I There's more than 
 one sweet creetur in the world ! " 
 
 Not to me, Captain Gills," replied Mr. Toots grave- 
 ly. Not to me, I assure you. The state of my feel- 
 ings towards Miss Dombey is of that unspeakable de- 
 scription, 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 unre- 
 quited affection is. I have been prescribed bark, but I 
 don't take it, for I don't wish to have any tone what 
 ever given to my constitution. I’d rather not. This 
 however, is forbidden ground. Captain Gills, good 
 bye ! " 
 
 Captain Cuttle cordially reciprocating the warmth of 
 Mr. Toots’s farewell, locked the door behind him, and 
 shaking his head with the same remarkable expression of 
 pity and tenderness as he had regarded him with before, 
 went up to see if Florence wanted him. 
 
 There was an entire change in the captain's face as he 
 went upstairs. He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief, 
 and he polished the bridge of his nose with his sleeve as 
 he had done already that morning, but his face was ab- 
 solutely 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 pro- 
 cess. 
 
 He knocked softly, with his hook, at Florence's door, 
 twice or thrice ; but, receiving no answer, ventured first 
 to peep in, and then to enter: emboldened to take the 
 latter step, perhaps, by the familiar recognition of 
 Diogenes, who, stretched upon the ground by the side of 
 her couch, wagged his tail, and winked his eyes at 
 the captain, without being at the trouble of getting 
 up. 
 
 She was sleeping heavily, and moaning in her sleep 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 399 
 
 and Captain Cuttle, witli 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 olf, and 
 darkened the window a little more that she might 
 sleep on, and crept out again, and took his post Oi. watch 
 upon the stairs. All this, with a touch and tread as 
 light as Florence's own. 
 
 Long may it remain in this mixed world a point not 
 ®asy 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 1 
 
 P'lorence 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 un- 
 disturbed. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 The Midshipman makes a Discovery. 
 
 It was long before Florence awoke. The day was in 
 its prime, the day was in its wane, and still, uneasy in 
 mind and body, she slept on ; unconscious of her strange 
 bed, of the noise and turmoil in the street, and of the 
 light that shone outside the shaded window. Perfect 
 unconsciousness of what had happened in the home 
 that existed no more, even the deep slumber of exhaust- 
 ion could not produce. Some undefined and mournful 
 recollection of it, dozing uneasily but never sleeping, 
 pervaded all her rest. A dull sorrow, like a half -lulled 
 sense of pain, was always present to her ; and her pale 
 cheek was oftener wet with tears than the honest cap- 
 tain, softly putting in his head from time to time at the 
 half -closed door, could have desired to see it. 
 
 The sun was getting low in the west, and, glancing 
 out of a red mist, pierced with its rays opposite loop- 
 holes and pieces of fret-work in the spires of the 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 v/as 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 re^ 
 
400 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 cognition at tlie unfamiliar v/alls around her, and listen- 
 ing 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 re- 
 collected all. 
 
 ‘‘ My pretty,’* said the captain, knocking at the door, 
 “ what cheer ! ” 
 
 Dear friend,” cried Florence, hurrying to him, is 
 it you ? ” 
 
 The captain felt so much pride in the name, and was 
 so pleased by the gleam of pleasure in her face when she 
 saw him, that he kissed his hook, by way of reply, in 
 speechless gratification. 
 
 What cheer, bright di’mond ! ” said the captain. 
 
 I have surely slept very long,” returned Florence. 
 
 When did I come here ? Yesterday ? ” 
 
 This here blessed day, my lady lass,” replied the 
 captain. 
 
 Has there been no night? Is it still day ?” asked 
 Florence. 
 
 Getting on for evening now, my pretty,” said the 
 captain, drawing back the curtain of the window. 
 
 See I ” 
 
 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 Lad 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 tlie lonely head come nearer to it, and lay itself 
 against his homely coarse blue sleeve, he pressed it 
 gently with his rugged hand, and understood it, and was 
 understood. 
 
 Better now, my pretty ! ” said the captain. Cheer- 
 ily, cheerily ; I’ll go down below, and get sorne dinner 
 ready. Will you come down of your own self, arter- 
 wards, pretty, or shall Ed’ard Cuttle come and fetch 
 you?” 
 
 As Florence assured him that she was quite able to 
 walk down-stairs, the captain, though evidently doubt- 
 ful of his own hospitality in permitting it, left her to do 
 so, and immediately set about roasting a fowl at the fire 
 in the little parlour. To achieve his cookery with the 
 greater skill, he pulled off his coat, tucked up his wrist- 
 
DOMBEY AND SON: 
 
 401 
 
 bands and put on his glazed hat, without which assist' 
 ant he never applied himself to any nice or difficult 
 undertaking. 
 
 Alter cooling her aching head and burning face in the 
 fresh water which the captain’s care had provided for 
 her while she slept, Florence went to the little mirror to 
 bind up her disordered hair. Then she knew — ^in a 
 moment, for she shunned it instantly — that on her breast 
 there was the darkening mark of an angry hand. 
 
 Her tears burst forth afresh at the sight ; she was 
 ashamed and afraid of it ; but it moved her to no anger 
 against him. Homeless and fatherless, she forgave him 
 everything ; hardly thought that she had need to forgive 
 him, or that she did ; but she fled from the idea of him 
 as she had fled from the reality, and he was utterly gone 
 and lost. There was no such Being in the world. 
 
 What to do, or where to live, Morence — poor, inex- 
 perienced girl ! — could not yet consider. She had indis- 
 tinct dreams of finding, a long way off, some little sis- 
 ters to instruct, who would be gentle with her, and to 
 whom, under some feigned name, she might attach her- 
 self, and who would grow up in their happy home, and 
 marry, and be good to the old governess, and perhaps 
 intrust her, in time, with the education of their own 
 daughters. And she thought how strange and sorrow- 
 ful it Avould be, thus to become a grey-haired woman, 
 carrying her secret to the grave, when Florence Dombey 
 was forgotten. But it was all dim and clouded to her 
 now. She only knew that she had no father upon 
 earth, and she said so, many times, with her suppliant 
 head hidden from all, but her Father who was in 
 Heaven. 
 
 Her little stock of money amounted to but a few 
 guineas. With a part of this, it would be necessary to 
 buy some clothes, for she had none but those she wore. 
 She was too desolate to think how soon her money would 
 be gone — too much a child in worldly matters to be 
 greatly troubled on that score yet, even if her other 
 trouble had been less. She tried to calm her thoughts 
 and stay her tears ; to quiet the hurry in her throbbing 
 head, and bring herself to believe that what had hap- 
 pened were but the events of a few hours ago, instead 
 of weeks or months, as they appeared ; and went down 
 to her kind protector. 
 
 The captain had spread the cloth with great care, and 
 was making some egg-sauce in a little saucepan ; basi^ 
 ing 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 a sofa, which was already wheeled into a 
 warm corner for her greater comfort, the captain pur- 
 
m 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 sued Ms cooking witli extraordinary skill, making liof 
 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 r it 
 being impossible to say whether his face or his glazed 
 hat shone the brighter. 
 
 The dinner being at length quite ready. Captain Cut- 
 tie dished and served it up with no less dexterity than 
 he had cooked it. He then dressed for dinner, by tak 
 ing olf his glazed hat and putting on his coat. That 
 done, he wheeled the table close against Florence on the 
 sofa, said grace, unscrewed his hook, screwed his fork 
 into its place, and did the honours of the table. 
 
 My lady lass,” said the captain, cheer up, and try 
 to eat a deal. Stand by, my deary ! Liver wing it is. 
 garse it is. Sassage it is. And potato I ” all wliich the 
 captain ranged symmetrically on a plate, and, pouring 
 hot gravy on the whole with the useful spoon, set be 
 fore his cherished guest. 
 
 The whole row ’o dead, lights is up, forward, lady 
 lass,” observed the captain, encouragingly, ‘‘ and every 
 fchink is made snug. Try and pick a bit, my pretty. If 
 Vfakr was here—*” 
 
 “Ah! If I had him for my brother now!” cried 
 Florence. 
 
 “Don’t f don’t take on, my pretty said the captain, 
 “ awast to oble^e me I He was your natural born friend 
 like, warn’t he Fet ? ” 
 
 Florence had no words to answer with. She only said, 
 “ Oh dear, dear Paul I oh Walter I ” 
 
 “The wery planks she walked on,” murmured the 
 captain, looking at her drooping face, ‘ ‘ was as high es- 
 teemed by Wal’r, as the water brooks is by the hart 
 which never rejices I 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 Mowed rose, at dinner. 
 Well, well I If our poor WaTr was here, my lady lass 
 — or if he could be — for he’s drowned, an’t he ! ” 
 
 Florence shook her head. 
 
 “ Yes, yes ; drownded,” said the captain, soothingly ; 
 “ as I was saying, if he could be here he’d beg and pray 
 of you, my precious, to pick a leetle bit, with a look-out 
 for your own sweet health. Whereby, hold your own, 
 my lady lass, as if it was for Wal’r’s sake, and lay youi 
 pretty head to the wind. ” 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 408 
 
 Florence essayed to eat a morsel, for tlie captain’s 
 pleasure. The captain, meanwhile, who seemed to have 
 quite forgotten his own dinner, laid down his knife and 
 ^ork, and drew his chair to the sofa. 
 
 Wal’r was a trim lad, warn’t he, precious*! ” said the 
 captain, after sitting for some time silently rubbing his 
 chin, with his eyes fixed upon her, “ and a brave lad, 
 and a good lad ? ” 
 
 Florence tearfully assented. 
 
 ** And he’s drownded, Beauty, an’t he ? said the cap- 
 tain, in a soothing voice. 
 
 Florence could not but assent again. 
 
 He was older than you, my lady lass” pursued the 
 captain, ** but you v/as like two children together, at 
 first ; warn’t you ? ” 
 
 Florence answered ‘'Yes.” 
 
 “AndWalVs drownded,” said the captain. "An’t 
 he?” 
 
 The repetition of this inquiry w^as a curious source of 
 consolation, but it seemed to be one to Captain Cuttle, 
 for he came back to it again and again. Florence, fain 
 to push from her her untasted dinner, and to lie back on 
 her sofa, gave him her hand, feeling that she had disap- 
 pointed him, though truly wishing to have pleased him 
 after all his trouble, but he held it in his ow^n (which 
 shook as he held it), and, appearing to have quite for- 
 gotten all about the dinner and her want of appetite, 
 went on growling at intervals, in a ruminating tone of 
 sympathy, " Poor Wal’r. Ay, ay ! Drownded. An’t 
 he ? ” And always waited for her answer, in which the 
 great point of these singular reflections appeared to 
 consist. 
 
 The fowl and sausages were cold, and the gravy and 
 the egg-sauce stagnant, before the captain remembered 
 that they were on the board, and fell to with the assist- 
 ance of' Diogenes, whose united efforts quickly de- 
 spatched the banquet. The captain’s delight and wonder 
 at the quiet housewdfery of Florence in assisting to clear 
 the table, arrange the parlour, and sweep up the hearth 
 — only to be equalled by the fervency of his protest when 
 she began to assist, him— were gradually raised to that 
 degree, that at last he could not choose but do nothing 
 himself, and stand looking at her as if she were some 
 Fairy, daintily performing these offices for him ; the red 
 rim on his forehead glowing again, in his unspeakable 
 admiration. 
 
 But when Florence, taking down his pipe from the 
 mantel-shelf gave it into his hand, and entreated him to 
 smoke it, the good captain w^as so bewildered by her at- 
 tention, that he held it as if he had never held a pipe in 
 all his life. Likewise, when Florence, looking into tLs 
 
404 
 
 WOHKS OF CHASLES DICKEN^: 
 
 little cupboard, took out tlie 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 tha 
 pipe got into the captain’s throat and made him cougli, 
 and got into the captain’s eyes, and made them blink 
 and water. 
 
 The manner in which the captain tried to make believe 
 that the cause of these effects lay hidden in the pipe it - 
 self, 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 get 
 ting into better condition, he fell into that state of re^ 
 pose 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 dis- 
 charge 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 Wafr, ay, ay. Drowned an’t he ? ” after 
 which he would resume his smoking with infinite gen 
 tleness. 
 
 Unlike as they were externally — and there could 
 scarcely be a more decided contrast than between Flor- 
 ence in her delicate youth and beauty, and Captain Cut 
 tie with his knobby face, his great broad w^eather-beateii 
 person, and his gruff voice — in simple innocence of the 
 world’s ways and the world’s perplexities and dangers, 
 they were nearly on a level. No child could have sur. 
 passed Captain Cuttle in inexperience of everything 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 cap- 
 tain sat, and smoked, and looked at Florence, God knows 
 what impossible pictures, in which she was the principal 
 figure, presented themselves to his mind. Equally vague 
 and uncertain, though not so sanguine, were her own 
 thoughts of the life before her, and even as her tears 
 made prismatic colours in the light she gazed at, so 
 through her new and lieavy grief, she already saw a rain 
 bow faintly shining in the far-off sky. A wandering 
 princess and a good monster in a story-book might have 
 by the fireside, and talked as Captain Cattle and poo^’ 
 
WHEN HE HAD FILLED HIS PIPE IN AN ABSOLUTE REYEillB 
 OF SATISFACTION, FLORENCE LIGHTED IT FOR HIM. 
 
 — Domloey and Son, Vol. Twelve, page 405. 
 
406 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Florence tliouglit — and not have looked very much un- 
 like them. 
 
 The captain was not troubled with the faintest idea of 
 any difficulty in retaining Florence, or of any responsi- 
 bility 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 
 ho di:fference at all to Captain Cuttle. He was the last 
 man in the world to be troubled by any such considera- 
 tions. 
 
 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 im- 
 mediately wanted. It being quite dark, the captain con- 
 sented : peeping carefully out first, as he had been wont 
 to do in his time of hiding from Mrs. MacStinger : and 
 arming himself with his large stick, in case of an appeal 
 to arms being rendered necessary by any unforseen cir- 
 cumstance. 
 
 The pride Captain Cuttle had, in giving his arm to 
 Florence, and escorting her some two or three hundred 
 yards, keeping a bright look-out all the time, and at- 
 tracting the attention of every one who passed them, by 
 his great vigilance and numerous precautions, was ex- 
 treme. 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 pre- 
 viously 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 Flor- 
 ence, accompanied with pantomime, expressive of sa- 
 gacity 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, v^^ith an obvious mis- 
 giving that Florence had been spirited away by a back 
 door. 
 
 “ Dear Captain Cuttle,” said Florence, when she came 
 out with a parcel, the size of which greatly disappoint- 
 ed the captain, who had expected to see a porter follow- 
 ing with a bale of goods, “ I don’t want this money, in- 
 deed. I have not spent any of it. I have money of my 
 own.” 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 407 
 
 ^‘My lady lass,” returned tlie baffled captain, looking 
 straight down the street before them, ‘ ‘ take care on it 
 for me, will you be so good, till such time as I ask ye 
 for it?'" 
 
 “ May I put it back in its usual place,” said Florence, 
 ‘‘ and keep it there?"" 
 
 The captain was not at all gratified by this proposal, 
 but he answered, Ay, ay, put it anywheres, my lady 
 lass, so long as you know where to find it again. It 
 an’t o’ no use to me/* said the captain. wonder I 
 haven’t chucked it away afore now^"" 
 
 The captain was quite disheartened for the moment, but 
 he revived at the first touch of Florence’s arm, and they 
 returned with the same precautions as they had come 
 the captain opening the door of the little midshipman’s 
 berth, and diving in, with a suddenness which his great 
 practice only could have taught him. During Florence’s 
 slumber in th e morning, he had engaged the daughter of 
 an elderly lady, who usually sat under a blue umbrella 
 in Leadenhall-market, selling poultry, to come and put 
 her room in order, and render her any little services 
 she required ; and this damsel now appearing, Florence 
 found everything about her as convenient and orderly, 
 if not as handsome, as in the terrible dream she had once 
 called Home. 
 
 When they were alone again, the captain insisted on 
 her eating a slice of dry toast, and drinking a glass of 
 spiced negus (which he made to perfection) ; and, encour- 
 aging her with every kind word and inconsequential quo- 
 tation he could possibly think of, led her up-stairs to her 
 bedroom. But he too had something on his mind, and 
 was not easy in his manner. 
 
 ‘‘Good night, dear heart,"" said Captain Cuttle to her 
 at her chamber- door. 
 
 Florence raised her lips to his face, and kissed him. 
 
 At any other time the captain would have been over- 
 balanced by such a token of her affection and gratitude ; 
 but now, although he was very sensible of it, he looked 
 in her face with even more uneasiness than he had testi- 
 fied before, and seemed unwilling to leave her. 
 
 PooV Wal’r !"" said the captain. 
 
 Poor, poor "Walter ! ” sighed Florence. 
 
 Drowmded, an’t he ?"" said the captain. 
 
 Florence shook her head and sighed. 
 
 Good night, my lady lass I ” said Captain Cuttle, 
 putting out his hand. 
 
 “ God bless you, dear, kind friend I "" 
 
 But the captain lingered still. 
 
 Is anything the matter, dear Captain Cuttle ?"" said 
 Florence, easily alarmed in her then state of mind. 
 “ Have you anything to tell me I "’ 
 
408 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 To tell you, lady lass ! ” replied the captain, meet- 
 ing her eyes in confusion. ‘'No, no ; what should 1 
 have to tell you, pretty ! You don’t expect as I’ve got 
 anything good to tell you, sure ? ” 
 
 No 1 ” said Florence, shaking her head. 
 
 The captain looked at her wistfully, and repeated 
 '‘No,” — still lingering and still showing embarrass- 
 ment. 
 
 “ Poor Wahr ! ” said tlie captain. “ My Wal’r, as I used 
 to call you ! Old Sol Gills’s nevy ! Welcomed to all as 
 knowed you, as the liowers in May ! Where are you 
 got to, brave boy I Brownded, an’t he ? ” 
 
 Concluding his apostrophe with this abrupt ap^jeal 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 par- 
 lour, when his head and shoulders unexpectedly emerged 
 again, as from the deep, apparently for no other purpose 
 than to repeat, “ Drownded, an’t he, pretty?” Fo? 
 when he had said that in a tone of tender condolence, he 
 disappeared. 
 
 Florence was very sorry that she should unwittingly, 
 though naturally, have aw^akened those associations in 
 one 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 con 
 nected 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 pre- 
 sentation 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, tliat she covered her eyes, and 
 shrunk trembling from the least remembrance of tlie 
 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 w-ith a 
 wild dread, tliat fled from all confronting with its shat- 
 tered fragments — with such a dread as could have 
 risen out of nothing hut the depths of such a love, so 
 wronged. 
 
 She dared not look into the glass ; for the sight of 
 the darkening mark upon her bosom made lier afraid of 
 herself, as if she bore about her something wicked. She 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 409 
 
 covered it up, with a liasty, faltering "hand, and in tlie 
 dark ; and laid her weary head down, weeping. 
 
 The captain did not go to bed for a long time. He 
 walked to and fro in the shop, and in the little parlour, 
 for a full hour, and, appearing to have composed him- 
 self 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, grulf 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 inter- 
 fered 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 up-stairs, and listened at Florence’s door), with 
 a serene breast, and a most benevolence visage. 
 
 The captain turned out several times in the course of 
 the night, to assure himself that his charge was resting 
 quietly ; and once, at daybreak, found that she was 
 awake : for she called to know if it were he, on hearing 
 footsteps near her door. 
 
 Yes, my lady lass,” replied the captain, in a growl- 
 ing whisper. “ Are you all right, di’inond?” 
 
 Florence thanked him, and said Yes.” 
 
 The captain could not lose so favourable an oppor- 
 tunity of applying his mouth to the keyhole, and calling 
 through it, like a hoarse breeze, '‘Poor WaTr I Drown- 
 ded, an’t he ? ” After which he withdrew, and turning 
 in again, slept till seven o’clock. 
 
 Nor was he free from his uneasy and embarrassed 
 manner all that day ; though Florence, being busy with 
 her needle in the little parlour, was more calm and tran- 
 quil than she had been on the day preceding. Almost 
 always when she raised her eyes from her work, she ob- 
 served the captain looking at her, and thoughtfully 
 stroking his chin ; and he so often hitched his arm-chair 
 close to her, as if he were going to say something very 
 confidential, and hitched it away again, as not being 
 able to make up his mind how to begin, that in the 
 course of the day he cruized completely round the par^ 
 lour in that frail bark, and more that once went ashore 
 against the wainscot or the closet door, in a very dis- 
 tressed condition. 
 
 It was not until the twilight that Captain Cuttle, fairly 
 dropping anchor, at last, by the side of Florence, began 
 to talk at all connectedly. But when the light of th© 
 VoL. — R 
 
410 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 fire was shining on the walls and ceiling of the little 
 room, and on the tea-board and the cups and saucers 
 that were ranged upon the table, and on her calm face 
 turned towards the flame, and reflecting it in the tears 
 that filled her eyes, the captain broke a long silence 
 thus : 
 
 ‘‘You never was at sea, my own ? ” 
 
 “ No,” replied Florence. 
 
 “ Ay,” said the captain reverentially ; “ it’s a almighty 
 element. There’s wonders in the deep, my pretty. 
 Think on it when the winds is roaring and the waves is 
 rowling. Think on it when the stormy nights is so 
 pitch dark,” said the captain, solemnly holding up his 
 hook, “ as you can’t see your hand afore you, excepting 
 when the wiwid lightning re weals 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 wol- 
 lume), ‘ A stiff norwester’s blowing. Bill ; hark, don’t 
 you hear it roar now ! Lord help ’em, how I pitys all 
 unhappy folks ashore now I ’ ” Which quotation, as 
 particularly applicable to the terrors of the ocean, the 
 captain delivered in a most impressive manner, conclud- 
 ing v/ith a sonorous “ Stand by ! ” 
 
 “Were you ever in a dreadful storm ? ” asked Flor- 
 ence. 
 
 “ Why ay, my lady lass, I’ve seen my share of bad 
 weather,” said the captain, tremulously wiping his head, 
 *‘and I’ve had my share of knocking about; — but it 
 an’t of myself as I was meaning to speak. Our dear 
 boy,” drawing closer to her, “ Wal’r darling, as was 
 drownded.” 
 
 The captain spoke in such a trembling voice, and 
 looked at Florence with a face so pale and agitated, that 
 she clung to his hand in affright. 
 
 “Your face is changed,” cried Florence. *‘You are 
 altered in a moment. What is it ? Dear Captain Cut- 
 tie, it turns me cold to see you ! ” 
 
 “ What ! Lady lass,” returned the captain, support- 
 ing her with his hand. “Don’t be took aback. No, 
 no ? All’s well, all’s well, my dear. As I was a saying— 
 Wal’r — he’s — he’s drownded. An’t he ? ” 
 
 Florence looked at him intently ; her colour came and 
 went, and she laid her hand upon her breast. 
 
 “ There’s perils and dangers on the deep, my beauty,” 
 said the captain ; “ and over many a brave ship, and 
 many and many a bould heart, the s<«ftret waters has 
 closed up, and never told no tales. But there’s escapes 
 upon the deep, too, and sometimes one man out of a 
 
DOMBFiY AND SON. 
 
 411 
 
 score, — all j may be 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 ? ” 
 
 Florence, trembling with agitation which she could 
 not control or understand, involuntarily followed his 
 glance, which went behind her into the shop, where a 
 lamp was burning. The instant that she turned her 
 head, the captain sprung out of his chair, and interposed 
 his hand. 
 
 There's nothing there, my beauty,” said, the captain. 
 
 Don’t look there !” 
 
 ‘VWhy not?” asked Florence. 
 
 The captain murmured something about its being dull 
 that way, and about the fire being cheerful. He drew 
 the door ajar, which had been standing open until now, 
 and resumed his seat. Florence followed him with her 
 eyes, and looked intently in his face. 
 
 ‘‘ The story was about a ship, my lady lass,” began 
 the captain, as sailed out of the port of London, with 
 a fair wind and in fair weather, bound for — don’t be 
 took aback, my lady lass, she was only out'ard bound, 
 pretty, only out'ard bound ! ” 
 
 The expression on Florence's face alarmed the cap- 
 tain, who was himself very hot and flurried, and showed 
 scarcely less agitation than she did. 
 
 Shall I go on. Beauty?” said the captain. 
 
 ‘‘Yes, yes, pray !” cried Florence. 
 
 The captain made a gulp as if to get down something 
 that was sticking in his throat, and nervously pro- 
 ceeded : 
 
 “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 Mowed 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 un- 
 fort’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 carried away, her 
 best men swept overboard, and she left to the mercy of 
 the storm as had no mercy but Mowed 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 
 
413 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 grass will never grow upon the graves of them as 
 manned that ship. 
 
 They were not at all lost I*’ cried Florence. Some 
 were saved ! — Was one?^’ 
 
 Aboard o" that there unfortunate wessel/^ said the 
 captain, rising from his chair, and clenching his hand 
 with prodigious energy and exultation, was a lad, 
 a gallant lad— as Fve heerd tell — that had loved, when 
 he was a boy, to sead and talk about brave actions 
 in shipwrecks — I've heerd him ! I've heerd him ! — and 
 he remembered of 'em in his hour of need ; for when the 
 stoutest hearts and oldest hands was hove down, he was 
 firm and cheery. It war’nt 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 gopd looks, bless him ! " 
 
 '*And was he saved I” cried Florence. '^Was he 
 saved I " 
 
 '‘That brave lad,” said the captain — “look at me 
 pretty ! Don’t look round — '' 
 
 Florence had hardly power to repeat, “ Why not?” 
 
 “Because there's nothing there, my deary,” said the 
 captain. '■ Don't be took aback, pretty creetur ! Don't, 
 for the sake of Wal’r, as was dear to all on us ! That 
 there lad,” said the captain, “ arter working with the 
 best, and standing by the faint-hearted, and never mak- 
 ing 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 beat in' hearts that went 
 aboard that ship, the only living creeturs — lashed to a 
 fragment of the wreck, and drifting on the stormy 
 sea.” 
 
 “ Were they saved I ” cried Florence. 
 
 “Days and nights they drifted on them endless waters,” 
 said the captain, “ until at la^^ — No ! Don’t look that 
 way, pretty ! — a sail bore down upon 'em, and they was, 
 by the Lord’s mercy, took aboard : two living, and one 
 dead.” 
 
 “ Which of them was dead ! ” cried Florence. 
 
 “ Not the lad I speak on,'' said the captain. 
 
 “ Thank God ! oh thank God ! ” 
 
 “ Amen ! ” returned the captain hurriedly. “ Don't 
 be took aback ! A minute more, my lady lass ! with a 
 good heart ! — aboard that ship, they went a long voyage, 
 Sfight away across the chart (for there warn't no touching 
 nowhere) and on that voyage the seaman as was picked 
 up with him died. But he was spared, and — ” 
 
 The captain, without knowing what he did, had cut a 
 ©lice of bread from the loaf, and put it on his hook 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 413 
 
 (wliicli was his usual toasting-fork), on which he noY? 
 held it to the fire ; looking behind Florence with great 
 emotion in his face, and suffering the bread to blaze and 
 burn like fuel. 
 
 Was spared,” repeated Florence, '"and — ?” 
 
 " And come home in that ship,” said the captain, stiYl 
 looking in the same direction, " and— don’t be fright- 
 ened, pretty— and landed ; and one morning come cau- 
 tiously to his own door to take a obserwation, know- 
 ing that his friends would think him drownded, when ho 
 sheered off at the unexpected—” 
 
 "At the unexpected barking of a dog?'’ cried Flor- 
 ence, quickly, 
 
 "Yes,” roared the captain. "Steady, darling ! cour- 
 age ! Don’t look round yet. See there ! upon the wall I ” 
 There was the shadow of a man upon the wall close 
 to her. She started up, looked round, and with a pierc- 
 ing cry, saw Walter Gay behind her I 
 
 She had no thought of him but as a brother, a brother 
 rescued from the grave ; a shipwrecked brother saved 
 and at her side ; and rushed into liis 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 I ” The dear remembrance of the plaintive voice 
 that said so, rushed upcn 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 em- 
 brace. 
 
 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 com- 
 pletely taken out of his shirt-collar to say these words ; 
 
 “ Wal’r, my lad, here is a little bit of property as f 
 should wish to make over, jintly ! ” 
 
 The captain hastily produced the big watch, the tea- 
 spoons, the sugar-tongs, and the canister, and laying 
 them on the table, swept them with his great hand into 
 Yfalter’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 him- 
 self for a longer space of time than on his first retire- 
 ment. 
 
 But Walter sought him ont, and brought him back ; 
 and then the captain’s great apprehension was, tha4 
 "Florence v^ould suffer from this new shock. He felt it 
 
414 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 SO earnestly, that he turned quite rational, and positive- 
 ly interdicted any further allusions to Walter’s adTen- 
 tures for some days to come. Captain Cuttle then be- 
 came sufficiently composed to relieve himself of the toast 
 iu his hat, and to take his place at the tea-hoard ; but 
 finding Walter’s grasp upon his shoulder, on one side, 
 and Florence whispering her tearful congratulations on 
 the other, the captain suddenly bolted again, and was 
 missing for a good ten minutes. 
 
 But never in all his life had the captain’s face so 
 shone and glistened, as when, at last, he sat stationary 
 at the tea-board, looking from Florence to Walter, and 
 from Walter to Florence. Nor was this effect produced 
 or at all heightened by the immense quantity of polish- 
 ing 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 with- 
 in the captain that spread itself over his whole visage, 
 and made a perfect illumination there. 
 
 The pride with which the captain looked upon the 
 bronzed cheek and the courageous eyes of his recovered 
 boy ; with which he saw the generous fervour of his 
 youth, and all its frank and hopeful qualities, shining 
 once more, in the fresh, wholesome manner, and the ar- 
 dent face : would have kindled something of this light 
 in his countenance. The admiration and sympathy with 
 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. Bnt the fulness of the glow 
 he ^hed around him could only have been engendered in 
 his contemplation of the two together, and in all the 
 fancies springing out of that association, that came 
 sparkling and beaming into his head, and danced about 
 it. 
 
 How they talked of poor old Uncle Sol, and dwelt on 
 every little circumstance relating to his disappearance ; 
 how their joy was moderated by the old man’s absence 
 and by the misfortunes of Florence ; how they released 
 Diogenes, whom the captain had decoyed up-stairs some 
 time before, lest he should bark again : the captain, 
 though he was in one continual flutter, and made many 
 more short plunges into the shop, fully comprehended. 
 But he no more dreamed that Walter looked on 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 them- 
 selves when hers were raised towards him ; than he be- 
 lieved that it was Walter’s ghost who sat beside him. 
 He saw them there together, in their youth and beauty, 
 smd he knew the story of their younger days, and he had 
 
DOMBKY AND SON. 
 
 415 
 
 no incli of room beneatli his great blue waistcoat for any- 
 thing save admiration of such a pair, and gratitude for 
 their being re-united. 
 
 They sat thus, until it grew late. The captain would 
 have been content to sit so for a week. But Walter rose, 
 to take leave for the night. 
 
 Going Walter I ” said Florence. Where? 
 
 He slings his hammock for the present, lady lass,'* 
 said Captain Cuttle, round at Brogley’s. Within hail. 
 Heart’s Delight.” 
 
 I am the cause of your going away, Walter,” said 
 Florence. There is a houseless sister in your place. ” 
 '‘Dear Miss Dombey,” replied Walter, hesitating — 
 if it is not too bold, to call you so ” 
 
 " — Walter,” she exclaimed, surprised. 
 
 " If anything could make me happier in being allowed 
 to see and speak to you, would it not be the discovery 
 that I had any means on earth of doing you a moment’s 
 service ? Where would I not go, what would I not do, 
 for your sake ? ” 
 
 She smiled, and called him brother. 
 
 "You are so changed,” said Walter— 
 
 " I changed !” she interrupted. 
 
 " — To me,” said Walter, softly, as if he were think- 
 ing aloud, "changed to me. I left you "such a child, 
 and find you — oh ! something so different — ” 
 
 " But your sister, Walter. You have not forgotten 
 what we promised to each other, when we parted ? ” 
 
 " Forgotten ! ” But he said no more. 
 
 "And if you had— if suffering and danger had driven 
 it from your thoughts — which it has not — you would re- 
 member it now, Walter, when you find me poor and 
 abandoned, with no home but this, and no friends but 
 the two who hear me speak ! ” 
 
 " I would ! Heaven knows I would ! ” said Walter. 
 "Oh, Walter,” exclaimed Florence, through her sobs 
 and tears. " Dear Brother I 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 1 Oh, 
 help me Walter, for I need help so much ! ” 
 
 " Miss Dombey ! Florence ! I would die to help 
 you. But your friends are proud and rich. Your 
 father — 
 
 \f; "No, no ! Walter !” she shrieked, and put her hands 
 i| up to her head, in an attitude of terror that transfixed 
 f him where he stood. " Don’t say that word ! ” 
 
 He never from that hour forgot the voice and look 
 with which she stopped him at the name. He felt that 
 if he were to live a hundred years, he never could for- 
 get it. 
 
416 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Somewhere — anywhere — ^hut never home ! All pastj 
 all gone, all lost, and broken up ! The whole historj' cf 
 her untold slight and suffering was in the cry and look ; 
 and he felt he never could forget it, and he never did. 
 
 She laid her gentle face upon the captain’s shoulder, 
 and related how and why she had fled. If every sorrow- 
 ing 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 but of such a strength and might of 
 love. 
 
 There, precious ! ’’ said the captain^ when she ceased; 
 Q^d deep attention the captain had paid to her while 
 she spoke ; listening, with his glazed hat all awry, and 
 bis mouth wide open. Awast, awast, my eyes ! WaTr, 
 dear lad, sheer off for to-night, and leave the pretty one 
 to me ! ” 
 
 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. 
 
 Captain Cuttle, perplexed by no such meditations, 
 guarded Florence to her room, watched at intervals 
 upon the charmed ground outsido 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, throught the keyhole, 
 
 Drownded. An’t he, pretty or, when he got down- 
 stairs, making another trial at that verse of Lovely Peg. 
 But it stuck in his throat somehow, and he could make 
 nothing of it ; so he went to bed, and dreamed that oM 
 Sol Gills was married to Mrs. MacStinger, and kept- 
 prisoner by that lady in a secret chamber on a shor^ 
 allowance of victuals. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 Mr, Toots's Complaint. 
 
 The:re was an empty room above stairs at the Woodeii. 
 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 Cap- 
 tain Cuttle than making himself very red and short of 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 417 
 
 breath in such a cause, he turned to (as he himself .said) 
 with a will ; and in a couple of hours, tliis garret was 
 transformed into a species of land -cabin, adorned with 
 all the choicest moveables out of the parlour, incl'asive 
 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. 
 
 The captain could be induced by no persuasion of 
 Walter’s to wind up the big watch, or to take back the 
 canister, or to touch the sugar-tongs and tea-spoons. 
 
 No, no, my lad ; ” was the captain’s invariable reply to 
 any solicitation of the kind, ‘ ‘ I’ve made that there little 
 property over, jintly.” These words he repeated with 
 great unction and gravity, evidently believing that they 
 had the virtue of an act of parliament, and that unless 
 he committed himself by some new admission of owner- 
 ship, no flaw could he found in such a form of convey- 
 ance. 
 
 It was an advantage of the new" arrangement, that be- 
 sides 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 excite- 
 ment had been occasioned in the neighbourhood, by 
 the shutters remaining unopened, that the Instrument- 
 maker’s house had been honoured with an unusal 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 groveling in the mud to 
 apply their eyes to the cellar-grating, under the shop- 
 window", and delighting their imagination 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 dis- 
 puted by an opposite faction who were of opinion that he 
 lay murdered wi^th 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 noth- 
 ing had happened : and the beadle of that quarter, a 
 man of an ambitious character, who had expected to 
 have the distinction of being present at the breaking opeaa 
 of the door, and of giving .evidence in full uniform before 
 the coroner, went so far as to say to an opposite neigh- 
 bour, that the chap in the glazed hat had better not try 
 it on there — ^withoutmore particularly mentioning what— 
 
418 
 
 WOKKS OF CHAKLES DICKENS. 
 
 and further, that he the beadle, would keep his eye upon 
 him. 
 
 “Captain Cuttle,^' said Walter, musing, when they 
 stood resting from their labours, at the shop-door, look- 
 ing down the old familiar street ; it being still early ii| 
 the morning ; ‘^nothing at all of Uncle Sol, in all that 
 time I ” 
 
 “ Nothing at all, my lad,” replied the captain, shaliing 
 his head. 
 
 “Gone in search of me, dear, kind old man,” said 
 Walter ; “ yet never write to you ! But why not ? He 
 says, in effect, in this packet that you gave me,” taking 
 the paper from his pocket, which had been opened in 
 the presence of the enlightened Bunsby, “ that if you 
 jaever hear from him before opening it, you may believe 
 ihim dead. Heaven forbid ! But you would have heard 
 ^him even if he were dead ! Some one would have 
 written, surely, by his desire, if he could not ; and have 
 aaid, ‘ on such a day there died in my house,' ‘ or under 
 my care,' or so forth, ^ Mr. Solomon Gills of London, who 
 left this last remembrance and this last request to you.' '' 
 
 The captain, who had never climbed to such a clear 
 height of 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.” 
 
 “ I have been thinking of this, or, at least,” said Wal- 
 ter, colouring, “ I have been thinking of one thing and 
 another, all through a sleepless night, and I cannot be- 
 lieve, Captain Cuttle, but that my Uncle Sol (Lord bless 
 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 
 fevery 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 else- 
 where, or have even gone upon her track to the place 
 whither she was bound, as if their going would create 
 antelligence. 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON 
 
 419 
 
 not know it through some other hand, I cannot make 
 out/* 
 
 Captain Cuttle observed with a shake of his head, that 
 Jack Bunsby himself hadn’t made it out, and that he 
 was a man as could give a pretty taut opinion too. 
 
 “If my uncle had been a heedless young man, likely 
 to be entrapped by jovial company to some drinking- 
 place, where he was to be got rid of for the sake of what 
 money he might have about him,” said Walter ; “or if 
 he had been a reckless sailor, going ashore with two or 
 three months’ pay in his pocket, I could understand his 
 disappearing, and leaving no trace behind. But, being 
 what he was — and is, I hope — I can’t believe it.” 
 
 Wal’r my lad,” inquired the captain, wistfully eye- 
 ing him as he pondered and pondered, “what do you 
 make of it, then?” 
 
 “Captain Cuttle,” returned Walter, “I don’t know 
 what to make of it. I suppose he never has written ! 
 There is no doubt about that ? ” 
 
 “If so be as Sol Gills wrote, my lad,” replied the 
 captain, argumentatively, “where’s his dispatch?” 
 
 “ Say that he entrusted it to some private hand,” sug- 
 gested W'alter, “and that it has been forgotten or care- 
 lessly thrown aside, or lost. Even that is more probable 
 to me, than the other event. In short, I not only cannot 
 bear to contemplate that other event. Captain Cuttle, 
 but I can’t, and won’t.” 
 
 ^^Hope, you see, Wal’r,” said the captain, sagely, 
 
 Hope. It’s 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 
 boats ; it can’t be steered nowhere. Along with the 
 figure-head of Hope,” said the captain, “ there’s a an- 
 chor ; but what’s the good of my having a anchor, if I 
 can't find no bottom to let it go in.” 
 
 Captain Cuttle said this rather in his character of a 
 ^acious citizen and householder, bound to impart a 
 morsel from his stores of wisdom to an inexperienced 
 youth, than in his owh proper person. Indeed, his face 
 was quite luminous as he spoke, with new hope, caught 
 from Walter; and he appropriately concluded by slap- 
 ping him on the back ; and saying, with enthusiasm, 
 “ Hooroar, my lad ! Indiwidually, I’m o’ your opinion.’' 
 
 Walter, with his cheerful laugh, returned the saluta- 
 tion, and said ; 
 
 “Only one word more about my uncle at present. 
 Captain Cuttle. I suppose it is impossible that he can 
 have v/ritten in the ordinary course—by mail packet, or 
 ship letter, you understand—” 
 
 “ Ay, ay, my lad,” said the captain approvingly, 
 
 “ -=»And that you have missed the letter, any how?'* 
 
420 
 
 WOKKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ‘^Why, WaRr,” said the captain, turning his eyes 
 upon him with a faint approach to a severe expression, 
 
 an’t I been on the look out for any tidings of that 
 man o’ science, old Sol Gills, your uncle, day and night, 
 ever since I lost him ? An’t my heart been heavy and 
 watchful always, along of him and you? Sleeping and 
 waking, an’t I been upon my post, and wouldn’t I 
 have scorned to quit it while this here Midshipman held 
 together ! ” 
 
 ^‘Yes, Captain Cuttle,” replied Walter, grasping his 
 hand, ‘‘I know you would, and I knowhow faithful and 
 earnest all yon say and feel is. I am sure of it. You 
 don’t doubt that I am as sure of it as I am that my foot 
 is again upon this door-step, or that I again have hold of 
 this true hand. Do you ? ” 
 
 No, no, Wal’r,” returned the captain, with his 
 beaming face. 
 
 I’ll hazard no more conjectures,” said Walter, fer- 
 vently shaking the hard hand of the captain, who shook 
 his with no less good will. All I will add is. Heaven 
 forbid that I should touch my uncle’s possessions. Cap- 
 tain Cuttle I Everything that he left here, shall remain 
 in the care of the truest of stewards and kindest of men 
 — and if his name is not Cuttle he has no name ! Now, 
 best of friends, about— Miss Dombey. ” 
 
 There was a change in Walter’s manner, as he came 
 to these two words ; and when he uttered them, all his 
 confidence and cheerfulness appeared to have deserted 
 him. 
 
 ‘‘ I thought, before Miss Dombey stopped me when I 
 spoke of her father last night,” said Walter, — you re- 
 member how ? ” 
 
 The captain well remembered, and shook his head. 
 
 I thought,” said Walter, “ before that, that we had 
 but one hard duty to perform, and that it was, to prevail 
 upon her to communicate with her friends, and to re- 
 turn home.” 
 
 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 con- 
 jecture. 
 
 “ 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 ! ” 
 
 Hooroar, my lad I ” exclaimed tlie captain, in a 
 burst of uncontrollable satisfaction. “ Hooroar ! Hoa 
 yoar * Hooroar J ” 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 421 
 
 To think that she, so young, so good, and beauti« 
 ful,” 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 be- 
 hind her, though no one but herself can know how deep 
 it is ; and there is no' return.” 
 
 Captain Cuttle, without quite understanding this^ 
 greatly approved of it, and observed, in a tone of strong 
 corroboration, that the wind was right abaft. 
 
 She ought not to be alone here ; ought she. Captain 
 Cuttle?” said Walter, anxiously. 
 
 ‘‘Well my lad,” replied the captain, after a little 
 sagacious consideration. “ I don’t know. You being 
 here to keep her company, you see, and you two being 
 jintly— ” 
 
 “bear Captain Cuttle !” remonstrated Walter, “I 
 being here I Miss Dombej, 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, famil- 
 iarly, in that character— if I pretended to forget that I 
 am bound, in honour, not to do it ! ” 
 
 “ WaFr my lad,” hinted the captain, with some re- 
 vival of his discomfiture, “ an’t there no other charac- 
 ter as — ” 
 
 “Oh !” returned W^alter, “ would you have me die 
 in her esteem — in such esteem as hers — and put a veil 
 between myself and her angeFs 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.” 
 
 “ WaFr my lad,” said the captain, drooping more and 
 more, “ prowiding as there is any just cause of impedi- 
 ment why two persons should not be jined together in 
 the house of bondage, for which you’ll overhaul the 
 place and make a note, I hope I should declare it as pro- 
 mised and wowed in the banns. So there an’t NO other 
 character ; an’t there, my lad ! ” 
 
 Walter briskly waved his hand in the negative. 
 
 “ Well, my lad,” growled the Captain slowly, “ I won’t 
 deny but what I find myself wery much down by the 
 head, along o’ this here, or but what I’ve gone clean 
 about. But as to Ladylass, WaFr, mind you, wot’s re- 
 spect and duty to her is respect and duty in my articles, 
 howsumever disappinting ; and therefore I follows in your 
 wake, my lad, and feel as you are, no doubt, acting up 
 to yourself. And there an’t no other character, an’t 
 there ! ” said the captain, musing over the ruins of his 
 fallen castle with a very despondent face. 
 
422 
 
 WOKKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 “ Now, Captain Cuttle,” said Walter, starting a fresli 
 ^oint with a gayer air, to cheer the captain up — but 
 'fiothing could do that ; he was too much concerned — I 
 ihink we should exert ourselves to find some one who 
 would be a proper attendant for Miss Dombey while she 
 remains here, and who may be trusted. None of her re- 
 lations may. It's clear Miss Dombey feels that they are 
 all subservient to her father. What has become of 
 Busan ? ” 
 
 “ The young woman ? ” returned the captain. It’s my 
 belief as she was sent away again the will of Heart’s 
 Delight. I made a signal for her when Lady-lass first 
 come, and she rated of her wery high, and said she had 
 been gone a long time.” 
 
 Then,” said Walter, do you ask Miss Dombey, where 
 she’s gone, and we’ll try to find her. The morning’s get- 
 ting on, and Miss Dombey will soon be rising. You are 
 her best friend. Wait for her up stairs, and leave me to 
 take care of all down here.” 
 
 The captain, very crest-fallen indeed, echoed the sigh 
 with which Walter said this, and complied. Florence 
 was xielighted with her new room, anxious to see Wal- 
 ter, and overjoyed at the prospect of greeting her old 
 friend Susan. But Florence could not say where Susan 
 was gone, excepVthat it was in Essex, and no one could 
 say, she remembered, unless it were Mr. Toots. 
 
 With this information the melancholy captain returned 
 to Walter, and gave him to understand that Mr. Toots 
 was the young gentleman whom he had encountered on 
 the door-step, and that he was a friend of his, and that 
 he was a young gentleman of property, and that he hope- 
 lessly 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. 
 
 The question then was, whether Florence could trust 
 Mr. Toots ; and Florence saying, with a smile, Oh, yes, 
 with her whole heart ! ” it became important to find out 
 where Mr. Toots lived. This Florence didn’t know, and 
 the captain had forgotten ; and the captain was telling 
 Walter in the little parlour that Mr. Toots was sure to be 
 there soon, when in came Mr. Toots himself. 
 
 “ Captain Gills,” said Mr. Toots, rushing into the par- 
 lour without any ceremony, I’m in a state of mind bor- 
 dering on distraction ! ” 
 
 Mr. Toots had discharged those words, as from a mortar^ 
 before he observed Walter, whom he recognized with 
 what may be described as a chuckle of mism’y. 
 
 You’ll excuse me, sir,” said Mr. Toots’ holding his 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 423 
 
 forehead, "^but Fm 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 o! 
 a private interview/' 
 
 “Why, brother," returned the captain, taking him by 
 the hand, “ you are the man as we was on the look-out 
 for." 
 
 “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, Fm 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, Fd 
 stretch him a Corpse before me ! " 
 
 All these indications of a disordered mind were veri- 
 fied in Mr. Toots's appearance, which was wild rmd 
 savage. 
 
 “ See here, brother," said the captain. “ This here’s 
 old Sol Gills’s nevy Wal’r. Him as was supposed to have 
 perished at sea." 
 
 Mr. Toots took his hand from his forehead, and stared 
 at Walter. 
 
 “ Good gracious me ! " stammered Mr. Toots, ''What 
 a complication of misery I How-de-do ? I — I — Fm afraid 
 you must have got very wet. Captain Gills, will you 
 allow me a word in the shop ? ’’ 
 
 He took the captain by the coat, and going out with 
 him whispered : 
 
 “ That then. Captain Gills, is the party you spoke of, 
 when you said that he and Miss Dombey were made for 
 one another ? " 
 
 “ Why, ay, my lad," replied the disconsolate captain ; 
 “ I vv^as of that mind once." 
 
 “ And at this time I ” exclaimed Mr. Toots, with his 
 hand to his forehead again. “ Of all others ! — a hated 
 rival ! At least, he an’t a hated rival," said Mr. Toots, 
 stopping short, on second thoughts, and taking away his 
 hand ; “ what should I hate him for ? No. If my affec- 
 tion has been truly disinterested , Captain Gills, let me 
 prove it now ? " 
 
 Mr. Toots shot back abruptly into the parlour, and said, 
 wringing Walter by the hand : 
 
 “ How-de-do ? I hope you didn’t take any cold. I-«l 
 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 fig- 
 ure, “ I’m very glad to see you ! ’’ 
 
 “ Thank you heartily," said Walter. “ I couldn’t de- 
 sire a more genuine and genial welcome." 
 
 “ Couldn’t you, though?" said Mr. Toots still shaking 
 
424 
 
 WOEKS OF CHAELES DICKENS. 
 
 his hand. It’s very kind of you. I’m much obliged to 
 you. How-de-do ? I hope you left everybody quite well 
 over the — that is, upon the — I mean wherever you came 
 from last, you know.” 
 
 All these good wishes, and better intentions, Waltez 
 responded to manfully. 
 
 “ 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—” 
 
 Ay, ay, my lad,” returned the captain. Freely, 
 freely. ” 
 
 “ Then, Captain Gills,” said Mr. Toots, ** and Lieuten- 
 ant Walters, are you aware that the most dreadful cir- 
 cumstances have beeri happening at Mr. Dom bey’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 mar- 
 ble monument, or a bird of prey, — and that she is not to 
 be found, and has gone no one knows where ? ” 
 
 “ May I ask how you heard this ?” inquired Walter. 
 
 Lieutenant Walters, ” said Mr. Toots, who had ar- 
 rived at that appellation by a process peculiar to himself ; 
 probably by jumbling up his Christian name with the 
 seafaring profession, and supposing ^onje relationship be- 
 tween 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 every- 
 thing that relates to Miss Dombey— not for any selfish 
 reason. Lieutenant Walters, for I am well aware that the 
 most agreeable thing I could do for all parties would be 
 to put an end to my existence, which can only be regard- 
 ed as an inconvenience — I have been in the habit of be- 
 stowing 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 in- 
 formed me, yesterday evening, that this was the state of 
 things. Since which. Captain Gills — and Lieutenant Wal- 
 ters — I have been perfectly frantic, and have been lying 
 down on the sofa all night, the Ruin you behold.” 
 
 Mr. Toots,” said Walter, I am happy to be able to 
 relieve your mind. Pray calm yourself. Miss Dombey 
 is safe and well.” 
 
 Sir !” cried Mr. Toots, starting from his chair and 
 shaking hands with him anew, '‘the relief is so exces- 
 sive, and unspeakable, that if you were to tell me now 
 that Miss Dombey was married even, I could smile. Yes, 
 Captain Gills,” said Mr. Toots appealing to him, ** upon 
 my soul and body, I really think, whatever I might do to 
 myself immediately afterwards, that I could smile, I am 
 so relieved.” 
 
DOMBEr AND SON. 
 
 425 
 
 ‘‘ 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 ser« 
 vice to Miss Dombey. Captain Cuttle, will you have the 
 kindness to take Mr. Toots up-stairs ? 
 
 The captain beckoned to Mr. Toots, who followed him 
 with a bewildered countenance, and, ascending to the top 
 of the house, was introduced, without a word of prepar- 
 ation from his conductor, into Florence’s new retreat. 
 
 Poor Mr. Toots’s amazement and pleasure at sight of 
 her were such, that they could find a vent in nothing but 
 extravagance. He ran up to her, seized her hand, kissed 
 it, dropped it, seized it again, fell upon one knee, shed 
 tears, chuckled, and was quite regardless of his danger 
 of being pinned by Diogenes, who, inspired by the belief 
 that there was something hostile to his mistress in these 
 demonstrations, worked round and round him, as if only 
 undecided at what particular point to go in for the as- 
 sault, but quite resolved to do him a fearful mischief. 
 
 ‘‘ Oh Di, you bad, forgetful dog I Dear Mr. Toots, I 
 am so rejoiceu to see you ! ” 
 
 Thankee,” said Mr. Toots, “ I am pretty well. I’m 
 much obliged to you. Miss Dombey. I hope all the family 
 are the same.” 
 
 Mr. Toots said this without the least notion of what he 
 was talking about, and sat down on a chair, staring at 
 Florence with the liveliest contention of delight and de- 
 spair going on his face that any face could exhibit. 
 
 Captain Gills and Lieutenant Walters have men- 
 tioned, 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 con- 
 ducted myself — much more like a Parricide than a per- 
 son of independent property,” said Mr. Toots, with se- 
 vere self-accusation, I should sink into the silent tomb 
 with a gleam of joy.” 
 
 “Pray, Mr. Toots,” said Florence, “do not wish me 
 to forget anything in our acquaintance. I never can, 
 believe me. You have been far too kind and good to 
 me, always.” 
 
 “ Miss Dombey,” returned Mr. Toots, your considera- 
 tion for my feelings is a part of your angelic character. 
 Thank you a thousand times. It’s of no consequence at 
 all.” 
 
 “ What we thought of asking you,” said Florence, “ is, 
 whether you remember where Susan, whom you were so 
 kiiid as to accompany to the coach-office when she left 
 me, is to be found.” 
 
 “Why I do not certainly. Miss Dombey,” said Mr. 
 Toots, after a little consideration, “ remember the exact 
 name of the place that was on the coach ; and I do 
 
426 
 
 WOKKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 recollect that she said she was not going to stop there, 
 but was going farther on. But Miss Domhey, if your 
 object is to find her, and to have her here, myself and 
 the Chicken will produce her with every despatch that 
 devotion on my part, and great intelligence on the 
 Chicken’s can insure.” 
 
 Mr. Toots was so manifestly delighted and revived by 
 til© prospect of being useful, and the disinterested sin- 
 cerity of his devotion was so unr^uestionable, that i’i 
 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 on 
 himself for immediate execution. 
 
 ‘‘Miss Dombey,”said Mr. Toots, touchingher proffered 
 hand, with a pang of hopeless love visibly shooting 
 through him, and flashing out in his face. “ Good bye I 
 Allow me to take the liberty of saying, that your mis- 
 fortunes make me perfectly wretched, and that you may 
 trust me, next to Captain Gills himself. I am quite 
 aware. Miss Dombey, of my own deflciences — they’r© 
 not of the least consequence, thank you — but I am en- 
 tirely to be relied upon, I do assure you. Miss Dombey.” 
 
 With that Mr. Toots came out of the room again, ac- 
 companied by the captain, who, standing at a little dis- 
 tance, holding his hat under his arm and arranging his 
 scattered locks with his hook, had been a not uninter- 
 ested witness of what passed. And when the door closed 
 behind them, the light of Mr. Toots’s life darkly 
 clouded again. 
 
 “ Captain Gills,” said that gentleman, stopping near 
 the bottom of the stairs, and turning round, “ to tell you 
 the truth, I am not in a frame of mind at the present 
 moment, in which I could see Lieutenant Walters with 
 that entirely friendly feeling towards him that I should 
 wish to harbour in my breast. We cannot always com- 
 mand our feelings, Captain Gills, and I should take it 
 as a particular favour if you’d let me out at the private 
 door.” 
 
 “ Brother,” returned the captain, “ you shall shap» 
 your own course. Wotever course you take, is plain 
 and seainanlike, I’m wery sure.” 
 
 “Captain Gills,” said Mr. Toots, “you’re extremely 
 kind. Your good opinion is a consolation to me. There 
 is one thing,” said Mr. Toots, standing in the passage, 
 behind the half -opened door, “ that I’ll hope you’ll bear 
 in mind. Captain Gills, and that I should wish Lieuten- 
 ant W alters 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 T could be at all useful in a 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 427 
 
 pecuniary point of view, I should glide into the silent 
 tomb with ease and smoothness. 
 
 Mr. Toots said no more, but slipped out quietly and 
 shut the door upon himself, to cut the captain off from 
 any reply. 
 
 Florence thought of this good creature, long after he 
 had left her, with mingled emotions of pain and pleas- 
 ure. He was so honest and warm-hearted, that to see 
 him again and be assured of his truth to her in her dis- 
 tress, 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, though 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 upon leav- 
 ing the house, with every graceful setting off in the way 
 of comment and appreciation that his own honesty and 
 sympathy could surround it with. 
 
 Mr. Toots did not return upon the next day, or the 
 next, or for several days ; and in the meanwhile Flor- 
 ence, without any new alarm, lived like a quiet bird in 
 a cage, at the top of the old Instrument-maker’s house. 
 But Florence drooped and hung her head more and more 
 plainly, as the days went on ; and the expression that 
 had been seen in the face of the dead child, was often 
 turned to the sky from her high window, as if it sought 
 his angel out, on the bright shore of which he had 
 spoken : lying on his little bed. 
 
 Florence had been w^eak and delicate of late, and the 
 agitation she had undergone was not without its influ- 
 ences on her health. But it was no bodily illness that 
 affected her now. She was distressed in mind ; and the 
 cause of her distress was Walter. 
 
 Interested in her, anxious for her, proud and glad to 
 serve her, and showing all this with the enthusiasm and 
 ardour of his character, Florence saw that he avoided 
 her. AH 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 al- 
 ways 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 cir- 
 
m 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 cumstance would show lier that there was an indefinable 
 division between them which could not be passed. 
 
 And she could not but see that these revealings of a 
 great alteration in Walter manifested themselves in de- 
 spite of his utmost efforts to hide them. In his consid- 
 eration 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 Florence resolved, at last, to speak to Walter. She 
 believed she knew now what the cause of his estrange- 
 ment was, and she thought it would be a relief to her 
 full heart, and would set him more at ease, if she told 
 him she had found it out, and quite submitted to it, and 
 did not reproach him. 
 
 It was on a certain Sunday afternoon, that Florence 
 took this resolution. The faithful caj^tain, in an amazing 
 shirt-collar, was sitting by her, reading with his specta- 
 cles on, and she asked him where Walter was. 
 
 ‘‘ I think he’s down below, my lady lass,” returned the 
 captain. 
 
 I should like to speak to him,” said Florence, rising 
 • hurriedly, as if to go down-stairs. 
 
 ril rouse him up here. Beauty, ” said the captain, 
 
 in a trice. ” 
 
 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, fora prodigi- 
 ous volume at a book-stall, five lines of which utterly con- 
 founded him at any time, inasmuch that he had not yet 
 ascertained of what subject it treated — and withdrew. 
 Walter soon appeared. 
 
 ‘‘ Captain Cuttle tells me. Miss Dombey,” — he eagerly 
 began on coming in — but stopped wdien he saw her face. 
 
 ‘‘You are not so well to-day. You look dist^'essed. 
 You have been weeping.” 
 
 He spoke so kindly, and with such a fervent tremour 
 in his voice, that the tears gushed into her eyes at the 
 sound of his words. 
 
 “Walter,” said Florence, gently, “I am not quit© 
 well, and Fve been weeping. I want to speak to you. 
 
 He sat down opposite to her, looking at her beautiful 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 429 
 
 and innocent face ; and his own turned pale, and his lips 
 trembled. 
 
 You said, upon the night when I knew that you were 
 saved — and oh ! dear Walter, what I felt that night, and 
 what I hoped ! ” — 
 
 He put his trembling hand upon the table between 
 
 them, and sat looking at her. 
 
 — that I was changed. I was surprised to hear you 
 say so, but I understand, now, that I am. Don't be an- 
 gry with me, W'alter. I was too much overjoyed to think 
 of it, then.” 
 
 She seemed a child to him again. It was the ingenu- 
 ous, confiding, loving child, he saw and heard. Not the 
 dear woman, at whose feet he would have laid the riches 
 of the earth. 
 
 ‘‘You remem ember the last time I saw you, Walter, 
 before you went away ? ” 
 
 He put his hand into his breast, and took out a little 
 purse. 
 
 “ I have always worn it round my neck I If I had 
 gone down in the deep, it would have been with me m 
 the bottom of the sea.” 
 
 “And you will wear it still, Walter, foi my old 
 sake ? ” 
 
 “ Until I die ! ” 
 
 She laid her hand on his, as fearlessly and simply, as 
 if not a day had intervened since she gave him the little 
 token of remembrance. 
 
 “ I am glad of that. I shall be always glad to think 
 so, Walter. Do you recollect that a thought of this 
 change seemed to come into our minds at the same time 
 that evening, when we were talking together 
 
 “ No ! ” he answered, in a wondering tone. 
 
 “Yes, Walter, i had been the means of injuring your 
 hopes and prospects even then. I feared to think so, 
 
 then, but I know it now. If you were able, then, in 
 your generosity, to hide from me that you knew it too, 
 you cannot do it 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 dear- 
 est relation, quite to overlook the innocent cause of all 
 the peril and affliction that has befallen you. You can- 
 not quite forget me in that character, and we can be 
 brother and sister no longer. But, dear Walter, do no^ 
 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 irk- 
 somely 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 
 
430 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 yourself, and pain yourself, for my sake, now that I 
 know all.’’ 
 
 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. 
 
 "" 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 iiave 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 grand gift I could re- 
 ceive and prize ! ” 
 
 “ Walter,” said Florence, looking at him earnestly, 
 but with a changing face, “ what is that which is due to 
 me, and must be rendered to me, at the sacrifice of all 
 this?” 
 
 “Respect,” said Walter, in a low tone. “Rever- 
 ence.” 
 
 The colour dawned in her face, and she timidly and 
 thoughtfully withdrew her hand ; still looking at him 
 with unabated earnestness. 
 
 “ I have not a brother’s right,” said Walter. I have 
 not a brother’s claim. I left a child. I find a woman.” 
 
 The 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. 
 
 They were both silent for a time ; she weeping. 
 
 “ I owe it to a heart so trusting, pure, and good,” said 
 Walter, “ even to tear myself from it, though I rend my 
 own. How dare I say it is my sister’s !” 
 
 She was weeping still. 
 
 “If you had been happy ; surrounded as you should 
 be by loving and admiring 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 affeo 
 tion remembrance of the past, I could have answered to 
 the name from my distant place, with no inward assur- 
 ance that I wronged your spotless truth by doing sOc 
 But here — and now ! — 
 
 Oh thank you, thank you, Walter ! Forgive my 
 liaving wronged you so much. I had no one to advi&e 
 me, I am quite alone/’ 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 431 
 
 "^Florettice said Walter, passionately, ^‘1 am hur- 
 ried on to say, what I thought, hut 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 be^ 
 stow 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.” 
 
 The head was still bent down, the tears still falling, 
 and the bosom swelling with its sobs. 
 
 Dear Florence ! dearest Florence ! whom I called so 
 in my thoughts before I could consider how presumptu* 
 Qus and wild it was. One last time let me call you by 
 your own dear name, and touch this gentle hand in 
 token of your sisterly forgetfulness of what I have said,” 
 
 She raised her head, and spoke to him with such a 
 solemn 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. 
 
 No Walter, I cannot forget it. I would not forget 
 it, for the world. Are you — are you very poor ? ” 
 
 “I am but a wanderer,” said Walter, ‘‘making voy 
 eges to live across the sea. That is my calling now.” 
 
 “ Are you soon going away again, Walter?” 
 
 “ Very soon.” 
 
 She sat looking at him for a moment ; then timidly 
 put her trembling hand in his. 
 
 “ If you will take me for your wife, W^’alter, I will 
 love you dearly. If you will let me go with you, Wal- 
 ter, I will go to the world’s end without fear. I can 
 give up nothing for you — I have nothing to resign, and 
 no one to forsake ; but all my love and life shall be de- 
 voted to you, and with my last breath I will breathe 
 your name to God if I have sense and memory left.” 
 
 He caught her to his heart, and laid her cheek against 
 his own, and now, no more repulsed, no more forlorn, 
 she wept indeed, upon the breast of her dear lover. 
 
 Blessed Sunday bells, ringing so tranquilly in their 
 entranced and happy ears ! Blessed Sunday peace and 
 quiet, harmonising with the calmness in their souls, and 
 making holy air around them ! Blessed twilight steal- 
 ing on> and shading her so soothingly and gravely, as 
 
432 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 she falls asleep, like a hushed child, upon the hosoin 
 she has clung to I 
 
 O load of love and trustfulness that lies so lightly 
 there ! Ay, look dovvn on the closed eyes, Walter, with 
 a proudly tender gaze ; for in all the wide wide world 
 they seek but thee now — only thee ! 
 
 The captain remained in the little 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 awa,y, and the stars 
 peeped down. He lighted a candle, lighted a pipe, 
 smoked it out, and wondered what on earth was going 
 on up-stairs, and why they didn’t call him to tea. 
 
 Florence came to his side while he was in the height 
 of his wonderment. 
 
 Ay I lady lass ! ” cried the captain. Why, you 
 and WaTr have had a long spell o’ talk, my beauty.” 
 
 Florence put her little hand round one of the great 
 buttons of his coat, and said, looking down into his face . 
 
 “ Dear captain, I want to tell you something, if you 
 please.” 
 
 The captain raised his head pretty smartly, to hear 
 what it was. Catching by this means a more distinct 
 view of Florence, he pushed back his chair, and himself 
 with it as far as they could go. 
 
 What ! Heart’s Delight !” cried the captain, sud- 
 denly elated. 'Hs it that ? ” 
 
 ‘^Yes !” said Florence, eagerly. 
 
 WaTr ! Husband! That?” roared the captain, 
 tossing up his glazed hat into the skylight. 
 
 Yes ! ” cried Florence, laughing and crying together. 
 
 The captain immediately hugged her ; and then, 
 picking up the glazed hat and putting it on, drew her 
 arm through his, and conducted her up-stairs again , 
 where he felt that the great joke of his life was now to 
 be made. 
 
 What, Wal’r my lad ! ” said the captain, looking in 
 at the door, with his face like an amiable warming pan. 
 
 So there an’t NO other character, ain’t there ?” 
 
 He had like to have suffocated himself with this pleas* 
 antry, which he repeated at least forty times during tea; 
 polishing his radiant face with the sleeve of his coat, 
 and dabbing his head all over with his pocket-handker- 
 chief, in the intervals. But he was not without a gravel 
 source of enjoyment to fall back upon, when so disposed, 
 for he was repeatedly heard to say in an under tone, as 
 he looked with ineffable delight at Walter and Flor- 
 ence ‘ 
 
 ‘*Ed’ard Cuttle', my lad, you never shaped a better 
 
DOMBSY AND SON. 
 
 4‘db 
 
 course in your life, than when you made that there lit- 
 tle property over, jintly ! 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 Mr. Dcnnhey and the World. 
 
 What is the proud man doing, while the days go by^ 
 Does he ever think of his daughter, or wonder where 
 she is gone ? Does he suppose she has come home ? and 
 is leading her old life in the weary house ? No one can 
 answer for him. He has never uttered her name, since. 
 Ilis household dread him too much to approach a subject 
 on which he is resolutely dumb ; and the only person 
 who dare question him, he silences immediately. 
 
 My dear Paul !” murmurs his sister, sidling into the 
 room, on the day of Florence’s departure, ‘"your wife 
 that upstart woman ! Is it possible that what I hear 
 confusedly, is true, and that this is her return for your 
 unparalleled devotion to her ; extending, I am sure, eve^ 
 to the sacrifice of your own relations, to her caprices and 
 haughtiness ? My poor brother ! ” 
 
 With this speech, feelingly reminiscent of her not hav- 
 ing been asked to dinner on the day of the first party, 
 Mrs. Chick makes great use of her pocket-handkerchief, 
 and falls on Mr. Dombey’s neck. But Mr, Dombey 
 frigidly lifts her off, and hands her to a chair. 
 
 “I thank you, Louisa,’’ he says, “ for this mark of 
 your affection ; but desire that our conversation may re- 
 fer to any other subject. When I bewail my fate, 
 Louisa, or express myself as being in want of consolation, 
 you can offer it, if ^mu will have the goodness.” 
 
 “ My dear Paul,” rejoins his sister, v/ith her hand- 
 kerchief 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 ad- 
 jectives, Mrs. Chick visits scathing indignation ; “ but 
 pray let me ask you — though I dread to hear something 
 that will shock and distress rne—that unfortunate child 
 Florence — ” 
 
 “ Louisa I ” says her brother, sternly, “ silence. Not 
 another word of this 1 ” 
 
 Mrs. Chick can only shake her head, and use her 
 handkerchief, and moan over degenerate Dombeys, who 
 are no Dombeys. But whether Florence has been in- 
 culpated in the flight of Edith, or has followed her, or 
 has done too much, or too little, or anything, or nothing 
 she has not the least idea. 
 
 He goes on, without deviation, keeping his thonghts 
 
 VoL. 12- — 
 
434 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 and feelings close within his own breast, and imparting 
 them to no one. He makes no search for his daughter, 
 fie may think that she is with his sister, or that she is 
 under his own roof. He may think of her constantly, or 
 he may never think about her. It is all one for any sign 
 he makes. 
 
 But this is sure ; he does not think that he has lost 
 her. He has no suspicion of the truth. He has lived 
 too long shut up in his towering supremacy, seeing her, 
 a patient gentle creature, in the path below it, to have 
 any fear of that. Shaken as he is by his disgrace, he is 
 not yet humbled to the level earth. The root is broad 
 and deep, and in the course of years its fibres have 
 spread out and gathered nourishment from everything 
 around it. The tree is struck, but not down. 
 
 Though he hide the world within him from the 
 world without — v/hich 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 hum- 
 bled, or those marks would not be there. 
 
 The world. What the world thinks of him, how it 
 looks at him, what it sees in him, and what it says — this 
 is the haunting demon of his mind. It is everywhere 
 where he is ; and worse than that, it is everywhere where 
 he is not. It comes out with him among his servants 
 and yet he leaves it whispering behind ; he sees it point- 
 ing 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 going beckoning and babbling 
 among the crowd ; it always anticipates him, in every 
 place ; and is always busiest, he knows, when he has 
 gone away. When he is shut up in his room at night, 
 it is in his house, outside it, audible in footsteps on the 
 pavement, visible in print upon the table, steaming to 
 and fro on railroads and in ships : restless and busy 
 everywhere, with nothing else but him. 
 
 It is not a phantom of his imagination. It is as active 
 in other people’s minds as in his. Witness Cousin Fee- 
 nix, who comes from Baden-Baden, purposely to talk 
 to him. Witness Major Bagstock, who accompanies 
 Cousin Peenix on that friendly mission. 
 
 Mr. Dombey receives them with his usual dignity, and 
 stands erect, in his old attitude, before the fire. He feels 
 that the world is looking at him out of their eyes. That 
 it is in the stare of the pictures. That Mr. Pitt, upon 
 the book-case, represents it. That there are eyes in its 
 ©wn map, hanging on the wall. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 ®'Aii unusually cold spring,” says Mr. Dombey — to 
 deceive tbe world. 
 
 “ Damme, sir,” said the major, in tbe warmth, of friend- 
 ship, ** Joseph Bagstock is a bad hand at the counterfeit. 
 If you want to hold yonr friends off, Dombey, and to 
 give them the cold shoulder, J. B. is not the man for 
 your purpose. Joe is iWgh and tough, sir ; blunt, sir, 
 blunt, is Joe. His Royal Highness the late Duke of 
 York did me the honour to say, deservedly or undeserv 
 edly — never mind that — ' If there is a man in the service 
 on whom I can depend for coming to the point, that man 
 is Joe — Joe Bagstock.” 
 
 Mr. Dombey intimates his acquiescence. 
 
 Now, Dombey,” says the major, ‘‘ I am a man of the 
 world. Our friend Feenix — if I may presume to — ” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Honoured, I am sure,” said Cousin Feenix. 
 
 ‘‘ — is,” proceeds the major, with a wag of his headj 
 also a man of the world. Dombey, you are a man of 
 the world. Now, when three men of the world meet to- 
 gether, and are friends — as I believe—” again appealing 
 to Cousin Feenix. 
 
 I am sure,” says Cousin Feenix, ** most friendly.” 
 
 ** —and are friends,” resumes the major, “ Old Joe’s 
 opinion is (J. may be v/rong), that the opinion of the 
 world on any particular subject, is very easily got at.” 
 
 Undoubtedly,” says Cousin Feenix. “ In point of 
 fact, it’s quite a self-evident sort of thing. I am ex- 
 tremely anxious, major, that my friend Dombey should 
 hear me express my very great astonishment and regret, 
 that my lovely and accomplished relative, who was pos- 
 sessed of every qualification to make a man 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 ex- 
 traordinary 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 Provi- 
 dential manner ; for if my aunt had been living at the 
 time, I think the effect upon a devilish lively woman like 
 nerself, would have been prostration, and that she would 
 have fallen, in point of fact, a victim.” 
 
 "Now, Dombey !— ” says the major, resuming his dls 
 course with great energy. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, interposes Cousin Feenix. Al- 
 low me another word. My friend Dombey will permit 
 that if aMj ckcumstances could have added to the mos^ 
 infernal state ®f pain in which I find myself on this oc- 
 caasioM, it would be Mie natural amusement of the worlit 
 
WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 at my lovely and accomplished relative (as I must still 
 beg leave to call her) being supposed to have so com- 
 mitted herself with a person — man with white teeth, in 
 point of fact — of very inferior station to her husband. 
 But Avhile 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 repre- 
 sent, and which is now almost* extinct (devilish sad re^ 
 flection for a man), will interpose no obstacle his way. 
 and will be happy to assent to any honourable course of 
 proceeding, with a viev/ 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 mel- 
 ancholy affair, and-— a — in point of fact, I am not aware 
 that I need trouble my friend Dombey with any further 
 observations.” 
 
 Mr. Dombey bows, without raising his eyes, and is si 
 ient. 
 
 “ 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 1 ” — 
 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 opin- 
 ions, which must be satisfied.” 
 
 “ I know it,” rejoins Mr. Dombey. 
 
 Of course you know it, Dombey,” says the major 
 ‘Damme, sir, I know you know it. A man of your cal 
 ibre is not likely to be ignorant of it.” 
 
 “ T hope not,” replies Mr. Dombey. 
 
 Dombey ! ” says the major, “ you will guess the rest. 
 1 speak out — prematurely, perhaps — because the Bagstock 
 breed have always spoken out. Little, sir, have they 
 ©ver got by doing it ; but it’s in the Bagstock blood. A 
 shot is to be taken at this man. You have J. B. at your 
 elbow. He claims the name of friend. God bless you !” 
 
 “ Major, ” returns Mr. Dombey, “ I am obliged. I 
 shall put myself in your hands when the time comes. 
 The time not being come, I have forborne to speak to 
 you.” 
 
 “Where is the fellow, Dombey?” inquires the ma- 
 jor, after gasping and looking at him, for a minute. 
 
 “ I don’t know.” 
 
 “ Any intelligence of him ? ” asks the major. 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “ Dombey, I am rejoiced to hear it,” says the major, 
 congratulate you.” 
 
 “You will excuse — even you, major,” replies Mr. 
 
DOMBBY AND SON. 
 
 437 
 
 Dombey, my entering into any further detail at pres*, 
 ent. The intelligence is of a singular kind, and singu- 
 larly obtained. It may turn out to be valueless ; it may 
 turn out to be true ; I cannot say at present. My ex- 
 planation must stop here.” 
 
 Although this is but a dry reply to the major’s purple 
 enthusiasm, the major receives it graciously, and is de- 
 lighted to think that the world has such a fair prospect 
 of soon receiving its due. Cousin Feenix is then pre- 
 sented with his meed of acknowledgment by the hus- 
 band of his lovely and accomplished relative, and Cousin 
 Feenix and Major Bagstock retire, leaving that husband 
 to the v/orld again, and to ponder at leisure on their 
 representation of its state of mind concerning his affairs, 
 and on its j ust and reasonable expectations. 
 
 But v/ho sits in the housekeeper’s room, shedding 
 tears and talking to Mrs. Pipchin in a low tone, with up- 
 lifted hands ? It is a lady with her face concealed in a 
 very close, black bonnet, which appears not to belong to 
 her. It is Miss Tox, who has borrowed this disguise 
 from her servant, and comes from Princess’s-place, thus 
 secretly, to revive her old acquaintance with Mrs. Pip- 
 chin, in order to get certain information of the state of 
 Mr. DombeVo 
 
 How does he bear it, my dear creature ? ” asks Miss 
 Tox. 
 
 Well,” says Mrs. Pipchin, in her snappish way, 
 
 he’s pretty much as usual. 
 
 Externally,” suggests Miss Tox. “ But what he 
 feels within ! ” 
 
 Mrs. Pipchin ’s hard gray eyes look doubtful as she 
 answe«*s, in three distinct jerks, ** Ah ! Perhaps. 1 
 suppose so.” 
 
 To tell you my mind, Lucretia,” says Mrs. Pipchin ; 
 she still calls Miss Tox Lucretia, on account of having 
 made her first experiments in the child-quelling-line of 
 business on that lady, when an unfortunate and weazen 
 little girl of tender years ; to tell you my mind, Lu- 
 cretia, I think it’s a good riddance. I don’t want any of 
 your brazen faces here, myself ! ” 
 
 Brazen indeed ! Weil may you say brazen, Mrs. 
 Pipchin I ” returned Miss Tox. To leave him * Such 
 a noble figure of a man ! ” And here Miss Tox is over- 
 come. 
 
 I don’t know about noble. I’m sure,” observed Mrs. 
 Pipchin irascibly rubbing her nose. But I know this 
 — that when people meet with trials, they must beai 
 ’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 ! ” 
 
WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 This hm^ of the Peruvian Mines, causes Miss Tox to 
 rise to go f:,way ; 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 ; ob- 
 serving that he didn’t know her at first, in that bonnet. 
 
 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.” 
 
 ** Very good, miss,” says Towlinson. 
 
 Shocking circumstances occur, Towlinson,” says Miss 
 Tox. 
 
 ** Very much so indeed, miss,” rejoins Towlinson. 
 
 ** 1 hope, Towlinson,” says Miss Tox, who, in her in- 
 struction of the Tcodle family has acquired an admoni- 
 torial tone, and a habit of improving passing occasions, 
 ^*that what has happened here, will be a warning to you, 
 Towlinson.” 
 
 “Thank you, miss, I’m sure,” says Towlinson. 
 
 He appears to be falling into a consideration of the 
 manner in which this warning ought to operate in his 
 particular case, when the vinegary Mrs. Pipchin, sud- 
 denly stirring him up with a “ What are you doing i 
 Why don’t you show the lady to the door I ” he ushers 
 Miss Tox forth. As she passes Mr. Dombey’s room, she 
 shrinks into the inmost depths of the black bonnet, and 
 walks on tiptoe ; and there is not another atom in the 
 world which haunts him so, that feels such sorrow and 
 solicitude about him, as Miss Tox takes out under the 
 black bonnet into the street, and tries to carry home 
 shadowed from newly-lighted lamps. 
 
 But Miss Tox is not a part of Mr. Dombey’s world. 
 She comes back every evening at dusk ; adding clogs and 
 an umbrella to the bonnet on wet nights ; and bears the 
 grins of Towlinson, and the huffs and rebuffs of Mrs. Pip- 
 chin, and all to ask how he does, and how he bears his 
 misfortune ; but she has nothing to do with Mr. Dom- 
 bey’s world. Exacting and harassing as ever, it goes on 
 without her ; and she, a by no means bright or particu- 
 lar star, moves in her little orbit in the comer of an- 
 other system, and knows it quite well, and comes, and 
 cries, and goes away, and is satisfied. Verily Miss Tox 
 is easier of satisfaction than the world that troubles Mr. 
 Dombey so much ! 
 
 At the counting-house, the clerks discuss the great dis- 
 aster in all its lights and shades, but chiefly wonder who 
 will get Mr. Carker’s place. They are generally of opin- 
 ion that it will be shorn of some of its emoluments, and 
 made uncomfortable by newly devised checks and re- 
 strictions ; and those who are beyond all hope of it. 
 
IT APPEARS THAT HE MET EVERYBODY CONCERNED IN THE LATE TRANSACTION, EVERYWHERE. 
 
 — Dombey and Son, Vol. Twelve, page 439 
 
440 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 are quite sure they would rather not have it, and don’t 
 at all envy the person for whom it may prove to be re- 
 served, Nothing like the prevailing sensation has ex- 
 isted in the counting-house since Mr. Dombey’s little son 
 died • but all such excitements there take a social, not to 
 say jovial turn, and lead to the cultivation of good fellow, 
 ship. 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 fued for months ; and a little dinner being pro- 
 posed, 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 him- 
 self that this is not a time for private dissensions. 
 Eecent ocurrences to which he need not more particu^ 
 larly allude, but which have not been altogether with° 
 out notice in some Sunday papers, and in a daily papet 
 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 mo- 
 ment, 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 inter* 
 rupted by a difference between two juniors, who, quar- 
 relling about the probable amount of Mr. Carker’s late 
 receipts per annum, defy each other with decanters, and 
 are taken out greatly excited. Soda water is in general 
 request at the office next day, and most of the party deem, 
 the bill an imposition. 
 
 As to Perch, the messenger, he is in a fair way of being 
 ruined for life. He finds himself again, constantly in 
 bars of public houses, being treated and lying dread- 
 fully. It appears that he met everybody concerned in 
 the late transaction, everywhere and said to them, 
 “ Sir,” or Madam,” as the case was, wh}^ do you look 
 so pale ? ” at which each shuddered from head to foot, 
 and said, Oh, Perch I ” and ran away. Either the con- 
 sciousness of these enormities, or the reaction consequent 
 
DOMBEY AXD SON. 
 
 441 
 
 on liquor, red ices Mr. Perch to an extreme state of low 
 spirits at that hour of the evening v/hen he usually seeks 
 consolation in the society of Mrs. Perch at Balls Pond ; 
 and Mrs. Perch frets a good deal, for she fears his confi- 
 dence in woman is shaken now, and that he half expects 
 on coming home at night to find her gone oft* with some 
 “Viscount. 
 
 Mr. Dombey’s servants are becoming, at the same time, 
 quite dissipated, and unfit for other service. They have 
 hot suppers every night, and talk it over,’^ with smok- 
 ing 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 v/as too high 1 
 They all agree that she was too high, and Mr. Towlin- 
 son’s old flame the housemaid (who is very virtuous, en- 
 treats 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. 
 
 Everything that is said and done about it, except by 
 Mr. Dombey, is done in chorus. Mr. Dombey and the 
 world are alone together. 
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 Secret Intelligence. 
 
 Good Mrs. Brown and her daughter Alice, kept silent 
 company together, in their own dwelling. It v/as early 
 in the evening, and late in the spring. But a few days 
 had elapsed since Mr. Dombey had told Major Bagstock 
 of his singular intelligence, singularly obtained, which 
 might turn out to be valueless, and might turn out to 
 be true ; and the world was not satisfied yet. 
 
 The mother and daughter sat for a long time without 
 interchanging a word : almost without motion. The old 
 woman’s face was shrewdly anxious and expectant ; 
 that of her daughter was expectant too, but in a less 
 sharp degree, and sometimes it darkened, as if with 
 gathering disappointment and incredulity. The old 
 woman, without heeding these changes in its expres- 
 sion, though her eyes were often turned towards it, sat 
 mumbling and munching, and listening confidently. 
 
 Their abode, though poor and miserable, was not so 
 utterly wretched as in the days when only Good Mrs. 
 
442 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Brown inhabited it. Some few attempts at cleanliness 
 and order were manifest, though made in a reckless, 
 gypsy way, that might have connected them, at a 
 glance, with the younger woman. The shades of even- 
 ing thickened and deepened as the two kept silence, 
 until the blackened walls were nearly lost in the pre= 
 vailing gloom. 
 
 Then Alice broke the silence which had lasted so long, 
 and said : 
 
 ‘"You may give him up, mother. He’ll not come 
 here.” 
 
 Death give him up ! ” returned the old woman, im- 
 patiently. He 'will come here.” 
 
 ‘‘We shall see,” said Alice. 
 
 “We shall see him,^^ returned her mother. 
 
 “ And doomsday,” said the daughter. 
 
 “ You think Tm in my second childhood, I know I 
 croaked the old woman. “ That’s the respect and duty 
 that I get from my own gal, but I’m wiser than you 
 take me for. He’ll come. T’other day when I touched 
 his coat in the street, he looked round as if I was a 
 toad. But Lord, to see him when I said their names, 
 and asked him if he’d like to find out where they was ! ” 
 
 “Was it so angry?” asked her daughter, roused to 
 interest in a moment. 
 
 “ Angry ? ask if it was bloody. That’s more like the 
 word. Angry? Ha, ha! To "call that only angry!” 
 said the old woman, hobbling to the cupboard, and 
 lighting a candle, v/hich displayed the workings of her 
 mouth to ugly advantage, as she brought it to the table. 
 “ I might as well call your face only angry, when you 
 think or talk about ’em.” 
 
 It was something different from that, truly, as she sat 
 as still as a crouched tigress, with her kindling eyes. 
 
 “Hark !” said the old woman, triumphantly. “I 
 hear a step coming. It’s not the tread of any one that 
 lives about here, or comes this way often. We don’t 
 walk like that. We should grow proud on such neigh- 
 bours ! Do you hear him ? ” 
 
 “ I believe you are right, mother,” replied Alice, in a 
 low voice. “Peace ! open the door.” 
 
 As she drew herself within her shawl, and gathered it 
 kbout her, the old woman complied ; and peering out, 
 and beckoning, gave admission to Mr. Dombey, who 
 stopped when he had set his foot within the door, and 
 looked distrustfully around. 
 
 “ It’s a poor place for a great gentleman like youi 
 worship,” said the old woman, curtseying and chatter- 
 ing. “ I told you so, but there is no harm in it.” 
 
 “Who is that?” asked Mr, Dombey, looking at hei 
 companion. 
 
DOMBEY AND dON. 
 
 443 
 
 That's my handsome daughter/' said the old woman. 
 
 Your worship won't mind her. She knows all about 
 it" 
 
 A shadow fell upon his face not less expressive than 
 if he had groaned aloud, ‘‘ Who does not know all about 
 it ! " but he looked at her steadily, and she without any 
 acknowledgment of his presence looked at him. The 
 shadow on his face was darker when • he turned his 
 glance away from her ; and even then it wandered back 
 again, furtively, as if he were haunted by her bold eyes, 
 and some remembrance they inspired. 
 
 ''Woman," said Mr. Dombey to the old witch who 
 was chuckling and leering close at his elbow, and who, 
 when he turned to address her, pointed stealthily at her 
 daughter, and rubbed her hands, and pointed again, 
 " Woman I 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 con- 
 cerning what I want to know ; and how does it hapyjen 
 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 iDurpose, you 
 had better stop on the threshold of your scheme. My 
 humour is not a trifling one, and my acknowledgment 
 will be severe." 
 
 "Oh a proud, hard gentleman!" chuckled the old 
 woman, shaking her head, and rubbing her shrivelled 
 hands, "oh hard, hard, hard ! But your worship shall 
 see wfith 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 ? " 
 
 " Money," returned Mr. Dombey, apparently relieved, 
 and re-assured by this inquiry, " will bring about un- 
 likely things, I know. It may turn even means as un- 
 expected and unpromising as these, to account. Yes. 
 For any reliable information I receive, I will pay. But 
 1 must have the information first, and iudge for myself 
 of its value." 
 
 " Do you know nothing more powerful than money ? " 
 asked the younger woman, without rising, or altering her 
 attitude. 
 
 "Not here, I should imagine," said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " You should know of something that is more power- 
 ful elsewhere, as I judge," she returned. "Do you 
 know nothing of a woman’s anger?" 
 
444 
 
 WOBKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 You liave a saucy tongne, jade,” said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 Not usually,” slie answered, without any show of 
 emotion: “I speak to you now, that you may under 
 stand us better, and rely more on us. A woman’s 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.” 
 
 He started, in spite of himself, and looked at her with 
 astonishment. 
 
 Yes,” she said, with a kind of laugh. Wide as the 
 distance may seem between us, it is so. How it is so, 
 is no matter ; that is my story, and I keep my story to 
 myself. I would bring you and him together, because I 
 have a rage against him. My mother there, is avaricious 
 and poor ; and she would sell any tiding*s 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 mo- 
 tive. I have told you what mine is, and it would be as 
 strong and all sufficient with me if you haggled and bar 
 gained with her for a sixpence. I have done. My saucy 
 tongue says no more, if you wait here till sunrise to-mor^ 
 row.” 
 
 The old woman, who had shown great uneasiness dur 
 ing this speech which had a tendency to depreciate her 
 expected gains, pulled Mr. Hombey softly by the sleeve, 
 and whispered to him not to mind her. He glanced at 
 them both by turns, with a haggard look, and said, in a 
 deeper voice than was usual to him : 
 
 Go on — what do you know ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ Oh, not so fast, your worship I we must wait for some 
 one,” answered the old woman. ‘‘It’s to be got from 
 some one else — wormed out — screwed and twisted from 
 him.” 
 
 “ Wliat do you mean?” said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 “ Patience,” she croaked, laying her hand, like a claw, 
 upon his arm. “ Patience. ITl get at it. I know I can I 
 If he was to hold it back from me,” said Good Mrs. 
 Brown, crooking her ten fingers, “Pd tear it out of 
 him ! ” 
 
 Mr. Dombey followed her with his eyes as she hobbled 
 to the door, and looked out again : and then his glance 
 sought her daughter ; but she remained impassive, si- 
 lent, and regardless of him. 
 
 “ Do you tell me, woman,” he said, when, the bent fig- 
 ure of Mrs. Brown came back, shaking its head and chat 
 tering to itself, “ that there is another person expected 
 here? ” 
 
 “ Yes ! ” said the old woman, looking up into his face, 
 and nodding. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 445 
 
 ** From whom you are to extract the intelligence that 
 is to be useful to me ? 
 
 Yes,” said the old woman nodding again. 
 
 A stranger ? ” 
 
 *^Chut!” said the old woman, with a shrill laugh. 
 
 What signifies! Well, well-; no. No stranger to your 
 worship. But he won’t see you. He’d be afraid of you, 
 and wouldn’t talk. You’ll stand behind that door, 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 I 
 Look at it, then.” 
 
 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. 
 
 How long,” he asked, “ before this person comes?” 
 
 Not long ” she answered. ‘‘ W ould your worship sit 
 down for a few odd minutes ? '' 
 
 He made no answer ; but began pacing the room with 
 an irresolute air, as if he were undecided whether to 
 remain or depart, and as if he had some quarrel with 
 himself for being there at ail. But soon his tread grew 
 slower and heavier, and his face more sternly thought- 
 ful ; as the object with which he had come, fixed itself 
 in his mind, and dilated there again. 
 
 While he thus walked up and down with his eyes on 
 the ground, Mrs. Brown, in the chair from which she 
 had risen to receive him, sat listening anew. The mo- 
 notony of his step, or the uncertainty of age, made her 
 so slow of hearing, that a foot- fall 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 w’as roused by it. But then she 
 started from her seat, and whispering ‘^Here heist” 
 hurried her visitor to his place of observation, and put a 
 bottle and glass upon the table, with such alacrity as to 
 fling her arms round the neck of Rob the Grinder on his 
 appearance at the door. 
 
 And here’s my bonny boy,” cried Mrs. Brown, “at 
 last ! —oho, oho ! You’re like my own son, Robby ! ” 
 
 “Oh I Misses Brown ! ” remonstrated the Grinder, 
 “ Don’t. Can’t you be fond of a cove without squeedg- 
 ing and throttling of him ! Take care of the birdcage in 
 my hand, will you? ” 
 
 “Thinks of a birdcage, afore me I” cried the old 
 woman, apostrophising the ceiling. “ Me that feels 
 more than a mother for him j ” 
 
 WelL sure Vm very much obliged to you, Misses 
 
446 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Brown,” said tlie unfortunate youtTi, greatly aggravated \ 
 “ but you’re so jealous of a cove. I’m very fond of you 
 myself, and all that, of course ; but I don’t smother you, 
 do I, Misses Brown ? ” 
 
 He looked and spoke as if he would have been far 
 from objecting to do so, however, on a favourable oc- 
 casion. 
 
 ‘‘And to talk about birdcages, too !” whimpered the 
 Grinder. “ As if that was a crime ! Why, look’ee hereof 
 Do you know who this belongs to ? ” 
 
 “ To Master, dear? ” said the old woman with a grin. 
 
 “ Ah !” replied the Grinder, lifting a large cage tied 
 up in a wrapper, on the table, and untying it with his 
 teeth and hands. “ It’s our parrot, this is.” 
 
 “ Mr. Carker’s parrot, Rob.^” 
 
 “Wiil you hold your tongue. Misses Brown?” re- 
 turned the 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 an’t 
 enough to make a cove run wild ! ” 
 
 “ What ! do you snub me, thankless boy !” cried the 
 old woman, with ready vehemence. 
 
 “ Good gracious. Misses Brown, no ! ” returned the 
 Grinder, with tears in his eyes. “Was there ever such 
 a ! — Don’t i dote upon you. Misses Brown ? ” 
 
 “Do you, sweet Rob? Do you truly, chickabiddy ?” 
 With that, Mrs, Brown held him in her fond embrace 
 once more ; and did not release him until he had mad^ 
 several violent and ineffectual struggles with his legs, 
 and his hair was standing on end all over his head. 
 
 “Oh ! ” returned the Grinder, “ what a thing it is to 
 be perfectly pitched into with affection like this here. 
 1 wish she was — . How have you been Misses Brown?” 
 
 “ Ah ! Not here since this night week ! ” said the old 
 woman, contemplating him with a look of reproach. 
 
 “ Good gracious. Misses Brown,” returned the Grinder, 
 “ I said to-night’s a week, that I’d come to-night, didn’t 
 I ? And here I am. How you do go on ! I wish you’d 
 be a little rational Misses Brown. I’m hoarse with say- 
 ing things in my defence, and my very face is shiny with 
 being hugged.” He rubbed it hard with his sleeve, as 
 if to remove the tender polish in question. 
 
 “ Drink a little drop to comfort you, my Robin,” said 
 the old woman, filling the glass from the bottle and 
 giving it to him. 
 
 “ Thank’ee, Misses Brown,” returned the Grinder 
 ‘ Here’s your health. And long may you — et cetrer.’ 
 Which to judge from the expression of his face, did no^ 
 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 waB 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 447 
 
 behind him, but in reality on Mr. Dombey’s face at the 
 door, ‘‘ and wishing her the same and many of ^em I ** 
 
 He drained the glass to these two sentiments, and set 
 it down. 
 
 “Well, I say. Misses Brown!’’ he proceeded. To 
 go on a little rational now. You’re a judge of birds, and 
 up to their ways, as I know to my cost. ” 
 
 Cost ! ” repeated Mrs. Brown. 
 
 Satisfaction, I mean,” returned the Grinder. ^^How 
 you do take up a cove, Misses Brown ! You’ve put it 
 all out of my head again. ” 
 
 Judge of birds, Robby,” suggested the old woman. 
 Ah ! ” said the Grinder, “ Well, I’ve got to take 
 care of this parrot — certain things being sold, and a cer- 
 tain 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 some- 
 thing to come for.” • 
 
 Something to come for ? ” screamed the old woman. 
 Besides you, I mean. Misses Brown,” returned the 
 craven Rob. *‘Not that I want any inducement but 
 yourself. Misses Brown, I’m sure. Don’t begin again, 
 for goodness sake.” 
 
 He don’t care for me I He don’t care for me as 
 care for him ! ” cried Mrs. Brown, lifting up her skinny 
 hands. But I’ll take care of his bird.” 
 
 Take good care of it too, you know, Misses Brown,” 
 said Rob, shaking his head. If you was so much as 
 to stroke its feathers once the wrong way, I believe it 
 would be found out.” 
 
 ‘‘Ah, so sharp as that, Rob?” said Mrs. Brown 
 quickly. 
 
 •‘Sharp, Misses Brown?” repeated Rob. “But this 
 is not to be talked about.” 
 
 Checking himself abruptly, and not without a fearful 
 glance across the room, Rob filled the glass again, and 
 having slowly emptied it, shook his head, and began to 
 draw his finger across and across the wires of the parrot’s 
 cage, by way of a diversion from the dangerous theme 
 that had just then been reached. 
 
 The old woman eyed him slyly, and hitching her chair 
 nearer his, and looking in at the parrot, who came down 
 from the gilded dome at her call, said : 
 
 ‘ ‘ Out of place now, Robby ? ” 
 
 “ 'Never ^ou mind. Misses Brown,” returned the Grinder 
 shortly^ 
 
 “Board wages, perhaps, Rob?” said Mrs. Brown. 
 
 “ Pretty Polly I ” said the Grinder. 
 
 The old woman darted a glance at him that might 
 
448 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 have warned him to consider his ears in danger, hut it 
 was his turn to look in at the parrot now, and however 
 expressive his imagination may have made her angry 
 scowd, it was unseen by his bodily eyes. 
 
 " ‘ I wonder Master didn’t take you with him, Eob,” 
 said the old woman, in a wheedling voice, but with iiv 
 creased malignity of aspect. 
 
 Kob was so absorbed in contemplation of the parrot, 
 and in trolling his forefinger on the wires, that he made 
 no answer. 
 
 The old woman had her clutch within a hair’s-breadth 
 of his shock of hair as it stooped over the table ; but she 
 restrained her fingers, and said, in a voice that choked 
 with its effort to be coaxing : 
 
 ‘‘ Robby, my child.” 
 
 “ Well, Misses Brown,” returned the Grinder. 
 
 I say, I wonder Master didn’t take you with him, 
 dear ” 
 
 '•In ever you mind, Misses Brown,” returned the 
 Grinder. • 
 
 Mrs. Brov/n instantly directed the clutch of her right 
 hand at his hair, and the clutch of her left hand at his 
 throat, and held on to the object of her fond affection with 
 such extraordinary fury, that his face began to blacken 
 in a moment. 
 
 Misses Brown!” exclaimed the Grinder, ‘‘let go, 
 will you 1 What are you doing of ! Help, young woman ! 
 Misses Brow — Brow — ! ” 
 
 The young woman, however, equally unmoved by his 
 direct appeal to her, and by his inarticulate utterance, 
 remained quite neutral, until, after struggling v/ith 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 inter- 
 posed her voice, but not in the Grinder’s favour, by say- 
 ing. 
 
 “ W^ell done, mother. Tear him to pieces I ” 
 
 “ 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 I ” said the frightened and afflicted Grinder, with his 
 coat-cuff at his eye. “ I’m surprised at you ! Where’s 
 your feminine-tenderness ? ” 
 
 “ You thankless dog I ” gasped Mrs. Brown. “ You 
 impudent, insulting dog ! ” 
 
 “ What have I been and done to go and give you 
 offence. Misses Brown?” retorted the tearful Rob, 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 449 
 
 You was very much attached to me a minute ago.” 
 ''To cut me "off with his short answers and his sulky 
 words,” said the old woman. ‘‘ Me I Because I happen 
 to be curious to have a little bit of gossip about Master 
 and the lady, to dare to play as fast and loose with me i 
 But I’li talk to you no more, my lad. Now go ! ” 
 
 ‘‘I am sure. Misses Brown,” returned the abject 
 Grinder, "‘I never insini wared that I v/ished to go, 
 Don’t talk like that, Misses Brown, if you please.” 
 
 I won’t talk at all,” said Mrs. Brown, with an action 
 of her crooked fingers that made him shrink into half his 
 natural compass in the corner, “ Not another word with 
 him shall pass my lips. He’s an ungrateful hound. I 
 cast him off. Now let him go I And Fli 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 1 He knows ’em. He knows his old 
 games and his old ways. If he’s forgotten ’em, they’ll 
 soon remind him. Now let him go, and see how he’ll 
 do Master’s business, and keep Master’s secrets, with 
 such company always following him up and down Ha, 
 ha, ha ! He’ll find ’em a different sort from you and me. 
 Ally ; close as he is with you and me. Now let him go. 
 now let him go ! ” 
 
 The old woman, to the unspeakable dismay of the 
 Grinder, walked her twisted figure round and round in a 
 ring of some four feet in diameter, constantly repeating 
 these words, and shaking her fist above her head, and 
 working her mouth about. 
 
 Misses Brown,” pleaded Rob, coming a little out of 
 his corner, “I’m sure you wouldn’t injure a cove, on 
 second thoughts, and in cold blood, would you?” 
 
 “Don’t talk to me,” said Mrs. Brown, still wrathfully 
 pursuing her circle. “ Now let him go, now let him go I ” 
 “ Misses Brown,” urged the tormented Grinder, “ I 
 didn’t mean to — Oh, what a thing it is for a cove to get 
 iuto such a line as this I — I was only careful of talkingj 
 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 
 •vwrd for a miserable cove here I ” said the Grinder, ap- 
 pealing in desperation to the daughter. 
 
 “ Come, mother, you hear what he says,’’ she inter 
 posed, in her stern voice, and with an impatient action 
 her head ; ‘‘ try him once more, and if you fall out 
 with him again, ruin him, if you like, and have done 
 with him.” 
 
 Mrs, Brown, moved as it seemed by this very tendav 
 
450 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 exhortation, presently began to howl ; and softening by 
 degrees, took the apologetic Grinder to her arms, who 
 embraced her with a face of unutterable woe, and like a 
 victim as he was, resumed his former seat, close by the 
 side of his venerable friend ; whom he suffered, not 
 without much constrained sweetness of countenance, 
 combating very expressive physiognomical revelations of 
 an opposite character, to draw his arm through hers, and 
 keep it there. 
 
 “And how’s Master, deary dear?” said Mrs. Brown, 
 when, sitting in this amicable posture, they had pledged 
 each other. 
 
 “ Hush ! if you’d be so good. Misses Brown, as to 
 speak a little lower,” Rob implored. “ Why, he’s pretty 
 well, thank’ee, I suppose.” 
 
 “You’re not out of place, Robby?” said Mrs. Brown 
 in a wheedling tone. 
 
 “ Why, I’m not exactly out of place nor in,” faltered 
 Rob. “I — I’m still in pay. Misses Brown.” 
 
 “ And nothing to do, Rob?” 
 
 “Nothing particular to do just now. Misses Brown, 
 but to — keep my eyes open,” said the Grinder, rolling 
 them in a forlorn way. 
 
 “ Master abroad, Rob ? ” 
 
 “Oh, for goodness sake. Misses Brown, couldn’t you 
 gossip with a cove about anything else ! ” cried the 
 Grinder, in a burst of despair. 
 
 The impetuous Mrs. Brown rising directly, the tor- 
 tured Grinder detained her, stammering “ Ye-yes, Misses 
 Brown, I believe he’s abroad. What’s she staring -at?” 
 he added, in allusion to the daughter, whose eyes were 
 fixed upon the face that now again looked out behind 
 him. 
 
 “ Don’t mind her, lad,” said the old woman, holding 
 him closer to prevent his turning round. “ It’s her way 
 —her way. Tell me, Rob. Did you ever see the lady, 
 deary ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, Misses Brown, what lady ?” cried the Grinder in 
 a tone of piteous supplication. 
 
 “ What lady?” she retorted. “The lady ; Mrs. Dom- 
 bey.” 
 
 Yes, I believe I see her once,” replied Rob. 
 
 “ The night she went away, Robby, eh ?” said the old 
 woman in his ear, and taking note of every change in hi^ 
 face, “Aha 1 I know it was that night.” 
 
 “ Well, if you know it was that night, you know, 
 Misses Brown,” replied Rob, “it’s no use putting pinch- 
 ers into a cove to make him say so.” 
 
 “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” 
 
DOHBEY AND SON. 
 
 451 
 
 cried the old hag, holding him closer yet, patting tho 
 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 I You and me can keep a se* 
 cret together, eh? WeVe done so before now. Wher® 
 did they go first, Rob ? ” 
 
 The wretched Grinder made a gasp and a pause. 
 
 ‘‘ Are you dumb ? ’’ said the old woman, angrily. 
 
 Lord, Misses Brown, no ! You expect a cove to be a 
 flash of lightning. I wish I was the electric fluency,” 
 muttered the bewildered Grinder. Fd have shock at 
 somebody, that would settle their business. ” 
 
 ‘‘ What do you say?’' asked the old woman with a 
 grin. 
 
 I’m wishing my love to you. Misses Brown,” returned 
 the false Rob, seeking consolation in the glass. Where 
 did they go to first, was it ! Him and her do you mean ? ” 
 
 '' Ah ! ” said the old woman, eagerly Them two.” 
 
 '' Why they didn’t go nowhere — not together, I mean,” 
 answered Rob. 
 
 The old woman looked at him, as though she had a 
 strong impulse upon her to make another clutch at his 
 head and throat, but was restrained by a certain dogged 
 mystery in his face. 
 
 ‘‘ That was the art of it,” said the reluctant Grinder ; 
 
 that’s the way nobody saw ’em go, or has been able to 
 say how they did go. They went different ways, I tell 
 you. Misses Brown.” 
 
 *‘Ay, ay, ay! To meet at an appointed place, 
 chuckled the old woman, after a moment’s silent and 
 keen scrutiny of his face. 
 
 “ Why, if they weren’t a going to meet somewhere, I 
 suppose they might as well have stayed at home, 
 mightn’t they. Misses Brown ? ” returned the unwilling 
 Grinder. 
 
 ** Well, Rob? Well?” said the old woman, drawing 
 his arm yet tighter through her own, as if, in her eager- 
 ness, she were afraid of his slipping away. 
 
 What, haven’t we talked enough yet. Misses Brown 
 returned the Grinder, who, between his sense of injury, 
 his sense of liquor, and his sense of being on the rack, 
 bad become so lachrymose, that at almost every answer 
 he scooped his coat- cuff into one or other of his eyes, 
 and uttered an unavailing whime of remonstrance. “ Bid 
 she laugh that night, was it? Didn’t you ask if she 
 laughed. Misses Brown?” 
 
 “ Or cried?” added the old woman, nodding assent. 
 
 ‘‘ Neither,” said the Grinder. “She kept as steady 
 when she and me— -oh, I see you will have out of me. 
 
45g| WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Misses Brown I But take your solemn oath now, that 
 you'll never tell anybody.” 
 
 This Mrs. Brown very readily did : being naturally 
 Jesuitical ; and having no other intention in the matter 
 than that her concealed visitor should hear for himself. 
 
 She kept as steady, then, when she and me went 
 down to Southampton,” said the Grinder, “ as a image. 
 In the morning she was just the same, Misses Brown. 
 And when she went away in the packet before daylight 
 by herself — me pretending to be her servant, and seeing 
 her safe aboard — she was just the same. Now, are you 
 contented, Mrs. Brown?” 
 
 “ No, Rob. Not yet,*’ answered Mrs. Brown, deci- 
 sively. 
 
 Oh here’s a woman for you !” cried the unfortunate 
 Rob, in an outburst of feeble lamentation over his own 
 helplessness. 
 
 “ What did you wish to know next, Misses Brown ? * 
 
 “What became of Master? Where did he go?*' 
 She inquired, still holding him tight, and looking close 
 into his face, with her sharp eyes. 
 
 “ Upon my soul, I don’t know. Misses Brown,” an 
 swered Rob. “Upon my soul I don’t know what he did, 
 nor where he went, nor anything about him. I only 
 know what he said to me as a caution to hold my tongue , 
 when we parted ; and I tell you this, Mrs. Brown, as a 
 friend, that sooner than ever repeat a word of what 
 We’re saying now, you had better take and shoot your- 
 self or shut yourself up in this house, and set it a* fire, 
 for there’s nothing he wouldn’t do, to be revenged upon 
 you. You don’t know him half as well as I do. Misses 
 Brown. You’re never safe from him, I tell you.” 
 
 “ Haven’t I taken an oath,” retorted the old woman, 
 “ and won’t I keep it? ” 
 
 “Well, I’m sure I hope you will, Misses Brown,” re 
 turned Rob, somewhat doubtfully, and not without a 
 latent thieatening in his manner. “ For your own sake, 
 quite as much as mine.” 
 
 He looked at her as he gave her this friendly caution, 
 and emphasised it with a nodding of his head ; but find- 
 ing 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 uneas- 
 ily and sat shuffling in his chair, as if he were trying to 
 bring himself to a sullen declaration that he would an- 
 swer no more questions. The old woman, still holding 
 him as before, took this opportunity of raising the fore- 
 finger 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. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 453 
 
 Rob,” she said, in her most coaxing tone. 
 
 ‘‘Good gracious. Misses Brown, what’s the mattei 
 now ? ” returned the exasperated Grinder. 
 
 “Rob! where did the lady and Master ai^point to 
 meet ? ” 
 
 Rob shuffied more and more, and looked up and looked 
 down, and bit his thumb, and dried it on his waistcoat, 
 and finally said, eyeing his tormentor askant, “How 
 should I know. Misses Brovvm ? ” 
 
 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 :>ut 
 wdth, “ How can I pronounce the names of foreign places, 
 Mrs. Brown ? What an unreasonable w’^oman you are ! ” 
 
 “But you have heard it said, Robby,” she retorted, 
 firmly, “ and you know w^hat it sounded like. Come I ” 
 
 “ I never heard it said. Misses Brown,” returned the 
 Grinder. 
 
 “ Then,” retorted the old woman quickly, “ you have 
 seen it written, and you can spell it.” 
 
 Rob, with a petulant expression betw^een laughing and 
 crying — for he v/as 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. Tho old 
 woman’s eyes sparkled when she saw it between his 
 thumb and finger, and hastily clearing a space on the 
 deal table, that he might write the 'word there, she once 
 more made her signal with a shaking hand. 
 
 “ Now I tell you beforehand, what it is, Misses 
 Bro’v^m,” said Rob, “it’s no use asking use anything else. 
 1 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 Vvas to tell 
 you how I found out this w^ord, you’d believe that. 
 Shall I tell you. Misses Brown ? ” 
 
 “Yes, Rob.” 
 
 “ Well then Misses Brown. The way — now you won’t 
 ask any more, you know ? ” said Rob, turning his eyes, 
 which were now fast getting drowsy and stupid upon 
 her. 
 
 “ No'c another word,” said Mrs. Brown. 
 
 “Well then, the way was this. Wiien a certain per- 
 son left the lady with me, he put a piece of paper with a 
 direction written on it in the lady’s hand, saying it was in 
 cane she should forget. She wasn’t afraid of forgetting, 
 foT Bho tore it up as soon as his back was turned, and when 
 Eput Up thQ carriage steps, 1 shook out one of the pieces 
 
454 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 -- -slie sprinkled the rest out of the window, T suppose, 
 for there was none there afterwards, though I looked fop 
 'em. There was only one word on it, and that was this, 
 if you must and will know. But remember ! You’re 
 upon your oath, Misses Brown ! ” 
 
 Mrs. Brown knew that, she said. Rob, having noth- 
 ing more to say, began to chalk, slowly and laboriously, 
 on the table.” 
 
 ' D,’ ” the old woman read aloud, when he had 
 formed the letter. 
 
 ‘‘ Will you hold your tongue. Misses Brown?” he ex- 
 claimed, covering it with his hand, and turning im- 
 patiently upon her, I won’t have it read out. Be quiet, 
 will you ! ” 
 
 “Then write large, Rob,” she returned, repeating her 
 secret signal ; “ for my eyes are not good, even at 
 print. ” 
 
 Muttering to himself, and turning 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 uncon° 
 sciously 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. Dom- 
 bey’s met, as if each of them sought to be confirmed by 
 the other ; and thus they both spelt D. I. J. 0. N. 
 
 “ There !” said the Grinder, moistening the palm of 
 his hand hastily, to obliterate the word ; and not con- 
 tent with smearing it out, rubbing and planing all trace 
 of it away with his coat-sleeve, until the very colour of 
 the chalk was gone from the table. “Now, I hope 
 you’re contented. Misses Brown ! ” 
 
 The old woman, in token t)f her being so, released his 
 arm and patted his back ; and the Grinder, overcome 
 with mortification, cross-examination, and liquor, folded 
 his arms on the table, laid his head upon them, and fell 
 asleep. 
 
 Not until he had been heavily asleep some time, and 
 was snoring roundly, t^id the old woman turn towards the 
 door where Mr. Dombey stood concealed, and beckoned 
 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 cognisance 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. 
 
DOM BEY AND SON. 
 
 455 
 
 made a chinking, golden sound, it was as bright and 
 greedy as a raven's. 
 
 The daughter's dark gaze followed him to the door, 
 and noted well how pale he was, and hov/ -his hurried 
 tread indicated that the least delay was an insupportable 
 restraint upon him, and how he was burning to be active 
 and away. As he closed the door behind him, she looked 
 round at her mother. The old woman trotted to her ; 
 opened her hand to show what was within ; and tightly 
 closing it again in her jealousy and avarice, whispered : 
 
 What will he do, Ally ? " 
 
 Mischief," said the daughter. 
 
 ‘‘ Murder ? " asked the old woman. 
 
 “ He's a madman, in his wounded pride, and may do 
 that, for anything we can say, or he either." 
 
 Her glance was brighter than her mother's, and the 
 fire that shone in it was fiercer ; but her face was color- 
 . less, even to her lips. 
 
 They said no more, but sat apart ; the mother com- 
 muning with her money; the daughter with her thoughts; 
 the glance of each, shining in the gloom of the feebly 
 Sighted room. Rob slept and snored. The disregarded 
 parrot only was in action. It twisted and pulled at the 
 t7ires of its cage, with its crooked beak, and crawled 
 up to the dome, and along its roof like a fiy, 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 
 Iftim of it. 
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 
 More Intelligence. 
 
 Theue were two of the traitor’s own blood — his re- 
 nounced brother and sister — on whom the weight of his 
 guilt rested almost more heavily, at this time, than on 
 the man whom he had so deeply injured. Prying and tor- 
 menting as the world was, it did Mr. Dombey the service 
 of nerving him to pursuit and revenge. It roused his pas- 
 sion, 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 per- 
 sonal 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 
 
456 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 have been a milder enemy to encounter than the sullen 
 Mr. Dombey wrought to this. A wild beast would have 
 been easier turned or soothed than the grave gentleman 
 without a wrinkle in his starched cravat. 
 
 But the very intensity of his purpose became almost a 
 substitute for action in it. While he was yet uninformed 
 of the traitor’s retreat, it served to divert his mind from 
 his own calamity, and to entertain it with another pros- 
 pect. The brother and sister of his false favourite had 
 no such relief ; everything in their history, past and 
 present, gave his delinquency a more afflicting meaning 
 to them. 
 
 The sister may have sometimes sadly thought that it 
 she had remained with him, the companion and friend 
 she had been once, he might have escaped the crime into 
 which he had fallen. If she ever thought so, it was still 
 without regret for what she had done, without the least 
 doubt of her duty, without any pricing or enhancing of 
 her self-devotion. But when this possibility presented it- 
 self to the erring and repentant brother, as it sometimes 
 did, it smote upon his heart with such a keen, reproach- 
 ful touch as he could hardly bear. No idea of retort 
 upon his cruel brother came into his mind. New accusa= 
 tion of himself, fresh inward lamenting over his own un- 
 worthiness, and the ruin in which it was at once his com 
 solation and his self-reproach he did not stand alone, were 
 the sole kind of reflections to which the discovery gave 
 rise in him. 
 
 It was on the very same day whose evening set upon 
 the last chapter, and when Mr. Dombey ’s world was 
 busiest with the elopement of his wife, that the window 
 of the room in which the brother and sister sat at their 
 early breakfast, was darkened by the unexpected shadow 
 of a man coming to the little porch : which man was 
 Perch the messenger. 
 
 "‘Tve stepped over from Balls Pond at a early hour,” 
 said Mr. Perch, confldentially 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 in- 
 structions 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, 
 1 do assure you, five distinct times.” 
 
 “ Is your wife ill ? ” asked Harriet. 
 
 “Why you see,” said Mr. Perch, first turning round to 
 shut the door carefully, “ she takes what has happened 
 in our House so much to heart, miss. Her nerves is so 
 very delicate you see, and soon unstrungi Not but wha^ 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 457 
 
 tlie strongest nerves had good need to be shook, Fm 
 sure. You feel it very much yourself, no doubts.” 
 
 Harriet repressed a sigh, and glanaed at her brother. 
 
 “ Fm sure I feel it myself, in my humble way,” Mr. 
 Perch went on to say, with a shake of his head, "Mn a 
 manner I couldn't have believed if I hadn't been called 
 upon to undergo. It has almost the effect of drink upon 
 me. I literally feels every morning as if I had been 
 taking more than was good for me over-night.” 
 
 Mr. Perch's appearance corroborated this recital of his 
 symptoms. There was an air of feveiish lassitude about 
 it, that seemed referable to drams ; and which in fact, 
 might no doubt have been traced to those numerous dis- 
 coveries of himself in the bars of public-houses, being 
 treated and questioned, which he was in the daily habit 
 of making. 
 
 “ Therefore T can judge,” said Mr. Perch, shaking his 
 head again, and speaking in a silvery murmur, of the 
 feelings of such as is at all peculiarly sitiwated in this 
 most painful rewelation. ” 
 
 Here Mr. Perch waited to be confided in ; and receiving 
 no confidence, coughed behind his hand. This leading 
 to nothing, he coughed behind his hat ; and that leading 
 to nothing, he put his hat on the ground and sought in 
 his breast pocket for the letter. 
 
 ‘'If I rightly recollect, there was no answer,” said 
 Mr. Perch, with an affable smile ; " but perhaps you'll 
 be so good as cast your eye over it, sir.” 
 
 John Carker broke the seal, which was Mr. Dombey’s, 
 and possessing himself of the contents, which were very 
 brief, replied, " No. No answer is expected.” 
 
 "Then I shall wish you good morning, miss,” said 
 Perch, taking a step tov>^ard 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 reweia- 
 tion. The Papers,” said Mr. Perch, taking two steps 
 back again, and comprehensively addressing both the 
 brother and sister in a whisper of increased mystery, “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 tv/enty minutes after eight o'clock. \ 
 see him myself, with his eye at the counting-house key- 
 hole, which being patent is impervious. Another one/® 
 said Mr. Perch, "with milintary frogs, is in the parlou? 
 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 prinl^ 
 in a most surprising manner.” 
 
 Mr« Perch resorted to his breast pocket, as if to pro 
 Yol. 12 -T 
 
458 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 duce the paragraph, hut receiving no encouragement, 
 pulled out his beaver gloves, picked up his hat, and took 
 nis 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 ail the comfort I have left ! ” 
 and how Mr. John Carker had said, in an awful voice. 
 
 Perch, I disown him. ■ Never let me hear him men- 
 tioned as a brother more ! ” 
 
 Dear John,” said Harriet, when they were left alone, 
 and had remained silent for some few moments. “ There 
 are bad tidings in that letter.” 
 
 “ Yes. But nothing unexpected,” he replied. ‘‘ I saw 
 the writer yesterday.” 
 
 The writer ?” 
 
 Mr. Dombey. He passed twice through the counting- 
 house while I was there. I had been able to avoid him 
 before, but of course could not hope to do that long. I 
 know how natural it was that he should regard my 
 presence as something offensive ; I felt it must be so, 
 myself.” 
 
 He did not say so ? ” 
 
 No ; he said nothing : but I saw that his glance 
 rested on me for a moment, and I was prepared for what 
 would happen — for what has happened. I am dis- 
 missed I ” 
 
 She looked as little shocked and as hopeful as she 
 could, but it was distressing news, for many rea- 
 sons. 
 
 “ ‘ I need not tell you,*” said John Carker, reading the 
 letter, ‘ why your name would henceforth have an un- 
 natural sound, in however remote a connexion with 
 mine, or why the daily sight of any one who bears it, 
 would be unendurable to me. I have to notify the ces- 
 sation of all engagements between us, from this date, 
 and to request that no renewal of any communication 
 with me, or my establishment, be ever attempted by you. 
 — Enclosed is an equivalent in money to a generously 
 long notice, and this is my discharge.* Heaven knows, 
 Harriet, it is a lenient and considerate one, when we re* 
 member all ! ’* 
 
 If it be lenient and considerate to punish you at all, 
 John for the misdeed of another,** she replied gently, 
 
 yes.** 
 
 ‘‘We have been an ill-omened race to him,” said John 
 Carker. “ He has reason to shrink from the sound of our 
 name, and to think that there is something cursed and 
 wicked in our blood. I should almost think it too, 
 Harriet, but for you. ’* 
 
 “Brother, don*t speak like this. If you have any 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 459 
 
 special reason, as you say you have, and think you have 
 — though I say. No !— to love me, spare me the hearing 
 of such wild mad words ! ” 
 
 He covered his face with both his hands ; but soon 
 permitted her, coming near him, to take one in her own. 
 
 ‘‘-After so many years, this parting is a melancholy 
 thing, I know, said his sister, “ and the cause of it is 
 dreadful to us both. We have to live too, and must 
 look about us for the means. Well, well ! We can do 
 so, undismayed. It is our pride, not our trouble, to 
 strive, John, and to strive together.” 
 
 A smile played on her lips, as she kissed his cheek, 
 and entreated him to be of good cheer. 
 
 “ Oh, dearest sister ! Tied, of your own noble will, to 
 a ruined man ! whose reputation is blighted ; who has 
 no friend himself , and has driven every friend of yours 
 away ! ” 
 
 “ John ! ” she laid her hand hastily upon his lips, 
 “ for my sake ! In remembrance of our long companion- 
 ship !” 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 w© 
 a friend. ” 
 
 “What’s our friend’s name, Harriet?” he answered 
 with a sorrowful smile. 
 
 “ Indeed I don’t know, but he once made a very earn- 
 est protestation to me of his friendship and his wish to 
 serve us ; and to this day I believe him.” 
 
 “ Harriet I ” exclaimed her wondering brother, 
 
 where does this friend live ? ” 
 
 “Neither do I know that,” she returned. “But he 
 knows us both, and onr history — all our little history, 
 John. That is the reason why, at his own suggestion, 
 I have kept the secret of his coming here, from you, lest 
 his acquaintance with it should distress you.” 
 
 Here ! Has he been here, Harriet ? ” 
 
 ‘^Here, in this room. Once.” 
 
 “ What kind of a man ? ” 
 
 “Not young. ‘ Gray -headed,’ as he said, ‘and fast 
 growing grayer.’ But generous, and frank, and good, I 
 am sure.” 
 
 “ And only seen once, Harriet ? ” 
 
 “ In this room only once,” said his sister, with the 
 slightest and most transient glow upon her cheek ; “ but 
 when here, he entreated me to 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 
 
460 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 was the object of his visit — that we needed nothing.” 
 
 ** And once a week — ’’ 
 
 *'Once every week since then, and always on the same 
 day, and at the same hour, he has gone past ; always on 
 foot ; always going in the same direction — towards Lon- 
 don ; 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 (v/hich 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 hap- 
 pened.” 
 
 “ How ?” inquired her brother. 
 
 ‘‘I don’t know how. I have only speculated on the 
 coincidence ; I have not tried to account for it. I feel 
 sure he will return. When he does, dear John, let me 
 tell him that I have at last spoken to you, and let me 
 bring you together. He will certainly help us to a new 
 livelihood. His entreaty was that he might do something 
 to smooth my life and yours ; and I gave him my promise 
 that if we ever wanted a friend, I would remember him. 
 Then, his name was to be no secret.” 
 
 Harriet,” said her brother, who had listened with 
 close attention, describe this gentleman to me. I sure- 
 ly ought to know one who knows me so well.” 
 
 His sister painted, as vividly as she could, the features, 
 stature, and dress of her visitor ; but John Carker, either 
 from having no knowledge of the original, or from some 
 fault in her description, or from some abstraction of his 
 thoughts as he walked to and fro, pondering, could not 
 recognise the portrait she presented to him. 
 
 However, it was agreed between them that he should 
 see the original when he next appeared. This conclud- 
 ed, the sister applied herself, with a less anxious breast, 
 to her domestic occupations ; and the gray -haired man, 
 late Junior of Dombey’s, devoted the first day of his un- 
 wonted liberty to working in the garden. 
 
 It was quite late at night, and the brother was reading 
 aloud while the sister plied her needle, when they were 
 interrupted by a knocking at the door. In the atmos- 
 phere 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. 
 Some one spoke to him, and he replied, and seemed sur- 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 461 
 
 prised ; and after a few words, the two approached to. 
 gether. 
 
 '' Harriet/' said her brother, lighting in their late vis- 
 itor, and speaking in a low voice, ‘‘ Mr. Morfin — the gen- 
 tleman so long in Dombey's house with James." 
 
 His sister started back, as if a ghost had entered. In 
 the doorway stood the unknown friend, with the dark 
 hair sprinkled with gray, the ruddy face, the broad clear 
 brow, and hazel eyes whose secret she had kept so long ! 
 
 John ! " she said, half breathless. It is the gentle- 
 man I told you of, to-day ! ” 
 
 The gentleman. Miss Harriet,” said the visitor, com- 
 ing in — for he had stopped a moment in the 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.” 
 
 By this time, he had greeted Harriet with that agree- 
 able mingling of cordiality and respect which she recol- 
 lectedeso well, and had sat down near her, pulled oil 
 his gloves, and thrown them into his hat upon the 
 table. 
 
 ‘ ‘ There's nothing astonishing,” he said, ‘‘ in my having 
 conceived a desire to see your sister, Mr. John, or in my 
 having gratified it in my own way. As to the regularity 
 of my visits since (which she may have mentioned to you), 
 there is nothing extraordinary in that. They soon grew 
 into a habit ; and we are creatures of habit — creatures of 
 habit !" 
 
 Putting his hands into his pockets, and leaning back in 
 his chair, he looked at the brother and sister as if it were 
 interesting to him to see them together ; and went on to 
 say, with a kind of irritable thoughtfulness : ‘‘It's this 
 same habit that confirms some of us, who are capable of 
 better things, in Lucifer’s own pride and si^ubbornness — 
 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 con- 
 victions. You shall judge of its infiuence on me, John. 
 For more years than I need name, I had my small, an ex- 
 actly 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 infiuence, until 
 the business and its owner v/ere his football; and saw 
 
462 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 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 
 goon, 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.” 
 
 I can answer for your being more respected and be- 
 loved during all that time than anybody in the house, 
 sir,” said John Carker. 
 
 '"Pooh ! Good-natured and easy enough, I dare say,” 
 returned the other, ‘‘a habit I had. It suited the man- 
 ager : it suited the man he managed : it suited me best 
 of all. I did wbat 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 
 3^our sister that it was divided from the manager’s room 
 by a wainscot partition.” 
 
 ‘‘ They were adjoining rooms ; had been one, perhaps, 
 originally ; and were separated, as Mr. Morfin says,” said 
 her brother, looking back to him for the resumption of 
 his explanation. 
 
 ** I have whistled, hummed tunes, gone accurately 
 through the whole of Beethoven’s Sonata in B, to let him 
 know that I was within hearing,” said Mr. Morfin, but 
 he never heeded me. It happened seldom enough that I 
 was within hearing of anything of a private nature, cer- 
 tainly. But when I was, and couldn’t otherwise avoid 
 kox-ming something of it, I walked out. I walked out 
 once, John, during a conversation between two brothers, 
 to which, in the beginning, young Walter Gay was a 
 party. But I overheard some of it before I left the room. 
 You remember it sufficiently, perhaps, to tell your sister 
 what its nature was ?” 
 
 It referred, Harriet,” said her brother, in a low 
 voice, “ to the past, and to our relative positions in the 
 house.” 
 
 Its matter was not new to me, but was presented in a 
 new aspect. It shook me in ray 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 463 
 
 take up, one day or other? I was something less good- 
 natured, as the phrase goes, after that morning, less 
 easy and complacent altogether.” 
 
 He sat for a minute or so, drumming with one hand 
 on the table ; and resumed in a hurry, as if he were anx- 
 ious to get rid of his confession. 
 
 “Before I knew what to do, or whether I could do 
 anything, there was a second conversation between the 
 same two brothers, in which their sister was mentioned. 
 I had no scruples of conscience in suffering all the waifs 
 and strays of that conversation to float to me as freely 
 as they would. I considered them mine by right. After 
 that I came here to see the sister for myself. The first 
 time I stopped at the garden gate, I made a pretext of in- 
 quiring into the character of a poor neighbour ; but 1 
 wandered out of that tract, and I think Miss Harriet mis- 
 trusted 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 re- 
 ceiving 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 pre- 
 vented, by important matters that have lately devolv&S 
 upon me, from maintaining them.” 
 
 “How little I have suspected this,” said John Carker^ 
 “when I have seen you every day, sir ! If Harriet 
 could have guessed your name — ” 
 
 “Why, to tell you the truth, John,” interposed the 
 visitor, “I kept it to myself for two reasons, I*don^t 
 know that the first might have been binding alone ; but 
 one has no business to take credit for good intentions, 
 and I made up my mind, at all events, not to disclose 
 myself 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 there was the chance of a man of his suspi- 
 cious, 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 oppor- 
 tunity of serving you with the head of the house ; but 
 the distractions of death, courtship, marriage, and do- 
 mestic 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.” 
 
 He seemed conscious that these latter words had es- 
 caped him against his will, and stretching out a hand to 
 the brother and a hand to the sister, continued ^ 
 
464 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 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 wer© 
 discharged from it to-day by no act of your own. It is 
 late ; I need say no more to-night. You will guard th© 
 treasure you have here, without advice or reminder 
 from me.” 
 
 With these words he rose to go. 
 
 But go you first, John,” he said good-humouredly, 
 
 with a light, without saying what you want to say, 
 whatever that may be ; ” John Carker^s heart was full, 
 and he would have relieved it in speech, if he could; 
 ** and let me have a word with your sister. We hav4 
 talked alone before, and in this room too ; though it 
 looks more natural with you here.” 
 
 Following him out with his eyes, he turned kindly to 
 Harriet, and said in a lower voice, and with an altered 
 and graver manner : 
 
 You wish to ask me something of the man whose 
 sister it is your misfortune to be.” 
 
 I dread to ask,” said Harriet. 
 
 You have looked so earnestly at me more than once,'" 
 yejoined the visitor, that I think I can divine your 
 question. Has he taken money ? Is it that ? ” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 He has not.” 
 
 ** I thank Heaven ! ” said Harriet. For the sake ot 
 John.” 
 
 “ That he has abused his trust in many ways,” said 
 Mr. Morfin ; “that he has oftener dealt and speculated 
 io advantage for himself than for the house he repre- 
 sented ; that he has led the house on, to prodigious ven- 
 tures, often resulting in enormous losses ; that he has 
 always pampered the vanity and ambition of his em- 
 ployer, when it was his duty to have held them in check, 
 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 ex- 
 hibit 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 ren- 
 der 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 
 
DOMBEr AND SON. 
 
 465 
 
 generalities foi facts. But latterly — you follow me. Miss 
 Harriet ? 
 
 Perfectly, perfectly,’' she answered, with her fright- 
 ened face fixed on his. “ Pray tell me all the worst at 
 
 'ODce,” 
 
 Latterly, he appears to have devoted the greatest 
 Ipains to making these results so plain and clear, that 
 Hreference to the private books enables one to grasp 
 Ifihem, numerous and varying as they are, with extraor- 
 dinary 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 I that it has been his 
 constant practice to minister to that passion basely, and 
 to flatter it corruptly, is indubitable. In that, his crim^ 
 inality, as it is connected with the affairs of the house, 
 chiefly consists.” 
 
 One other word before you leave me, dear sir,” said 
 Harriet. There is no danger in all this ? ” 
 
 How danger?” he returned, with a little hesitation. 
 
 * ' To the credit of the house ? ” 
 
 I cannot help answering you plainly, and trusting 
 you completely,” said Mr. Morfln, after a moment’s sur- 
 vey of her face. 
 
 ‘‘You may. Indeed you may !” 
 
 “I am sure I may. Danger to the house’s credit? 
 No ; none. There may be difficulty, greater or less diffi- 
 culty, 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 alv/ays represented it to himself, should urge it 
 beyond its strength. Then it would totter.” 
 
 “ But there is no apprehension of that ? ” said Harriet. 
 
 '* There shall be no half-confidence,” he replied, shak- 
 ing her hand, ‘ ‘ between us. Mr. Dombey is unap- 
 proachable by any one, 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 to-night, and good night ! ” 
 
 With that he kissed her hand, and, passing out to the 
 door where her brother stood awaiting his coming, put 
 Mm 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. 
 
 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 ag'o, upon a solitary 
 
466 
 
 WOKKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 coast, to wliom a sliip Lad come at last, when they were 
 old in resignation, and had lost all tliought of any other 
 Lome. But another and different kind of disquietude 
 kept them waking too. The darkness out of which this 
 light had broken on them gathered around ; and the 
 shadow of their guilty brother was in the house where 
 his foot had never trod. 
 
 Nor was it to be driven out, nor did it fade before the 
 sun. Next morning it was there ; at noon ; at night. 
 Darkest and most distinct at night, as is now to be told, 
 
 John Carker had gone out, in 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 spir- 
 its. The idea of this brother, long unseen and unknown, 
 flitted about her in frightful shapes. He was dead, dy- 
 ing, 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 time dark corners of the room, lest his wraith, 
 the offspring of her excited imagination, should be wait- 
 ing 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. 
 
 It was almost dark, and she was sitting near the win- 
 dow, with her head upon her hand, looking down, when, 
 sensible of a sudden increase in the gloom of the apart- 
 ment, she raised her eyes and uttered an involuntary 
 cry. Close to the glass, a pale scared face gazed in ; va- 
 cantly, for an instant, as searching for an object ; then the 
 eyes rested on herself, and lighted up. 
 
 ‘‘ Let me in ! Let me in ! I want to speak to you !*“* 
 and the hand rattled on the glass. 
 
 She recognized immediately the woman with the long 
 dark hair, to whom she had given warmth, food, and 
 shelter, one wet night. Naturally afraid of her, remem- 
 bering her violent behaviour, Harriet, retreating a little 
 from the window, stood undecided and alarmed. 
 
 Let me in I Let me speak to you ! I am thankful 
 — quiet — humble — anything you like. But let me speak 
 to you.” 
 
 The vehement manner of the entreaty, the earnest ex- 
 pression of the face, the trembling of the two hands that 
 were raised imploringly, a certain dread and terror ia 
 
DOMBEY AND SOli. 
 
 467 
 
 tlie voice akin to lier own condition at the moment, pre- 
 vailed with Harriet. Slie hastened to the door and 
 opened it. 
 
 ‘‘ May I come in or shall I speak here? ” said the wo- 
 man, catching at her hand. 
 
 What is it that you want? What is it that yon 
 have to say ? ” 
 
 Not much, but let me say it out, or I shall never sa^ 
 it. I am tempted now to go away. There seem to be 
 hands dragging me from the door. Let me come in, if 
 you can trust me for this once ! ’’ 
 
 Her energy again prevailed, and they passed into the 
 firelight of the little kitchen, where she had before sat, 
 and ate, and dried her clothes, 
 
 ‘"Sit there,"' said Alice, kneeling down beside her, 
 “and look at me. You remember me?"" 
 
 “Ido."" 
 
 “ You remember what I told you I had been, and 
 where I came from, ragged and lame, with the fierce 
 wind and weather beating on my head ? "’ 
 
 Yes."" 
 
 “You know how I came back that night, and threw 
 your money in the dirt, and cursed you and your race. 
 Now, see me here, on my knees. Am I less earnest 
 now, than I was then ? ” 
 
 “ If what you ask,"" said Harris, gently, is forgive^ 
 ness — "" 
 
 “ But it"s not ! "" returned the other, with a proud, 
 fierce look. “ What I ask is to be believed. Now 
 you shall judge if I am worthy of belief, both as I was, 
 and as I am."" 
 
 Still upon her knees, and with her eyes upon the fire, 
 and the fire shining on her ruined beauty and her wild 
 black hair, one long tress of which she pulled over her 
 shoulder, and wound about her hand, and thoughtfully 
 bit and tore while speaking, she went on : 
 
 “ When I was young and pretty, and this,"" plucking 
 contemptuously at the hair she held, “was only handled 
 delicately, and couldn't be admired enough, my mother, 
 who had not been very mindful of me as a child, found 
 out my merits, and was fond of me, and proud of me. 
 She was covetous and poor, and thought to make a sort 
 of property of me. No great lady ever thought that of 
 a daughter yet, Fm sure, or acted as she did — it’s never 
 done, w'e all know — and that shows that the only in- 
 stances of mothers bringing up their daughters wrong, 
 and evil coming of it, are among such miserable folks as 
 us. "" 
 
 Looking at the fire, as if she were forgetful, for the 
 moment, of having any auditor, she continued in a 
 dreamy way, as she wound the long tress of hair tight 
 round and round her head. 
 
468 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ‘‘ Wliat 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.” 
 
 Raising her eyes swiftly from their moody gaze upon 
 the fire, to Harriet’s face, she said — 
 
 I am wasting time, and there is none to spare ; yet 
 if I hadn’t thought of all, I shouldn’t be here now. 
 Wretchedness and ruin came on me, I say. I was made 
 a short-lived toy, and flung aside more cruelly and care- 
 lessly than even such things are. By whose hand do 
 you think ? ” 
 
 Why do you ask me ? ” said Harriet. 
 
 '"Why do you tremble?” rejoined Alice, with an 
 eager look. " His usage made a devil of me. I 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 peti- 
 tioned 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 1 should be 
 sent abroad, beyond the reach of further trouble to him, 
 and should die, and rot there ? Who was this, do you 
 think ? ” 
 
 " Why do you ask me ? ” repeated Harriet. 
 
 Why do you tremble ? ” said Alice, laying her hand 
 upon her arm, and looking in her face, " but that the 
 answer is on your lips ! It was your brother James.” 
 
 Harriet trembled more and more, but did not avert her 
 eyes from the eager look that rested on them . 
 
 "When I knew you were his sister — which was on 
 that night — I came back, weary and lame, to spurn your 
 gift. I felt that night as if I could have travelled, weary 
 and lame, over the whole world, to stab him, if I could 
 have found him in a lonely place with no one near. Do 
 you believe that I was earnest in all that ? ” 
 
 " I do I Good Heaven, why are you come again ? ” 
 
 " Since then,” said Alice, with the same grasp of her 
 arm, and the same look in her face, " I have seen him 1 
 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 469 
 
 tiis deadly enemy. What if I had given information of 
 Mm to that man ? ” 
 
 Information ! ” repeated Harriet. 
 
 ‘^What if I had found out one who knew your 
 brother’s secret : who knew the manner of his flight ; 
 who knew where he and the companion of his flight were 
 gone ? What if I had made him utter all his knowledge 
 word by word, before this enemy, concealed to hear it ? 
 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 oh his road, 
 more fiend than man, and must, in so many hours, come 
 up with him ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ Remove your hand 1” said Harriet, recoiling. Go 
 away ! Your touch is dreadful to me ! ” 
 
 “ I have done this,” pursued the other, with her eager 
 look, regardless of the interruption. Do I speak and 
 look as if I really had? Do you believe what I am 
 saying ? ” 
 
 I fear I must. Let my arm go ! ” 
 
 ‘‘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 ? ” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Dreadful ! ” said Harriet. 
 
 “ Then when you see me now,” said Alice, hoarsely, 
 here again, kneeling guietiy 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 1 have done, if 
 it is possible. I wouldn’t have them come together 
 while his pursuer is so blind, and headlong. If you had 
 seen him as he went out last night, you would know the 
 danger better.” 
 
 “ How shall it be prevented ! What can I do !” cried 
 Harriet. 
 
 Ail night long,” pursued the other, hurriedly, “I 
 had dreams of him— and yet I didn’t sleep— in his blood. 
 All day, I have had him near me.” 
 
 “ What can I do?” said Harriet, shuddering at thes® 
 words. 
 
 “ If there is any one who’ll write, or send, or go to 
 him, let them lose no time. He is at Dijon. Do you 
 knov/ the name, and where it is ? ” 
 
 “Yes!” 
 
 “ Warn him that the man he has made his enemy is 
 In a frenzy, and that he doesn’t know him if he makes 
 
470 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 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 o^ so will make years of 
 difference. Let them not encounter through me. Any- 
 where 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."" 
 
 The fire ceased to be reflected in her jet black hair, 
 uplifted face, and eager eyes ; her hand was gone from 
 27arriet"s arm ; and the place where she had been, was 
 empty. 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 The Fugitives. 
 
 The time, an hour short of midnight ; the place, a 
 French Apartment comprising some half-dozen rooms ; 
 — a dull cold hall or corridor, a dining-room, a drawing- 
 room, a bed-chamber, and an inner drawing-room, or 
 boudoir, smaller and more retired than the rest. All 
 these shut in by one large pair of doors on the main stair - 
 case, but each room provided with two or three pairs of 
 doors of its own, establishing several means of commu- 
 nication 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. 
 
 An air of splendour, sufficiently faded to be melan- 
 choly, 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 cande- 
 labra, gnarled, and intertwisted like the branches of 
 trees, or horns of animals, stuck out from the panels of 
 the w^all. But in the day-time, when the lattice-blinds 
 (now closely shut) were opened, and the tight let in, 
 traces were discernible among this finery, of wear and 
 tear and dust, of sun and damp and smoke, and length 
 ened intervals of want of use and habitation, when such 
 shows and toys of life seem sensitive like life, and waste 
 as naen 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. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 471 
 
 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. 
 
 She was alone. The same defiant, scornful woman 
 still. The cheek a little worn, the eye a little larger in 
 appearance, and more lustrous, but the haughty bear* 
 ing just the same. No shame upon her brow ; no late 
 repentance bending her disdainful neck. Imperious and 
 stately yet, and yet regardless of herself and of all else, 
 she sat with her dark eyes cast down, waiting for some 
 one. 
 
 No book, no work, no occupation of any kind but her 
 own thoughts, beguiled the tardy time. Some 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 nostrils in- 
 flated ; her hands clasped in one another ; and her pur- 
 pose swelling in her breast ; she sat, and waited. 
 
 At the sound of a key in the outer door, and a footstep 
 in the hall, she started up, and cried “Who’s that?” 
 The answer was in French, and two men came in with 
 jingling trays, to make preparation for supper. 
 
 “ Who bade them do so ? ” she asked. 
 
 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?” 
 
 Yes.” 
 
 “ A thousand pardons ! The sudden apprehension 
 that it might have been forgotten had struck him ; ” a 
 bald man, with a large beard from a neighbouring res- 
 taurant: “ with despair ! Monsieur had said that supper 
 was to be ready at that hour : also that he had fore- 
 warned 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.” 
 
 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 ex- 
 amined 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. 
 
472 
 
 WORKS CF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 She couldn’t say. It was all one.” 
 
 Pardon ! There was the supper ! It should be eaten 
 on the instant. Monsieur (who spoke French like an 
 Angel — or a Frenchmen — it was all the same) had spoken 
 with great emphasis of his punctuality. But the English 
 nation had so grand a genius for punctuality. Ah ! what 
 noise ! Great Heaven, here was Monsieur. Behold him 
 
 In effect. Monsieur, admitted by the other of the two, 
 came, with his gleaming teeth, through the dark rooms, 
 like a mouth ; and arriving in that sanctuary of light and 
 colour, a figure at full length, embraced Madame, and 
 addressed her in the French tongue as his charming 
 wife. 
 
 My God ! Madame is going to faint. Madame is 
 overcome with joy !” The bald man with the beard ob- 
 served it, and cried out. 
 
 Madame had only shrunk and shivered. Before the 
 words were spoken, she was standing with her hand upon 
 the velvet back of a great chair ; her figure drawn up to 
 its full height, and her face immoveable. 
 
 Francois has flown over to the Golden Head for sup 
 per. He flies on these occasions like an angel or a bird 
 The baggage of monsieur is in his room. All is arranged. 
 The supper will be here this moment.” These facts the 
 bald man notified with bows and smiles, and presently 
 the supper came. 
 
 The hot dishes were on a chafing-dish ; the cold al 
 ready set forth, with the change of service on a side 
 board. Monsieur was satisfied with this arrangement. 
 The supper table being small, it pleased him very well. 
 Let them set the chafing-dish upon the floor, and go. He 
 would remove the dishes with his own hands. 
 
 Pardon ! ” said the bald man, politely. It was im 
 possible ! ” 
 
 Monsieur was of another opinion. He required no fur 
 thur attendance that night. 
 
 But Madame ” — the bald man hinted. 
 
 Madame,” replied Monsieur, ‘‘had her own maid 
 It was enough.” 
 
 A million pardons ! No ! madame had no maid \ ” 
 
 “ I came here alone,” said Edith. “ It was my choice 
 to do so. I am wt ll used to travelling ; I want no attend^ 
 ance. They need send nobody to me.” 
 
 Monsieur accordingly, persevering in his first proposed 
 impossibility, proceeded to follow the two attendants to 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 473 
 
 the outer door, and secure it after them for the night. 
 The bald man turning round to bow, as he went out, Ob'- 
 served that madame still stood with her hand upon the 
 velvet back of the great chair, and that her face was 
 quite regardless of him, though she was looking straight 
 before her. 
 
 As the sound of Carker’s fastening the door resounded 
 through the intermediate rooms, and seemed to como 
 hushed and stifled into that last distant one, the sound 
 of the Cathedral clock striking twelve mingled with it, 
 in Edith’s ears. She heard him pause, as if he heard 
 it too and listened ; and then come back towards her, 
 laying a long train of footsteps through the silence, and 
 shutting all the doors behind him as he came along. Her 
 hand, for a moment, left the velvet chair to bring a knife 
 within her reach upon the table ; then she stood as she 
 had stood before. 
 
 ‘‘ How strange to come here by yourself, my love,” he 
 said as he entered. 
 
 What ! ” she returned. 
 
 Her tone was so harsh ; the quick turn of her head so 
 fierce ; her attitude so repellent ; and her frown so black ; 
 that he stood, with the lamp in his hand, looking at her, 
 as if she had struck him motionless. 
 
 ‘‘ I say,” he at length repeated, putting down the lamp, 
 and smiling his most courtly smile, how strange to come 
 here alone ! It was unnecessary caution surely, and 
 might have defeated itself. You were to have engaged 
 an attendant at Havre or Rouen, and have had abundance 
 of time for the purpose, though you had been the most 
 capricious and difficult (as you are the most beautiful^ 
 my love) of women.” 
 
 Her eyes gleamed strangely on him, but she stood with 
 her hand resting on the chair, and said not a word. 
 
 I have never,” resumed Carker, seen you look so 
 handsome, as you do to-night. Even tne picture I have 
 carried in my mind during this cruel probation, and which 
 I have contemplated night and day, is exceeded by th© 
 reality.” 
 
 Not a word. Not a look. Her eyes completely hidden 
 by their drooping lashes, but her head held up. 
 
 ‘‘Hard, unrelenting terms they were !” said Carker, 
 with a smile, “ but they are all fulfilled and past, and 
 make the present more delicious and more safe. Sicily 
 shall be the place of our retreat. In the idlest and easL 
 est part of the world, my soul, we’ll both seek comp^iFi 
 sation for old slavery.” 
 
 He was coming gaily towards her, when, in an instant, 
 she caught the knife up from the table, and started one 
 pace back. 
 
 Stand still ! ” she said, or I shall murder you I ” 
 
474 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 The sudden change in her, the towering fury and in- 
 tense abhorrence sparkling in her eyes and lighting up 
 her brow, made him stop as if a fire had stopped him. 
 
 "‘Stand still ! she said, “come no nearer me, upon 
 your life ! '' 
 
 They both stood looking at each other. Rage and as- 
 tonishment were in his face, but he controlled them, and 
 said lightly, 
 
 “ Come, come ! Tush, we are alone and out of every- 
 body’s sight and hearing. Do you think to frighten me 
 with these tricks of virtue ? 
 
 “ Do you think to frighten me/' she answered fiercely, 
 “from any purpose that I have, and any course I am re- 
 solved upon, b}' reminding me of the solitude of this 
 place, and there being no help near ? Me who am here 
 alone, designedly ? If I feared you, should I not have 
 avoided you? If I feared you, should I be here, in 
 the dead of night, telling you to your face what I am 
 going to tell ? 
 
 “And what is that,'' he said, “you handsome shrew? 
 Handsomer so, than any other woman in her best hu- 
 mour ? " 
 
 “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 1" 
 
 “Do you mistake me for your husband?" he retorted, 
 with a grin. 
 
 Disdaining to reply, she stretched her arm out, point- 
 ing 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. 
 
 She put the knife down upon the table, and touching 
 her bosom with her hand, said : 
 
 “ I have something, lying here that is no love trinket ; 
 and sooner than endure your touch once more, Dwould 
 use it on you — and you know it, while I speak — with 
 less reluctance than I would on any other creeping thing 
 that lives." 
 
 He affected to laugh jestingly, and entreated her to 
 act her play out quickly, for the supper was growing 
 cold. But the secret look with which he regarded her, 
 was more sullen and lowering, and he struck his foot 
 once upon the floor with a muttered oath. 
 
 “ How many times," said Edith, bending her darkest 
 glance upon him, “has your bold knavery assailed me 
 with outrage and insult? How many times in your 
 smooth manner, and mocking words and looks, have J 
 been twitted with my courtship and my marriage ? How 
 
DOM BEY AND SON. 
 
 475 
 
 many times Lave 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 ? ” 
 
 have no doubt, ma’am,'' he replied, ''that you 
 have kept a good account, and that it's pretty accurate. 
 Come, Edith. To your husband, poor wretch, this was 
 well enough — " 
 
 "Why, if, "she said, surveying him with a haughty 
 contempt and disgust, that he shrunk under, let him 
 brave it as he would, "if all my other reasons for de- 
 spising him could have been blown away like feathers, 
 his having you for his counsellor and favourite, would 
 have almost been enough to hold their place." 
 
 " Is that a reason why you have run away with me ?" 
 he asked her, tauntingly. 
 
 "Yes, and why we are face to face for the last time. 
 Wretch. We meet to-night, and part to-night. For 
 not one moment after I have ceased to speak, will I stay 
 here ! " 
 
 He turned upon her with his ugliest look, and griped 
 the table with his hand ; but neither rose, nor otherwise 
 answered or threatened her. 
 
 "I am a woman,” she said, confronting him stedfastly, 
 "who from her very childhood has been shamed and 
 steeled. I have been offered and rejected, put up and 
 appraised, until my very soul has sickened. I have not 
 had an accomplishment or grace that might have been a 
 resource to 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.” 
 
 "Yes ; I imagined that,” he said. 
 
 "And calculated on it,” she rejoined, " and so pursued 
 me. Grown too indifferent for any opposition but indif- 
 ference, 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 wo- 
 man with a halter round her neck is sold in any market- 
 place. You know that.” 
 
 " Yes,” he said, showing all his teeth. " I know that.” 
 
 " And calculated on it,” she rejoined once more, " and 
 so pursued me. From my marriage day, I found myself ex- 
 
476 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 posed 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 humili- 
 ation 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 hun 
 dreds of times. And thus — forced by the two from 
 every point of rest I had — forced by the two to yield up 
 the last retreat of love and gentleness within me, or to 
 be a new misfortune on its innocent object— driven from 
 each to each, and beset by one when I escaped the other 
 — my anger rose almost to distraction against both. I do 
 not know against which it rose higher — the master or the 
 man ! ” 
 
 He watched her closely, as she stood before him in the 
 very triumph of her indignant beauty. She was resolute, 
 he saw, undauntable ; with no more fear of him than of 
 a worm. 
 
 What should I say of honour or of chastity to you 1 
 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 en> 
 hanced by every minute’s knowledge of you I have since 
 had, you have been a loathsome creature to me which 
 has not its like on earth ; how then ? ” 
 
 He answered, with a faint laugh, ‘‘Ay! how then, my 
 queen ? ” 
 
 “ On that night, when emboldened by the scene you 
 had assisted at, you dared come to my room and speak to 
 me,” she said, “ what passed?” 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, and laughed again. 
 
 “ What passed ?” she said. 
 
 “ Your memory is so distinct,” he returned, “ that 1 
 have no doubt you can recall it.” 
 
 “I can,” she said. “Hear it! Proposing then, this 
 flight — not this flight, but the flight you thought it — you 
 told me that in the having given you that meeting, and 
 leaving you to be discovered there, if you so thought 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 tra« 
 duce my name ; and I lived, in virtuous reputation, at 
 the pleasure of your breath.” 
 
 “ All stratagems in love — ” he interrupted, smiling. 
 
 The old adage — ” 
 
 “On that night,” said Edith, ' and then the afcruggl® 
 
DOMBBY AND SON. 
 
 477 
 
 tliat T long liad 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, loofi^* 
 ing at me now, and knowing what I mean.'* 
 
 He sprung up from his chair with a great oath. 
 She put her hand into her bosom, and not a finger 
 trembled, not a hair upon her head was stirred. He 
 stood still : she too : the table and chair between 
 them. 
 
 When I forget that this man put his lips to mine 
 ihat night, and held me in his arms as he has done 
 again to-night," said Edith, pointing at him ; ‘‘ when 
 i forget the taint of his kiss upon my cheek — the 
 cheek that Florence would have laid her guiltless face 
 against — when I forget my meeting with her, while 
 that taint was hot upon me, and in what a flood the 
 knowledge rushed upon me when I saw her, that in 
 releasing her from the persecution I had caused her 
 by my love, I brought a shame and degradation on her 
 iame through mine, and in all time to come should be 
 'he 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 
 iast two years, and undo what I have done, and un- 
 deceive you ! " 
 
 Her flashing eyes, uplifted for a moment, lighted 
 again on Carker, and she held some letters out in her 
 left hand. 
 
 ‘‘ See these ! " she said, contemptuously. “You have 
 addressed these to me in the false name you go by ; 
 one here, some elsewhere on my road. The seals are 
 unbroken. Take them back I” 
 
 She crunched them in her hand, and tossed them, to 
 his feet. And as she looked upon him now, a smile 
 was on her face. 
 
 “ We meet and part to-night,” she said. You have 
 fallen on Sicilian days and sensual rest, too soon. You 
 might have cajoled, and fawned, and played your trai- 
 tor's part, a little longer, and grown richer. You purchase 
 your voluptuous retirement dear ! " 
 
 “Edith !" he retorted menacing her with his hand. 
 “ Sit down ! Have done with this I What devil pos- 
 sesses you ? ” 
 
 “Their name is Legion,” she replied, uprearing her 
 proud form as if she would have crushed him ; “you and 
 your master have raised them in a fruitful house, and 
 they shall tear you both. False to him, false to his inno- 
 cent child, false everyway and everywhere, go forth and 
 
478 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 boast of me, and gnash your teeth for once to know that 
 you are lying ! ” 
 
 He stood before her, muttering and menacing, and 
 scowling round as if for something that would help him 
 to conquer her ; but with the same indomitable spirit she 
 opposed him, without faltering. 
 
 In every vaunt you make,’' she said, I have my tri- 
 umph. I single out in you the meanest man I know, the 
 parasite and tool of the proud tyrant, that his wound may 
 go the deeper and may rankle more. Boast, and revenge 
 me on him ! You know how you came here to-night ; 
 you know how you stand cowering there ; you see your 
 self in colours quite as despicable, if not as odious, as 
 those in which I see you. Boast then, and revenge me 
 on yourself.” 
 
 The foam was on his lips ; the wet stood on his fore- 
 head. If she should have faltered once, for only one half 
 moment, he would have pinioned her ; but she was as 
 firm as a rock, and her searching eyes never left him. 
 
 "‘We don’t part so,” he said. “Do you think I am 
 drivelling, to let you go in your mad temper?” 
 
 “Do you think,” she answered, “that I am to be 
 stayed?” 
 
 “I’ll try, my dear,” he said with a ferocious gesture 
 of his head. 
 
 “ God’s mercy on you, if you try by coming near me ! ” 
 she replied. 
 
 “And what,” he said, “if there are none of these same 
 boasts and vaunts on my part? what if I were to turn 
 too? Come ! ” and his teeth fairly shone again. “ We 
 must make a treaty of this, or I may take some unex- 
 pected course. Sit down, sit down ! ” 
 
 “ Too late ! ” she cried, with eyes that seemed to 
 sparkle fire. “I have thrown my fame and good name 
 to the winds ! I have resolved to bear the shame that 
 will attach to me — resolved to know that it attaches 
 falsely — that you know it too—and that he does not, nev 
 ^ can. and never shall. I’ll die and make no sign. For 
 this I am here alone with you, at the dead of night. For 
 this, I have met you here, in a false name, as your wife. 
 For this, I have been seen here by those men, and left 
 here. Nothing can save you now.” 
 
 He would have sold his soul to root her, in her beauty, 
 to the floor, and make her arms drop at her sides, and 
 have her at his mercy. But he could not look at her, 
 and not be afraid of her. He saw a strength within her 
 that was resistless. He saw that she was desperate, and 
 that her unquenchable hatred of him would stop at noth^* 
 ing. His eyes followed the hand that was put with such 
 rugged uncongenial purpose into her white bosom, and 
 he thought that if it struck at him, and failed, it would 
 strike there, just as soon. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 479 
 
 He did not venture, therefore, to advance towards her * 
 but the door by which he had entered was behind him, 
 and he stepped back to lock it. 
 
 “Lastly, take my warning ! look to yourself !” she 
 said, and smiled again. “ You have been betrayed, as 
 all betrayers are. It has been made known that you are 
 in this place, or v/ere to be, or have been. If I live, I 
 saw my husband in a carriage in the street to-night I ” 
 
 “ Strumpet, it’s false,” cried Carker. 
 
 At the moment, the bell rang loudly in the hall. He 
 turned white, as she held her hand up like an enchant- 
 ress, at whose invocation the sound had come. 
 
 “ Hark ! do you hear it?” 
 
 He set his back against the door ; for he saw a change 
 in her, and fancied she was coming on to pass him. But, 
 in a moment, she was gone through the opposite doors 
 communicating with the bed-chamber, and they shut 
 upon her. 
 
 Once turned, once changed in her inflexible unyielding 
 look, he felt that he could cope with her. He thought a 
 sudden terror, occasioned by this night alarm, had sub- 
 dued her ; not the less readily, for her overwrought con- 
 dition. Throwing open the doors, he followed, almost 
 instantly. 
 
 But the room was dark ; and as she made no answer to 
 his call, he was fain to go back for the lamp. He held 
 it up, and looked round everywhere, expecting to see her 
 crouching in some corner ; but the room was empty. So, 
 into the drawing-room and dining-room he went, in sue* 
 cession, with the uncertain steps of a man in a strange 
 place ; looking fearfully about, and prying behind screens 
 and couches ; but she was not there. No, nor in the hall, 
 which was so bare that he could see that, at a glance. 
 
 All this time, the ringing at the bell was constantly 
 renewed, and those without were beating at the door. 
 He put his lamp down at a distance, and going near it, 
 listened. There were several voices talking together ; 
 at least two of them in English ; and though the door 
 was thick, and there was great confusion, he knew one 
 of these too well to doubt whose voice it was. 
 
 He took up his lamp again, and came back quickly 
 through all the rooms, stopping as he quitted each, and 
 looking round for her, with the light raised above his 
 head. He was standing thus in the 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. 
 
 All this time the people on the stairs were ringing at 
 the bell, and knocking with their hands and feet. 
 
 He was not a coward ; but these sounds ; what had 
 
480 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 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 woul(? 
 have been much bolder, if they had succeeded) ; the un- 
 seasonable time ; the recollection of having no one near 
 to whom he could appeal for any friendly office ; abov€* 
 all, the sudden sense, which made even his heart beat, 
 like lead, that the man whose confidence he had out- 
 raged, and whom he had so treacherously deceived, 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. 
 
 The ringing and knocking still continuing — his panie 
 too— he went back to the door in the bed-chamber^ aiiid 
 wHh 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, extin- 
 guished it on seeing the street, and having put it in a 
 «omer, went out where the stars were shining. 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 Boh the Grinder loses his Place. 
 
 Thhe porter at the iron gate which shut the court-yard 
 from the street, had left the little wicket of his house 
 open, and was gone away ; no doubt to mingle in the 
 distant noise at the door on the great staircase. Lifting 
 the latch softly, Carker crept out, and shutting the 
 jangling gate after him with as little noise as possible, 
 hurried oft*. 
 
 In the fever of his mortification and unavailing rage, 
 the panic that had seized upon him mastered him com 
 pletely. It rose to such a height that he would have 
 blindly encountered almost any risk, rather than meet 
 the man of whom, two hours ago, he had been utterly 
 regardless. His fierce arrival which he had never ex 
 pected ; the sound of his voice ; their having been ro 
 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 
 
DOMEEY AND SON. 
 
 481 
 
 mocked turoed upoii;, and trodden down by the prond 
 woman whose mind lie had slowly poisoned, as he 
 thought, until she had sunk into the mere creature cf 
 his pleasure ; undeceived in his deceit, and with his 
 fox's hide stripped of^, he sneaked away, abashed, de- 
 graded, and afraid. 
 
 Some other terror came upon him quite removed from 
 this of being pursued, suddenly like an electric shock, 
 as he was creeping through the streets. Some 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. 
 
 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, 
 
 I am safer there, in any case. If I should not de- 
 cide," he thought, ‘"to give this fool a meeting, I am 
 less likely to be traced there, than abroad here, now. 
 And if I should (this cursed fit being over,) at least I 
 shall not be alone, without a soul to speak to, or advise 
 with, or stand by me. I shall not be run in upon and wor 
 lied like a rat." 
 
 He muttered Edith's name, and clenched his hand. 
 As he crept along, in the shadow of the massive build- 
 ings, he set his teeth, and muttered dreadful impreca- 
 tions on her head, and looked from side to side, as if in 
 search of her. Thus, he stole on to the gate of an inn- 
 yard. The people were 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, bar- 
 gaining for the hire of an old phaeton, to Paris. 
 
 The bargain v/as a short one ; and the horses were soon 
 sent for. Leaving word that the carriage was to follow 
 him when they came, he stole awa.7, again beyond the 
 town, past the old ramparts out on the open road, which 
 seemed to glide away along the dark plain, like a stream I 
 
 Whither did it flow ? VV^hat was the end of it ? As he 
 VOL. 12 -U 
 
482 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 paused, witli 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 impetuous and resistless, again was noth- 
 ing but a horror in his mind, dark as the scene and un- 
 defined as its remotest verge. 
 
 There was no wind ; there was no passing shadow on 
 the deep shade of the night ; there was no noise. The 
 city lay behind him, lighted here and there, and starry 
 worlds were hidden by the masonry of spire and roof 
 that hardly made out any shapes against the sky. Dark 
 and lonely distance lay around him everywhere, and 
 the clocks were faintly striking two. 
 
 He v^ent forward for ’what appeared a long time, and 
 a long way ; often stopping to listen. At last the ring- 
 ing of horses’ bells greeted his anxious ears. Now softer, 
 and now louder, now inaudible, now ringing very slowly 
 over bad ground, now brisk and merry, it came on ; un- 
 til with a loud shouting and lashing, a shadovry postil- 
 ion muffled to the eyes, checked his four struggling 
 horses at his side. 
 
 Who goes there I Monsieur ? ’’ 
 
 ^^Yes.” 
 
 Monsieur has walked a long way in the dark mid 
 night.” 
 
 ‘‘ No matter. Every one to his taste. Were there 
 any other horses ordered at the post-house ?” 
 
 A thousand devils ! — and pardon I other horses ? at 
 this hour? No.” 
 
 Listen, my friend. I am much hurried. Let us 
 see how fast we can travel 1 The faster the more money 
 there will be to drink. Off we go then ! Quick ! ” 
 
 ‘‘Halloa! Whoopi Halloa I Hi!” Away, at a 
 gallop, over the black landscape, scattering the dust and 
 dirt like spray I 
 
 The clatter and commotion echoed to the hurry and 
 discordance of the fugitive’s ideas. Nothing clear with' 
 out and nothing clear within. Objects flitting past, 
 merging into one another, dimly discried, 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 villany. Oc- 
 casionally, a sigh of mountain air came from the distant 
 Jura, fading along the plain. Sometimes that rush which 
 was so furious and horrible, again came sweeping through 
 his fancy, passed away, and left a chill upon his blood. 
 
 The lamps, gleaming on the medley of horses’ heads, 
 iurnbled with the shadowy driver, and the fluttering of 
 liis cloak, made a thousand indistinct shapes, answering 
 
dOmbey and son. 
 
 483 
 
 fco his thoughts. Shadows of familiar people, stooping 
 at their desks and hooks, 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; confusion of time 
 and place, making last night a month ago, a month ago 
 last night-home now distant beyond hope, now instantly 
 accessible ; commotion, discord, hurry, darkness, and 
 confusion in his mind, and all around him. — Halloa I 
 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 ! 
 
 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 sha- 
 dows dance upon the horses’ heads like imps. No stop= 
 ping now : no slackening I On, on ! Away with him upon 
 the dark road wildly ! 
 
 He could not think to any purpose. He could not 
 separate one subject of reflection from another, sufficient- 
 ly 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 over throve 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 per- 
 vaded all his thoughts. Even while he was so busy 
 with this fevered, ineffectual thinking, his one constant 
 Idea was, that he would postpone reflection until some 
 Indefinite time. 
 
 Then, the old days before the second marriage rose up 
 In his remembrance. He thought how jealous he had 
 been of tho boy, how jealous he had been of the girl, 
 how artfully he had kept intruders at a distance, and 
 drawn a circle round his dupe that none but himself 
 should cross , and then he thought, had he done all this 
 to be flying now, like a scared thief, from only the poor 
 dupe? 
 
 He could have laid hands upon himself for his coward- 
 ice, but it was the very shadow of his defeat, and could 
 not be separated from. it. To have his confidence in his 
 
484 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 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 Ediths 
 and hated Mr. Dombey and hated himself, but still ho 
 fled, and could do nothing else. 
 
 Again and again he listened for the sound of wheels 
 behind. Again and again his fancy heard it, coming on 
 louder and louder. At last he was so persuaded of this, 
 that he cried out, Stop ! preferring even the loss of 
 ground to such uncertainty. 
 
 The word soon brought carriage, horses, driver, all in 
 a heap together, across the road. 
 
 ‘•'The devil!” cried the driv^er, looking over his 
 shoulder. “ What's the matter ? ” 
 
 “ Hark ! What's that ? ” 
 
 “ What?” 
 
 “ That noise.” 
 
 “ Ah Heaven, be quiet, cursed brigand I ” to a horso 
 who shook his bells. “ What noise ?” 
 
 “ Behind. Is it not another carriage at a gallop ? 
 There ! what's that ? ” 
 
 “ Miscreant with a pig's head, stand still ! ” to an 
 other horse, who bit another, who frightened the other 
 two, who plunged and backed. “ There is nothing 
 coming.” 
 
 “ Nothing.” 
 
 “No, nothing but the day yonder.^"' 
 
 “ You are right, I think. I hear nothing now, indeed. 
 Goon !” 
 
 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. 
 
 And now the stars faded, and the day glimmered, and 
 standing in the carriage, looking back, he could discern 
 the track by which he had come, and see that there was 
 no traveller within view, on all the heavy expanse. And 
 soon it was broad day, and the sun began to shine on 
 corn-fields and vineyards ; and solitary labourers, risen 
 from little temporary huts by heaps of stones upon the 
 road, were, here and there, at work repairing the high 
 way, 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 post-yard, ankle- deep in 
 mud, with steaming dung hills and vast outhouses 
 half ruined ; and looking on this dainty prospect, an 
 Immense, old, shapeless, glaring, stone chateau, with half 
 its windows blinded, and green damp crawling lazily 
 
BOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 485 
 
 over it, from tlie balustraded terrace to tlie taper tips of 
 the extinguishers upon the turrets 
 
 Gathered up moodily in a corner of the carriag-e, and 
 only intent on going fast — except when he stood up, for 
 a mile together, and looked back ; which ho would do 
 whenever there was a piece of open country-yhe went 
 on, still postponing thought indefinitely, and still always 
 tormented wit^ -Hhinking to no purpose. 
 
 Shame, disappointment, and discomfiture gnawed at 
 his heart , a constant apprehension of being overtaken, 
 or met — for he was groundlessly afraid even of travellers, 
 who came towards him by the way he was going — op- 
 pressed 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, m which nothing 
 was quite real but his own torment. 
 
 It was a vision of long roads , that stretched away 
 liX) an horizon, always receding and never gained , of ilh 
 paved towns, up hill and down, where faces came to 
 dark doors and ill -glazed windows, and where rows of 
 mud-bespattered cows and oxen were tied up for sale in 
 the long narrow streets, butting and lowing, and receiv 
 mg 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 side 
 w^ays in the graves, and withered wreaths upon them 
 dropping away ; again of long, long roads, dragging 
 themselves out, up hill and down, to the treacherous 
 horizon. 
 
 Of morning, noon, and sunset ; night, and the rising 
 of an early moon. Of long roads temporarily left be 
 hind, 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 influ- 
 ence , 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 clam- 
 our, and looking from his seat at the upturned coiinte 
 nances and outstretched hands, with a hurried dread oi 
 reoognising some pursuer pressing forward- — of gallop* 
 ing away again, upon the long, long road, gathered up^ 
 dull and stunned, in his corner, or rising to see wherc^ 
 
486 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENSc 
 
 the moon shone faintly on a patch of the same endiess 
 road miles away, or looking back to see who followed. 
 
 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 hav 
 ing confronted and defied him. Of having a deadly 
 quarrel vfith the whole world, but chiefly with himself. 
 Of blighting everything with his black mood as he v/as 
 carried on and away. 
 
 It was a fevered vision of things past and present all 
 confounded together, of his life and journey blended 
 into one. Of being madly hurried somewhere, whither 
 he must go. Of old scenes starting up among the novel- 
 ties through which he travelled. Of musing and brood- 
 ing 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 crowds 
 ed in his hot brain after they were gone. 
 
 A vision of change upon change, and still the same 
 monotony of bells and wheels, and horses’ feet, and no 
 rest. Of town and country, 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. 
 
 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 
 tl?p 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 un' 
 disturbed, between two brawling streams of life and 
 tnotion. 
 
 A troubled vision, then, of bridges, quays, inter 
 minable streets ; of wine-shops, water-carriers, great 
 crowds of people, soldiers, coaches, military drums, ar 
 cades. 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 
 which he had entered. Of the restoration, as he travelled 
 on towards the sea-coast, of the monotony of bells and 
 wheels, and horses* feet, and no rest. 
 
530MBEY AND SON. 
 
 487 
 
 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 hells and 
 wheels, and horses’ feet, and no rest. Of dawn, and 
 daybreak, and the rising of the sun. Of toiling slowly up 
 a hill, and feeling on its top the fresh sea-breeze ; and 
 seeing the morning light upon the edges of the distant 
 waves. Of coming down into a harbour when the tide 
 was at its full, and seeing fishing-boats float in, and glad 
 women and children waiting for them. Of nets and 
 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. 
 
 Of receding from the coast, and looking back upon it 
 from the deck when it was a haze upon the water, with 
 here and there a little opening of bright land where the 
 Sun struck. Of the swell, and flash, and murmur of the 
 calm sea. Of another gray line on the ocean, on the ves- 
 sel’s track, fast growing clearer and higher. Of cli:fis 
 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 vfhence groups 
 of people looked down, greeting friends on board. Of 
 disembarking, passing among them quickly, shunning 
 every one ; and of being at last again in England. 
 
 He had thought, in his dream, of going down into a 
 remote country place he knew, and lying quiet there, 
 while he secretly informed himself of what transpired, 
 and determined how to act. Still in the same stunned 
 condition, he'remembered a certain station on the rail- 
 way, where he would have to branch off to his place of 
 destination, and where there was a quiet inn. Here he 
 indistinctly resolved to tarry and rest. 
 
 With this purpose he slunk into a railway carriage as 
 quickly as he could, and lying there wrapped in his 
 cloak as if he were asleep, was soon borne far away from 
 the sea, and deep into the inland green. Arrived at his 
 destination he looked out, and surveyed it 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, w^s some miles away. Here he alighted 
 then ; and going straight into the tavern, unobserved by 
 any one, secured tv/o rooms up stairs communicating 
 with each other and sufficiently retired. 
 
 His object was to rest, and recover the command of 
 himself, and the balance of his mind. Imbecile discom- 
 fiture and rage — so that, as he walked about his room,- 
 he ground his teeth— had complete possession of him. 
 
488 
 
 WOI.KS CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 His thoughts, not to he stopped or directed, still wan 
 dered where they would, and dragged him after them. 
 He was stupefied and he was wearied to death. 
 
 But, as if there were a curse upon him that he should 
 never rest again, his drowsy senses would not lose their 
 consciousness. He had no more influence with them, in 
 this regard, than if they 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 pave- 
 ment, hill and valley, height and hollow, jaded and 
 scared by the monotony of bells, and wheels, and horses’ 
 feet, and no rest. 
 
 “What day is this?” he asked of the waiter, who 
 was making preparation for his dinner. 
 
 “ Day, sir ? ” 
 
 “ Is it Wednesday ? ” 
 
 Wednesday? No sir, Thursday, sir.” 
 
 “ I forgot. How goes the time ? My watch is un* 
 wound.” 
 
 “Wants a few minutes of five o’clock, sir. Been 
 travelling a long time, sir, perhaps ? ” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ By rail, sir?” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ Very confusing, sir. Not much in the habit of 
 travelling by rail myself, sir, but gentlemen frequently 
 say so.” 
 
 “ Do many gentlemen come here ? ” 
 
 ** Pretty well, sir, in general. Nobody here at pres- 
 ent. Bather slack just now, sir. Everything is slack, 
 sir.” 
 
 He made no answer ; but had risen into a sitting pos' 
 ture on the sofa where he had been lying, and leaned 
 forward with an arm on each knee, staring at the ground. 
 He could not master his own attention for a minute to- 
 gether. It rushed away where it would, but it never, 
 for an instant, lost itself in sleep. 
 
 He drank a quantity of wflne after dinner, in vain. No 
 such artificial means would bring sleep to his eyes. His 
 thoughts, more incoherent, dragged him more unmerci- 
 fully after them — as if a v ^etch, condemned to such ex- 
 piation, were drawn at the heels vdld horses. No 
 oblivion, and no rest. 
 
 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 
 
BOMBEY AND SON, 
 
 489 
 
 had been sitting a long time by candle-ligM, when be 
 started up and listened, in a sudden terror. 
 
 For now, indeed, it was no fancy. The ground shook, 
 tne 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 wdndow^ and saw v/hat it 
 was, he stood, shrinking from it, as if it wexe not safe t@ 
 look. 
 
 A curse upon the fiery devil, thundering along sc 
 smoothly, tracked through the distant valley by a glare 
 of light and lurid smoke, and gone I 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. 
 
 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 
 bad disappeared, he turned and walked the other way— ^ 
 still keeping to the brink of the road — past the inn gar* 
 den, and a long way down ; looking curiously at the 
 bridges, signals, lamps, and wondering when another 
 Hcvil would come by. 
 
 A. trembling of the ground, a quick vibration in his 
 ears ; a distant shriek ; a dull light advancing, quickly 
 changed to two red eyes, and a fierce fire, dropping glow'^ 
 ing coals ; an irresistible bearing on of a great roaring 
 and dilating mass ; a high wind, and a rattle — another 
 come and gone, and ho holding to a gate, sis if to save 
 himself 1 
 
 He waited for another, and for another. He walked 
 back to his former point, and back again to that, and still, 
 through the w^earisome vision of his journey, looked for 
 these approaching monsters. He loitered about the sta- 
 tion, waiting until one should stay to call there ; and 
 when one did, and was detached for water, he stood par° 
 allel with it, watching its heavy wdieels and brazen front, 
 and thinking what a cruel power and might it had. Ugh ! 
 To see the great wheels slowly turning^ and to think of 
 being run down and crushed ! 
 
 Disordered with wine and want of rest— that want 
 which nothing, although he was so weary, would’ appease 
 — these ideas and objects assumed a diseased importance 
 in his thoughts. When he went back to his room, which 
 was not until near midnight, they still haunted him, and 
 he sat listening for the coming of another. 
 
 So in his bed, whither he repaired with no hope of 
 
'490 
 
 worKS OF uHAKLEs dicki;:to, 
 
 sleep. He still lay listening ; and when he felt the trem- 
 bling and vibration, got up and went to the window, to 
 watch (‘'s he could from its position) the dull light chang- 
 ing uo the two red eyes, and the fierce fire dropping glow- 
 ing 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 th^re ; 
 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, ho 
 seemed, if possible, to lose it more and more, as the night 
 crept on. When the dawn appeared, he was still tor- 
 mented with thinking, still postponing thought until he 
 should be in a better state ; the past, present, and future 
 all floated confusedly before him, and he had lost all 
 power of looking steadily at any one of them. 
 
 '‘At v/hat time,’* he asked the man who had waited on 
 him over-night, now entering with the candle, “ do I leave 
 here, did you say ? " 
 
 "About a quarter after four^ sir. Express comes 
 through at four, sir.— Don’t stop: ~ 
 
 He passed his hand across his throbbing head, and 
 looked at his watch. Nearly half-past three. 
 
 " Nobody going with you, sir, probably,” observed the 
 man. " Two gentlemen here, sir, but they’re waiting for 
 the train to London. ” 
 
 " I thought you said there was nobody here,” said Car- 
 ker, turning upon him with the ghost of his old smile, 
 when he was angry or suspicious. 
 
 ' ' Not then, sir. Two gentlemen came in the night by 
 the short train that stops here, sir. Warm water, sir?” 
 
 " No ; and take away the candle. There’s day enough 
 for me.” 
 
 Having thrown himself upon the bed, half-dressed, ho 
 was at the window as the man left the room. The cold 
 light of morning had succeeded to night, and there was, 
 already, iri 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. 
 
 The air struck chill and comfortless as it breathed 
 upon him. There was a heavy dew ; and, hot as he was, i: 
 made him shiver. After a glance at the place where ho 
 had walked last night, and at the signal -liglits burning 
 feebly in the morning, and bereft of their significance, 
 he turned to where the sun was rising, and beheld it, in 
 its glory, as it broke upon the scene. 
 
 So awful, so transcendent in its beauty, so divinely soL 
 emu. As he cast his faded eyes upon it, where it rose, 
 
HE SAW THE FACE CHANGE FROM ITS VINDICTIVE PASSION TO A PAINT SICKNESS AND TERROR. 
 
 — Dombey and Son, Vol. Twelve, page 491 
 
492 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 tranquil and serene, unmoved by all the wrong and wick* 
 edness on which its beams had shone since the beginning 
 of the world, who shall say that some weak sense of vir- 
 tue upon Earth, and its reward in Heaven, did not mani- 
 fest itself, even to him ? If ever he remembered sister 
 or brother with a touch of tenderness and remorse, who 
 shall say it was not then ? 
 
 He needed some such touch then. Death was on him. 
 He was marked oif from the living world, and going 
 down into his grave. 
 
 He paid the money for his journey to the country- 
 place he had thought of ; and was walking to and fro, 
 alone, looking along the lines of iron, across the valley in 
 Dne direction, and towards a dark bridge near at hand in 
 the other ; when, turning in his walk, where it was 
 bounded by one end of the wooden stage on which he 
 paced up and down, he saw the man from whom he had 
 fled, emerging from the door by which he himself had 
 entered there. And their eyes met. 
 
 In the quick unsteadiness of the surprise, he staggered, 
 and slipped on the road below him. But recovering his 
 feet immediately, he stepped back a pace or two upon 
 that road, to interpose some wider space between them, 
 and looked at his pursuer, breathing short and quick. 
 
 He heard a shout — another — saw the face change from 
 its vindictive passion to a faint sickness and terror- 
 felt the earth tremble — knew in 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. 
 
 When the traveller who had been recognised, recover' 
 ed 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 snified upon the road, and soaked 
 his blood up, with a train of ashes. 
 
 CHAPTER LVI. 
 
 Beceral People delighted^ and the Game Chicken disgusted • 
 
 The Midshipman was all alive. Mr. Toots and Susan 
 had arrived at last. Susan had run up-stairs like a young 
 woman bereft of her senses, and Mr, Toots and the 
 Chicken had gone into the parlour. 
 
BOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 493 
 
 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 Fm not a 
 rolling stone nor is my heart a stone or else it wouldn’t 
 bust as it is busting now oh dear oh dear ! ” 
 
 Pouring out these words without the faintest indica- 
 tion of a stop, of any sort, Miss Nipper, on her knees 
 beside her mistress, hugged her close. 
 
 ‘‘Oh love !” cried Susan, “I know all that’s past, I 
 know it all my tender pet and I’m a choking give me 
 air ! ” 
 
 “ Susan, dear good Susan I" said Florence. 
 
 “ Oh bless her I I that was her little maid when she 
 was a little child ! and is she really, really truly going 
 to be married ! ’’ exclaimed Susan, in a burst of pain and 
 pleasure, pride and grief, and Heaven knows how many 
 other conflicting feelings. \ 
 
 “ Who told you so?” said Florence. 
 
 “ Oh gracious me ! that innocentest creetur Toots,^“ 
 returned Susan hysterically. “I knew he must bo 
 right my dear, because he took on so. He’s the devot, 
 edest and innocentest infant ! And is my darling,’* 
 pursued Susan, with another close embrace and burst of 
 tears, “ really, really going to be married ! ” 
 
 The mixture of compassion, pleasure, tenderness, pra 
 tection, and regret with which the Nipper constantly 
 recurred to this subject, and at every such recurrence 
 raised her head to look in the young face and kiss it. 
 and then laid her head again upon her mistress’s shouk 
 der, caressing her and sobbing, was as womanly and good 
 a thing, in its way, as ever was seen in the world, 
 
 “ There, there ! ” said the soothing voice of Florence? 
 presently, “ Now you’re quite yourself, dear Susan ! ” 
 
 Miss Nipper, sitting down upon the floor, at her mis 
 tress’s feet, laughing and sobbing, holding her pocket 
 handkerchief to her eyes with one hand, and patting Hi, 
 ogenes with the other, as he licked her face, confessed 
 to being more composed, and laughed and cried a little 
 more in proof oi it. 
 
 “ I — I — I never did see such a creetur as that Toots,” 
 said Susan. “ in all my born days, never !” 
 
 “ So kind,” suggested Florence. 
 
 “ And so comic ! ” Susan sobbed. “The way he’s 
 been going on inside with me, with that disrespectable 
 Chicken on the box ! ” 
 
 “ About what, Susan ?” inquired Florence, timidly. 
 Oh about Lieutenant Walters, and Captain Gills^ 
 
494 
 
 WOiiKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 and you, rny dear Miss Floy, and tlie silent tomb,” said 
 Susan. 
 
 Tlie silent tomb ! ” repeated Florence. 
 
 ‘‘He says,” here Susan burst into a violent hysterical 
 laugh, “ that he’ll go down into it now, immediately and 
 quite 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,” pur- 
 sued the Nipper, with her usual volubility, “ nor do I 
 say he is, but this I do say, a less selfish human creetur 
 human nature never knew I ” 
 
 Miss Nipper being ^till hysterical, laughed immod©;^''- 
 ately after making this energetic declaration, and then 
 informed Florence that he was waiting below to see her; 
 which would be a rich repayment for the trouble he had 
 ha,d in his late expedition. 
 
 Florence entreated Susan to beg of Mr. Toots as a fa- 
 vour that she might have the pleasure of thanking him 
 for his kindness ; and Susan, in a few moments, pro- 
 duced that young , gentleman, still very much dishev 
 elled in appearance, and stammering exceedingly. 
 
 “Miss Dombey,” said Mr. Toots. “To be again per- 
 mitted to—to — gaze — at least, not to gaze, but — I don’t 
 exactly know what I was going to say, but it’s of no con- 
 sequence. ” 
 
 “ I have to thank you so often,” returned Florence, 
 giving him both her hands, wdth all her innocent grati- 
 tude beaming in her face, “ that I have mo words left, 
 and don’t know how to do it,” 
 
 “Miss Dombey,” said Mr. Toots in an awful voice, 
 “ if it was possible that you could, consistently with your 
 angelic nature, curse me, you would — if I may be al- 
 lowed 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 digres- 
 sion, and’s of no consequence at all.” 
 
 As there seemed to be no means of replying to this, 
 but by thanking him again, Florence thanked him again. 
 
 “ I could wish,” said Mr. Toots, “ to take this oppor- 
 tunity, Miss Dombey, if I might, of entering into a word 
 of explanation. I should have had the pleasure of — of 
 returning with Susan at an earlier period ; but, in the 
 first place, we didn’t know the name of the relation to 
 whose house she had gone, and, in the second, as she 
 had left that relation’s and gone to another at a distance, 
 I think that scarcely anything short of the sagacity 
 of the Chicken, would have found her out in the time.” 
 
 Florence was sure of it. 
 
 “This, however,” said Mr. Toots, “ is not the point. 
 The company of Susan has been, I assure you, Miss 
 Dombey, a consolation and satisfaction to me, in my 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 495 
 
 state of mind, more easily conceived, than described. 
 The journey has been its own reward. That, how. 
 ever, 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 tha,t 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, hovf. 
 ever, 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, fa- 
 tally, 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 ! ” 
 
 Mr. Toots,” returned Florence, ‘Mf you, who are so 
 old and true a friend of mine, were to stay away from 
 this house now, you would make me very unhappy. It 
 can never, never, give me any feeling but pleasure to 
 see you.” 
 
 ‘‘Miss Domibey,” 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.” 
 
 Florence received thi^ intimation with the prettiest 
 expression of perplexity possible. 
 
 “ I mean,” said Mr. Toots, “ that I shall consider it 
 my duty as a fellow-creature generally, until I am 
 claimed by the silent tomb, to make the best of myself, 
 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 ways as sensible as my friends 
 
496 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 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 feel- 
 ings, at the present moment, in a most remarkable man- 
 ner, if — if — I could only get a start.'’’ 
 
 Appearing not to get it, after waiting a minute or two 
 to see if it would come, Mr. Toots took a hasty leave, 
 and went below to seek the captain, whom he found in 
 the shop. 
 
 Captain Gills,” said Mr. Toots, ''what is now to 
 take place between us, takes place under the sacred seal 
 of confidence. It is the sequel. Captain Gills, of what 
 has taken place between myself and Miss Dombey, up- 
 stairs. ” 
 
 “ Alow and aloft, eh, my lad ? ” murmured the cap- 
 tain, 
 
 " Exactl}" so. Captain Gills,” said Mr. Toots, whose 
 fervour of acquiescence was greatly heightened by hi^ 
 entire ignorance of the captain’s meaning. " Miss Dom- 
 bey, I believe, Captain Gills, is to be shortly united to 
 Lieutenant Walters ? ” 
 
 " Why, ay, my lad. We’re all shipmets here, — Wal’r 
 and sweetheart will be jined together in the house of 
 bondage, as soon as the askings is over,” whispered 
 Captain Cuttle,- in his ear. 
 
 " The askings. Captain Gills ! ” repeated Mr. Toots. 
 
 " In the church, down yonder,” said the captain, 
 pointing his thumb over his shoulder. 
 
 " Oh ! Yes ! ” returned Mr. Toots. 
 
 " And then,” said the captain, in his hoarse whisper, 
 and tapping Mr. Toots on the chest with the back of his 
 hand, and falling from him with a look of infinite ad- 
 miration, " what toilers ? That there pretty creetur, as 
 delicately brought up as a foreign bird, goes away upon 
 the roaring main with Wal’r on a v/oyagelo China.” 
 
 " Lord, Captain Gills ! ” said Mr. Toots. 
 
 "Ay I ” 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 super- 
 cargo aboard another ship, same owners. And so, you 
 see,” repeated the captain, thoughtfully, "the pretty 
 creetur goes away upon the roaring main with Wal’r, on 
 a woyage to China.” 
 
 Mr. Toots and Captain Cuttle heaved a sigh in concert. 
 
 "What then?” said the captain. "She loves him 
 true. He loves her, true. Them as should have loved 
 
BOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 497 
 
 and fended of lier, treated of her like the beasts as per- 
 ish. When she, cast out of home, come here to me, and 
 dropped upon them planks, her wownded heart wag 
 broke. I knov/ 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 is, I’d have 
 these here blue arms and legs chopped off, afore I’d let 
 her go. But I do know it, and what then ? Why, then, 
 I say, Heaven go with ’em both, and so it will ! Amen !’^ 
 
 “Captain Gills,” said Mr. Toots, “let me have the 
 pleasure of shaking hands. You’ve a way of saying 
 things, that gives me an agreeable warmth, all up my 
 back. J say Amen. You are aware. Captain Gills, that 
 I, too, have adored Miss Dombey.” 
 
 “Cheer up I ” said the captain, laying his hand on 
 Mr. Toots’s shoulder. “ Stand by, boy ! ” 
 
 “ It is my intention, Captain Gills,” returned the spir- 
 ited Mr. Toots, “ to cheer up. Also to stand by, as 
 much as possible. When the silent tomb shall yawn, 
 Captain Gills, I shall be ready for burial ; not before. 
 But not being certain, just at present, of my power over 
 myself, what I wish to s^ to you, and what I shall take 
 tt as a particular favour if you will mention to Lieuten- 
 ant Walters, is as follows.” 
 
 “ Is as follers,” echoed the captain. “ Steady I” 
 
 “ Miss Dombey being so inexpressibly kind,” continued 
 Mr. Toots with w'atery eyes, “as to say that my pres- 
 ence is the reverse of disagreeable to her, and you and 
 everybody here being no less forbearing and tolerant to- 
 wards 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 Roy- 
 al 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.” 
 
 “ 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,” 
 
498 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Captain Gills/* said Mr. Toots, my mind 3s greatly 
 relieved. I wish to preserve the good opinion of all 
 here. I — 1-— mean well, upon my honour, however badly 
 I may show it. You know,” said Mr. Toots, it*s ex- 
 actly as if 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.” 
 
 With this apposite illustration, of which he seemed a 
 little proud, Mr. Toots gave Captain Cuttle his blessing 
 and departed. 
 
 The honest captain, with his Heart’s Delight in the 
 house, and Susan tending her, was a beaming and a 
 happy man. As the days flew by, he grew more beam- 
 ing and more happy, every, day. After some conferences 
 with Susan (for whose wisdom the captain had a pro- 
 found respect, and whose valiant precipitation of herself 
 bn Mrs. MacStinger he could never forget), he proposed 
 to Florence that the daughter of the elderly lady who 
 usually sat under the blue umbrella in Leadenhall Mar- 
 ket, should, for prudential reasons and considerations of 
 privacy, be superseded in the temporary discharge of 
 the household duties, by some one who was not unknown 
 to them, and in whom they could safely confide. Susan, 
 being present, then named, in furtherance of a sugges- 
 tion she had previously offered to the captain, Mrs. Rich- 
 ards. Florence brightened at the name. And Susan, 
 setting ofl 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. 
 
 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 dis- 
 position, and had fully made up her mind that she had 
 come back never to be parted from her old mistress any 
 more. 
 
 “^s to wages dear Miss Floy,” she said, "‘you 
 wouldn’t hint and wrong me so as to 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 thougih 
 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 it can’t 
 bel” 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 499 
 
 Dear Susan, I am going on a long, long voyage/’ 
 
 ** Weil Miss Floy, and what of that ? the more you’ll 
 want me. Length of voyages ain’t an object in my 
 eyes, thank God ! ” said the impetuous Susan Nipper, 
 
 “ But Susan, I am going with Walter, and I would go 
 with Walter anywhere— everywhere ! Walter is poor, 
 and I am very poor, and I must learn, now, both to help 
 myself, and help him.” 
 
 ‘‘Dear Miss Floy?” cried Susan, bursting out afresh, 
 and shaking her head violently, “ it’s nothing new to 
 you to help yourself and others too and be the patientest 
 and truest of noble hearts, but let me talk to Mr. Walter 
 Gay and settle it with him, for suffer you to go away 
 across the world alone I cannot, and I won’t.” 
 
 /Alone, Susan?” returned Florence. “Alone? and 
 Walter taking me with him!” Ah, what a bright, 
 amazed, enraptured smile was on her face ! — He should 
 have se'='n it. “I am sure you will not speak to Walter 
 if 1 ask you not,” she added tenderly : “ and pray don’t, 
 dear. ” 
 
 Susan sobbed “Why not. Miss Floy?” 
 
 “Because,” said Florence, “I am going to be his 
 wife, to give him up my whole heart, and to live with 
 him and dio with him. He might think, if you said to 
 him what you have said to me, that I am afraid of what 
 is before me, or that you have some cause to be afraid 
 for me. Why, Susan, dear, I love him. ! ” 
 
 Miss Nipper was so much affected by the quiet fervour 
 of these words, and the simiple, heartfelt, all-pervading 
 earnestness expressed in them, and miaking the speaker’s 
 face more beautiful and pure than ever, that she could 
 only cling to her again, crying Was her little mistress 
 really, really going to be married, and pitying, caressing, 
 and protecting her, as she had done before. 
 
 But the Nipper, though susceptible of womanly weak' 
 nesses, was almost as capable of putting constraint 
 upon herself as of attacking the redoubtable MacSting 
 er. From that time, she never returned to the subject, 
 but w^as always cheerful, active, bustling, and hopefuh 
 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. 
 
 Limited and plain as Florence’s wardrobe was — w'hat 
 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 
 
500 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 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 neces- 
 sary Dn shipboard — %vouid occupy some space in the re- 
 cital. 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 com- 
 pleteness. But his master stroke was, the bearing of 
 them both off, suddenly, one morning, and getting the 
 two words Florence Cay 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. 
 
 Walter was busy and away all day, but came there 
 every morning early to see Florence, and always passed 
 the evening with her. Florence never left her high 
 rooms but to steal down -stairs to wait for kim when it 
 was his time to come, or, sheltered by his proud, encir- 
 cling 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 wander^ 
 ing heart at rest I Oh deep, exhaustless mighty well ol 
 love, in which so much was sunk I 
 
 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 own image. 
 
 How often did the great house and the old days, come 
 “before her in the twilight time, when she was sheltered 
 by the arm so proud, so fond, and, creeping closer to 
 him, shrunk within it at the recollection ! How often, 
 from remembering the night when she went down to 
 that room and met the never to be forgotten look, did 
 she raise her eyes to those that watched her with such 
 loving earnestness, and weep with happiness in such a 
 refuge I The more she clung to it, the more the dear 
 

 AFTER THIS, HE SMOKED FOUR PIPES SUCCESSIVELY IN THE 
 LITTLE PARLOUR BY HIMSELF. 
 
 —Dombey and Son, Vol. Twelve, page 501. 
 
503 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 dead child was in her thoughts : hut 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 s(^ and 
 never, in her fancy, passed that hour. 
 
 “Walter, dear,’' said Florence, one evening, when it 
 was almost dark. “Do you know v/hat I have been 
 thinking to-day?” 
 
 “ Thinking how the time is flying on, and how soon 
 we shall be upon the sea, sweet Florence? ” 
 
 “I don’t mean that, Walter, though I think of that 
 too. I have been thinking what a charge I a;m to you.” 
 
 “ A precious, sacred charge, dear heart ! Why J 
 think that sometimes.” 
 
 “You are laughing, Walter. I know that’s much 
 more in your thoughts than mine. But I mean a cost.” 
 
 “ A cost, my own ? ” 
 
 “ In money, dear. All these preparations that Susan 
 and I are so busy with — I have been able to purchase 
 very little for myself. You were poor before. Buthov^ 
 much poorer I shall make you, Walter !” 
 
 “ And how much richer, Florence?” 
 
 Florence laughed, and shook her head, 
 
 “ Besides,” said Walter, “ long ago — before I went to 
 ^©a — I had a little purse presented to me, dearest, which 
 had money in it.” 
 
 “ Ah ! ” returned Florence laughing sorrowfully, “very 
 little ! Very little, Walter ! But you must not think,” 
 and here she laid her light hand on his shoulder, and 
 looked into his face, “ that I regret to be this burden on 
 you. No, dear love, I am glad of it. I am happy in it. 
 I wouldn’t have it otherwise for all the world ! ” 
 
 “ Nor I, indeed, dear Florence.” 
 
 “Ay ! But Walter, you can never feel it as Ido. 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 
 feave brought you millions, I never could have been so 
 happy for your sake, as I am ! ” _ 
 
 “ And you, dear Florence ? are you nothing ? ” he re- 
 turned. 
 
 “ No, nothing, Walter. Nothing but your wife. ” The 
 light hand stole about his neck, and the voice came 
 nearer — nearer. “ I am nothing any more, that is not 
 you. I have no earthly hope any more, that is not you. 
 I have nothing dear to me any more, that is not you.” 
 
 Oh I well might Mr. Toots leave the little com] any 
 that evening, and twice go out to correct his watcl,' by 
 the Royal Exchange, and once to keep an appointiAent 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 603 
 
 with a banker which he suddenly remembered, and once 
 to take a little turn to Ald^ate Pump and back I 
 
 But before he went upon these expeditions, or indeed 
 before he came, and before lights were brought, Walter 
 said : 
 
 Florence love, the lading of our ship is nearly fin- 
 ished, and probably on the very day of our marriage she 
 will drop dov/n the river. Shall we go away that 
 morning, and stay in Kent until we go on board at 
 Gravesend within a week ? ** 
 
 If you please, Walter. I shall be happy anywhere. 
 But— 
 
 ‘‘ Tes, my life?” 
 
 ‘ “You know,” said Florence, ‘Hhat we shall have no 
 marriage party, and that nobody will distinguish as 
 our dress from other people. As we leave the same day, 
 will you — will you take me somewhere that morning 
 Walter — early — before we go to church ?” 
 
 Walter seemed to understand her, as so true a lover 
 so truly loved should, and confirmed his ready promise 
 with a kiss — with more than one perhaps, or two or three, 
 or five or six ; and in the grave, calm, peaceful evening, 
 Florence was very happy. 
 
 Then into the quiet room came Susan Nipper and th® 
 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 calcu- 
 lations incidental to the game ; which he found to be a 
 very effectual means of utterly confounding himself. 
 
 The captain’s visage on these occasions presented one 
 of the finest examples of combination and succession of 
 expression ever observed. His instinctive delicacy and 
 his chivalrous feeling towards Florence, taught him that 
 it was not a time for any boisterous jollity, or violent 
 display of satisfaction. Certain floating reminiscences 
 of Lovely Peg, on the other hand, were constantly strug» 
 gling for a vent, and urging the captain to commit him- 
 self by some irreparable demonstration. Anon, his ad- 
 miration 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 com- 
 plete 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 uncon- 
 sciously been very instrumental indeed, in making that 
 gentleman miserable. This reflection would make the 
 
504 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 captain profoundly melanclioly, until tlie 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 expres- 
 sion 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 ^ remorseful culprit, until he came back 
 again, occasionally calling upon himself, in a low reproach- 
 ful voice, to Stand by ! ” or growling some remon- 
 strance to ‘‘ Ed’ard Cuttle my lad,’^ on the want of cau- 
 tion observable in his behaviour. 
 
 One of Mr. Toots’s hardest trials, however, was of his 
 own seeking. On the approach of the Sunday which was 
 to witness the last of those askings in church of which the 
 captain had spoken, Mr. Toots thus stated his feelings 
 to Susan Nipper. 
 
 Susan,” said Mr. Toots, 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 accom- 
 pany me to-morrow, to the sacred edifice ? ” 
 
 Miss Nipper expressed her readiness to do so, if that 
 would be any satisfaction to Mr. Toots, but besought 
 him to abandon his idea of going. 
 
 Susan,” returned Mr. Toots, with much solemnity, 
 ''before my whiskers began to be observed by any- 
 body 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 certain^ 
 ly cut from under me, and that I hadn’t a hope to cher 
 ish. or a— or a leg, in short, to — to go upon.” 
 
 Busan Nipper could only commiserate Mr. Toots’s un- 
 fortunate condition, and agree, under these circumstances, 
 to accompany him ; which she did next morning. 
 
 The church Walter had chosen for the purpose, v/as a 
 mouldy old church in a yard, hemmed in by a labyrinth 
 of back streets aiid courts, with a little burying-ground 
 
DOMBEY SON. 
 
 505 
 
 roui)d 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 
 drovrsily resounded through the emptiness, and the 
 organ rumbled and rolled as if the church had got the 
 colic, for want of a congregation to ke^p the wind and 
 damp out. But so far was this City ceurch from lan- 
 guishing for the company of other churches, that spires 
 were clustered round it, as the masts of shipping clus- 
 ter on the river. It v/ould 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 deaf- 
 ening. There were twenty churches close together, 
 clamouring for people to come in. 
 
 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 hull in Cock Robin, 
 with his foot in the stirrup. Mr. Toots, after a length- 
 ened survey of the large books on the reading-desk, 
 whispered Miss Nipper that he wondered where the 
 banns vv^ere kept, but that young lady merely shook her 
 head and frowned ; repelling for the time all approaches 
 of a temporal nature. 
 
 Mr. Toots, however, appearing unable to keep his 
 thoughts from the banns, was evidently looking out for 
 them during the whole preliminary portion of the ser- 
 ^ce. As the time for reading them approached, the 
 poor young gentleman manifested great anxiety and 
 trepidation, which vras not diminished by the unexpect- 
 M apparition of the captain in the front row of the 
 gallery. When the clerk handed up a list to the clergy^ 
 man, Mr. Toots being then seated, held on by the seat 
 of the pew ; but when the names of Walter Gay and 
 Florence Doinbe's were read aloud as being in the third 
 and last stage of that association, he was so entirely con- 
 quered by his feelings as to rush from the church with- 
 out 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 re- 
 turned for that article, informing Miss Nipper in a 
 v/hisper that she was not to make herself uneasy about 
 the gentleman, as the gentleman said his indisposition 
 was of no consequence. 
 
 Miss Nipper feeling that the eyes of that integral por- 
 Yol. 12 —V 
 
506 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 tion of Europe whicli lost itself weekly among the high- 
 backed pews were upon her, would have been sufficiently 
 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 connexion with it. But the 
 extreme restlessness of Mr. Toots painfully increased 
 and protracted the delicacy of her situation. That young 
 gentleman, incapable, in his state of mind, of remaining 
 alone in the church-yard, 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 
 ®f a weekly dole of bread then set forth on a shelf in 
 the porch. In this conjunction Mr. Toots remained, 
 ^•reatly disturbing the congregation, who felt it impossi- 
 ble 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 rest- 
 lessness 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 differ- 
 ent windows, during the comparative leisure afforded 
 them by the sermon. Mr. Toots’s movements in the 
 church-yard were so eccentric, that he seemed generally 
 to defeat all calculation, and to appear, like the conjuror^s 
 figure, where he was least expected : and the effect of 
 these mysterious presentations was much increased by 
 its being difficult to him to see in, and easy to everybody 
 else to see out : which occasioned his remaining, every 
 time, longer than might have been expected, with his 
 face close to the glass, until he all at once became aware 
 that all eyes were upon him, and vanished. 
 
 These proceedings on the part of Mr. Toots, and the 
 strong individual consciousness of them that was exhib- 
 ited by the captain, rendered Miss Nipper’s position so 
 responsible a one, that she was mightily relieved by the 
 conclusion of the service, and was hardly so affable to 
 Mr. Toots as usual, when he informed her and the cap- 
 tain, on the way back, that now he was sure he had no 
 liope, you know, he felt more comfortable — at least not 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 50 / 
 
 exactly more comfortable, but more comfortably an<i 
 completely miserable. 
 
 Swiftly now, indeed, the time flew by, until it was 
 the evening before the day appointed for the marriage. 
 They were all assembled in the upper room at the Mid- 
 shipman’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. Flor- 
 ence, with Walter close beside her, was finishing a little 
 piece of work intended as a parting gift to the captain. 
 The captain was playing cribbage with Mr. Toots, Mr. 
 Toots was taking counsel as to his hand of Susan Nip- 
 per. Miss Nipper w^as giving it, with all due secrecy and 
 circumspection. Diogenes v/as iistemng, and occasion- 
 ally breaking out into a gruff, half-smothered fragment 
 of a bark, of which he afterwards seemed half-ashamed, 
 as if lie doubted having any reason for it. 
 
 Steady, steady!” said the captain to Diogenes, 
 
 v/hat’s amiss with you? You don’t seem easy in your 
 mind to-night, my boy 1 ” 
 
 Diogenes wagged his tail, but pricked up his ears im^ 
 mediately afterwards, and gave utterance to another 
 fragment of a bark ; for which he apologised to the cap- 
 tain, by again wagging his tail. 
 
 ‘^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% bro- 
 ther to Mr. Toots: ‘‘if so be as you’re ready, heave 
 ahead.” 
 
 The captain spoke with all composure and attention to 
 the game, but suddenly his cards dropped out of his 
 hand, his mouth and eyes opened wide, his legs drew 
 themselves up and struck out in front of his chair, and 
 he sat staring at the d(or with blank amazement. Look- 
 ing 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 voice, 
 “Sol Gills ahoy!” and tumbled into the arms of a 
 weather-beaten pea-coat that had come with Polly into 
 the room. 
 
 In another moment, Walter was in the arms of the 
 weather-beaten pea-coat. In another moment, Florence 
 was in the arms of the weather-beaten pea-coat. In an. 
 other moment. Captain Cuttle had embraced Mrs. Rich 
 ards and Miss Nipper, and was viol mtly shaking hands 
 with Mr. Toots, exclaiming as he waved his hook above 
 his head, “ Hooroar, my lad, hooroar ! ” To ivhich Mr. 
 
508 
 
 WOKKS OB’ CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Toots, wholly at a loss to account for these proceedings, 
 replied with great politeness, Certainly, Captain Gills, 
 whatever you think proper I ” 
 
 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 Waiter, anJ 
 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 cap- 
 tain polished his nose with great diligence, but when the 
 pea-coat, cap, and comforter lifted themselves up again, 
 Florence gently moved towards them ; and she and 
 Walter taking them off, disclosed the old 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 chroiiometer tick 
 ing away in his pocket. 
 
 “ Chock full o’ science,” said the radiant captain, as 
 ever he was ! Sed Gills, Sol Gills, what have you been 
 up to for this many a long day, my ould boy ! ” 
 
 Fm half blind Ned,” said the old man, and almost 
 deaf and dumb with joy.” 
 
 ‘‘Hiswery 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 1 Sol Gills, lay to, my lad, upon your 
 own wines and fig-trees, like a taut ould patriarck as 
 you are, and overhaul them there adwentures o’ yourn,in 
 your own formilior woice. ’Tis the woice,” said the cap- 
 tain, impressively, and announcing a quotation with his 
 hook, ‘‘of the sluggard, I heerd him com plain, you have 
 woke me too soon, I must slumber again. Scatter his 
 ene-mies, and make ’em fall ! ” 
 
 The captain sat with the air of a man who had happi- 
 ly expressed the feeling of everybody present, and im- 
 mediately rose again to present Mr. Toots, who was much 
 disconcerted by the arrival of anybody, appearing to pre- 
 fer a claim to the name of Gills. 
 
 Although,” stammered Mr. Toots, I had not the 
 pleasure of your acquaintance, sir, before you were — you 
 Were — ” 
 
 ‘'Lost to sight, to memory dear,” suggested the cap- 
 tain, in a low voice. 
 
 "Exactly so. Captain Gills I ” 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 ” 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 {509 
 
 With these courteous words, Mr. Toots sat down 
 bliisliing and chuckling. 
 
 The old Instrument-maker, seated in a corner between 
 Walter and Florence, and nodding at Polly, who was 
 looking on, all smiles and delight, answered the captain 
 thus : 
 
 Ned Cuttle, my dear boy, although I have heard 
 something of the changes of events here, from my pleas- 
 ant friend there — what a pleasant face she has to be sure, 
 to welcome a wanderer home ! said the old man break- 
 ing off, and rubbing liia hands in his old dreamy way. 
 
 Hear him ! cried the captain gravely. “ ’Tis wo- 
 man as seduces all mankind. For which,'' aside to Mr. 
 Toots, you'll overhaul your Adam and IGve, brother." 
 
 I shall make a point of doing so. Captain Gills," 
 said Mr. Toots. 
 
 Although I have heard something of the changes of 
 events from her," resumed the Instrument-maker, tak- 
 ing his old spectacles from his pocket, and putting them 
 on his forehead in his old maimer, ‘ ^ they are so great 
 and unexpected, and I am so overpowered by the sight 
 of my dear boy, and by the — " glancing at the downcast 
 eyes of Florence, and not attempting to finish the sen- 
 tence — ‘ * that I— I can't say much to-night. But my dear 
 Ned Cuttle, why didn't you v/rite ? " 
 
 The astonishment depicted in the captain's features 
 positively frightened Mr. Toots, whose eyes were quite 
 fixed by it, so that he could not withdraw them from 
 his face 
 
 Write ! " echoed the captain. Write, Sol Gills ! " 
 
 Ay," said the old man, either to Barbados, or 
 Jamaica, or Demerara. That was what I asked." 
 
 What you asked, Sol Gills ! " repeated the captain. 
 
 Ay," said the old man. Don't you know, Ned? 
 Sure you have not forgotten ? Every time I wrote to 
 you." 
 
 The captMn took off his glazed hat, hung it on hi^ 
 hook, and smoothing his hair from behind mth his hand, 
 sat gazing at the group around him : a perfect image oi 
 wondering resignation. 
 
 You don't appear to understand me, Ned ! " observed 
 old Sol. 
 
 Sol Gills," returned the captain, lifter staring at him 
 and the rest for a long time, without speaking, ‘‘ I'm 
 gone about and adrift. Pay out a word or two respect' 
 ing them adwentures, will you ! Can't I bring up, no- 
 liows ? nohows ? " said the captain, ruminating, and 
 staring all round. 
 
 “ You know, Ned," said Sol Gills, '‘why I left here, 
 Did you open my packet, Ned ? " 
 
510 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ** Why, ay, ay/' said the captain. To be sure, | 
 opened the packet.” 
 
 * ‘ And read it ? ” said the old man. 
 
 “ And read it,” answered the captain, eyeing him at- 
 tentively, 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 — ' 
 Til ere he sits ! There's Wal'r said the captain, as 
 if he were relieved by getting hold of anything that 
 was real and Indisputable. 
 
 “ Well, Ned. Now attend a moment I ” 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 wTote 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 ? ” 
 
 That he thinks was from Demerara, wam’t it ! ” 
 said the captain, looking hopelessly round. 
 
 — I s: ’d,” proceeded old Sol, ‘‘ that still there w^as 
 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 pas- 
 sage 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.” 
 
 ‘‘ Began to think as how he was a scientific flying 
 Dutchman ! ” said the captain, as before, and with great 
 seriousness. 
 
 But when the news come one day, Ned, — that was 
 to Barbados, after I got back there,— that a China trader 
 home'ard bound had been spoke, that had my boy aboard 
 then, Ned, I took passage in the next ship and came 
 home ; and arrived at home to-night to find it true, thank 
 God !” said the old*man, devoutly. 
 
 The captain after bowing his head with great rever- 
 ence, stared all around the circle, beginning with Mr. 
 Toots, and ending with the Instrument-maker: then 
 gravely said : 
 
 Sol Gills ! The observation as I'm a-going to make 
 is calc'lated to blow every stitch of sail as you can carry, 
 clean out of the bolt-ropes, and bring you on your beam- 
 ends with a lurch. Not one of them letters was ever 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 511 
 
 delivered to Ed’ard Cuttle. Not one o’ them letters/’ 
 repeated the captain, to make his declaration more soh 
 emn and impressive, was ever delivered to Ed’ard 
 Cuttle, mariner, of England, as lives at home at ease, 
 and doth improve each shining hour ! ” 
 
 And posted by my own hand ! And directed by my 
 own hand, Number nine, Brig-place ! ” exclaimed old Soh 
 The colour all went out of the captain’s face, and all 
 came back again in a glow. 
 
 What do you mean, Sol Gills, my friend, by Num 
 ber nine, Brig-place ! ” inquired the captain. 
 
 Mean? Your lodgings, Ned,” returned the old man. 
 Mrs. What’s-her-name ! I shall forg.et my own name 
 next, but I am behind the present time — I always was, 
 you recollect — and very much confused. Mrs. — 
 
 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 ? ” 
 
 Of course it is ! ” exclaimed the Instrument-maker. 
 To be sure Ned. Mrs. MacStinger ! ” 
 
 Captain Cuttle whose eyes were now as wide open as 
 fthey could be, and the knobs upon whose face were per- 
 fectly luminous, gave a long shrill whistle of a most 
 melancholy sound, and stood gazing at everybody in a 
 state of speechlessness. 
 
 Overhaul that there again, Sol Gills, will you be so 
 kind?” he said at last. 
 
 All these letters,” returned Uncle Sol, beating time 
 with the 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. MacSting- 
 er’s, Number nine. Brig- place.” 
 
 The captain took his glazed hat off his hook, looked 
 into it, put it on, and sat down. 
 
 ‘‘ Why, friends all,” said the captain, staring round in 
 the last state of discomfiture, '‘1 cut and run from 
 there 1 ” 
 
 And no one knew where you were gone. Captain 
 Cuttle ? ” cried Walter hastily. 
 
 Bless your heart, WaTr,” 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 I But see 
 her when her angry passions rise — and make a note 
 on ! ” 
 
 I'd give it her !” remarked the Nipper, softly. 
 
 Would you, do you think, my dear?” returned the 
 captain, with feeble admiration. ‘‘ Well, my dear, k 
 
512 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 does you credit. But there ainH 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 ! ” 
 
 “ Then it’s pretty clear. Captain Cuttle, that all of us, 
 and you and Uncle Sol especially,” said Walter, ^*may 
 thank Mrs. MacStinger for no small anxiety.” 
 
 The general obligation in this wise to the determined 
 relict of the late Mr. MacStinger, was so apparent, that 
 the captain did not contest the point ; but being in some 
 measure ashamed of his position, though nobody dwelt 
 upon the subject, and Walter especially avoided it, re- 
 membering the last conversation he and the captain had 
 held together re^oecting it, he remained under a cloud 
 for nearly five mmuiRs — an extraordinary period for him 
 — when that sun, his face, broke out once more, shining 
 on all beholders with extraordinary brilliancy ; and fell 
 into a fit of shaking hands with everybody over and over 
 again. 
 
 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 dis- 
 turbed 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. 
 
 Mr. Toots,” said Walter, on parting with him at the 
 house door, ‘‘we shall see each other to-morrow morn- 
 ing?” 
 
 “ Lieutenant Walters,” returned Mr. Toots, grasping 
 his hand fervently, “ I shall certainly be present.” 
 
 “ This is the last night we shall meet for a long time 
 — the last night we may ever meet,” said Walter. “Such 
 a noble heart as yours, must feel, I think, when another 
 heart is bound to it. I hope you know that I am very 
 grateful to you ? ” 
 
 “ Walters,” replied Mr. Toots, quite touched, “ I 
 should be glad to feel that you had reason to be so.” 
 
 “ Florence,” said Walter, “on this last night of her 
 bearing her own name, has made me promise — it wag 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 513 
 
 only just now, wlien you left us together — that I would 
 tell you, with her dear love — ’ 
 
 Mr. Toots laid his hand upon the door-post, and his 
 eyes upon his hand. 
 
 “-'-with her dear love, ’’said Walter, “that she can 
 never have a friend whom she will value above you. That 
 the recollection of your true consideration for her always, 
 can never be forgotten by her. That she remembers you 
 in her prayers to-night, and hopes that you will think of 
 her when she is far away. Shall I say anything for 
 you ? ” 
 
 “ Say, Walters,” replied Mr. Toots indistinctly, “ that 
 I shall think of her every day, but never without feel- 
 ing happy to know that she is married to the man she 
 loves, and who loves her. Say, if you please, that I am 
 sure her husband deserves her — even her ! ” — and that I 
 am glad of her choice.” 
 
 Mr. Toots got more distinct as he came to these last 
 words, and raising his eyes from the door-post, said them 
 stoutly. He then shook Walter’s hand again with a fer- 
 vour that Walter was not slow to return, and started 
 homeward, 
 
 Mr. Toots was accompanied by the Chicken, whom 
 he had of late brought with him every evening, and left 
 in the shop with an idea that unforeseen circumstances 
 might arise from without, in which the prowess of that 
 distinguished character would be of service to the Mid- 
 shipman, The Chicken did not appear to be in a par- 
 ticularly good humour on this occasion. Either the gas- 
 iamps were treacherous, or he cocked his eye in a hide- 
 ous 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. 
 
 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 at- 
 tract attention. 
 
 “ Now master,” said the Chicken, doggedly, when he, 
 at length, caught Mr. Toots’s eye, “I want to know 
 whether this here gammon is to finish it, or whether 
 you’re a going in to win ? ” 
 
614 
 
 WOKKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Chicken,” returned Mr. Toots, “ explain yourself.’^ 
 Why then, here’s all about it, master,” said the 
 Chicken. “ I ain’t a cove to chuck a word away. Here’s 
 wot it is. Are any on ’em to be doubled up ! ” 
 
 When the Chicken put this question he dropped his 
 hat, made, a dodge and a feint with his left hand, hit a 
 supposed enemy a violent blow with his right, shook his 
 head smartly, and recovered himself. 
 
 Come master,” said the Chicken. Is it to be gam- 
 mon or pluck ! Which ? ” 
 
 “ Chicken,” returned Mr. Toots, your expressions are 
 coarse and your meaning is obscure.” 
 
 ‘"Why, then, I tell you what, master,” said the 
 Chicken. “ This is where it is. It’s mean.” 
 
 ‘‘ What is mean, Chicken ?” asked Mr. Toots. 
 
 “ It is,” said the Chicken, with a frightful corrugation 
 of his broken nose. "‘There! Now, master! Wot! 
 Wen you could go and blow on this here match to the 
 stifl’un ; ” by which depreciatory appellation it has been 
 since supposed that the Game One intended to signify 
 Mr. Dombey ; “ and when you could knock the winner 
 and all the kit of ’em dead out of wind and time, are 
 you going to give in? To give in? ” said the Chicken, 
 with contemptuous emphasis. ” Wy, it’s mean ! ” 
 
 “Chicken,” said Mr. Toots, severely, “you’re a per- 
 fect vulture ! Your sentiments are atrocious.” 
 
 “ My sentiments is game and fancy, master,” returned 
 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 Helepliant, and no Gov’ner o’ 
 tnine mustn’t go and do what’s mean. Wy, it’s mean,” 
 said the Chicken, with increased expression. “ That’s 
 where it is. It’s mean.” 
 
 “ Chicken ! ” said Mr. Toots, “ you disgust me.” 
 
 “Master,” returned the Chicken, putting on his hat, 
 “ 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 fi’typunnote 
 to-morrow, and let me go.” 
 
 “Chicken,” returned Mr. Toots, “after the odious 
 sentiments you have expressed, I shall be glad to part 
 on such terms.” 
 
 “ Done then,” said the Chicken. “ It’s a bargain. 
 This here 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 were it is ; it’s mean ! ” 
 
 So Mr. Toots and the Chicken agreed to part on this 
 incompatibility of moral perception ; and Mr. Toots ly- 
 ing down to sleep, dreamed happily of Florence, who 
 had thought of him as her friend upon the last night of 
 her maiden life, and sent him her dear love. 
 
WY, it’s mean. .... that’s where it is. it’s mean ! ” 
 
 — Dombey and Son, Vol. Twelve, page 515. 
 
516 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 OHAPTER LVII. 
 
 Another Wedding. 
 
 Mr. Sownds the beadle, and Mrs. Miff the pew-opener, 
 are early at their posts in the fine church where Mr. 
 Dombey was married. A yellow- faced old gentleman 
 from India, is going to take unto himself a young wife 
 this morning, and six carriages full of company are ex- 
 pected, and Mrs. Miff has been Informed that the yel- 
 low-faced old gentleman could pave the road to the 
 church with diamonds and hardly miss them. 
 
 The nuptial benediction is to be a superior one, pro- 
 ceeding from a very reverend, a dean, and the lady is to 
 be given away, as an extraordinary present, by some- 
 body who comes express from the Horse Guards. 
 
 Mrs. Miff is more intolerant of common people this 
 corning, than she generally is ; and she has always 
 strong opinions on that subject, for it is associated with 
 free sittings. Mrs. Miff is not a student of political 
 economy (she thinks the science is connected with dis- 
 senters ; Baptists or Wesleyans, or some o’ them,” she 
 says), but she can never understand what business your 
 common foJk have to be married. Drat ’em,” says 
 Mrs. Miff, ‘ ‘ you read the same things over ’em and in- 
 stead of sovereigns get sixpences ! ” 
 
 Mr. Sownds the beadle is more liberal than Mrs. Miff 
 — but then he is not a pew-opener. ''It must be done, 
 ma’am,” he says. "We must 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,” said Mr. Sownds, "and keep the country go- 
 ing.” 
 
 Mr. Sownds is sitting on the steps and Mrs. Miff is 
 dusting in the church, when a young cou^e, plainly 
 dressed, come in. The mortified bonnet of Mrs. Miff is 
 ^sharply turned towards them, for she espies in this early 
 visit indications of a runaway match. But they don’t 
 want to be married — "Only,” says the gentleman, "to 
 walk round the church.” And as he slips a genteel 
 compliment into the palm of Mrs. Miff, her vinegary 
 face relaxes, and her mortified bonnet and her spare dry 
 figure dip and crackle. 
 
 Mrs. Miff resumes her dusting and plumps up her cush- 
 ions — for the yellow- faced old gentleman is reported to 
 bave tender knees — but keeps her glazed pew-opening 
 «9ye 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 
 
DOMBET AND SON. 
 
 517 
 
 come to us one of these mornings, my dears, unless Fm 
 much mistaken 1 
 
 They are looking at a tablet on the wall, erected to the 
 memory of some one dead. They are a long way oft 
 from Mrs. Miff, but Mrs. Miff can see with half an eye 
 how she is leaning on bis arm, and how his head is bent 
 aown over her. Well, well,’’ says Mrs. Miff, "‘you 
 might do worse. For you’re a tidy pair ! ” 
 
 There is nothing personal in Mrs. Miff’s remark. She 
 merely speaks of stock in trade. She is hardly more 
 curious in couples than in coffins. 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 
 rosebud.” 
 
 Mrs. Miff assents with a spare nod of her mortified bom 
 net ; but approves of this so little, that she inwardly re- 
 solves she wouldn’t be the wife of Mr. Sownds for any 
 money he could give her, beadle as he is. 
 
 And what are the young couple saying as they leave 
 the church, and go out at the gate ? 
 
 “ Dear Walter, thank you ! I can go away now, hap- 
 
 py’’ 
 
 “ And when we come back, Florence, we will come and 
 see his grave again.” 
 
 Florence lifts her eyes, so bright with tears, to his kind 
 face ; and clasps her disengaged hand on that other mod^ 
 est little hand which clasps his arm. 
 
 “ It is very early, Walter, and the streets are almost 
 empty yet. Let us walk.” 
 
 “ But you will be so tired, my love.” 
 
 “ Oh no ! I was very tired the first time that we ever 
 walked together, but I shall not be so to-day.” 
 
 And thus — not much changed — she, as innocent and 
 earnest-hearted — he, as frank, as hopeful, and more proud 
 of her — Florence and Walter, on their bridal morning, 
 walk through the streets together. 
 
 Not even in that childish walk of long ago, were they 
 so far removed from all the world about them as to-day. 
 The childish feet of long ago, did not tread such enchant^ 
 ed 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. 
 
518 
 
 WOKKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Tliey take the streets that are the quietest^ and do not 
 
 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. Eiches are uncovering in shops ; jewels, gold, 
 and silver flash in the goldsmith’s sunny v/indows ; and 
 great houses cast a stately shade upon them as they pass. 
 But through the light, and through the shade, they go on 
 lovingly together, lost to everything around ; thinking of 
 no other riches, and no prouder home, than they have 
 now in one another. 
 
 Gradually they come into the darker, narrower streets, 
 where the sun, now yellow, and now red, is seen through 
 the mist, only at street corners, and in small open spaces 
 where there is a tree, or one of the innumerable churches, 
 or a paved way and a flight of steps, or a curious little 
 patch of garden, or a burying-ground, where the few 
 tombs and tomb-stones are almost black. Lovingly and 
 trustfully, through all the narrow yards and alleys and 
 the shady streets, Florence goes, clinging to his arm, to 
 be his wife. 
 
 Her heart beats quicker now, for Walter tells her that 
 their church is very near. They pass a few great stacks 
 of warehouses, with waggons at the doors, and busy car- 
 men stopping up the way — but Florence does not see or 
 hear them — and then the air is quiet, and the day is dark- 
 ened, and she is trembling in a church which has a strange 
 smell like a cellar. 
 
 The shabby little old man, ringer of the disappointed 
 bell, is standing in the porch, and has put his hat in the 
 font — for he is quite at home there, being sexton. He 
 ushers them into an old, browm, panelled, dusty vestry, 
 like a corner cupboard with the shelves taken out ; where 
 the wormy registers diffuse a smell like faded snuff, 
 which has set the tearful Nipper sneezing. 
 
 Youthful, and how beautiful, the young bride looks, ’ 
 in this old dusty place, with no kindred object near her 
 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 bea- 
 dle (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 3^ard, 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, 
 ^nd over the inscription about what the Master and War . 
 dens of the Worshipful Company did in one thousand six 
 hundred and ninety-four. There are dusty old sounding- 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 519 
 
 boards over tbe pulpit and reading-desk, looking like 
 lids to be let down on the officiating ministers, in case of 
 their giving oifence. There is every possible provision 
 for the accommodation of dust, except in the church- 
 yard, where the facilities in that respect are very lim- 
 ited. 
 
 The captain, Uncle Sol, and Mr. Toots, are come ; the 
 clergyman is putting on his surplice in the vestry, while 
 the clerk walks round him, blowing the dust off it ; and 
 the bride and bridegroom stand before the altar. There 
 is no bridesmaid, unless Susan Nipper is one ; and no 
 better father than Captain Cuttle. A man with a wooden 
 leg, chewing a faint apple and carrying a blue bag in 
 his hand, looks in to see what is going on ; but finding 
 it nothing entertaining, stumps off again, and pegs his 
 way among the echoes out of doors. 
 
 No gracious ray of light is seen to fall on Florence, 
 kneeling at the altar with her timid head bowed down. 
 The morning luminary is built out, and don’t shine 
 there. There is a meagre tree outside, where the spar- 
 rows 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 per- 
 forming ; 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 Cap- 
 tain Cuttle helps him out, and does it with so much good- 
 will that he interpolates three entirely new responses of 
 that word, never introduced into the service before. 
 
 They are married, and have signed their names in one 
 of the old sneezy registers, and the clergyman’s sur- 
 plice 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. 
 
 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 ! ” 
 
 They have thought it better not to go back to the Mid- 
 shipman, but to part so ; a coach is waiting for them, 
 near at hand. 
 
 Miss Nipper cannot speak ; she only sobs and chokes, 
 and hugs her mistress. Mr. Toots advances, urges her to 
 cheer up, and takes charge of her. 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. 
 
 But Susan cannot bear that Florence should go away 
 
520 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 •with a mournful recollection of her. She had meant to 
 be so different, that she reproaches herself bitterly. In 
 tent on making one last effort to redeem her character, 
 she breaks from Mr. Toots and runs away to find the 
 coach, and show a parting smile.' The captain, divining 
 her object, sets off after her ; for he feels it his duty 
 also, to dismiss them with a cheer, if possible. Uncle 
 Sol and Mr. Toots are left behind together, outside the 
 church, to wait for them. 
 
 The coach is gone, but the street is steep, and narrow^, 
 and blocked up, and Susan can see it at a stand-still in 
 the distance, she is sure. Captain Cuttle follows her as 
 she flies down the hill, and waves his glazed hat as a 
 general signal, which may attract the right coach and 
 may not. 
 
 Susan outstrips the captain, and comes up with it. 
 She looks in at the window, sees Walter, with the gentle 
 face beside him, and claps h®r hands and screams : 
 
 ‘*Miss Floy, my darling ! look at me ! We are all so 
 happy now, dear ! One more good Bye, my precious 
 one more ! ” 
 
 How Susan does it, she don’t know, but she reaches to 
 the window, kisses her, and has her arms about her neck, 
 in a moment. 
 
 ‘‘ VVe are all so — so happy now, my dear Miss Floy ! 
 says Susan, with a suspicious catching in her breath. 
 ‘‘You, you won’t be angry with me, now. Now will 
 you ? ” 
 
 “ Angry, Susan !” 
 
 “ No, no ; I am sure you won’t. I say you won’t, my 
 pet, my dearest !” exclaimed Susan; “and here’s th@ 
 captain, too — your friend the captain, you know — to say 
 good bye once more 1 ” 
 
 “ Hooroar, my Heart’s Delight ! ” vociferates the cap- 
 tain, with a countenance of strong emotion. “ Hooroar, 
 Wal’r my lad ! Hooroar ! Hooroar ! ” 
 
 What with the young husband at one window, and the 
 young wife at the other ; the captain hanging on at this 
 door, and Susan Nipper 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 v/as so much confusion on four wheels. But Su- 
 san 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 cap 
 tain continues to appear and disappear at the door cry' 
 ing “ 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 insensi- 
 bility, and is taken into a baker’s shop to recover. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 521 
 
 TJncle Sol and Mr. Toots wait patiently in the clmrcliT 
 yard, sitting on the coping-stone of the railings, until Cap- 
 tain 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 break- 
 fast, 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 aboufe 
 the town all day, with a vague sensation upon him as if 
 he hadn’t been to bed for a fortnight. 
 
 There is a strange charm in the house, and in the 
 room, in which they have been used to be together, and 
 out of which so much is gone. It aggravates, and yet 
 it soothes, the sorrow of the separation. Mr. Toots tells 
 Susan Nipper when he comes at night, that he hasn’t been 
 so wretched all day long, and yet he likes it. He confides 
 in Susan Nipper, being alone with her, and tells her 
 what his feelings were when she gave him that candid 
 opinion as to the probability of Miss Dombey’s ever lov- 
 ing him. In the vein of confidence engendered by these 
 common recollections, and their tears, Mr. Toots pro- 
 poses 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. 
 
 The captain and old Sol have been aboard 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.” 
 
 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 murmui*s to him- 
 self, ‘‘ 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.” 
 
 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. 
 
 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 J ” 
 
522 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENa 
 
 Tlie captain, wlio has not yet taken his seat at the 
 table, but who has been fidgeting about for some time, 
 and now stands hesitating in his place, looks doubtfully 
 at Mr. Gills and says : 
 
 ‘"Sol! There’s the last bottle of the old Madeira 
 down below. Would you wish to have it up to-night, 
 my boy, and drink to Wal’r and his wife ? ” 
 
 The Instrument-maker, looking wistfully at tbe cap- 
 tain, puts his hand into the breast-pocket of his colfee- 
 coloured coat, brings forth his pocket-book, and takes a 
 letter out. 
 
 “To Mr. Dombey,” says the old man. “FromWah 
 ter. To be sent in three weeks’ time. I’ll read it.” 
 
 “ ‘ Sir. I am married to your daughter. She is gone 
 with me upon a distant voyage. To be devoted to her is 
 to have no claim on her or you, but God knows that I 
 am. 
 
 ‘ ‘ ‘ Why, loving her beyond all earthly things, I have 
 yet, without remorse, united her to the uncertainties and 
 dangers of my life, I will not say to you. You know 
 why, and you are her father. 
 
 “ ‘ Do not reproach her. She has never reproached 
 you. 
 
 “ ‘ I do not think or hope that you will ever forgive 
 me. There is nothing I expect less. But if an hour 
 should come when it will comfort you to believe that 
 Florence has some one ever near her, the great charge of 
 whose life is to cancel her remembrance of past sorrow, 
 I solemnly assure you, you may, in that hour, rest in 
 that belief.” 
 
 Solomon puts back the letter carefully in his pocket- 
 book, and puts back his pocket-book in his coat. 
 
 “We won’t drink the last bottle of the old Madeira 
 yet, Ned,” says the old man thoughtfully. “ Not yet.” 
 
 “ Not yet,” assents the captain. “ No. Not yet.” 
 
 Susan and Mr. Toots are of the same opinion. After-a 
 silence they all sit down to supper, and drink to the young 
 husband and wife in something else ; and the last bottle 
 of the old Madeira still remains among its dust and cob- 
 webs, undisturbed. 
 
 A few days have elapsed, and a stately ship is out at 
 sea, spreading its white wings to the favouring wdnd. 
 
 Upon the deck, image to the roughest man on board of 
 something that is graceful, beautiful, and harmless — 
 something that it is good and pleasant to have there, and 
 that should make the voyage prosperous — is Florence. 
 It is night, and she and Walter sit alone, watching the 
 solemn path of light upon the sea between them and the 
 moon. 
 
 At length she cannot see it plainly, for the tears that 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 523 
 
 fill her eyes ; and then she lays her head down on his 
 breast, and puts her arms around his neck, saying, ‘‘ Oh 
 Walter, dearest love, I am so happy ! ” 
 
 Her husband holds her to his heart, and they are very 
 quiet, and the stately ship goes on serenely. 
 
 “ As I Lear the sea/' says Florence, and sit watching 
 it, it brings so many days into my mind. It makes me 
 think so much — 
 
 ‘‘ Of Paul, my love. I know it does/' 
 
 Of Paul and Walter. And the voices in the waves are 
 always whispering to Florence, in their ceaseless mnr- 
 muring, 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 I 
 
 CHAPTEE LYIIL 
 After a Lapse, 
 
 The sea had ebbed and flowed, through a whole year. 
 Through a whole year, the winds and clouds had come 
 and gone ; the ceaseless work of Time had been per- 
 formed, in storm and sunshine. Through a whole year 
 the tides of human chance and change had set in their 
 allotted courses. Through a whole year, the famous 
 house of 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 en- 
 terprises by a hair's breadth, and would not listen to a 
 word of warning that the ship he strained so hard against 
 the storm, was weak, and could not bear it. 
 
 The year was out and the great House was down. 
 
 One summer afternoon ; a year, wanting some odd days, 
 after the marriage in the City church ; there was a buzz 
 and whisper upon 'Change of a great failure. A certain 
 cold proud man, well known there, was not there, nor 
 was he represented there. Next day it was noised abroad 
 that Dombey and Son had stopped, and next night there 
 was a list of bankrupts published, headed by that name. 
 
 The world was very busy now, in sooth, and had a deal 
 to say. It was an innocently credulous and a much ill 
 used world. It v/as a world in which there was no other 
 sort of bankruptcy whatever. There were no conspicu- 
 ous 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 
 
524 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 sums of goodness witli no effects. There were no short, 
 comings anywhere, in anything but money. The world 
 was very angry indeed ; and the people especially, who, 
 in a worse world, might have been supposed to be bank^ 
 rupt traders themselves in shows and pretences, were ob- 
 served to be mightily indignant. 
 
 Here was a new inducement to dissipation, presented 
 to that sport of circumstances, Mr. Perch the messenger ! 
 It was apparently the fate of Mr. Perch to be always 
 waking up, and finding himself famous. He had but yes- 
 terday, as one might say, subsided into private life from 
 the celebrity of the elopement and the events that fol- 
 lowed it ; and now he was made a more important man 
 than ever, by the bankruptcy. Gliding from his bracket 
 in the outer oflSce 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 him- 
 self 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 des= 
 cant upon the hours of acute uneasiness he and Mrs. 
 Perch had suffered out at Balls Pond, when they first sus- 
 pected 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 bearing him (Perch) moaning 
 in his sleep, ‘‘ twelve and ninepence in the pound, twelve 
 and ninepence in the pound ! ” Which act of somnam- 
 bulism 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 repe- 
 tition, a sort of truth about them to-day. 
 
 Mr. Perch always closed these conferences by meekly 
 remarking. That, of course, whatever his suspicions 
 might have been, (as if he had ever had any !) it wasn’t 
 for Mm to betray his trust — was it ? Which sentiment 
 (there never being any creditors present) was received as 
 doing great honour to his feelings. Thus, he generally 
 brought away a soothed conscience and left an agreeable 
 impression behind him, when he returned to his brack^^ 
 et : again to sit watching the strange faces of the ac«= 
 
JOS HAD BEEN DECEZVED, SI 'IA:KEI) HT, HOODWINKED, 
 
526 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 countants 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 messenger 
 ship in a Fire Office, when the affairs of the Houso 
 should be wound up. 
 
 To Major Bagstock, the bankruptcy was quite a calam 
 ity. The major was not a sympathetic character — his 
 attention being wholly concentrated on J. B. — nor was 
 he a man subject to lively emotions, except in the phy 
 sical regards of gasping and choking. But he had so pa- 
 raded 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 v/as 
 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 v/as chasing that vagabond up 
 and down Prance, J. Bagstock would have pooh-pooh’d 
 you— would have pooh-pooh’d you, sir, by the Lord 
 That Joe had been deceived, sir, taken in, hoodwinked, 
 blindfolded, but was broad awake again and staring ; in- 
 somuch, sir, that if Joe’s father were to rise up from the 
 grave to-morrow, he wouldn’t trust the old blade with a 
 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, b}^ Gad ! sir, he’d 
 have a tub in Pall Mall to-morrow, to show his contempt 
 for mankind I 
 
 Of ail 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, express- 
 ing no opinion, suffered dreadfully ; not merely in his 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 521 
 
 moral feelings, whicli were regularly fusilladed by tlie 
 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. 
 
 Mrs. Chick had three ideas upon the subject of the 
 terrible reverse. The first was that she could not under- 
 stand it. The second, that her brother had not made an 
 effort. The third, that if she had been invited to din- 
 ner on the day of that first party, it never would have 
 happened ; and that she had said so, at the time. 
 
 Nobody's opinion stayed the misfortune, lightened it, 
 or made it heavier. It was understood that the affairs 
 of the House were to be wound up as they best could 
 be ; that Mr. Dombey freely resigned everything he had, 
 and asked no favour from any one. That any resump- 
 tion of the business was out of the question, as he would 
 listen to no friendly negotiation having that compro- 
 mise in view ; that he had relinquished every post of 
 trust or distinction he had held, as a man respected 
 among merchants ; that he was dying, according to some ; 
 that he was going melancholy mad, according to others ; 
 that he was a broken man, according to all. 
 
 The clerks dispersed after holding a little dinner of 
 condolence among themselves, which was enlivened by 
 comic singing, and went off admirably. Some took 
 
 E laces abroad, and some engaged in other houses at 
 ome ; 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 ac- 
 countants, or starting off it, to propitiate the head ac- 
 countant, who was to get him into the Fire Office. The 
 counting-house soon got to be dirty and neglected. The 
 principal slipper and dogs' collar seller, at the corner of 
 the court, would have doubted the propriety of throwing 
 up his forefinger to the brim of his hat, any more, if Mr. 
 Dombey had. appeared there now ; and the ticket porter, 
 with his hands under his white apron, moralised good 
 sound morality about ambition, which (he observed) was 
 not, in his opinion, made to rhyme to perdition, for 
 nothing. 
 
 Mr. Morfin the hazel-eyed bachelor, with the hair and 
 whiskers sprinkled with gray, was perhaps the only per- 
 son within the atmosphere of the House — its head, of 
 course, excepted — who was heartily and deeply affected 
 by the disaster that had befallen it. He had treated Mr. 
 Dombey with due respect and deference through many 
 
538 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 years, but lie bad never disguised his natural character, 
 or meanly truckled to him, or pampered his master pas- 
 sion for the advancement of his own purposes. He had, 
 therefore, no self-disrespect to avenge ; no long- tight- 
 ened springs to release with a quick recoil. He worked 
 early and late to unravel whatever Vv^as 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. JDombey 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. 
 
 He was solacing himself with this melodious grumble? 
 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 fortunate- 
 ly deaf, and had no other consciousness of these perform - 
 ances than a sensation of something rumbling in her 
 bones) announced a lady. 
 
 ■*'' In mourning,^" she said. 
 
 ■ The violoncello stopped immediately ; and the per- 
 former, laying it on a sofa with great tenderness and care, 
 made a sign that the lady w as to come in. He followed 
 directly, and met Harriet Carker on the stair. 
 
 Alone 1’^ he said, ‘^and John here this morning! 
 Is there anything the matter, my dear? But no,” he 
 added, ‘‘your face tells quite another story.” 
 
 ‘^I am afraid it is a selfish revelation that you see 
 there, then,” she answered. 
 
 “ It is a very pleasant one,” said he ; “ and if selfish, 
 a novelty too, worth seeing in you. But I doffit believe 
 that.” 
 
 He had placed a chair for her by this time, and sat 
 down opposite : the violoncello lying snugly on the sofa 
 between them. 
 
 “ You will not he 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 nov/ ? ” 
 
 “ You can do nothing better.” 
 
 “You were not busy ?” 
 
 He pointed to the violoncello lying on the sofa, and 
 said, “I have been, all day. Here’s my witness. I have 
 been confiding all my cares to it. I wish I had none but 
 my own to tell. ” 
 
 Is the House at an end ? ” said Harriet, earnestly 
 
 “Completely at an end.” 
 
 “ Will it never be resumed I ” 
 
 “ i^ever.” 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 529 
 
 The bright expre^ssion of her face was not overshad- 
 owed as her lips silently repeated the word. He seemed 
 to observe this with some little involuntary surprise : 
 and said again : 
 
 “Never. You remember what I told you. It ha^ 
 been, all along, impossible to convince him : impossible 
 to reason with him ; sometimes impossible even to ap- 
 proach him. The worst has happened ; and the House 
 has fallen, never to be built up any more.’’ 
 
 “ And Mr. Dombey, is he personally ruined ?” 
 
 “ Ruined.” 
 
 “ Will he have no private fortune left ? Nothing ? ” 
 
 A certain eagerness in her voice, and something that 
 Vvas almost joyful in her look, seemed to surprise him 
 more and more ; to disappoint him too, and jar discord- 
 antly against his own emotions. He drummed with the 
 fingers of one hand on the table, looking wistfully at her 
 and shaking his head, said, after a pause : 
 
 “ The extent of Mr. Dombey’s resources is not accu- 
 rately within my knowledge ; but though they are doubh 
 less 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 rem- 
 nant to live upon. But he is resolved on payment to the 
 last farthing of his means. His own words are, that 
 ihey will clear, or nearly clear, the House, and that no 
 6ne 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 I His pride 
 shows well in this.” 
 
 She heard him with little or no change in her expres- 
 sion, and with a divided attention that showed her to be 
 busy with something in her own mind. When he was 
 silent, she asked him hurriedly : 
 
 “ Have you seen him lately ? ” 
 
 “No one sees him. When this crisis of his affairs 
 tenders 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 sees no one. He has written me a 
 letter, acknowledging our past connexion in higher terms 
 than it deserved, and parting from me. I am delicate of 
 obtruding myself upon him now, never having had much 
 intercourse with him in better times ; but I have tried 
 to do so. I have written, gone there, entreated. Quite 
 In vain.” 
 
 He watched her, as in the hope that she would testify 
 some greater concern than she had yet shown ; and 
 spoke gravely and feelingly, as if to impress her the 
 more ; But there was no change in her. 
 
 VoL. 12- — W 
 
530 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Well, well, Miss Harriet/* lie said, with a disappoint- 
 ed air, this is not to the purpose. You have not come 
 here to hear this. Some other and pleasanter theme is 
 in your mind. Let it be in mine, too, and we shall talk 
 upon more equal terms. Come ! ’’ 
 
 "'No, it is the same theme,’' returned Harriet, with 
 frank and quick surprise. ""Is it not likely that it 
 should be ? Is it not natural that John and I should 
 have been thinking and speaking very much of late of 
 these great changes ? Mr. Dombey , whom he served so 
 many years — you know upon what terms — reduced, as 
 you describe ; and we quite rich ! ” 
 
 Good, true face, as that face of hers was, and pleasant 
 as it had been to him, Mr. Morfin, the hazel-eyed bach- 
 elor, since the first time he had ever looked upon it, it 
 pleased him less at that moment, lighted with a ray of 
 exultation, than it had ever pleased him before. 
 
 "" I need not remind you," said Harriet, casting down 
 her eyes upon her black dress, "" through what means 
 our circumstances changed. You have not forgotten 
 that our brother James, upon that dreadful day, left no 
 will, no relations but ourselves.” 
 
 The face was pleasanter to him now, though it was 
 pale and melancholy, than it had been a moment since. 
 He seemed to breathe more cheerily. 
 
 ""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 earn- 
 ing an income that is ample for us, through your kind- 
 ness. You are not unprepared to hear what favour I 
 have come to ask of you ? ” 
 
 "‘I hardly know. I was, a minute ago. Now I think, 
 I am not.” 
 
 "" Of my dead brother I say nothing. If the dead know 
 what we do — but you understand me. Of my living 
 brother I could say much : but what need I say more, 
 than that this act of duty, in which I have come to ask 
 your indispensable assistance, is his own, and that he 
 cannot rest until it is performed ! " 
 
 She raised her eyes again ; and the light of exultation 
 in her face began to appear beautiful, in the observant 
 eyes that watched her. 
 
 "" Dear sir,” she went on to say, "" it must be don© very 
 quietly and secretly. Your experience and knowledge 
 will point out a way of doing it. Mr. Dombey may, per- 
 haps, be led to believe that it is something saved, unex- 
 pectedly, from the wreck of his fortunes ; or that it is a 
 
DOMBSY AND SON. 
 
 531 
 
 voluntary tribute to liis honourable and upright charac- 
 ter, from some of those with whom he has had great 
 dealings or that it is some old lost debt repaid. There 
 must be many v^^ays 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 se> 
 cretly, unknown and unapproved of ; that only a very 
 small p rt 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. 
 
 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 tar- 
 nished by the joyful tears that filled her eyes, but was 
 the brighter for them. 
 
 My dear Harriet,'*' said Mr. Morfin, after a silence, 
 “ I was not prepared for this. Do I understand you that 
 you wish to make your own part in the inheritance avail- 
 able for your good purpose, as well as John’s?" 
 
 Oh yes," she returned. '' When we have shared 
 everything together for so long a time, and have had no 
 care, hope, or purpose apart, could I bear to be excluded 
 from my share in this ? May I not urge a claim to be 
 my brother’s partner and companion to the last?" 
 
 Heaven forbid that I should dispute it ! " he re- 
 plied. 
 
 We may rely on your friendly help ? " she said. I 
 knew we might ! " 
 
 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, im- 
 plicitly. 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." 
 
 She gave him her hand, and thanked him with a cor- 
 dial, happy face. 
 
 Harriet," he said, detaining it in his. To speak to 
 you of the worth of any sacrifice that you can make 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. 
 
532 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 would be, I feel, not less so. I bave 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 headbe- 
 fore 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 faith- 
 ful steward ; and I wo aid rather be so, and your chosen 
 friend, than I would be anybody in the world, except 
 yourself. 
 
 She thanked him again, cordially, and wished hin\ 
 good nighfc. 
 
 Are you going home?” he said. Let me go with 
 you. ” 
 
 '"Not to-night. I am not going home now ; 1 have a 
 visit to make alone. Will you come to-morrow ? ” 
 
 " Well, well,” said he, "ril come to-morrow. In the 
 mean time. Til think of this, and how we can best pro- 
 ceed. And perhaps you'll think of it, dear Harriet, and 
 — and — think of me a little in connexion with it.” 
 
 He handed her down to a coach she had in waiting at 
 the door ; and if his landlady had not been deaf, she 
 would have heard him muttering as be went back up- 
 stairs, when the coach had driven off, that we were 
 creatures of habit, and it was a sorrowful habit to be an 
 old bachelor. 
 
 The violoncello lying on the sofa between the two 
 chairs, he took it up, without putting away the vacant 
 chair, and sat droning on it, and slowdy shaking his head 
 at the vacant chair, for a long, long time. The expres- 
 sion he communicated to the instrument at first, though 
 monstrously pathetic and bland, was nothing to the eX' 
 pression he communicated to his own face, and bestowed 
 upon the empty chair : which was so sincere, that he 
 was obliged to have recourse to Captain Cuttle’s remedy 
 inore 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 Har- 
 monious 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 
 oorner, 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 intelli- 
 gence. 
 
 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. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 533 
 
 where there were a few quiet little old houses standing 
 among gardens. At the garden-gate of one of these he 
 stopped, and Harriet alighted. 
 
 Her gentle ringing at the hell 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. 
 
 “ How is your patient, nurse, to-night? said Harriet. 
 
 “ In a poor way, miss, I am afraid. Oh how she do 
 remind me, sometimes, of my uncle’s Betsey Jane ! ” re- 
 turned the woman of the light complexion, in a sort of 
 doleful rapture. 
 
 In what respect ?” said Harriet. 
 
 ‘‘Miss, in alt respects,” replied the other, “except 
 that she’s grown up, and Betsey Jane, when at death’s 
 door, was but a child.” 
 
 “ But you have told me she recovered,” observed 
 Harriet mildly ; “so there is the more reason for hope, 
 Mrs. Wickam.” 
 
 “ Ah, miss, hope is an excellent thing for such as has 
 the spirits to bear it ! ” said Mrs. Wickam, shaking her 
 head. “ My own spirits is not equal to it, but I don’t 
 owe it any grudge. I envys them that is so blest !” 
 
 “You should try to be more cheerful,” remarked 
 Harriet. 
 
 “ Thank you miss. I’m sure,” said Mrs. Wickam 
 grimly. “ If I was so inclined, the loneliness of this 
 situation — you’ll excuse my speaking so free— would put 
 it out of my power, in four and twenty hours ; but I an’t 
 at all. I’d rather not. The little spirits that I ever had, 
 I was bereaved of at Brighton some few years ago, and I 
 think I feel myself the better for it. ” 
 
 In truth, this was the very Mrs. Wickam who had 
 superseded Mrs. Richards as the nurse of little Paul, and 
 who considered herself to have gained the loss in ques- 
 tion, under the roof of the amiable Pipchin. The excel- 
 lent and thoughtful old system, hallowed by long pre- 
 scription, 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. 
 
 Mrs. Wickam, with her eyebrows elevated, and her 
 head on one side, lighted the way up-stairs to a clean, 
 neat chamber, opening on another chamber dimly lighted, 
 where there was a bed. In the first room, an old woman 
 sat mechanically staring out of the open window, on the 
 
534 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 darkness. In tie second, stretched upon the bed, lay the 
 shadow of a figure that had spumed the wind and rain, 
 one wintry night ; hardly to be recognised now, but by 
 the long black hair, that showed so very black against 
 the colourless face, and all the white things about it. 
 
 Oh, the strong eyes and the weak frame ! The eyes 
 that turned so eagerly and brightly to the door when 
 Harriet came in ; the feeble head that could not raise 
 itself, and moved so slowly round upon its pillow ! 
 
 '‘Alice !” said the visitor’s mild voice, "am I 2ate to- 
 night ? ” 
 
 " You always seem late, but are always early." 
 
 Harriet had sat down by the bedside now, and put h» 
 hand upon the thin hand lying there. 
 
 " You are better 
 
 Mrs. Wickam, standing at the foot of the bed, Ifii© a 
 disconsolate spectre, most decidedly and forcibly shooli 
 her head to negative this position. 
 
 " It matters very little ! " said Alice, with a faint 
 smile. " Better or worse to-day, is but a day’s difference 
 — perhaps not so much.’’ 
 
 Mrs. Wickam, as a serious character, expressed her 
 approval with a groan^; and having made some cold 
 dabs at the bottom of the bed-clothes, as feeling for the 
 patient’s feet and expecting to find them 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.” 
 
 "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.” 
 
 She drew the hand up as she spoke, and laid her faco 
 against it. 
 
 " I lie here, sometimes, thinking I should like to live 
 until I had had a little time to show you how grateful 
 I could be ! It is a weakness, and soon passes. Better 
 for you as it is. Better for me ! ” 
 
 How different her hold u] on the hand, to what it had 
 been when she took it by the fireside on the bleak win- 
 ter evening ! Scorn, rage, defiance, recklessness, look 
 here ! This is the end. 
 
 Mrs. Wickam having clinked sufficiently among the 
 bottles, now produced the mixture. Mrs. Wickam looked 
 hard at the 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 with* 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 535 
 
 drew to partake of certain funeral Baked meats down- 
 stairs,. 
 
 How long is it” asked Alice, since I went to you 
 and told you what I liad done, and when you were ad- 
 vised it was too late for any one to follow ? 
 
 It is a year and more,'' said Harriet. 
 
 year and more," said Alice, thoughtfully intent 
 upon her face. Months upon months since you brought 
 me here I " 
 
 Harriet answered Yes.'’’ 
 
 Brought me here by force of gentleness and kindness. 
 Me ! " said Alice, shrinking with her face behind the 
 hand, and made me human by woman's looks and 
 words, and angel's deeds I " 
 
 Harriet bending over her, composed and soothed her. 
 By-and-by Alice lying as before, with the hand against 
 her face, asked to have her mother called. 
 
 Harriet called to her more than once ; but the old wo- 
 man was so absorbed looking out at the open window on 
 the darkness, that she did not hear. It was not until 
 Harriet went to her and touched her, that she rose up, 
 and came. 
 
 Mother," said Alice, taking the hand again, and fix- 
 ing her lustrous eyes lovingly upon her visitor, while she 
 merely addressed a motion of her finger to the old woman, 
 “ tell her what you know." 
 
 “ To-night, my deary?" 
 
 Ay, mother," answered Alice, faintly and solemnly, 
 '^to-night !" 
 
 The old woman, whose wits appeared disordered by 
 alarm, remorse, or grie£, came creeping up along the side 
 of the bed, opposite to that on which Harriet sat ; and 
 kneeling down, so as to bring her withered face upon 
 a level with the coverlet, and stretching out her hand, 
 so as to touch her daughter's arm, began : 
 
 “ My handsome gal — " 
 
 Heaven what a cry was that, with which she stop- 
 ped there, gazing at the poor form lying on the bed ! 
 
 “ Changed, long ago, mother ! Withered long ago,'* 
 said Alice, without looking at her. “ Don't grieve for 
 that now." 
 
 — My daughter," faltered the old woman, my 
 who’ll soon get better, and shame 'em all with her 
 good looks. " 
 
 Alice smiled mournfully at Harriet, and fondled her 
 hand a little closer, but said nothing. 
 
 “ Who'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 oppo« 
 
536 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 nent at the bedside, who contradic .ed her — my daugh- 
 ter 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 daugh- 
 ter's well related. Show me Mrs. Dombey, and I'll 
 show you my Alice's first cousin." 
 
 Harriet glanced from the old woman to the lustrous 
 eyes intent upon her and derived corroboration 
 
 from them. 
 
 What ! " crie^d the old woman, her nodding head 
 bridling with a ghastly vanity ; though I am old and 
 ugly now, — much older by life and habit than years 
 though, — I was once as young as any. Ah ! as pretty 
 too, as many ! I was a fresh country wench in my time, 
 darling," stretching out her arm to Harriet, across the 
 bed, and looked it, too. Down in my country, Mrs. 
 Dombey's father and his brother were the gayest gentle- 
 men and the best- liked that came a visiting from Lon- 
 don — they have long been dead, though ! Lord, Lord, 
 this long while ! The brother, who is my Ally's father, 
 longest of the two." 
 
 She raised her head a little, and peered at her daugh- 
 ter's face ; as from the remembrance of her own youth, 
 she had flown to the remembrance of her child's. Then 
 suddenly, she laid her face down on the bed, and shut 
 her head up in her hands and arms. 
 
 They were as like," said the old woman, without 
 looking up, "" as you could see two brothers, so near an 
 age — there wasn't much more than a year between them, 
 as I recollect — and if you could have seen my gal, as I 
 have seen her once, side by side with the other's daugh- 
 ter, you'd have seen, for all the difference of dress and 
 life, that they were like each other. Oh ! is the likeness 
 gone and is it my gal — only my gal that's to change 
 so ! " 
 
 ‘'We shall all change, mother, in our turn," said Alice. 
 
 “ Turn ! " cried the old woman, “ but why not hers 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 sAe was handsome. What have I done, I, 
 what have I done worse than her, that only my gal is to 
 lie there fading ! " 
 
 With another o{. those wild cries, she went running 
 out into the room from which she had come ; but im- 
 mediately, in her uncertain mood, returned, and creep- 
 ing up to Harriet, said : 
 
 “ That's what Alice bade me tell you, deary. That's 
 all. I found it out when I began to ask who she was, 
 and all about her, away in Warwickshire there, one 
 
BOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 5B7 
 
 summer time. Such relations was no good to me, tlien. 
 They wouldn’t have owned me, and had nothing to give 
 me. I should have asked ’em, may be, for a little 
 money, afterwards, if it hadn’t been for my Alice ; she’d 
 a’most have killed me, if I had, I think. She was as 
 proud as t’other in her way/’ said the old woman, touch- 
 ing 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 I BUe'll shame ’em, 
 will my handsome daughter ! ” 
 
 Her laugh, as she retreated, was worse than her cry ; 
 worse than the burst of imbecile lamentation in which it 
 ended ; worse than the doting air with which she sat 
 down in her old seat, and ^ared out at the darkness. 
 
 The eyes of Alice had all this time been fixed on Har- 
 riet, whose hand she had never released. She said 
 now ; 
 
 I have felt, lying here, that I should like you to 
 know this. It might explain, I have thought, something 
 that used to help to harden me. I have heard so much, 
 m my wrong-doing, of my neglected duty, that I took 
 iip with the belief that duty had not been done to me^ 
 and that as the seed was sown, the harvest grew, 
 somehow made it out that when ladies had bad homes 
 and mothers, they went wrong in their way, too ; but 
 that their way was not so foul a one as mine, and they 
 had need to bless God for it. That is all past. It is 
 like a dream, now, which I cannot quite remember or 
 understand. It has been more and more like a dream, 
 every day, since you began to sit here, and to read to me. 
 I only tell it you, as I can recollect it. Will you read tO 
 me a little more ? ” 
 
 Harriet was withdrawing her hand to open the book 
 when Alice detained it for a moment. 
 
 You will not forget my mother? I forgive her, if I 
 have any cause. I know that she forgives me, and is 
 sorry in her heart. You will not forget her ? ” 
 
 Never, Alice ! ” 
 
 A moment yet. Lay my head so, dear, that as you 
 read, I may see the words in your kind face.” 
 
 Harriet complied and read — read the eternal book for 
 all the weary and the heavy-laden ; for all the wretched, 
 fallen, and neglected of this earth — read the blessed 
 history, in which the blind, lame, palsied beggar, the 
 criminal, the woman stained with shame, the shunned 
 of all our dainty clay, has each a portion, that no human 
 pride, indifference, or sophistry through all the ages that 
 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 
 
538 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 sweet compassion for, and interest in, its every scene 
 and stage, its every suffering and sorrow. 
 
 I sliall come,'" said Harriet, wlien site shut the 
 booh, very early in the morning.” 
 
 The lustrous eyes, yet fixed upon her face, closed for 
 a moment, then opened ; and Alice kissed and blessed 
 her. 
 
 The same eyes followed her to the door ; and in their 
 light, and on the tranquil face, there was a smile when 
 it was closed. 
 
 They never turned away. She laid her hand up<m 
 her breast, murmuring the sacred name that had been 
 read to her ; and life passed from her face, like light r®. 
 moved. 
 
 Nothing lay there, any longer, but the ruin of th«s 
 mortal house on which the rain had beaten, and the 
 black hair that had fluttered in the wintry wind. 
 
 CHAPTER LIX. 
 
 Betribution. 
 
 Changes have come again upon the great house in 
 the long dull street, once the scene of Florence's child^ 
 hood and loneliness. It is a great house still, proof 
 against wind and weather, without breaches in the roof, 
 or shattered windows, or dilapidated walls ; but it is a 
 ruin none the less, and the rats fly from it. 
 
 Mr. Towlinson and company are, at first, incredulous 
 in respect of the shapeless 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. 
 
 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 tliou-sand 
 pound!" with awful satisfaction — as if handling the 
 words were like handling the money ; and the house- 
 maid, 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 wrongs, opines that a foreigner would hardly know 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 539 
 
 wliat to Go with so much money, unless he spent it on 
 his whiskers ; which bitter sarcasm causes the house- 
 maid to withdraw in tears. 
 
 But not to remain long absent ; for cook, who has the 
 reputation of being extremely good-hearted, says what- 
 ever they do, let 'em stand by one another now, Towlin- 
 son, for there’s no telling how soon they may be divided. 
 They have been in that house (says cook) through a 
 funeral, a wedding, and a run-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. To wlinson 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 
 house-maid, 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- green grocery and herb 
 and leech line, where your kind favours is particular re- 
 quested. This announcement is received with acclama- 
 tion ; and Mrs. Perch, projecting her soul into futurity, 
 says, ''girls,” in cook’s ear, in a solemn whisper. 
 
 Misfortune in the family without feasting, in these 
 lower regions, couldn’t be. Therefore cook tosses up a 
 hot dish or tw^o for supper, and Mr. Towlinson com- 
 pounds a lobster salad to be devoted to the same hospi- 
 table purpose. Even Mrs. Pipchin, agitated by the 
 occasion, rings her bell, and sends down word that she 
 requests to have that little bit of sweet bread that was 
 left, v/armed up for her supper, and sent to her on a tray 
 with about a quarter of a tumbler-full of mulled sherry ; 
 for she feels poorly. 
 
 There is a little talk about Mr. Dombey, but very 
 little. It is chiefly speculation as to how long he has 
 known that this was going to happen. Cook says 
 shrewdly, " Oh a long time, bless you ! Take your oath 
 of that.” And reference being made to Mr. Perch he 
 confirms her view of the case. Somebody wonders what 
 he’ll do, and whether he’ll go out in any situation. Mr. 
 Towlinson thinks not, and hints at a refuge in one of 
 them g m-teel almshouses of the better kind. "Ah! 
 where he’ll have his little garden you know,” says cook 
 plaintively, " and bring up sweet -peas in the spring.” 
 " Exactly so,” says Mr. Towlinson, "and be one of the 
 Brethren of something or another.” "We are all Breth- 
 ren,” says Mrs. Perch, in a pause of her drink. "Ex- 
 cept the sisters,” says Mr. Perch, "How are the mighty 
 fallen !” remarks cook. " Pride shall have a fall, and 
 
540 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 it always was and will be so!’’ observes tbe bouse - 
 maid. 
 
 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 ? Be- 
 cause if that is your religious feelings, Mary Daws,” says 
 cook, warmly, I don’t know where you mean to go to.” 
 
 Mr. Towlinson don’t know either ; nor anybody ; and 
 the young kitchen-maid, appearing not to know exactly, 
 herself, and scouted by the general voice, is covered 
 with confusion, as with a garment. 
 
 After a few days strange people begin to call at the 
 house, and to make appointments with one another in the 
 dining-room, as if they lived there. Especially, there is 
 a gentleman, of a Mosaic Arabian cast of countenance, 
 with a very massive watch-guard, who whistles in. the 
 drawing-room, and, while he is waiting for the other 
 gentleman, who always has pen and ink in his pocket, 
 asks Mr. Towlinson (by the easy name of “Old Cock,”) 
 if he happens to know what the figure of them crimson 
 and gold hangings might have been, when new bought. 
 The 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 oft 
 thousands of impressions of their shoes upon the hall and 
 staircase. 
 
 The council downi-stairs are in full conclave all this 
 time, and, having nothing to do, perform perfect feats of 
 eating. At length they are one day summoned in a body 
 to Mrs. Pipchin’s room, and thus addressed by the fair 
 Peru^an : 
 
 “Your master’s in difiiculties,” says Mrs. Pipchin, 
 tartly. “ You know that, I suppose ?” 
 
 Mr. Towlinson, as spokesman, admits a general knowl» 
 edge of the fact. 
 
MRS. PIPCHIN, IT IS,” REPLIES COOK, ADVANCING. 
 
542 
 
 WOKKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 '' And you’re all on the look-out for yourselves, I war^ 
 rant you,” says Mrs. Pipcliin, shaking her head at them. 
 
 A shrill voice from the rear exclaims, ‘'No more than 
 yourself ! ” 
 
 “That’s your opinion, Mrs. Impudence, is it?” says 
 the ireful Pipchin, looking with a fiery eye over the im 
 termediate heads. 
 
 “Yes, Mrs. Pipchin, it is,” replies cook, advancing. 
 “ And what then, pray ? ” 
 
 “Why, then you may go as soon as you like,” says 
 Mrs. Pipchin. “The sooner the better, and I hope I 
 shall never see your face again.” 
 
 With this the doughty Pipchin produces a canvas 
 bag ; and tells her wages out to that day, and a month 
 beyond it, and clutches the money tight, until a receipt 
 for the same is duly signed, to the last up-stroke ; when 
 she grudgingly lets it go. This form of proceeding Mrs. 
 Pipchin repeats with every member of the household, 
 until all are paid. 
 
 “ Now those that choose, can go about their business,” 
 says Mrs. 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. ” 
 
 “That,” says cook, “she certainly will ! I wish you 
 good-day, Mrs. Pipchin, and sincerely wish I could com- 
 pliment you on the sweetness of your appearance ! ” 
 
 “ Get along with you,” says Mrs. Pipchin, stamping 
 her foot. 
 
 Cook sails off with an air of beneficent dignity, highly 
 exasperating to Mrs. Pipchin, and is shortly joined be- 
 low stairs by the rest of the confederation. 
 
 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 whicli 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 543 
 
 say, that he dr.es not think it over-respec table to remain 
 in a house where Sales and such like are carrying for- 
 wards. 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 ; vrhen 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 in- 
 decencies at once. Mrs. Perch, presenting the case in a 
 new light, even shows that delicacy towards Mr. Dom- 
 bey, 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 I ” 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 mem- 
 ber of the party left. 
 
 The house stands, large and weather-proof, in the long 
 dull street ; but it is a ruin, and the rats fly from it. 
 
 The men in the carpet caps go on tumbling the furni- 
 ture about ; and the gentlemen with the pens and ink 
 make out inventories of it, and sit upon pieces of furni- 
 ture never made to be sat upon, and eat 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 ap- 
 propriating 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 fthe great dinner service 
 is set out in heaps on the long divan in the large drawing- 
 room ,* and the stair- wires, made into fasces, decorate the 
 marble chimney-pieces. Finally, a rug, with a printed 
 bill upon it, is hung out from the balcony ; and a similar 
 appendage graces either side of the hall door. 
 
 Then, all day long, there is a retinue of mouldy gigs 
 and chaise-carts in the streets ; and herds of shabby vam- 
 pires, Jew and Christian, over-run the house, sounding 
 the plate-glass mirrors with their knuckles, striking dis- 
 cordant octaves on the grand piano, drawing wet forefin- 
 gers 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 
 
544 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 as mto tlie attic clotlies- press. Stout men with napless 
 hats on, look out of the bed- room windows, and cut jokes 
 with friends in the street. Quiet, calculating spirits 
 withdraw into the dressing-rooms with catalogues, and 
 make marginal notes thereon, with stumps of pencils. 
 Two brokers invade the very fire-escape, and take a pan- 
 oramic 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 Furni-^ 
 ture, &c., is on view. 
 
 Then there is a palisade of tables made in the best 
 drawing-room ; and on the c'Spital, french-polished, ex- 
 tending, telescopic range of Spanish mahogany dining- 
 tables with turned legs, the pulpit of the Auctioneer is 
 erected ; and the herds of shabby vampires, Jew and 
 Christian, the strangers fluify 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 Auc- 
 tioneer, 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 
 l;ll day and three days following. The Capital Modern 
 Household Furniture, &c., is on sale. 
 
 Then the mouldy gigs and chaise-carts re-appear ; and 
 with them come spring- vans and waggons, and an army 
 j)f 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 stair- 
 case under heavy burdens, or upheaving perfect rocks of 
 Spanish mahogany, best rosewood, 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 wheel -barrow. Poor Paul’s little bedstead 
 is carried off in a donkey-tandem. For nearly a whole 
 week the Capital Modern Household Furniture, &c., is in 
 course of removal. 
 
 At last it is all gone. Nothing is left about the house 
 but scattered leaves of catalogues, littered scraps of straw 
 and hay, and a battery of pewter pots behind the hall 
 door. The men with the carpet caps gather up their 
 screw -drivers and bed- winches into bags, shoulder them, 
 f,nd walk off. One of the pen and ink gentlemen goes 
 over the house as a last attention ; sticking up bills ir* 
 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 
 semain. The house is a ruin, and the rats fly from it. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 545 
 
 Mrs. Pipcliin’s apartments, together with those locked 
 rooms on the ground floor where the window-blinds are 
 drawn down close, have been spared the general devas- 
 tation. Mrs. Pipchin has remained austere and stony 
 during the proceedings, in her own room ; or has occa- 
 sionally 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. 
 
 “How is my brother, Mrs. Pipchin ? ’’ says Mrs. Chick. 
 
 “ I don’t knov/ 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 th^ south who burnt 
 his mouth by eating cold plum porridge.” 
 
 This the acrimonious Pipchin says with a flounce. 
 
 “But good gracious me !” cried Mrs. Chick blandly, 
 “ How long is this to last ! If my brother will not make 
 an effort, Mrs. Pipchin, what is to become of him ? I am 
 sure i should have thought he had seen enough of the 
 consequences of not making an effort, by this time, to be 
 warned against that fatal error.” 
 
 “ Hoity toity ! ” says Mrs. Pipchin, rubbing her nose. 
 “ There’s a great fuss, I think, about it. It ain’t so 
 wonderful a case. People have had misfortunes before 
 now, and been obliged to part with their furniture. I’m 
 sure / have !” 
 
 “ My brother,” pursues Mrs. Chick profoundly, is 
 so peculiar — so strange a man. He is the most peculiar 
 man 1 ever saw. Would any one believe that when he re- 
 ceived news of the marriage and emigration of that un- 
 natural 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 r 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 I ” 
 
 “ Ah ! ” says Mrs. Pipchin. “ It’s a pity he hadn’t a 
 little more to do with mines. They’d have tried his tem- 
 per for him. ” 
 
 “And what,” resumes Mrs. Chick, quite regardless of 
 Mrs. Pipchin’s observations, “is it to end in? That’f 
 
546 
 
 WOKKS OF CHAIILES DICKENS. 
 
 wliat I want to know. What does my brother mean to 
 do? He must do something. It’s of no use remaining 
 shut up in his own rooms. Business won’t come to him. 
 No. He must go to it. Then why don’t he go ! He 
 knows where to go, I suppose, having been a man of 
 business all his life. Very good. Then why not go 
 there ?” 
 
 Mrs. Chick, after forging this powerful chain of rea- 
 soning, remains silent for a minute to admire it. 
 
 Besides,” says the discreet lady, with an argumenta- 
 tive air, who ever heard of such obstinacy as his 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 1 naturally ask 
 what is to be the end of it ? ” 
 
 " I know what’s to be the end of it, as far as I am 
 concerned,” replies Mrs. Pipchin, " and that’s enough 
 for me. I’m going to take myself off in a jiffy.” 
 
 '‘In a which, Mrs. Pipchin?” says Mrs. Chick. 
 
 "In a jiffy,” retorts Mrs. Pipchin sharply. 
 
 "Ah, well ! really I can’t blame you, Mrs. Pipchin,” 
 says Mrs. Chick with frankness. 
 
 " It would be pretty much the same to me, if you 
 could,” replies the sardonic Pipchin. "At any rate I’m 
 going. I can’t stop here. I should be dead in a week. 
 I had to cook my own pork chop yesterday, and I’m not 
 used to it. My constitution will be giving waty 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 ex- 
 pects me by this time.” 
 
 "Have you spoken to my brother?” inquires Mrs, 
 Chick. 
 
 " Oh, yes, it’s very easy to say speak to him,” retorts 
 Mrs. Pipchin. " How is it done I 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON, 
 
 547 
 
 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 ! Tve no patience with it I ” 
 
 Here this exemplary female, who had pumped up so 
 much fortitude and virtue from the depths of the Peru- 
 vian mines, rises from her cushioned property to see 
 Mrs. Chick to the door. Mrs. Chick, deploring to the 
 last the peculiar character of her brother, noiselessly re- 
 tires, much occupied with her own sagacity and clear- 
 ness of head. 
 
 In the dusk of the evening Mr. Toodle, being off duty, 
 arrives with Polly and a box, and. leaves them, with a 
 sounding kiss, in the hall of the empty house, the retired 
 character of which affects Mr. Toodle’s spirits strong- 
 iy. 
 
 ‘‘ I tell you what, Polly my dear,” says Mr. Toodle, 
 ‘‘ Being now, an ingein-driver and well to do in the 
 world, I shouldn’t allow of your coming here, to be made 
 dull like, if it warn’t for 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 ! ” 
 
 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 to-night to Brighton on private service, 
 which is to call for her, by private contract, and convey 
 her home. 
 
 Presently it comes. Mrs. Pipchin’s wardrobe being 
 handed in and stowed away, Mrs. Pipchin’s chair is next 
 handed in, and placed in a convenient corner among cer- 
 tain trusses of hay ; it being the intention of the amiable 
 woman to occupy the chair during her journey. Mrs. 
 Pipchin herself is next handed in, and grimly takes her 
 seat, .yhere is a snaky gleam in her hard gray eye, as 
 of anticipated rounds of buttered toast, relays of hot 
 chops, worryings and quellings of young children, sharp 
 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. 
 
 The house is such a ruin that the rats have fled, and 
 there is not one left. 
 
 But Pollyj 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 
 
548 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 night ; and she is sitting at work in the housekeepers 
 room, trying to forget what a lonely house it is, and 
 what a hi' tory 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 re- 
 turns across the echoing hall, accompanied by a female 
 figure in a close black bonnet. It is Miss Tox, and Miss 
 Tox^s eyes are red. 
 
 Oh Polly, says Miss Tox, when I 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 re. 
 cover my spirits at all, I came on after you. Is there no 
 one here but you ? 
 
 Ah ! not a soul,’^ says Polly. 
 
 ‘‘ Have you seen him?” whispers Miss Tox. 
 
 Bless you,” returns Polly, no ; he has not been 
 seen this many a day. They tell me he never leaves his 
 room.” 
 
 ‘‘ Is he said to be ill ? ” inquires Miss Tox. 
 
 ‘"No ma’am, not that I know of,” returns Polly, 
 
 except in his mind. He must be very bad there, poor 
 gentleman ! ” 
 
 Miss Tox’s sympathy is such that she can scarcely 
 speak. She is no chicken, but she has not grown tough 
 with age and celibacy. Her heart is very tender, her 
 compassion very genuine, her homage very real. Be- 
 neath the locket with the fishy-eye in it. Miss Tox bears 
 better qualities than many a less whimsical outside ; such 
 qualities as will outlive, by many courses of the sun, the 
 best outsides and brightest husks that fall in the harvest 
 of the Great Reaper. 
 
 It is long before Miss Tox goes away, and before Polly, 
 with a candle flaring on the blank stairs, looks after her, 
 for company, down the street, and feels 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 foot-fall going to and fro, it never 
 comes out. 
 
 Miss Tox returns early in the day. It then begins to 
 be Miss Tox’s occupation to prepare little dainties — or 
 what are such to her — to be carried into these rooms 
 next morning. She derives so much satisfaction from 
 the 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 de° 
 ceased owner of the powdered head and pigtail. She 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 549 
 
 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 he true to the fallen object of her admiration, un- 
 known to him, unknown to all the world but one poor 
 simple woman. 
 
 The major knows it ; but no one is the wiser for that, 
 though the major is much the merrier. The major, in a 
 fit of curiosity, has charged the native to watch the 
 house sometimes, and find out w^hat 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.” 
 
 And the ruined man. How does he pass the hours, 
 alone ? 
 
 “ Let him remember it in that room, years to come 1 
 He did remember it. It w^as heavy on his mind now ; 
 heavier than all the rest. 
 
 “Let him remember it in that room, year's to come. 
 The rain that falls upon the roof, the wind that mourns 
 outside the door, may have foreknowledge in their mel- 
 ancholy sound. Let him remember it in that room, years 
 to come ! ” 
 
 He did remember it. In the miserable night he thought 
 of it ; in the dreary day, the wretched dawn, the ghost- 
 ly, memory -haunted twilight. He did remember it. In 
 agony, in sorrow, in remorse, in despair ! ‘^Papa ! papa! 
 Speak to me, dear papa ! ” He heard the words again, 
 and saw the face. He saw it fall upon the trembling 
 hands, and heard the one prolonged low cry go upward. 
 
 He was fallen, never to be raised up any more. For 
 the night of his worldly ruin there was no to-morrow’ 
 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 be hardly 
 thought of now — that which was his own w^ork, that 
 which he could so easily have wrought into a blessing, 
 and had set himself so steadily for years to form into a 
 curse : that was the sharp grief of his soul. 
 
 Oh I He did remember it \ 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 
 
550 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 lower than the heaviest stroke of fortune. He knew^ 
 now, what it was to be rejected and deserted ; now, when 
 every loving blossom he had withered in his innocent 
 daughter’s heart was snowing down in ashes on him. 
 
 He thought of her, as she had been that night when 
 he and his bride came home. He thought of her as she 
 had been, in all the home-events of the abandoned house. 
 He thought, now, that of all around him, she alone had 
 Lever changed. His boy had faded into diist, 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 wails that shelter- 
 ed him looked on him as a stranger ; she alone had turned 
 the same mild gentle look upon him always. Yes, to the 
 latest and the last. She had never changed to him — nor 
 had he ever changed to her— -and she was lost. 
 
 As, one by one, they fell away before his mind—his 
 Laby-hope, his wife, his friend, his fortune — oh how the 
 mist, through which he had seen her, cleared, and showed 
 him her true self ! Oh, how much better than this that 
 he had loved her as he had his boy, and lost her as he 
 had his boy, and laid them in their early grave together ! 
 
 In his pride — for he was proud yet — he let the world 
 
 f o from him freely. As it fell away, he shook it ofl. 
 
 V^hether 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. 
 
 It began, beyond all doubt (however slowly it advanced 
 for some time), in the receipt of her young husband’s let- 
 ter, 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 be- 
 yond 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 tho 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 Lieart 
 should have broken soon afterwards. However turbu- 
 lent his thoughts, or harsh his anger had been, at flrst, 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 551 
 
 concerning lier marriage, or her husband, that was all 
 past now. He chiefly thought of what might have been, 
 and what was not. What was, was all summed up in 
 this : that she was lost, and he bowed down with sorrow 
 and remorse. 
 
 And now he felt that he had had two children born to 
 him in that house; and that between him and the bare 
 empty wall there was a tie, mournful, but hard to rend 
 asunder, connected with a double childhood, and a double 
 loss. He had thought to leave the house— knowing he 
 must go, not knowing whither — upon the evening of the 
 day on which this feeling first struck root in his breast ; 
 but he resolved to stay another night, and in the night 
 to ramble through the rooms once more. 
 
 He-came out of his solitude when it was the dead of 
 night, and with a candle in his hand went softly up the 
 stairs. Of all the footmarks there, making them as 
 common as the common street, there was not one, he 
 thought, but had seemed at the time to set itself upon 
 his brain while he had kept close, listening. He looked 
 at their number, and their hurry, and contention — foot 
 treading foot out, and upward track and downward jost- 
 ling one another — and thought, with absolute dread and 
 wonder, how much he must have suffered during that 
 trial, and what a changed man he had cause to be. He 
 thought, besides, oh was there, somewhere in the world, 
 a light footstep that might have worn out in a moment 
 half those marks ! — and bent his head, and wept as he 
 went up. 
 
 He almost saw it, going on before. He stopped, look- 
 ing up towards the skylight ; and a figure, childish it- 
 self, but carrying a child, and singing as it went, seemed 
 to be there again. Anon, it was the same figure, alone, 
 stopping for an instant, with suspended breath ; the 
 bright hair clustering loosely round its tearful face ; and 
 looking back at him. 
 
 He wandered through the rooms : lately so luxurious ; 
 now so bare and dismal and so changed, apparently, 
 even in their shape and size. The press of footsteps was 
 as thick here ; and the same consideration of the suffer- 
 ing he had had, perplexed and terrified him. He began 
 to fear that ail this intricacy in his brain would drive 
 him mad ; and that his thoughts already lost coherence 
 as the foot-prints did, and were pieced on to one another, 
 with the sa.me trackless involutions, and varieties of in- 
 distinct shapes. 
 
 He did not so much as know in which of these rooms 
 she had lived, when she was alone. H^ 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 ; 
 
552 
 
 WOEKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 but lie put them all by now, and only recalled miserably, 
 weakly, fondly, his two children. 
 
 Everywhere, the footsteps ! They had had no respect 
 for the old room high up, where the little bed had been ; 
 he could hardly find a clear space there, to throw him- 
 self down, on the floor, against the w^all, poor broken 
 man, and let his tears fiow^ as they wauld. He had shed 
 so many tears here, long ago, that he ’ivas less ashamed 
 of his weakness in this place than in any other — per- 
 haps, with that consciousness, had made excuses to him- 
 self for coming here. Here, with stooping shoulders 
 and his chin dropped on his breast, he had come. Here, 
 thrown upon the bare boards, in the dead of night, he 
 wept, alone — a proud man, even then ; who, if a kind 
 hand could have been stretched out, or a kind face could 
 have looked in, would have risen up, and turned away, 
 and gone down to his cell. 
 
 When the day broke he was shut up in his rooms 
 again. He had meant to go away to-day, but clung to 
 this tie in the house as the last and only thing left to 
 Lim, He would go to-morrow^ To-morrow came. He 
 would go to-morrow. Every night, within the knowl- 
 edge of no human creature, he came forth, and wandered 
 through the despoiled house like a ghost. Many a 
 morning w^hen 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 w^as one child no more. He re- 
 united them in his thoughts, and tliey were never asun- 
 der. Oh, that he could have united them in his past 
 love, and in death, and that one had not been so much 
 worse than dead ! 
 
 Strong mental agitation and disturbance was no nov- 
 elty to him, even before his late sufferings. It never is 
 to obstinate and sullen natures ; for they struggle hard 
 to be such. Ground, long undermined, will often fall 
 down in a moment ; wiiat w^as undermined here in so 
 many w^ays, w^eakened, and crumbled, little by little, 
 more and more, as the hand moved cn the dial. 
 
 At last he began to think he need not go at all. He 
 might yet give up what his creditors had spared him 
 (that they had not spared him more, was his own act), 
 and only sever the tie between him and the ruined 
 house, by severing that other link — 
 
 It was then that his footfall w^as 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 ap- 
 palling sound. . 
 
 The world was very busy and restless about him. He 
 became aware of that again. It w*as w^hispenng and 
 babbling. It w^as never quiet. This, and the intricacy 
 
DOMBF.Y AND SON. 
 
 553 
 
 and complication of the footsteps, harassed him to death. 
 Objects began to take a bleared and russet colour in his 
 eyes. Dombey and Son was no more — his children no 
 more. This must be thought of, well, to-morrow. 
 
 He thought of it to-morrow ; and sitting thinking in 
 his chair, saw, in the glass, from time to time, this pic- 
 ture : 
 
 A spectral, haggard, wasted likeness of himself, 
 brooded and brooded over the empty fireplace. Now it 
 lifted up its head, examining the lines and hollows in 
 its face ; now hung it down again, and brooded afresh. 
 Now it rose and walked about ; now passed into the 
 next room, and came back with something from the 
 dressing-table in its breast. Now, it was looking at the 
 bottom of the door, and thinking. 
 
 — Hush ! what ? 
 
 It was thinking that if blood were to trickle that way, 
 and to leak out into the hall, it must be a long time go- 
 ing so far. It would move so stealthily and slowly, creep- 
 ing 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 mur- 
 derous that hand looked. 
 
 Now it was thinking again! What was it thinking? 
 
 Whether they would tread in the blood when it crept 
 so far, and carry it about the house among those many 
 prints of feet, or even out into the street. 
 
 It sat down, with its eyes upon the empty 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 reflec- 
 tion in the glass, and at his knees, his daughter ! 
 
 Yes. His daughter 1 Look at her ! Look here ! 
 Down upon the ground, clinging to him, calling to him, 
 folding her hands, praying to him. 
 
 I^apa ' Dearest papa ! Pardon me, forgive me I I 
 have come back to ask forgiveness on my knees. I never 
 can be happy more, without it I 
 
 Unchanged still. Df all the world, unchanged. 
 Baising the same face to his, as on that miserable night. 
 Asking Ms forgiveness ! 
 
 ‘‘ Dear papa, oh don’t look strangely on me I I 
 never meant to leave you. I never thought of it, before 
 or afterwards. I was frightened when I went away, and 
 
 VOL. 13 --X 
 
554 
 
 WORiiS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 could not fhiiik. Papa, dear, I am changed. I am pen- 
 itent. I know my fault. I know my duty better now. 
 Papa, don’t cast me off, or I shall die ! ” 
 
 He tottered to his chair. He felt her draw his arms 
 about her neck : he felt her put her own round his ; he 
 felt her kisses on his face ; he felt her wet cheek laid 
 against his own ; he felt — oh, how deeply ! — all that he 
 had done 
 
 Upon the breast that he had bruised, against the 
 heart that he had almost broken, she laid his face, now 
 covered with his hands, and said, sobbing : 
 
 “ Papa, love, I am a mother. I have a child who will 
 soon call Walter by the name by which I call you. When 
 it was bom, 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 I ” 
 He would have said it, if he could. He would have rais- 
 ed his hands and besought her for pardon, but she caught 
 them in her own, and put them down, hurriedly. 
 
 My little child was born at sea, papa. I prayed to 
 God (and so did Walter for me) to spare me, that I 
 might come home. The moment I could land, I came 
 back to you. Never let us be parted any more, papa. 
 Never let us be parted any more ! ” 
 
 His head, now gray, was encircled by her arm ; and 
 he groaned to think that never, never, had it rested so 
 before. 
 
 You will come home with me, papa, and see my 
 baby. A boy, papa. His name is Paul. I think — i 
 hope — ^he’s like — ” 
 
 Her tears stopped her. 
 
 Dear papa, for the sake of my child, for the sake 
 of the name v/e have given him, for my sake, pardon 
 Walter. He is so kind and tender to me. I am so happy 
 with him. It was not his fault that we were married. 
 It was mine. I loved him so much.” 
 
 She clung closer to him, more endearing and more 
 earnest. 
 
 ' ' He is the darling of my heart, papa. I would die for 
 him. He will love and honour you as I will. We 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 ! ” 
 
 As she clung closer to him, in another burst of tears, 
 he kissed her on her lips, and lifting up his eyes, said. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 555 
 
 Oh my God, forgive me, for I need it very much ? ” 
 
 With that he dropped his head again, lamenting ove? 
 and caressing her, and there was not a sound in all the 
 house for a long long time ; they remaining clasped in 
 one another’s arms, in the glorious sunshine that had 
 crept in with Florence. 
 
 He dressed himself for going out, with a docile sub- 
 mission 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 re- 
 mind him freshly of their last parting — for their feet were 
 on the very stones where he had struck her in his mad- 
 ness — 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. 
 
 Then, Miss Tox and Polly came out of their conceak 
 ment, and exulted tearfully. And then they packed: 
 his clothes, and books, and so forth, with greait 
 care ; and consigned them in due course to certain per 
 sons sent by Florence in the evening, to fetch them. 
 And then they took a last cup of tea in the lonely house. 
 
 '‘And so Dombey and Son, as I observed upon a cer- 
 tain sad occasion,” said Miss Tox, winding up a host of 
 recollections, "is indeed a daughter, Polly, after all.” 
 
 " And a good one ! ” exclaimed Polly. 
 
 "You are right,” said Miss Tox ; " and it's a credit to 
 you, Polly, that you were always her friend when she 
 was a little child. You were her friend long before 
 I was, Polly,” said Miss Tox ; " and you’re a good crea- 
 ture. Robin ! ” 
 
 Miss Tox addressed herself to a bullet-headed young 
 man, who appeared to be in but indifferent circumstances, 
 and in depressed spirits, and who was sitting in a re- 
 mote corner. Rising, he disclosed to view the form and 
 features of the Grinder. 
 
 " Robin,” said Miss Tox, "I have just observed to 
 your mother, as you have may have heard, that she is a 
 good creature.” 
 
 "And so she is, miss,” quoth the Grinder, with some 
 feeling. 
 
 "Very well, Robin,” said Miss Tox, " I am glad to hear 
 you say so. Now, Robin, as I am going to give you a 
 trial, at your urgent request, as my domestic, with 
 a view to your restoration to respectability, I will take 
 this impressive occasion of remarking that I hope you 
 will never forget that you have, and have always had, a 
 good mother, and that you will endeavour so to conduct 
 yourself as to be a comfort to her.” 
 
 " Upon my soul I will, miss,” returned the Grinder. 
 
556 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 I have come through a good deal, and my intentions 
 is now as straight forward, miss, as a cove’s — ” 
 
 ‘ ‘ I must get you to break yourself of that word, 
 Robin, if you please,” interposed Miss Tox, politely. 
 
 “ If you please, miss, as a chap’s — ” 
 
 Thankee, Robin, no,” returned Miss Tox. “ I should 
 prefer individual.” 
 
 As a indiwiddle’s,” said the Grinder. 
 
 Much better,” remarked Miss Tox, complacently ; 
 " infinitely more expressive ! ” 
 
 "" — can be,” pursued Rob. If I hadn’t been and got 
 made a Grinder on, miss and mother, which was a most 
 unfortunate circumstance for a young co — indiwiddle.” 
 ‘‘ Very good indeed,” observed Miss Tox approvingly. 
 — and if I hadn’t been led away by birds, and then 
 fallen into a bad service,” said the Grinder, I hope I 
 might have done better. But it’s never to late for a — ” 
 Indi — ” suggested Miss Tox. 
 
 “ widdle,” said the Grinder, ** to mend ; and I hope to 
 mend, miss, with your kind trial ; and wishing, mother, 
 my love to father, and brothers and sisters, and say 
 ing of it.” 
 
 I am very glad indeed to hear it,” observed Miss Tox. 
 Will you take a little bread and butter, and a cup of 
 tea, before we go, Robin ? ” 
 
 Thankee, miss,” returned the Grinder ; who immedi- 
 ately began to use his own personal grinders in a most 
 remarkable manner, as if he^had been on very short al- 
 lowance for a considerable period. 
 
 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 hiin. 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 un- 
 expected 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^treet ; baulking any nearer inquiries with 
 the staring announcement that the lease of this desirable 
 Family Mansion was to be disposed of. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 557 
 
 CHAPTER LX. 
 
 Chiefiy Matrimonial. 
 
 The grand half-yearly festival holden by Doctor and 
 Mrs. Blimber, on which occasion they requested the 
 pleasure of the company of every young gentleman pur- 
 suing his studies in that genteel establishment, at an ear- 
 ly party, when the hour was half -past seven o’clock, and 
 when the object was quadrilles, had duly taken place, 
 about this time ; and the young gentlemen, with no un- 
 becoming demonstrations of levity, had betaken them- 
 selves, in a state of scholastic repletion, to their own 
 homes. Mr. Skettles had repaired abroad, permanently 
 to grace the establishment of his father Sir Barnet Sket- 
 tles, whose popular manners had obtained him a diplo- 
 matic appointment, the 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 ex- 
 tremely 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 tender- 
 est emotions, and caused the father and mother of Mr. 
 Briggs (whose learning, like ill-arranged luggage, was so 
 Mghtly packed that he couldn’t get at anything he want- 
 ed) 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 pres- 
 sure, that it had become a kind of intellectual Norfolk 
 Biffin, and had nothing of its original form or flavour re- 
 maining. Master Bitherstone now, on whom the forcing 
 system had the happier and not uncommon effect of leav- 
 ing 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-substan- 
 tives would hold out to the end of the voyage. 
 
 When Doctor Blimber, in pursuance of the usual course, 
 would have said to the young gentlemen, on the morning 
 of the party, ‘‘Gentlemen, we will resume our studies 
 on the twenty-fifth of next month,” he departed from the 
 usual course, and said, “ Gentlemen, when our friend Cm. 
 cinnatus retired to his farm, he did not present to the 
 senate any Roman whom he sought to nominate as his 
 successor. But there is a Roman here,” said DoctoS 
 
558 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Blimber, laying liis hand on the shoulder of Mr. Feeder, 
 B.A., “ adolescens imprimis grmis 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 
 Dr. Blimher 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 Ms inkstand. Why couldn’t he leave the boys’ 
 property alone ? ” and murmuring other expressions of 
 their dissatisfaction, which seemed to find a greater re- 
 lief in calling him old Tozer, than in any other available 
 vent. 
 
 Not a word had been said to the young gentlemen, nor 
 a hint dropped, of anything like a contemplated marriage 
 between Mr. Feeder, B A., and the fair Cornelia Blimber. 
 Doctor Blimber, especially, seemed to take pains to look 
 as if nothing would surprise him more ; but it was per- 
 fectly well known to all the young gentlemen neverthe- 
 less, and when they departed for the society of their re- 
 lations and friends^ they took leave of Mr. Feeder with 
 awe. 
 
 Mr. Feeder’s most romantic visions were fulfilled. The 
 doctor had determined to paint the house outside, and 
 put it in thorough repair ; and to give up the business, 
 and to give up Cornelia. The painting and repairing be- 
 gan upon the very day of the young gentlemen’s depar- 
 ture, and now behold ! the wedding morning was come, 
 and Cornelia, in a new pair of spectacles, was waiting to 
 be led to the hymeneal altar. 
 
 The doctor with his learned legs, and Mrs. Blimber in 
 a 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 draw- 
 ing-room, and Cornelia with her orange-flowers and 
 bridesmaids had just come down, and looked, as of old, a 
 little squeezed in appearance, but very charming, when 
 the door opened, and the weak-eyed young man, in a loud 
 voice, made the following proclamation : 
 
 ‘‘ Mr. and Mrs. Toots ! ” 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 559 
 
 Upon which there entered Mr. Toots, grown extremely 
 stout, and on his arm a lady very handsomely and be. 
 comingly dressed, with very bright black eyes. 
 
 “ Mrs. Blimber,^^ said Mr. Toots, allow me to present 
 my wife.*’ 
 
 Mrs. Blimber was delighted to receive her. Mrs. 
 Blimber was a little condescending, but extremely kind. 
 
 And as you’ve known me for a long time, you 
 know,” said Mr. Toots, let me assure you that she is 
 one of the most remarkable women that ever lived.” 
 
 My dear,” remonstrated Mrs. Toots. 
 
 Upon my word and honour she is,” said Mr. Toots. 
 
 — I assure you, Mrs. Blimber, she’s a most extraordi- 
 nary woman ” 
 
 Mrs. Toots laughed merrily, and Mrs. Blimber led her 
 to Cornelia. Mr. Toots having paid his respects in that 
 direction, and having saluted his old preceptor, who 
 said, in allusion to his conjugal state, ‘‘Well Toots, 
 well Toots ! So you are one of us, are you. Toots?’*— 
 retired with Mr. Feeder, B.A., into a window. 
 
 Mr. Feeder, B.A., being in great spirits, made a spai 
 at Mr. Toots, and tapped him skilfully with the back of 
 his hand on the breast-bone. 
 
 “Well, old Buck !” said Mr. Feeder, with a laugh. 
 “Well ! Here we are ! Taken in and done for. Eh?*^ 
 
 “ Feeder,” returned Mr. Toots. “ I give you joy. If 
 you’re as — as— as perfectly blissful in a matrimonial life, 
 as I am myself, you’ll have nothing to desire.’ 
 
 “ I don’t forget old friends, you see,” said Mr. 
 Feeder. “ I ask ’em to wedding. Toots.” 
 
 “Feeder,” replied Mr. Toots gravely, “the fact is, 
 that there were several circumstances which prevented 
 me from communicating with you until after my mar- 
 riage had been 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 wM Miss Dombey, which involved explanations, 
 that upon my word and honour, at that crisis, would 
 have knocked me completely over. In the second place, 
 our wedding was strictly private ; there being nobody 
 present but one friend of myself and Mrs. Toots’s, who 
 is a captain in — I don’t exactly know in what,” said Mr. 
 Toots, “ but it’s of no consequence. I hope. Feeder, 
 that in writing a statement of what had occurred before 
 Mrs. Toots and myself went abroad upon our foreign 
 tour, I fully discharged the offices of friendship.” 
 
 “ Toots, my boy,” said Mr. Feeder, shaking hands, 
 “ I was joking.” 
 
 “And now, Feeder,” said Mr. Toots, “ I should be glad 
 to know what you think of my union.” 
 
560 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Capital ! ** returned Mr. Feeder. 
 
 ‘"You think it’s capital, do you. Feeder?” said Mr. 
 Toots solemnly. '' Then how capital must it be to Me. 
 For you can never know^hat an extraordinary woman 
 that is. ” 
 
 Mr. Feeder was willing to take it for granted. But 
 Mr. Toots shook his head, and wouldn’t hear of that be- 
 ing possible. 
 
 ‘‘ 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.” 
 
 Mr. Feeder murmured, '' Oh yes, you had. Toots ! ” 
 But Mr. Toots said : 
 
 ‘‘No, Feeder, I had not. Why should I disguise it? 
 I had not, I 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 of- 
 fended, on the score of station ; for I had no relation. I 
 have never had anybody belonging to me but my guar- 
 dian, and him. Feeder, I have always considered as a 
 Pirate and a Corsair. Therefore, you know, it was not 
 likely,” said Mr. Toots, “ that I should take his 
 opinion.” 
 
 No,” said Mr. Feeder. 
 
 “ Accordingly,” resumed Mr. Toots, “ I acted on my 
 own. Bright was the day on which I did so ! Feeder ! 
 Nobody but myself can tell what the capacity of that 
 woman’s mind is. If ever the Rights of Woman, and 
 all that kind of thing, are properly attended to, it will 
 be through her powerful intellect. — -Susan, my dear ! ” 
 said Mr. Toots, looking abruptly out of the window-cur- 
 tains, ‘ ‘ pray do not exert yourself ! ” 
 
 “ My dear,” said Mrs. Toots, “ I was only talking.” 
 
 “But my love,” said Mr. Toots, “ pray do not exert 
 yourself. You really must be careful. Do not, my 
 dear Susan, exert yourself. She’s so easily excited,” 
 said Mr. Toots, apart to Mrs. Blimber, “and then she 
 forgets the medical man altogether.” 
 
 Mrs. Blimber was impressing on Mrs. Toots the ne- 
 cessity of caution, when Mr. Feeder, B.A., offered her 
 his arm, and led her down to the carriages that were in 
 waiting to go to church. Doctor Blimber escorted Mrs. 
 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 of- 
 ficial functions. 
 
 The ceremony was performed in an admirable manner. 
 Cornelia with her crisp little curls, “ went in,” as the 
 Chicken might have said, with great composure ; and 
 Doctor Blimber gave her away, like a man who had 
 
DOMBEY AND So5f^ 
 
 561 
 
 quite made up his mind to it. The gauzy little brides- 
 maids appeared to suffer most. Mrs. Blimber was af- 
 fected, but gently so ; and told the Reverend Mr. Alfred 
 Feeder, M.A., on the way home, that if she could only 
 have seen Cicero in his retirement at Tusculum, she 
 would not have had a wish, now, ungratified. 
 
 There was a breakfast afterwards, limited to the same 
 small party ; at which the spirits of Mr. Feeder, B.A., 
 Were tremendous, and so communicated themselves to 
 Mrs. Toots, that Mr. Toots was several times heard to 
 observe, across the table, *'My dear Susan, don't exert 
 yourself ! ” The best of it was, that Mr. Toots felt it 
 incumbent on him to make a speech ; and in spite of a 
 whole code of telegraphic dissuasions from Mrs. Toots, 
 appeared on his legs for the first time in his life. 
 
 “ I really,’’ said Mr. Toots, ‘‘in this house, where 
 whatever was done to me in the way of — of any mental 
 confusion sometimes — which is of no consequence and I 
 impute to nobody — I was always treated like one of Doc- 
 tor Blimber ’s family, and had a desk to myself for a con- 
 siderable period— can — not — allow — my friend Feeder to 
 be — ” 
 
 Mrs. Toots suggested “married.” 
 
 “ It may not be inappropriate to the occasion, or al- 
 together uninteresting,” said Mr. Toots with a delighted 
 face, ‘ ‘ to observe that my wife is a most extraordinary 
 woman, and would do this much better than myself — 
 allow my friend Feeder to be married — especially to — ” 
 
 Mrs. Toots suggested “ to Miss Blimber.” 
 
 “ To Mrs. Feeder, my love ! ” said Mr. Toots, in a 
 subdued tone of private discussion ; “ ‘ whom God hath 
 joined,’ you know, ‘let no man’ — don’t you know ? I 
 cannot allow my friend. Feeder, to be married — espe- 
 cially 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 flow- 
 ers we have this day strewed in their path, be the — the 
 banishers of — of gloom ! ” 
 
 Doctor Blimber, who had a taste for metaphor, was 
 pleased with this, and said, “Very good. Toots ! Very 
 well said, indeed. Toots ! ” and nodded his head and 
 patted his hands. Mr. Feeder made in reply, a comic 
 speech chequered with sentiment. Mr. Alfred Feeder, 
 M.A., was afterwards very happy on Doctor and Mrs. 
 Blimber ; Mr. Feeder, B.A., scarcely less so, on the 
 gauzy little bridesmaids. Doctor Blimber then in a 
 sonorous voice, delivered a few thoughts in the pastoral 
 style, relative to the rushes among which it was the in- 
 tention of himself and Mrs. Blimber to dwell, and the 
 bee that would hum around their cot. Shortly after 
 
m 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 'w^hicli, as tlie doctor’s eyes were twinkling in a remark^ 
 able 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 comfort- 
 able, in a ppst-chaise, with the man of her heart. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Toots withdrew to the Bedford (Mrs. 
 Toots had been there before in old times, under her 
 maiden name of Nipper), and there found a letter, which 
 it took Mr. Toots such an enormous time to read, that 
 Mrs. Toots was frightened. 
 
 '‘My dear Susan,” said Mr. Toots, “fright is worse 
 than exertion. Pray be calm ! ” 
 
 “ Who is it from ? ” asked Mrs. Toots. 
 
 “ Why, my love,” said Mr. Toots, “it’s from Captain 
 Gills. Do not excite yourself. Walter and Miss Dom- 
 bey are expected home ! ” 
 
 “ My dear,” said Mrs. Toots, raising herself quickly 
 from the sofa, very pale, “ don’t try to deceive me, for 
 it’s no use, they’re come home — I see it plainly in your 
 face ! ” 
 
 “She’s a most extraordinary woman!” exclaimed 
 Mr. Toots in rapturous admiration. “ You’re perfectly 
 right, my love, they have come home. Miss Dombey 
 has seen her father, and they are reconciled ! ” 
 
 “ Reconciled !” cried Mrs. Toots, clapping her hands. 
 
 “ My dear,” said Mr. Toots ; “ pray do not exert your- 
 self. Do remember the medical man! Captain Gills 
 says — at least he don’t say, but I imag-ine, 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 Walter are living ; that he is lying very- 
 ill there— supposed to be dying ; and that she attends 
 upon him night and day.’- 
 
 Mrs. Toots began to cry quite bitterly. 
 
 “ My dearest Susan,” replied Mr. Toots, “ do, do, if 
 you possibly can, remember the medical man ! If you 
 can’t, it’s of no consequence — but do endeavour to I ” 
 
 His wife, with her old manner suddenly restored, so 
 pathetically entreated him to take her to her precious 
 pet, her little mistress, her own darling, and the like, 
 that Mr. Toots, whose sympathy and admiration were of 
 the strongest kind, consented from his very heart of 
 hearts ; and they agreed to depart immediately^ and 
 present themselves in answer to the captain’s letter. 
 
 Now some hidden sympathies of things, or some coin- 
 cidences, had that day brought the captain himself (to- 
 ward 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 ; 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 5«B 
 
 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 intent satisfaction whenever it arose, that he 
 laughed aloud as he went along the street, and, indeed, 
 more than once, in a sudden impulse of joy, threw up 
 his glazed hat and caught it again ; much to the amaze- 
 ment of the spectators. The ra.pid alternations of light 
 and shade to which these two conflicting subjects of re- 
 flection exposed the captain, were so very trying to his 
 spirits, that Ire felt a long walk necessary to his com- 
 posure ; 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. 
 
 These peaceful scenes, and particularly the region of 
 Limeho use -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. 
 
 This awful demonstration was headed by that deter- 
 mined woman Mrs. MacStinger, who, preserving a coun- 
 tenance of inexorable resolution, and wearing conspicu- 
 ously attached to her 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 stedfast aspect, leading between them, a short gen- 
 tleman in a tall hat, who likewise exulted. In the 
 wake, appeared Bunsby ’s boy, bearing umbrellas. The 
 whole were in a good marching order ; and a dreadful 
 smartness that pervaded the party would have sufficient- 
 ly announced, if the intrepid countenances of the ladies 
 had been wanting, tliat it was a procession of sacrifice, 
 and that the victim was Bunsby, 
 
564 
 
 WOEKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 The first impulse of the captain was to run away. 
 This also appeared to he 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 strucJi. 
 
 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 going to cast any re- 
 flections. 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 al- 
 lusion to the victim, "‘My usband, Cap’en Cuttle !” 
 
 The abject Bunsby looked neither to the right nor to 
 the left, nor at his bride, nor at his friend, but straight 
 before him at nothing. The captain putting out his 
 hand, Bunsby put out his ; but, in answer to the cap- 
 tain’s greeting, spake no word. 
 
 “ Cap’en Cuttle,” said Mrs. MacStinger, '‘if you would 
 wish to heal up past animosities, and to see the last oi 
 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 ihe two, " my bridesmaid, that will be glad 
 of your protection, Cap’en Cuttle.” 
 
 The short gentleman in the tall hat, who it appeared 
 was the husband of the other lady, and who evidently 
 exulted at the reduction of a fellovz-creature to his own 
 conditi®n, gave place at this, and resigned the lady to 
 Captain Cuttle. The lady immediately seized him, and, 
 observing that there was no time to lose, gave the word, 
 in a strong voice, to advance. 
 
 The eaptain’s concern for his friend, not unmingled, at 
 first, with some concern for himself — for a shadowy ter- 
 ror 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 re- 
 solved, if asked any question, distinctly to reply, “ I 
 won’t,” — thr-ew 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 565 
 
 what such blessings were, until they had lost them ; 
 with more to the same purpose. 
 
 All this time, the captain could not but observe that 
 Mrs. Bokum kept her eyes steadily on the bridegroom, 
 and that whenever they came near a court or other nar- 
 row turning which appeared favourable for flight, she 
 was on the alert to cut him off if he attempted to escapCo 
 The other lady, too, as well as her husband, the short 
 gentleman with the tall hat, were plainly on guard, ac- 
 cording 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 unconscious- 
 ness. 
 
 The Captain made many attempts to accost the phi- 
 losopher, 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 out- 
 ward and visible sign whatever. Thus they approached 
 the chapel, a neat, whitev»^ashed edifice, recently en- 
 gaged 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. 
 
 While the Reverend Melchisedech was offering up 
 some extemporary orisons, the captain found an opportu- 
 nity of growling in the bridegroom’s ear : 
 
 What cheer, my lad, what cheer?” 
 
 To which Bunsby replied, with a forgetfulness of the 
 Reverend Melchisedech, which nothing but his desperate 
 circumstances could have excused : 
 bad.” 
 
 “Jack Bunsby,” whispered the captain, “do you do 
 this here, o’ your own free will ? ” 
 
 Mr. Bunsby answered “No.” 
 
 “Why do you do it, then, my lad? ” inquired the cap«= 
 tain, not unnaturally. 
 
 Bunsby, still looking, and always looking with an imo 
 movable countenance, at the opposite side of the world, 
 made no reply. 
 
 “ Why not sheer off ?” said the captain. 
 
 “ Eh ? ” whispered Bunsby, with a momentary gleam 
 of hope. 
 
 “ Sheer off,” said the captain. 
 
 “Where’s the good?” retorted the forlorn sage. 
 “She’d capter me again/^ 
 
566 WORKS OK CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ''Try?” replied the captain. "Cheer up! Come! 
 Now’s your time. Sheer off, Jack Bunsby ?” 
 
 Jack Bunsby, however, instead of profiting by the 
 advice, said in a doleful whisper : 
 
 ‘‘It all began in that there chest o’ your’n. Why did 
 I ever conwoy her into port that night ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ My lad,” faltered the captain, ‘‘ I thought as you had 
 come over her ; not as she had come over you. A man 
 as has got such opinions as you have ! ” 
 
 Mr. Bunsby merely uttered a suppressed groan. 
 
 " Come ! ” said the captain, nudging him with his 
 ®lbow, " now’s your time ! Sheer off ! I’ll cover your 
 retreat. The time’s a flying. Bunsby ! It’s for libertyc 
 Will you once ? ” 
 
 Bunsby was immovable. 
 
 " Bunsby I ” whispered the captain, " will you twice ?” 
 
 Bunsby wouldn’t twice. 
 
 ‘‘ Bunsby 1” urged the captain, " it’s for liberty ; will 
 you three times? Now or never 1 ” 
 
 Bunsby didn’t then, and didn’t ever; for Mrs. Mac- 
 Stinger immediately afterwards married him. 
 
 One of the most frightful circumstances of the cere- 
 inony to the captain, was the deadly interest exhibited 
 therein by Juliana MacStinger ; and the ^atal concentra- 
 tion of her faculties, with which that promising child, 
 already the image of her parent, observed the whole pro- 
 ceedings. The captain saw in this a succession of man- 
 traps stretching out infinitely ; a series of ages of 
 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 destruc- 
 tion. 
 
 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 so- 
 licited halfpence. These gushes of affection over, the 
 profession 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 purpose apart from the ordinary re- 
 ligious exercises, could not be persuaded but that his 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 567 
 
 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 en- 
 deavouring 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 succes- 
 sion of sharp sounds, resembling applause, and subse- 
 quently, by their seeing Alexander in contact with the 
 coolest paving-stone in the court, greatly flushed, and 
 loudly lamenting. 
 
 The procession being then in a condition to form itself 
 once more and repair to Brig Place, where a marriage 
 feast was in readiness, returned as it had come ; not with* 
 out the receipt, by Bunsby, of many humourous congra- 
 tulations 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 man- 
 ner 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 plead- 
 ing an appointment, and promising to return presently^ 
 The captain had another cause for uneasiness, in remorse ^ 
 fully reflecting that he had been the first means of Buns^ 
 by's entrapment, though certainly without intending it, 
 and through his unbounded faith in the resources of that 
 philosopher. 
 
 To go back to old Sol Gills at the Wooden Midship- 
 man’s, and not first go round to ask how Mr. Dombey 
 was — albeit the house where he lay was out of London, 
 and away oa the borders of a fresh heath — was quite out 
 of the captain’s course. So he got a lift when he was 
 tired, and made out the journey gaily. 
 
 The blinds were pulled down, and the house so quiet, 
 that the captain was almost afraid to knock ; but listen^ 
 ing at the door, he heard low voices, within, very near it, 
 and, knocking softly, was admitted by Mr. Toots. Mr. 
 Toots and his wife had, in fact, just arrived there ; hav- 
 ing been at the Midshipman’s to seek him, and having 
 there obtained the address. 
 
 They were not so recently arrived, but that Mrs. Toots 
 had caught 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 
 
668 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 most, tne mother or the child, or which was the tenderer, 
 Florence of Mrs. Toots, or Mrs. Toots of her, or both of 
 the baby ; it was such a little group of love and agitation. 
 
 '' And is your Pa very ill, my darling dear Miss Floy?'' 
 asked Susan. 
 
 ‘‘He is very, very ill," said Florence. “But Susan 
 dear, you must not speak to me as you used to speak. 
 And what's this ? " said Florence, touching her clothes, 
 in amazement. “ Your old dress, dear? Your old cap, 
 curls, and all ? " 
 
 Susan burst into tears, and showered kisses on the lit- 
 tle hand that had touched her so wonderingly. 
 
 “ My dear Miss Hombey," said Mr. Toots, stepping for- 
 ward, “ I’ll explain. She's the most extraordinary wo- 
 man. There are not many to equal her ! She has al- 
 ways 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 Dom^ 
 bey, 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 ! ” 
 
 CHAPTER LXI. 
 
 Florence had need of help. Her father's need of 
 it was sore, and made the aid of her old friend invalua- 
 ble. Death stood at his ^pillow. A shade, already, of 
 what he had been, shattered in his mind, and perilously 
 sick in body, he laid his weary head down on the bed his 
 daughter's hands prepared for him, and had never raised 
 it since. 
 
 She was always with him. He knew her, generally ; 
 though, in the wandering of his brain, he often confused 
 the circumstances under which he spoke to her. Thus 
 he would address her, sometimes, as if his boy were 
 newly dead ; and would tell her that although he had 
 said nothing of her ministering at the little bedside, yet 
 he had seen it — he had seen it ; and then would hide his 
 face and sob, and put out his worn hand. Sometimes 
 he would ask her for herself. “Where is Florence?" 
 “ I am here, papa, I am here." “ I don't know her ! " 
 he would cry, “We have been parted so long, that I 
 
DOMEEY AND SON. 
 
 569 
 
 don’t know her ! ” and then a staring dread would h© 
 upon him, until she could soothe his perturbation; and re- 
 cal the tears she tried so hard at other times to dry. 
 
 He rambled through the scenes of his old pursuits—, 
 through many where Florence lost him as she listened— 
 sometimes for hours. He would repeat that childish 
 question. What is money ? ” and ponder on it, and thinly 
 about it reason with himself, more or less connected- 
 ly, for a good answer ; as if it had neve^ been proposed 
 to him until that moment. He would go on with a mus- 
 ing repetition of the title of his old firm twenty thousaiid 
 times, and, at every one of them, would turn his head 
 upon his pillow. He would count his children — one — • 
 two — stop, and go back, and begin again in the same 
 way. 
 
 But this was when his mind was in its most distracted 
 state. In all the other phases of its illness, and in those 
 to which it was most constant; it always turned on Flor- 
 ence. What he would oftenest do was this : he would 
 recal that night he had so recently remembered, the night 
 on which she came down to his room, and would imagine 
 that his heart smote him, and that he went out after 
 her, and up the stairs to seek her. Then, confound- 
 ing that time with the later days of the many foot- 
 steps, 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 Flor- 
 ence. Still she was going on before. Still the restless 
 mind went, following and counting, ever farther, ever 
 higher, as to the summit of a mighty tower that it took 
 years to climb. 
 
 One day he inquired if that were not Susan who had 
 spoken a long v/hile ago. 
 
 Florence said, Yes, dear papa ; ” and asked him would 
 he like to see her? 
 
 He said, Very much.” And Susan, with no little trep- 
 idation, showed herself at his bedside. 
 
 It seemed a great relief to him. He begged her not to 
 go ; to understand that he forgave her what she had 
 said ; and that she was to stay. Florence and he were 
 very different now, he said, and very happy. Let her 
 look at this ! He meant his drawing the gentle head 
 down to his pillow, and laying it beside him. 
 
 He remained like this for days and weeks. At lengthy 
 lying the faint feeble semblance of a man, upon his bed. 
 
570 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 and speaking in a voice so low that they could only heai 
 him by listening very near to his lips, he became quiet. 
 It was dimly pleasant to him now, to lie there, with 
 the window open, looking out at the summer sky and 
 the trees : and, in the evening, at the sunset. To watch 
 the shadows of the clouds and leaves, and seem to feel 
 a sympathy with shadows. It was natural that he 
 should. To him, life and the world were nothing else. 
 
 He began to show now that he thought of Florence’s 
 fatigue ; and often taxed his weakness to whisper to her, 
 “ Go and walk, my dearest, in the sweet air. Go to your 
 good husband ! ” One time when Walter was in his 
 room, he beckoned him to come near, and to stoop down : 
 and pressing his hand, whispered an assurance to him 
 that he knew he could trust him with his child when he 
 was dead. 
 
 It chanced ,one evening, tow^ards sunset, when Flor? 
 ence and Walter were sitting in his room together, as he 
 liked to see them, that Florence, having her baby in her 
 arms, began in a low voice to sing to the little fellow, 
 and sang the old tune she had so often sung to the dead 
 child. He could not bear it at the time ; he held up his 
 trembling hand, imploring her to stop ; but next day he 
 asked her to repeat it, and to do so often of an even^ 
 ing : which she did. He listening, with his face turned 
 away. 
 
 Florence was sitting on a certain time by his window, 
 w ith 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. 
 
 My dear,” said Walter, “there is some one down- 
 stairs who wishes to speak to you.” 
 
 She fancied Walter looked grave, and asked him if 
 anything had happened. 
 
 “ No, no, my love ! ” said Walter. “ I have seen the 
 gentleman myself, and spoken with him. Nothing has 
 happened. Will you come ? ” 
 
 Plorence put her arm through his ; and confiding hes 
 father to the black-eyed Mrs. Toots, who sat as brisk and 
 smart at her work as black-eyed woman could, accom- 
 panied her husband down-stairs. In the pleasant little 
 parlour opening on the garden, sat a gentleman, who 
 rose to advance towards her when she came in, but 
 turned off, by reason of some peculiarity in his legs, and 
 was only stopped by the table. 
 
DOMBEY XND SON. 
 
 571 
 
 Florence tiien remembered Cousin Feenix, whom she 
 had not at first recognised in the shade of the leaves^ 
 Cousin Feenix took her hand, and congratulated hei 
 upon her marriage. 
 
 E 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 happen- 
 ed, treading, as a man may say, on one another’s heels, 
 that I have been in a devil of a state myself, and per- 
 fectly unfit for every description of society. The only 
 description of society I have kept, has been my own ; 
 and it certainly is anything but flattering to a man’s 
 good opinion of his own resources, to know that, in point 
 of fact, he has the capacity of boring himself to a per- 
 fectly unlimited extent.” 
 
 Florence divined from some indefinable constraint and 
 anxiety in this gentleman’s manner — which was always 
 a gentleman’s, in spite of the harmless little eccentrici- 
 ties that attached to it — and from Walter’s manner no 
 less, that something more immediately tending to some 
 object was to follow this. 
 
 I have been mentioning to my friend Mr. Gay, if I 
 may be allowed to have the 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 for- 
 tune 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 particu- 
 larly care about it. I know my friend Dombey to be a 
 devilish honourable man ; and it’s calculated to console 
 niy friend Dombey very much, to know, that this is the 
 universal sentiment. Even Tommy Screwger, — man of 
 an extremely bilious habit, with whom niy friend Gay 
 is probably acquainted — cannot say a syllfeble[in disputa- 
 tion of the fact.” 
 
 Florence felt more than ever, that there was something 
 to come : and looked earnestly for it. So earnestly, 
 that Cousin Feenix answered, as if she had spoken. 
 
 ‘‘The fact is,” said Cousin Feenix, “ that my. friend 
 Gay and myself have been discussing the propriety of 
 entreating a favour at your hands ; and that I have the 
 consent of my friend Gay — who h as met me in an ex- 
 ceedingly kind and open manner, for which I am very 
 much indebted to him — to sojicit it. I am sensible that 
 so amiable a lady as the lovely and accomplished daugh- 
 ter of my friend Dombey will not require much urging ; 
 but I am happy to know, that I am supported by my 
 
572 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 friend Gay’s influence and approval. As in my parlia- 
 mentary 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 oft 
 any little private pop-gun, it was always considered a 
 great point for him to say that he had the happiness of 
 believing that his sentiments were not without an echo 
 in the breast of Mr, Pitt ; the pilot, in point of fact, who 
 had weathered the storm. Upon which a devilish large 
 number of fellows immediately cheered, and put him in 
 spirits. Though the fact is, that these fellows, being 
 under orders to cheer most excessively whenever Mr. 
 Pitt’s name was mentioned, became so proficient that it 
 always woke ’em. And they were so entirely innocent 
 of what was going on, otherwise, that it used to be com- 
 monly 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 tuy 
 friend Gay’s time—that if a man had risen in his place 
 md said that he regretted to inform the house that there 
 was an honourable member in the last stage of convul- 
 sions in the Lobby, and that the honourable member’s 
 name was Pitt, the approbation would have been vocif- 
 erous. ’ ’ 
 
 This postponement of the point put Florence in a flut- 
 ter ; and she looked from Cousin Feenix to Walter, in 
 increasing agitation. 
 
 ‘‘My love,” said Walter, “ there is nothing the mat- 
 ;l5er.” 
 
 “ Therd 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 fa- 
 vour that I have to ask is, simply — hut it really does 
 seem so exceeding singular, that I should be in the last 
 degree obliged to my friend Gay if he would have the 
 goodness to break the — in point of fact, the ice,” said 
 Cousin Feenix. 
 
 Walter thus appealed to, and appealed to no less in 
 the look that Florence turned towards him, said : 
 
 “ My dearest, it is no more than this. That you will 
 ride to London with this gentleman, whom you know.” 
 
 “ And my friend Gay, also — I beg your pardon I” in- 
 terrupted Cousin Feenix. 
 
 “ — And with me — -and make a visit somewhere.” 
 
DGMBEY AND SON. 
 
 573 
 
 '*To wliom ? asked Florence, looking- from one to 
 the other. 
 
 If I might entreat,'" said Cousiii Feenix, ‘‘that you 
 would not press for an answer to that question, I would 
 'Venture to take the liberty of making the request." 
 
 Do you know, Walter?" said Florence. 
 
 “Yes." 
 
 ‘‘And think it right?" 
 
 “Yes. Only because I am sure that you would, too. 
 Though there may be reasons I very well understand, 
 which make it better that nothing more should be said 
 beforehand." 
 
 “ If papa is still asleep, or can spare me if he is awake, 
 II will go immediately," said Florence. And rising quiet- 
 ly, and glancing at them with a look that was a little 
 farmed, but perfectly confiding, left the room. 
 
 When she came back, ready to bear them company, 
 they were talking together, gravely, at the window ; 
 and Florence could not but wonder what the topic was, 
 that had made them so well acquainted in so short a 
 time. She did not wonder at the look of pride and love 
 with which her husband broke off as she entered ; for 
 she never saw him, but that rested on her. 
 
 “ I will leave," said Cousin Feenix, “ a card for my 
 friend Dombey, sincerely trusting that he will pick up 
 health and strength with every returning hour. And I 
 hope my friend Dombey wdll do me the favour to con- 
 sider me a man who has a devilish warm admiration of 
 his character, as, in point of fact, a British merchant and 
 a devilish upright gentleman. My place in the country 
 is in a most confounded state of dilapidation, 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 w^eakness, 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, wnth 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 
 ©ase, on account of my friend Dombey being in an inva- 
 lided condition ; which might occasion rum to fly — in 
 point of fact to his head — and throw him into a devil of 
 a state." 
 
 Of all this, Cousin Feenix delivered himself with an 
 
574 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DIOKENH. 
 
 Dl>viously nervous and discomposed air. Then, giving 
 his arm to Florence, and putting ^le strongest possible 
 eonstraint upon his wilful legs, which seemed deter- 
 mined to go out into the garden, he led her to the door, 
 and handed her into a carriage that was ready tor hej 
 reception. 
 
 Walter entered after him, and they drove away. 
 
 Their ride was six or eight miles long. When they 
 drove through certain dull and stately streets, lying 
 westward in London, it 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. When 
 the carriage stopped, at last, before that house in Brooks 
 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 win- 
 dows were shut, as if it were uninhabited. Cousin Fee- 
 nix had by this time alighted, and was otfering his 
 hand. 
 
 Are you not coming, Walter ? " 
 
 ‘‘No, I will remain here. Don't trentble ! there is 
 nothing to fear, dearest Florence." 
 
 “ I know that, Walter, with you so near. I am sure 
 of that, but — " 
 
 The door was softly opened, without any knock, and 
 Cousin Feenix led her out of the summer evening air in- 
 to the close dull house. More sombre and brov/n than 
 ever, it seemed to have been shut up from the wedding- 
 day, and to have hoarded darkness and sadness ever 
 since . 
 
 Florence ascended the dusky staircase, trembling ; and 
 stopped with her conductor at the drawing-room door. 
 He opened it, without speaking, and signed an entreaty 
 to her to advance into the inner room, while he remained 
 there. Florence, after hesitating an instant, complied. 
 
 Sitting by the window at a table, where she seemed td 
 have been writing or dravnng, was a lady, whose head, 
 turned away towards the dying light, was resting on her 
 hand. Florence advancing, doubtfully, all at once stood 
 still, as if she had lost the power of motion. The lady 
 turned her head. 
 
 “ Great Heaven ! " she said, “ what is this ? " 
 
 “ No, no ! " cried Florence, shrinking back as she rose 
 up, and putting out her hands to keep her off. “ Mama ! " 
 
 They stood looking at each other. Passion and pride 
 had worn it, but it was the face of Edith, and beautiful 
 and stately yet. It was the face of Florence, and 
 through all the terrified avoidance it expressed, there 
 was inty in it, sorrow, a grateful tender memory. On 
 
“no, no ! ” CRIED FLORENCE, SHRINKING BACK AS SHE ROSE 
 UP, AND PUTTING OUT HER HANDS TO KEEP HER 
 OFF. “ MAMMA ! ” 
 
 “-JDombey and Son, Vol. Twelve, page 575, 
 
676 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 sach face, wonder and fear were painted vividly; each, so 
 still and silent, looking at the other over the black gulf 
 of the irrevocable past. 
 
 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 ? ” 
 
 Edith stood before her, dumb and motionless. Her 
 eyes were fixed upon her face. 
 
 “ I dare not think of that,” said Florence, “lam 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 ! ” 
 
 Bhe answered not a word. 
 
 “Walter — I am married to him, and we have a 
 son ” — said Florence, timidly, “is at the door, and has 
 brought me here. I will tell him that you are repent- 
 ant ; 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 ?” 
 
 Edith, breaking her silence, without moving eye or 
 limb, answered slowly : 
 
 “ The stain upon your name, upon your husband’s, ob 
 your child’s. Will that ever be forgiven, Florence?” 
 
 “ Will it ever be, mama ? It is ! Freely, freely, both 
 by Walter and by me. If that is any consolation to you, 
 there is nothing that you may believe more certainly. 
 You do not — you do not,” faltered Florence, “speak of 
 papa ; but I am sure you wish that I should ask him for 
 his forgiveness. I am sure you do,” 
 
 She answered not a word. 
 
 “ I will ! ” said Florence. “ I will bring it to you, 
 you will let me ; and then, perhaps, we may take leave of 
 ^ach 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, be- 
 cause 1 feared 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 for- 
 get that you were very good to me. Oh, pray to 
 Heaven,” cried Florence, falling on her bosom, “ pray to 
 Heaven, mama, to forgive you all this sin and shame, 
 and to forgive me if I cannot help doing this (if it is 
 wrong) when I remember what you used to be ! ” 
 
 Edith, as if she fell beneath her touch, sunk down on 
 her knees, and caught her round the neck. 
 
 “ Florence !” she cried. “My better angel ! Before 
 I am mad again, before my stubbornness comes back and 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 577 
 
 strikes me dumb, believe me, upon my soul I am inno* 
 cent.” 
 
 ‘‘ Mama ! ” 
 
 Guilty of much ! Guilty of that which sets a waste 
 net ween us evermore. Guilty of wliat must separate 
 me, through the whole remainder of my life, from purity 
 and innocence — from jmu, of all the earth. Guilty of a 
 blind and passionate resentment, of which I do not, can- 
 not, will not, even now, repent ; but not guilty with 
 that dead man. Before God ! ” 
 
 Upon her knees upon the ground, she held up both 
 her hands and swore it. 
 
 "'Florence!” she said, ‘"purest and best of natures, 
 — whom I love — who might have changed me long ago, 
 and did for a time work some change even i n the woman 
 that I am,-^ — believe me, I am innocent of that ; and once 
 more, on my desolate heart, let me lay this dear head, 
 for the last time ! ” 
 
 She was moved and weeping. Had she been oftener 
 thus in older days, she had been happier now. 
 
 ""There is nothing else in all the world,” she said, 
 "" that would have wrung denial from me. No love, no 
 hatred, no hope, no threat. I said that I would die, and 
 make no sign, 1 could have done so, and I would, if we 
 had never met, Florence.” 
 
 "" I trust,” said Cousin Feenix, ambling in at the door, 
 and speaking half in the room, and half out of it, ""that 
 my lovely and accomplished relative will excuse my 
 having, by a little stratagem, effected this meeting. I 
 cannot say that I was, at first, wholly incredulous as to 
 the possibility of my lovely and accomplished relative 
 having, very unfortunately, committed herself with the 
 deceased person with white teeth ; because, in point of 
 fact, one does see, in this world — which is remarkable 
 for devilish strange arrangements, and for being decid- 
 edly the most unintelligible thing within a man’s expe- 
 rience — very odd conjunctions of that sort. But, as I 
 mentioned to my friend Dombey, I could not admit the 
 criminality of my lovely and accomplished relative until 
 it was perfectly established. And feeling, when the de- 
 ceased person was, in point of fact, destroyed in a dev- 
 ilish 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 Prance, and offering her such protection as a man 
 very much out at elbows could offer. Upon which oc- 
 casion, my lovely and accomplished relative did me the 
 honour to express that she believed I was, in my way, 
 Yoiu. — Y 
 
678 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 a devilish good sort of fellow ; and that therefore she 
 put herself under my protection. Which in point oi 
 fact I understood to he a Mud thing on the part of my 
 lovely and accomplished relative, as I am getting ex- 
 tremely shaky, and have derived great comfort from her 
 solicitude.” 
 
 Edith, who had taken Florence to a sofa, made a ges-. 
 ture with her hand, as if she would have begged him to 
 say no more. 
 
 My lovely and accomplished relative,” resumed Cousin 
 Feenix, still ambling about at the door, "‘will excuse 
 me if, for her satisfaction, and my own, and that of my 
 friend Dombey, whose lovely and accomplished daughter 
 we so much admire, I compete the thread of my obser- 
 vations. She will remember that, from the first, she and 
 I have never alluded to the subject of her elop^^snt. 
 My impression, certainly, has always been, that there 
 was a mystery in the affair which she could explain 
 so inclined. But my lovely and accomplished relative 
 being a devilish resolute woman, I knew that she wa^ 
 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, m 
 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 disagree- 
 able reflection for a man, I applied myself to the discov- 
 ery 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 wifeto 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 rela- 
 tive, 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 ov/n fame, not for any of those 
 considerations which unfortunate circumstances have 
 induced her to regard, as hollow, and in point of fact, as 
 approaching to humbug — but because it is wrong, and 
 not right.” 
 
 Cousin Feenix’s legs consented to take him away after 
 this ; and leaving them alone together, he shut the 
 door. 
 
 Edith remained silent for some minutes, with Florence 
 sitting close beside her. Then she took from her bosom 
 a sealed paper. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 579 
 
 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 writt^. 
 in it.” 
 
 Is it for papa?” asked Florence. 
 
 It is for whom you will,” she answered. It i^ 
 given to you, and is obtained by you. He never could 
 have had it otherwise.” 
 
 Again they sat silent in the deepening darkness. 
 
 '' Mama,” said Florence, "‘he has lost his fortune, h^ 
 has been at the point of death ; he may not recover, even 
 now. Is there any word that I shall say to him fron| 
 you ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Did you tell me,” asked Edith, that you v/ere very 
 dear to him ? ” 
 
 Yes ! ” said Florence in a thrilling voice. 
 
 Tell him I am sorry that we ever met.” 
 
 No more ? ” said Florence after a pause. 
 
 Tell him, if he asks, that I do not repent of what | 
 have done — not yet— for if it were to do again to-morrow, 
 I should do it. But if he is a changed man—” 
 
 She stopped. There was something in the silent 
 touch of Florence’s hand that stopped her. 
 
 — But that being a changed man, he knows, now, it 
 would never be. Tell him I wish it never had been.” 
 
 May I say,” said Florence, ‘‘ that you grieved to hear 
 of the afflictions he has suffered ? ” 
 
 Not,” she replied, if they have taught him that his 
 daughter is very dear to him. He will not grieve for 
 them himself, one da.y, if they have brought that lesson, 
 Florence. ” 
 
 '‘You wish well to him, and would have him happy. 
 I am sure you would !” said Florence. “ Oh ! let me b( 
 able, if I have the occasion at some future time, to saj 
 so? ” 
 
 Edith sat with her dark eyes gazing steadfastly before 
 her, and did not reply until Florence had repeated hej 
 entreaty ; when she drew her hand within her arm, and 
 said, with the same thoughtful gaze upon the night out 
 side : 
 
 ‘'Tell him that if, in his own present, he can find an} 
 reason to compassionate my past, I sent word that 1 asked 
 him to do so. Tell him that if, in his own present, h^ 
 can find a reason to think less bitterly of me , I ask©<3 
 him to do so. Tell him that, dead as we are to one sm- 
 other, never more to meet on this side of eternity, he 
 knows there is one feeling in common between us now, 
 that there never was before.” 
 
680 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. ^ 
 
 Her sternness seemed to yield, and there were tears in 
 her dark eyes. 
 
 I trust myself to that, she said, ‘‘for his better 
 thoughts of me, and mine of him. When he loves his 
 Florence most he 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 v/hat I was, I 
 needed to have allowed more for the causes that had 
 made him what he was. I will try, then, to forgive him 
 his share of blame. Let him try to forgive me mine ! ” 
 
 “ Oh mama ! ” said Florence. “ How it lightens my 
 heart, even in such a meeting and parting, to hear this ! ” 
 “Strange words in my own ears,” said Edith, “and 
 foreign to the sound of my own voice ! But even if 1 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 forbear- 
 ing in his thoughts of me — that I am most forbearing 
 in my thoughts of him. ! Those are the last words I send 
 him ! Now, good bye, my life I ” 
 
 She clasped her in her arms, and seemed to .pour out 
 all her woman's soul of love and tenderness at once. 
 
 “ This kiss for your child I These kisses for a bless- 
 ing on your head ! My own dear Florence, my sweet 
 girl, farewell ! ” 
 
 “ To meet again ! ” cried Florence. 
 
 “ Never again I 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 ! ” 
 And Florence left her, seeing her face no more, but 
 siccompanied by her embraces and caresses to the last. 
 
 Cousin Feenix met her at the door, and took her down 
 to Walter in the dingy dining-room, upon whose shoul- 
 der she laid her head weeping. 
 
 “ I am devilish sorry,” said Cousin Feenix, lifting his 
 wristbands to his eyes in the simplest manner possible, 
 and without the least concealment, “ that the lovely and 
 accomplished daughter of my friend Dombey and ami- 
 able wife of my friend Gay, should have had her sensi- 
 tive nature so very mucli 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 
 
■ 
 
 CAPTAIN CUTTLE , GIVES THEM THE LOVELY PEG. 
 
 — Dombey and Son, Vol. Twelve, page 581. 
 
582 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 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 it's like the shadow of a dream." 
 
 CHAPTER LXII. 
 
 Final, 
 
 A BOTTLE that has been long excluded from the light 
 of day, and is hoary with dust and cobwebs, has been 
 brought into the sunshine ; and the golden wine within 
 it sheds a lustre on the table. 
 
 It is the last bottle of the old Madeira. 
 
 You are quite right, Mr. Gills," says Mr. Dombey. 
 'This is a very rare and most delicious wine.'^ 
 
 The captain, who is of the party, beams with joy. There 
 is a very halo of delight round his glowing forehead. 
 
 “We always promised ourselves, sir," observed Mr 
 Gills, “Xed and myself, I mean — " 
 
 Mr. Dombey nods at the captain, who shines more 
 more with speechless gratification. 
 
 — “ that we would drink this, one day or other, to 
 Walter safe at home : though such a home we never 
 thought of. If you don't object to our old whim, sir, lei 
 us devote this first glass to Walter and his wife." 
 
 "To Walter and his wife!” says Mr. Dombey. 
 “ Florence, my child " — and turns to kiss her. 
 
 “ To Walter and his wife ! " says Mr. Toots. 
 
 “To Wal’r and his wife!" exclaims the captain. 
 “ Hooroar ! " and the captain exhibiting a strong desire 
 to clink his glass against some other glass, Mr. Dombey, 
 with a ready hand, holds out his. The others follow ; 
 and there is a blithe and merry ringing, as of a little 
 peal of marriage bells. 
 
 Other buried wine grows older, as the old Madeira dicj 
 in its time ; and dust and cobwebs thicken on the bottles. 
 
 Mr. Dombey is a white-haired gentleman, whose face 
 bears heavy marks of care and suffering ; but they are 
 traces of a storm that has passed on for ever, and left a 
 »5lear evening in its track. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 G83 
 
 Ambitious projects trouble liim no more. His only 
 pride is in bis daughter and her husband. He has a 
 silent, thoughtful, quiet manner, and is always with his 
 daughter. Miss Tox is not un frequently 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. 
 
 Nothing has drifted to him from the wreck of his for- 
 tunes, but a certain annual sum that comes he knows 
 not how, with an earnest entreaty that he will not seek 
 to discover, and wdth 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 ac- 
 cepted, and has no doubt it arises out of some forgotten 
 transaction in the times of the old House. 
 
 That hazel -eyed bachelor, a bachelor no more, is mar- 
 ried now, and to the sister of the gray-haired junioio 
 He visits his old chief sometimes, but seldom. Ther© 
 is a reason in the gray -haired junior’s history, and yet a 
 stronger reason in his name, why he should keep retired 
 from his old employer ; and as he lives v/ith his sister 
 and her husband, they participate in that retirement. 
 Walter sees them sometimes — Florence too — and the 
 pleasant house resounds v»^ith profound duets arranged 
 for the pianoforte and violoncello, and wdth the labours 
 of Harmonious Blacksmiths. 
 
 And how goes the Wooden Midshipman in these 
 changed days ? Why, here he still is, right leg foremost, 
 hard at work upon the hackney-coaches, and more on the 
 alert than ever, being newly painted from his cocked hat 
 to his buckled shoes ; and up above him, in golden' char- 
 acters, these names shine refulgent. Gills and Cuttle. 
 
 Not another stroke of business does the Midshipman 
 achieve beyond his usual easy trade. But they do say, 
 in a circuit of some half-mile round the blue umbrella 
 in Leadenhall Market, that some of Mr. Gills’s old in- 
 vestments are coming out w’onderfully w^ell ; 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 whis- 
 per 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 cof- 
 fee-coloured suit, with his chronometer in his pocket, 
 and his spectacles on his forehead, he don’t appear to 
 break his heart at customers not coming, but looks very 
 jovial and contented, though full as misty as of yore. 
 
 As to his partner. Captain Cuttle, there is a fiction of 
 a business in the captain’s mind which is better than any 
 reality. The captain is as satisfied of the Midshipman’s 
 
584 
 
 WOEKS OF CHAELBS DICKENS. 
 
 importance to the commerce and navigation of the 
 country, as he could possibly be, if no ship left the port 
 of London withorut the Midshipman’s assistance. Hia 
 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’ kncw’d as you would ever he a man o’^ science, 
 the good old creetur would ha’ been took aback indeed ! ” 
 
 But here is Mr. Toots descending on the Midshipman 
 with violent rapidity, and Mr. Toots’s face is very red as 
 he bursts into the little parlour. 
 
 Captain Gills,” says Mr. Toots, ""and Mr. Sols, I 
 am happy to inform you that Mrs. Toots has had an in- 
 crease to her family.” 
 
 "" And it does her credit,” cried the captain. 
 
 I give you joy, Mr. Toots ! ” says old Sol. 
 
 ""Thankee,” chuckles Mr. Toots, ""I’m very much 
 abliged 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 an- 
 other little stranger.” 
 
 "" A female stranger?” inquires the captain. 
 
 ""Yes, Captain Gills,” says Mr. Toots, "".and I’m glad 
 of it. The oftener we can repeat that most extraordi- 
 nary woman, my opinion is, the better.” 
 
 "" Stand by ! ” says the captain, turning to the old case- 
 bottle with no throat — for it is evening, and the Midship- 
 man’s usual moderate provisions of pipes and glasses is 
 on the board. ""Here’s to her, and may she have ever 
 so many more ! ” 
 
 "" Thankee, Captain Gills,” says the delighted Mr. 
 Toots. "" I echo the sentiment. If you’ll allow me, as 
 my so doing cannot be unpleasant to anybody, under the 
 circumstances, I think I’ll take a pipe.” 
 
 Mr. Toots begins to smoke, accordingly, and in* the 
 openness of his heart is very loquacious. 
 
 "" Of all the remarkable instances that that delightful 
 woman has given of her excellent sense. Captain Gills 
 and Mr. Sols,” says Toots, "" I think none is more re- 
 markable than the perfection with which she has under- 
 stood my devotion to Miss Dombey. ” 
 
 Both his auditors assent. 
 
 "" Because, you know,” says Mr. Toots, ""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 Walter’s ac- 
 quaintance. When Mrs. Toots and myself first began 
 to talk of — in short, of the tender passion, you know. 
 Captain Gills.” 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 585 
 
 Ay, ay, my lad,’’ says tlie captain, as makes us all 
 slue round — for which you’ll, overhaul the book — ” 
 
 ‘‘ I shall certainly do so. Captain Gills,” said Mr. 
 Toots, with great earnestness ; when we first began to 
 mention such subjects, I explained that I was what you 
 may call a blighted fiower, you know.” 
 
 The captain approves of this figure greatly ; and mur- 
 murs that no flower as blows, is like the rose. 
 
 But Lord bless me,” pursues Mr. Toots, she was as 
 entirely conscious of the state of my feelings as I was 
 myself. There is nothing I could tell 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. She 
 knows that there’s nothing on earth I wouldn’t do for Miss 
 Dombey. She knows that I consider her the most beau- 
 tiful, the most amiable, the most angelic of her sex. 
 What is her observation upon that ? The perfection of 
 sense. ' My dear you’re right. I think so too.’ ” 
 
 And so do I,” says the captain. 
 
 So do I,” says Sol Gills. 
 
 Then,” resumes Mr. Toots, after some contemplative 
 pulling at his pipe, during which his visage has ex- 
 pressed the most contented reflection, what an ob- 
 servant woman my wife is ! What sagacity she pos- 
 sesses ! What remarks she makes ! It was only last 
 night, when we were sitting in the enjoyment of 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,’ ob- 
 served my wife, ' he is released from sea-going, after 
 that first long voyage with his young bride ’—as you 
 know he was, Mr. Sols.” 
 
 ‘‘Quite true,” says the old Instrument-maker, rub- 
 bing his hands. 
 
 “ ‘ Here he is,’ says my wife, ‘ released from that, 
 ^mediately ; appointed by the same establishment to 
 £ post of great trust and confidence at home ; showing 
 himself again worthy ; mounting up the ladder with 
 the greatest expedition ; beloved by everybody ; as- 
 sisted by his uncle at the very best possible time of 
 his fortunes’ — which I think is the case, Mr. Sols? 
 My wife is always correct.” 
 
 “ Why yes, yes — some of our lost ships, freighted with 
 gold, have come home, truly, ” returns old Sol laughing.- 
 “ Small craft, Mr. Toots, but serviceable to my boy ! ” 
 
 “Exactly so!” says Mr. Toots. “You’ll never find 
 my wife wrong. ‘ Here he is,’ says that most remarkable 
 woman, ‘ so situated,— and what follows ? what follows? 
 
586 WOKKS OF CHAELES DICKENS. 
 
 observed Mrs. Toots. IS'ow pray remark, Captain Gills, 
 and Mr. Sols, tlie depth of my wife's penetration. ' Why 
 that, under the very eye of Mr. Dombey, there is a foun- 
 dation 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 I ' " 
 
 Mr. Toots, with the assistance of his pipe — which he 
 is extreme !y glad to devote to oratorical purposes, as its 
 proper use aifects him with a very uncomfortable sensa- 
 tion — does such grand justice to this prophetic sentence 
 of his wife's, that the captain, throwing away his glazed 
 hat in a state of the greatest excitement, cries : 
 
 Sol Gills, you man of science, and myould pardner, 
 what did I tell Wal'r to overhaul on that there night 
 when he first took to business? Was it this here quo- 
 tation, ^ Turn again Whittington Lord Mayor of London, 
 and when you are old you will never depart from it.' 
 Was it them words, Sol Gills? " 
 
 It certainly was, Ned," replied the old Instrument- 
 maker. I remember well." 
 
 ‘ ^ Then I tell you what," says the captain, leaning 
 back in his chair, and composing his chest for a prodig- 
 ious roar. I’ll give you Lovely Peg right through ; and 
 stand by, both on you, for the chorus ! " 
 
 Buried wine grows older, as the old Madeira did, in 
 its time ; and dust and cobwebs thicken on the bottles. 
 
 Autumn days are shining, and on the sea-beach there 
 are often a young lady, and a white-haired gentleman. 
 With them or near them, are two children ; boy and 
 girl. And an old dog is generally in their company. 
 
 The white-haired gentleman walks with the little boy, 
 talks with him, helps him in his play, attends upon him 
 watches him, as if he were the object of his life. If he 
 is thoughtful, the white-haired gentleman is thoughtful 
 too ; and sometimes when the child is sitting by his 
 side, and looks up in his face, asking him questions, he 
 takes the tiny hand in his, and holding it, forgets to an- 
 swer. Then the child says : 
 
 What, grandpapa, am I so like my poor little uncle 
 again ? " 
 
 "‘Yes, Paul, But he was weak, and you are very 
 strong." 
 
 “'Oh yes, I am very strong." 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 587 
 
 ** lie lay on a little ^ed beside the sea, and yon 
 can run about. 
 
 And so they range away again, busily, for the white- 
 haired gentleman likes best to see the child free and 
 stirring : and as they go about together, the story of the 
 bond between them goes about, and follows them. 
 
 But no one, except Florence, knows the measure of 
 the white-haired gentleman’s affection for the girl. That 
 story never goes about. The child herself almost worn 
 ders at a certain secrecy he keeps in it. He hoards her 
 in his heart. He cannot bear to see a cloud upon her 
 face. He cannot bear to see her sit apart. He fancies 
 that she feels a slight, when there is none. He steals 
 away to look at her, in her sleep. It pleases him to 
 have her come, and wake him in the morning. He is 
 fondest of her and most loving to her, when there is no 
 creature by. The child says then, sometimes : 
 
 Dear grandpapa, why do you cry when you kiss me? ” 
 He only answers '' Little Florence ! Little Florence 
 and smooths away the curls that shade her earnest eyes. 
 
 END OF “DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 
688 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 GOING INTO SOCIETY. 
 
 [ 1858 .] 
 
 At one period of its reverses, the House fell into the 
 occupation of a showman. He was found registered as 
 its occupier, on the parish books of the time when he 
 rented the House, and there was therefore no need of 
 any clue to his name. But, he himself was less easy to 
 be found ; for, he had led a wandering life,, and settled 
 people had lost sight of him, and people who plumed 
 themselves on being respectable were shy of admitting 
 that they had ever knov/n anything of him. At last, 
 among the marsh lands near the river's level, that lie 
 about Deptford and the neighbouring market-gardens, a 
 Grizzled Personage in velveteen, with a face so cut up 
 b}" varieties of weather that he looked as if he had been 
 tatooed, was found smoking a pipe at the door of a 
 wooden house on wheels. The wooden house was laid 
 up in ordinary for the winter, near the mouth of a 
 muddy creek ; and everything near it, the foggy river, 
 the misty marshes, and the steaming market-gardens, 
 smoked in company with the grizzled man. In the midst 
 of this smoking party, the funnel -chimney of the wooden 
 house on wheels was noi remiss, but took its pipe with 
 thorest in a companionable. 
 
 On being asked if it were he who had once rented the 
 House to Let, Grizzled Velveteen looked surprised, and 
 said yes. — Then his name was Magsman? That was it, 
 Toby Magsman — which lawfully christened Robert ; but 
 called in the line, from a infant, Toby. There was 
 nothing agin Toby Magsman, he believed ? If there was 
 suspicion of such — mention it ! 
 
 There was no suspicion of such, he might rest assured. 
 But, some inquiries were making about that House, and 
 would he object to say v/hy he left it ? 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 589 
 
 Not at all ; wliy should he ? He left it, along of a 
 Dwarf. 
 
 Along of a Dwarf ? 
 
 Mr. Magsman repeated, deliberately and emphatically. 
 Along of a Dwarf ? 
 
 Might it be compatible with Mr. Magsman^s inclinatiop 
 and convenience to enter, as a favour, into a few particu- 
 lars? 
 
 Mr. Magsman entered into the following particulars : 
 
 It was a long time ago, to begin with ; — afore lotteries 
 and a deal more was done away with. Mr. Magsman 
 was looking about for a good pitch, and he see that 
 house, and he says to himself, ‘'I’ll have you if you are 
 to be had. If money ’ll get you. I’ll have you.” 
 
 The neighbours cut up rough, and made complaints ; 
 but Mr. Magsman don’t know what they would, have had. 
 It was a lovely thing. First of all, there was the can- 
 vas, representin the picter of the Giant, in Spanish 
 trunks and a ruff, who was himself half the h eighth of 
 the house, and was run up with a line and pulley to a 
 pole on the roof, so that this Ed was coeval with the 
 parapet. Then there was the canvas, representin the 
 picter of the Albina lady, showin her white air to the 
 Army and Navy in correct uniform. Then, there was 
 the canvas, representin the picter of the Wild Indian a 
 scalpin a member of some foreign nation. Then, there 
 was the canvas representin the picter of a child of a 
 British Planter, seized by two Boa Constrictors — not 
 that we never had no child, nor no Constrictors neither. 
 Similarly, there was the canvas, repi’esentin the picter 
 of the Wild Ass of the Prairies— not that we never had 
 no wild asses, nor wouldn’t have had ’em at a gift. Last, 
 there was the canvas, representin the picter of the Dwarf, 
 and like him too (considerin), with George the Fourth 
 in such a state of astonishment at him as His Majesty 
 couldn’t with his utmost politeness and stoutness ex- 
 press. The front of the House was so covered with can- 
 vases, that there wasn’t a spark of daylight ever visible 
 • on that side. ‘‘ Magsman's Amusements,” fifteen feet 
 long by two feet high, ran over the front door and par- 
 lour winders. The passage was a Arbour of green baize 
 and gardenstuff. A barrel-organ performed there un- 
 ceasing. And as to respectability, — if threepence ain't 
 respectable, what is ? 
 
 ^But, the Dwarf is the principal article at present, and 
 he was worth the money. He was wrote up as Major 
 Tpschoffi, of the Ijlpeeial Bulgraderian Brigade. 
 Nobody couldn’t pronounce the name, and it never was 
 Intended anybody should. The public always turned it, 
 as a regular rule, into Chopski. In the line he was 
 called Chops ; partly on that account, and partly because 
 
590 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Ms real name, if he ever had any real name (which was 
 very dubious), was Stakes. 
 
 He was a un-common small man, he really was. Cer- 
 tainly not so small as he was made out to be, but where 
 is your Dwarf as is ? He was a most uncommon small 
 man, wdth a most uncommon large Ed ; and what he 
 had inside that Ed, nobody never l^nowed but himself ; 
 even supposiii himself to have ever took stock of it^ 
 which it would have been a stitf Job for even him to dOc 
 
 The kindest little man as never growed ! Spirited, 
 but not proud. When he travelled with the Spotted 
 Baby — though he kno wed himself to be a natural Dwarf, 
 and kno wed the Baby's spots to be upon him artificial, 
 he nursed that Baby like a mother. You never heerd 
 Mm give a ill-name to a Giant, He did allow himself 
 to break out into strong language respectin the Fat Lady 
 from Norfolk ; but that was an affair of the 'art ; and 
 when a man's 'art has been trifled with by a lady, and 
 the preference giv to a Indian, he aint master of his ac- 
 tions. 
 
 He was always in love, of course ; every human nat'- 
 ral phenomenon is. And he was always in love with a 
 large woman : I never knowed the Dwarf as could be 
 got to love a small one. Which helps to keep 'em the 
 Curiosities they are. 
 
 One singular idea he had in that Ed of his, which 
 must have meant something, or it wouldn't have been 
 there. It was always his opinion that he was entitled to 
 property. He never would put his name to anything. 
 He had been taught to write by the young man without 
 arms, who got his living with his toes (quite a v/riting- 
 master he was, and taught scores in the line), but Chops 
 would have starved to death, afore he’d have gained a 
 bit of bread by putting his hand to a paper. This is the 
 more curious to bear in mind, because he had no pro- 
 perty, nor hope of property, except his house and a sar- 
 ser. When I say his house, I mean the box, painted 
 and got up outside like a reg’lar six-roomer that he used 
 to creep into, with a diamond ring (or quite as good to 
 look at) on his forefinger, and ring a little bell out of 
 what the Public believed to the Drawing-room winder. 
 And when I say a sarser, I mean a collection for himself 
 at the end of every Entertainment. His cue for that, he 
 took from me : “Ladies and gentlemen, the little man 
 will now walk three times round the Cairawan, and re- 
 tire behind the curtain." When he said anything im- 
 portant, in private life, he mostly wound it up with this 
 form of words, and they generally the last thing he said 
 to me at night afore he went to bed. 
 
 He had what I consider a fine mind — a poetic mind. 
 His ideas respectin his property never come upon him so 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 591 
 
 strong as when he sat upon a barrel-organ and had the 
 handle turned. Arter the wibration had run through 
 him a little time, he would screech out, Toby, I feel 
 my property coming — grind away ! I’m counting my 
 guineas by thousands, Toby — grind away ! Toby, I shall 
 be a man of fortun ! I feel the Mint a jingling in me, 
 Toby, and Fm swelling out into the Bank of England ! ” 
 Such is the influence of music on a poetic mind. Not 
 that he was partial to any other music but a barrel-or- 
 gan ; on the contrairy, hated it. 
 
 He had a kind of a everlasting grudge agin the Pub- 
 lic : which is a thing you may notice in many phenome- 
 nons that get their living out of it. What riled him 
 most in the nater of his occupation was, that it kep him 
 out of Society. He was continiwally sayin, "‘Toby, my 
 ambition is, to go into Society. The curse of my posi* 
 tion towards the Public is, that it keeps me bout of So- 
 ciety. This don’t signify to a low beast of a Indian ; he 
 anT formed for Society. This don’t signify to a Spotted 
 Baby ; he an’t formed for Society. — I am.” 
 
 Nobody never could make out what Chops done with 
 his money. He had a good salary, down on the drum 
 every Saturday as the day come round, besides having 
 the run of his teeth^ — and he v/as a Woodpecker to eat — ^ 
 but all Dwarfs are. The sarser was a little income, 
 bringing him in so many half-pence that he’d carry ’em 
 for a week together, tied up in a pocket handkercher. 
 And yet he never had mone, . And it couldn’t be the 
 Fat Lady from Norfolk, as was once supposed ; because 
 it stands to reason that when you have a -animosity 
 towards a Indian, which makes you grind your teeth at 
 him to his face, and which can hardly hold you from 
 Goosing him audible when he’s going through his War- 
 Dance — it stands to reason you wouldn’t under them cir- 
 cumstances deprive yourself, to support that Indian in 
 the lap of luxury. 
 
 Most unexpected, the mystery came out one day at 
 Egham Races. The Public was shy of bein pulled in, 
 and Chops was ringin his little bell out of his drawing- 
 room winder, and was snarlin to me over his shoulder as 
 he kneeled down with his legs out at the back-door— 
 for he couldn’t be shoved into his house without kneel-' 
 ing down, and the premises wouldn’t accommodate his 
 legs — was snarlin, Here’s a precious Public for you ; 
 why the Devil don’t they tumble up ? ” when a man in 
 the crowd holds up a carrier pigeon, and cries out, If 
 there’s any person here as has got a ticket, the Lottery’s 
 just d rawed, and the number as has come up for the 
 great prize is three, seven, forty-two ! Three, seven, 
 forty-two ! ” I was givin the man to the Furies myself, 
 for calling off the Public’s attention — for the Public will 
 
592 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 turn away, at any time, to look at anytliing in preference 
 to the thing showed ’em ; and if you doubt it, get ’em 
 together for any indiwidual purpose on the face of 
 the earth, and send only two people in late, and see if the 
 whole company an’t far more interested in takin particu- 
 lar notice of them tvv^o than of you — 1 say, I wasn’t best 
 pleased with the man for callin out, and wasn’t blessin 
 him in my own mind, when I see Chops’s little bell hy 
 out of the winder at a old lady, and he gets up and kicks 
 his box over, exposin the whole secret, and he catches 
 hold of the calves of my legs and he says to me, ‘‘Carry 
 me into the Wan, Toby, and throw a pail of water over 
 me or I’m a dead man, for I’ve come into my property I” 
 
 Twelve thousand odd hundred pound, was Chops’s 
 winnins. He had bought a half- ticket for the twenty- 
 five thousand prize, and it had come up. The first use 
 he made of his property, was, to offer to fight the Wild 
 Indian for five hundred pound a side, him with a poisoned 
 darning-needle and the Indian with a club ; but the In- 
 dian bein in want of backers to that amount, it went no 
 further. 
 
 Arter he had been mad for a week — in a state of mind, 
 in short, in which, if I had let him sit on the organ for 
 only two minutes, I believe he would have bust — but we 
 kep the organ from him — Mr. Chops come round, and be- 
 haved liberal and beautiful to all. He then sent for a 
 young man he knowed, as had a wery genteel appear- 
 ance and was a Bonnet at a gaming booth (most respect- 
 able brought up, father havin been imminent in the 
 livery stable line but unfort’nate in a commercial crisis, 
 through paintin a old gray, ginger-bay, and sellin him 
 with a Pedigree), and Mr. Chops said to this Bonnet, who 
 said his name was Normandy, which it wasn’t : 
 
 “ Normandy, I’m a goin into Society. Will you go 
 with me ? ” 
 
 Says Normandy : “Do I understand you, Mr. Chops 
 to liintimate that the ’ole of the expenses of that mov® 
 will be borne by yourself ? ” 
 
 “ Correct,” says Mr. Chops. “ And you shall have a 
 Princely allowance too.” 
 
 The Bonnet lifted Mr. Chops upon a chair, to shake 
 hands with him, and replied in poetry, with his eyes 
 seeminly full of tears : 
 
 “ My boat is on the shore, 
 
 And my bark is on the sea, 
 
 And I do not ask for more, 
 
 But I’ll Go ; — along with thee.” 
 
 They went into Society, in a chay and four grays with 
 silk jackets. They took lodgings in Pall Mall, London, 
 and they blazed away. 
 
 In conseq uence of a note that was brought to Bartlemy 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 593 
 
 Fair in tlie autumn of next year by a servant, most won- 
 derful got up in milk-white cords and tops, I cleaned 
 myself and went to Pall Mall, one evenin appinted. 
 The gentlemen was at their wine arter dinner, and Mr. 
 Chop's eyes were more fixed in that Ed of his than I 
 thought good for him. There was three of 'em (in com- 
 pany, I mean) ; and I knowed the third well. When 
 last met, he had on a white Roman shirt, and a Bishop's 
 mitre covered with leopard-skin, and played the clarionet 
 all wrong, in a band at a Wild Beast Show. 
 
 This gent took on not to know me, and Mr. Chops 
 said : ‘‘ Gentlemen, this is a old friend of former days ; 
 and Normandy looked at me through a eye-glass, and 
 said, ‘‘Magsman, glad to see you !" — which I'll take 
 my oath he wasn't. Mr. Chops, to get him convenient 
 to the table, had his chair on a throne (much of the form 
 of George the Fourth's in the canvas), but he hardly ap- 
 peared to me to be King there in any other pint of view, 
 for his two gentlemen ordered about like Emperors. 
 They was all dressed like May-Day — gorgeous ! — and as 
 to wine, they swam in all sorts. 
 
 I made the round of the bottles, first separate (to say 
 I had done it) and then mixed ’em all together (to say I 
 had done it), and then tried two of 'em as half-and-half, 
 and then t’other two. Altogether, I passed a pleasin 
 evenin, but with a tendency to feel muddled, until I con- 
 sidered it good manners to get up and say, ‘ * Mr. Chops, 
 the best of friends must part ; I thank you for the wa- 
 riety of foreign drains you have stood so 'ansome ; I looks 
 towards you in red wine, and I takes my leave.” Mr. 
 Chops replied, "‘If you'll just hitch me out of this over 
 your right arm, Magsman, and carry me down stairs. I'll 
 see you out.” I said I couldn't think of such thing, but 
 he would have it, so I lifted him off his throne. He smelt 
 strong of Maideary, and I could'nt help thinking as I car- 
 ried him down that it was like carrying a large bottle 
 full of wine, with a rather ugly stopper, a good deal out 
 of proportion. 
 
 When I set him on the door mat in the hall, he kept 
 me close to him by holding on to my coat-collar, and he 
 whispers : 
 
 “ I an't 'appy, Magsman.” 
 
 “ What's on your mind, Mr. Chops?” 
 
 “ They don't use me well. They an't grateful to me. 
 They put's me on the mantel-piece when I won't have in 
 more Champagne wine, and they looks me in the side- 
 board when I won’t give up my property,” 
 
 “ Get rid of 'em, Mr. Chops.” 
 
 “ T can't. We're in Society together, and what would 
 Society say?” 
 
 “ Come out of Society ? ” says I. 
 
 "" I can’t. You don't know what you're talking 
 
594 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 When you have once gone into Society, you musn’t come 
 out of it.” 
 
 Then if you’ll excuse the freedom, Mr. Chops,” were 
 my remark, shaking my head grave, I think it’s a pity 
 you ever v/ent in.” 
 
 Mr. Chops shook that deep Ed of his, to a surprisin 
 extent, and slapped it half a dozen times with his hand, 
 and with more Wice than I thought were in him. Then, 
 he says, “ You’re a good fellow, but you don’t under- 
 stand. Good night, go along. Magsman, the little man 
 will now walk three times round the Cairawan, and re- 
 tire behind the curtain.” The last I see of him on that 
 occasion was his tryin, on the extremest werge of insen- 
 sibility, to climb up the stairs, one by one, with hands 
 and knees. They’d have been much too steep for him, 
 if he had been sober ; but he wouldn’t be helped. 
 
 It warn’t long after that, that I read in the newspaper 
 of Mr. Chops’ being presented at court. It was printed. 
 
 It will be recollected ” — and I’ve noticed in my life, 
 that it i^ sure to printed that it will be recollected, when- 
 ever it won’t — that Mr. Chops is the individual of small 
 stature, whose brilliant success in the last State Lottery 
 attracted so much attention.” Well, I says to myself,, 
 Such is Life ! He has been and done it in earnest at last ! 
 He has astonished George the Fourth ! 
 
 (On account of which, I had that canvas new-painted, 
 him with a bag of money in his hand, a presentin it to 
 George the Fourth, and a lady in Ostricli. Feathers fallin 
 in love with him in a bag-wig, sword, and buckles cor. 
 rect.) 
 
 I took the House as is the subject of present inquiries 
 — though not the honour of bein acquainted — and I run 
 Magsman’s Amusements in it thirteen months — some- 
 times one thing, sometimes another, sometimes nothin 
 particular, but always all the canvases outside. One 
 night, when w'e had played the last company out, which 
 was a shy company, through its raining Heavens hard, 
 I was takin a pipe in the one pair back along with the 
 young man with the toes, which I had taken on for a 
 month (though he never drawed — except on paper), and I 
 heard a kickin at the street door. Halloa I ” I says to 
 the young man, ** what’s up ? ” He rubs his eyebrows 
 with his toes, and he says, I can’t imagine, Mr. Mags- 
 man” — which he never could imagine nothin, and was 
 monotonous company. 
 
 The noise not leavin off, I laid down my pipe, and I 
 took up a candle, and I went down and opened the door. 
 I looked out into the street ; but nothin could I see, and 
 nothin was I a aware of, until I turned round quick, be- 
 cause some creetur run between my legs into the passage. 
 There was Mr. Chops ! 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 595 
 
 “ Magsman, he say, ''take me, on the old terms, and 
 you’ve got me ; " if it’s done, say done I ” 
 
 I was all of a maze, but I said, " Done sir.” 
 
 " Done to your done, and double done ! ” says he. 
 " Have you got a bit of supper in the house? ” 
 
 Bearin in mind them sparklin warieties of foreign 
 drains as we’d guzzled away at in Pall Mall, I was 
 ashamed to ofter him cold sassages and gin-and-water ; 
 but he took ’em both and took ’em free ; havin a chair 
 for his table, and sitting down at it on a stool, like old 
 times. I, all of a maze all the whije. 
 
 It was arter he had made a clean sweep of the sass- 
 ages (beef, and to the best of my calculations two pound 
 and a quarter,) that the wisdom as was in that little man 
 began to come out of him like perspiration. 
 
 Magsman,” he says, " look upon me ! You see afore 
 you. One as has both gone into Society and come out.’^ 
 
 "O ! You are out of it, Mr. Chops? How did yota 
 get out, sir ! ” 
 
 " Sold out ! ” says he. You never saw the like of 
 the wisdom as his Ed expressed, when he made use of 
 them two words. 
 
 " My friend Magsman, I’ll impart to you a discovery 
 I’ve made. It’s wallable. It’s cost twelve thousand five 
 hundred pound ; it may do you good in life. — The secret 
 of this matter is, that it ain’t so much that a person goes 
 into Society, as that Society goes into a person.” 
 
 Not exactly keeping up with his meanin, I shook my 
 head, put on a deep look, and said, "You’re right there, 
 Mr. Chops.” 
 
 " Magsman,” he says, twitchin me by the leg, " So- 
 ciety has gone into me, to the tune of every penny of 
 my property.” 
 
 I felt that I went pale, and though nat’ rally a bold 
 speaker, I couldn’t hardly say, " Where’s Normandy ? ” 
 
 " Bolted. With the plate,” said Mr. Chops. 
 
 "And t’other one ?” — meaning him as formerly worQ 
 the bishop’s mitre. 
 
 " Bolted. With the jewels,” said Mr. Chops. 
 
 I sat down and looked at him, and he stood up and 
 looked at me. 
 
 " Magsman,” he says, and he seemed to myself to get 
 wiser as he got hoarser; " Society, taken in the lump* 
 is all dwarfs. At the court of Sf. James’s, they was all 
 a doing my old business — all a goin three times round 
 the Cairawan, in the hold court-suits, and properties, 
 ^ Elsewheres, they was most of’ em ringin their little bells 
 out of make-believes. Everywheres, the sarser was 
 a-goin round. Magsman, the sarser is the uniwersal 
 Institution ! ” 
 
 I perceived, you understand, that he was soured by 
 his misfortuns, and I felt for Mr. Chops. 
 
596 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 As to Fat Ladies,” says lie, giving his Ed a tremen'* 
 dious one agin the wall, there’s lots of them in Society, 
 and worse than the original. Mere was a ontrage upon 
 Taste — simply a outrage upon Taste— awakenin contempt 
 — carryin its own punishment in the form of a Indian I ” 
 Here he giv himself another tremendious one. “ But 
 theirs y Magsman, tJieirs is mercenary outrages. Lay in 
 Cashmere shawls, buy bracelets, strew ’em, and a lot of 
 ’hansome fans and things about your rooms, let it be 
 known that you give away like water to all as come to ad- 
 mire, and the Fat Lsidies that don’t exhibit for so much 
 down upon the drum, will come from all the pints of the 
 compass to hock about you, whatever you are. They’ll 
 drill holes in your ’art, Magsman, like a Cullender. And 
 when you’ve no more left to give, they’ll laugh at you to 
 your face, and leave you to have your bones picked dry 
 by Wulturs, like the dead Wild Ass of the Prairies that 
 you deserve to be be ! ” Here he giv himself the most 
 tremendious one of all, and dropped. 
 
 I thought he was gone. His Ed was so heavy, and he 
 knocked it so hard, as he fell so stony, and the sassager^ 
 ial disturbance in him must have been so immense, that 
 I thought he was gone. But, he soon come round with 
 care, and he sat upon the floor, and he said to me, with 
 wisdom comin out of his eyes, if ever it come : 
 
 Magsman ! The most material difference between 
 the two states of existence through which your unhappy 
 friend has passed ; ” he reached out his poor little hand, 
 and his tears dropped down on the moustachio which it 
 was a credit to him to have done his best to grow, but it 
 is not in mortals to command success, — the difference 
 is this. When I was out of Society, ^ was paid light for 
 being seen. When I went into Society, I paid heavy for 
 being seen. I prefer the former, even if I wasn’t forced 
 upon it. Give me out through the trumpet, in the hold 
 way, to-morrow. 
 
 After that, he slid into the line again as easy as if he 
 bad been iled all over. But the organ was kept from 
 him, and no allusions was ever made, when a company 
 was in, to his property. He got wiser every day ; his 
 views of Society and the Public was luminous, bewil- 
 derin, awful ; and his Ed got bigger as his Wisdom ex- 
 panded it. 
 
 He took well, and pulled ’em in most excellent for 
 nine weeks. At the expiration of that period, when his 
 Ed was a sight, he expressed one evenin, the last Com- 
 pany havin been turned out, and the door shut, n wish 
 tx) have a little music. 
 
 Mr. Chops,” I said (I never dropped the Mr.” with 
 him ; the world might do it, but not me) ; Mr. Chops, 
 are you sure as you are in a state of mind and body to 
 sit upon the organ ? ” 
 
MISCELLANEOUS^ 
 
 597 
 
 His answer was this : “ Toby, when next met with 
 on the tramp, I forgive her and the Indian. And I am.” 
 
 It was with fear and trembling that I began to tarn 
 the handle ; but he sat like a lamb. It will be my be- 
 lief to my dying day, that I see his head expand as he 
 sat ; you may therefore judge how great his thoughts 
 was. He sat out all the changes, and then he come off. 
 
 Toby,” he says, with a quite smile, the little man 
 will now walk three times round the Cairawan, and re- 
 tire beyond the curtain.” 
 
 When we called him in the morning, we found him 
 gone into much better Society than mine or Pall MalFs. 
 I giv Mr. Chops as comfortably a funeral as lay in my 
 power, followed myself as Chief, and had the George the 
 Fourth canvas carried first, in the form of a banner. 
 But, the House was so dismal afterwards, that I giv it 
 up, and took to the Cairawan again. 
 
 I don’t triumph.” said Jarber, folding up the second 
 manuscript, and looking hard at Trottle. I don’t tri- 
 umph over this worthy creature. I merely ask him if he 
 is satisfied now ? ” 
 
 ‘‘How can he be anything else?” I said, answering 
 for Trottle, who sat obstinately silent, “ This time, 
 you have not only read us a delightfully amusing stor}% 
 but you have also answered the question about the 
 House. Of course it stands empty now. Who would 
 think of taking it after it had been turned into a cara- 
 van? ” I looked at Trottle, as I said those last words, and 
 Jarber waved his hand indulgently in the same direction. 
 
 “ Let this excellent person speak,” said Jarber. “ You 
 were about to say my good man ? ” 
 
 “ I only wish to ask, sir,” said Trottle doggedly, “if 
 you could kindly oblige me with a date or two in connec- 
 tion with that last story ? ” 
 
 “ A date !” repeated Jarber. “ What does the man 
 want with dates ! ” 
 
 “ I should be glad to know, with great respect,” per 
 sisted Trottle, “ if the person named Magsman was the 
 last tenant who lived in the House, It’s my opinion — if 
 I may be excused for giving it — that he most decidedly 
 was not. ’ 
 
 With these words Trottle made a low bow, and quietly 
 left the room. 
 
 There was no denying that Jarber, when we were left 
 together, looked sadly discomposed. He had evidently 
 forgotten to inquire about dates ; and, in spite of his 
 magnificent talk abeut his series of discoveries, if was 
 quite as plain that the two stories he had just read, had 
 really and truly exhausted his present stock , I thought 
 myself bound, in common gratitude, to help him out of 
 
598 
 
 WOkKS of CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 liis embarrassment by a timely suggestion. So I pro. 
 posed tbat he should come to t'ea again on the next 
 Monday evening, the thirteenth, and should make such 
 inquiries in the meantime as might enable him to dispose 
 triumphantly of Trottle’s objection. 
 
 He gallantly kissed my hand, made a neat little speech 
 of acknowledgment, and took his leave. For the rest of 
 the week I would not encourage Trottle by allowing him 
 to refer to the House at all. I suspected he was making 
 Ms own inquiries about dates,btit I put no questions to him. 
 
 On Monday evening the thirteenth, that dear unfor- 
 tunate Jarber came, punctual to the appointed time. He 
 looked so terribly harrassed that he was really quite a 
 spectacle of feebleness and fatigue. I saw, at a glance, 
 that the question of dates had gone against him, that 
 Mr. Magsman had not been the last tenant of the House, 
 and that the reason of its emptiness was still to seek. 
 
 ‘‘What I have gone through,’’ said Jarber, “words 
 are not eloquent enough to tell. O Sophonisba, I have 
 begun another series of discoveries ! Accept the last two 
 as stories laid on your shrine ; and wait to blame me for 
 leaving your curiosity unappeased, until you have heard 
 Number Three.” 
 
 Number Three looked like a very short manuscript, 
 and I said as much. Jarber explained to me that we 
 were to have some poetry this time. In the course of 
 his investigations he had stepped into the Circulating 
 Library, to seek for information on the one important 
 subject. All the Library people knew about the House 
 was, that a female relative of the lust tenant, as they 
 believed, had, just after that tenant left, sent a little 
 manuscript poem to them which she described as refer- 
 ring to events that had actually passed in the House ; 
 and which she wanted the proprietor of the Library to 
 publish. She had written no address on her letter ; and 
 the proprietor had kept the manuscript ready to be given 
 C^ack to her (the publishing of poems not being in his 
 line) when she might call for it. She had never called 
 for it ; and the poem had been lent to Jarber, at his ex- 
 press request, to read to me. 
 
 Before he began, I rang the bell for Trottle ; being 
 determined to have him present at the new reading, as 
 a wholesome check on his obstinacy. To my surprise 
 Peggy answered the bell, and told me that Trottle had 
 stepped out without saying w’here. I instantly felt the 
 strongest possible conviction that he was at his old 
 tricks : and that his stepping out in the evening, with- 
 out leave, meant — Philandering. 
 
 Controlling myself on my visitor’s account, I dismissed 
 Peggy, stifled my indignation, and prepared, as politely 
 as might be, to listen to Jarber. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 599 
 
 THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 
 
 [ 1859 .] 
 
 IN TWO CHAPTERS. 
 
 THE MORTALS IN THE HOUSE. 
 
 Under none of tlie accredited gliostly circumstances, 
 and environed by none of the conventional ghostly sur- 
 roundings, did I first make acquaintance witk the house 
 which, is the subject of this Christmas piece. I saw it 
 in the day-Ught, with the sun upon it. There was no 
 wind, no rain, no lightning, no thunder, no awful or un- 
 wonted circumstance, of any kind, to heighten its effect. 
 More than that : I had come to it direct from a railway 
 stati :n ; it was not more than a mile distant from the 
 railway station ; and, as I stood outside the house, look- 
 ing back upon the way I had come, I could see the goods 
 train running smoothly along the embankment in the 
 valley, I will not say that everything was utterly com- 
 mon-place, because I doubt if anything can be that, ex- 
 cept to utterly common- place people — and there my 
 vanity steps in ; but *. will take it on myself to say that 
 anybody might see the house as I saw it, any fine au- 
 tumn morning. 
 
 The manner of lighting on it was this. 
 
 I was travelling towards London out of the North, in- 
 tending to stop by the way, to look at the house. My 
 health required a temporary residence in the country ; 
 and a friend of min© who knew that, and who had hap- 
 pened to drive past the house, had written to me to sug- 
 gest it as a likely place. I had got into the train at mid- 
 night, and had fallen asleep, and had woke up and had 
 ^at looking out of the window at the brilliant Northern 
 Lights in the sky, and had fallen asleep again, and had 
 Woke up again to find the night gone, with the usual dis- 
 contended conviction on me that I hadn’t been asleep at 
 all ; — upon which question, in the first imbecility of that 
 condition, I am ashamed to believe that I would have 
 done wager by battle with the man who sat opposite me. 
 That opposite man had had, ‘through the night — as that 
 opposite man always has — several legs too many, and all 
 of them too long. In addition to this unreasonable con- 
 duct (which was only to be expected of him), he had had 
 
 pencil and a pocket-book, and had been perpetually 
 listening and taking notes. It had appeared to me that 
 
600 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 aggravating notes related to the jolts and bumps 
 of the carriage, and I should have resigned myself to 
 his taking them under a general supposition that he was 
 in the civil-engineering way of life, if he had not sat 
 staring straight over my head whenever he listened. He 
 was a goggle-eyed gentleman of a perplexed aspect, and 
 his demeanour became unbearable. 
 
 It was a cold, dead morning (the sun not being up 
 ^et), and when I had out- watched the paling light of 
 the fires of the iron country, and the curtain of heavy 
 smoke that hung at once between me and the stars and 
 between me and the day, I turned to my fellow-traveller 
 and said : 
 
 l)eg your pardon, sir, but do you observe anything 
 particular in me?” For, really, he appeared to be tak- 
 ing down, either my travelling-cap or my hair, with a 
 minuteness that was a liberty. 
 
 The goggle-eyed gentleman withdrew his eyes from 
 behind me, as if the back of the carriage were a hun- 
 dred miles ofi, and said, with a lofty look of compassion 
 for my insignificance : 
 
 “ In you, sir ? — 
 
 B, sir?” said I, growing warm. 
 
 I have nothing to do with you, sir,” returned the 
 gentleman ; ‘‘pray let me listen — 0.” 
 
 He enunciated this vowel after a pause, and noted it 
 down. 
 
 At first I was alarmed, for an Express lunatic and no 
 communication with the guard, is a serious position. 
 The thought came to my relief that the gentleman might 
 be what is popularly called a Rapper : one of a sect for 
 (some of) whom I have the highest respect, but whom I 
 don’t believe in. I was going to ask him the question, 
 when he took the bread out of my mouth. 
 
 “ You will excuse me,” said the gentleman con- 
 temptuously, “ if 1 am too much in advance of common 
 humanity to trouble myself at all about it. I have 
 passed the night — as indeed I pass the whole of my time 
 now— in spiritual intercourse.” 
 
 “ Oh !” said I, something snappishly. 
 
 “The conferences of the night began,” continued the 
 gentleman, turning several leaves of his note-book, 
 “with this message: ‘Evil communications corrupt 
 manners.’ ” 
 
 “ Sound,” said I ; “but absolutely new?” 
 
 “ New from spirits,” returned the gentleman. 
 
 I could only repeat my rather snappish “ Oh I ” and 
 ask if I might be favoured with the last communica- 
 tion ? 
 
 “ ‘ A bird in the hand,’ ” said the gentleman, reading 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 601 
 
 his last entry with great solemnity, ‘"Ms worth two in 
 the Bosh.’"' 
 
 “Truly I am of the same opinion,’" said I; “but 
 shouldn’t it be Bush ? ” 
 
 “ It came to me bosh,” returned the gentleman. 
 
 The gentleman then informed me that the spirit of 
 Socrates had delivered this special revelation in the 
 course of the night. “ My friend, I hope you are pretty 
 well. There are two in this railway carriage. How do 
 you do ? There are seventeen thousand four hundred 
 and seventy-nine spirits here, but you cannot see them. 
 Pythagoras is here. He is not at liberty to mention it, 
 but hopes you like travelling.” Galileo likewise had 
 dropped in, with this scientific intelligence. “ I am glad, 
 to see you, amico. Gome sta f Water will freeze when it is 
 cold enough. Addio ! ” In the course of the night, also, 
 the following phenomena had occurred. Bishop Butler 
 had insisted on spelling his name “ Bubler,” for which 
 offence against orthography and good manners he had 
 been dismissed as out of temper. John Milton (suspect- 
 ed of wilful mystification) had repudiated the authorship 
 of Paradise Lost, and had introduced, as joint authors of 
 that poem, two Unknown gentlemen, respectively named 
 Grangers and Scadingtone. And Prince Arthur, ne- 
 phew of King John of England, had described himself 
 as tolerably comfortable in the seventh circle, where he 
 was learning to paint on velvet, under the direction of 
 Mrs. Trimmer and Mary” Queen of Scots. 
 
 If this should meet the eye of the gentleman who fav- 
 oured me with these disclosures, I trust he will excuse 
 my confessing that the sight of the rising sun, and the 
 contemplation of the Magnificent Order of the vast Uni“ 
 verse, made me impatient of them. In a word, I was 
 so impatient of them, that I was mightily glad to get out 
 at the next station, and to exchange these clouds and 
 vapours for the free air of Heaven. 
 
 By that time it was a beautiful morning. As I walked 
 away among such leaves as had already fallen from the 
 golden, brown, and russet trees ; and as I looked around 
 me on the wonders of Creation, and thought of the 
 steady, unchanging, and harmonious laws by which they 
 are sustained ; the gentleman’s spiritual intercourse 
 seemed to me as poor a piece of Journey-work as ever 
 this world sav/. In which heathen state of mind, I came 
 within view of the house, and stopped to examine it at- 
 tentively. 
 
 It was a solitary house, standing in a sadly neglected 
 garden, a pretty even square of some two acres. It was 
 a house of about the time of George the Second ; as 
 stiff, as cold, as formal, and in as bad taste, as could 
 possibly be desired by the most loyal admirer of the 
 whole quarter of Georges. It was uninhabited, but had, 
 VoL. 12- — Z 
 
602 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 within a year or two, been cheaply repaired to render it 
 habitable ; I say cheaply, because the work had been 
 done in a surface manner, and was already decaying as to 
 the paint and plaster, though the colours were fresh. A 
 lop-sid^d board dropped over the garden wall, announc- 
 ing that it was To let on very reasonable terms, well 
 furnished.’* It was much too closely and heavily sha- 
 dowed by trees, and, in particular, there were six tall 
 poplars before the front windows, which were exces- 
 sively melancholy, and the site of which had been ex- 
 tremely ill chosen. 
 
 It was easy to see that it was an avoided house — a 
 house that was shunned by the village, to which my eye 
 »was guided by a church spire some half a mile off — a 
 house that nobody would take. And the natural infer- 
 ence was, that it had the reputation of being a haunted 
 house. 
 
 'No period within the four-and-twenty hours of day and 
 night is so solemn to me, as the early morning. In the 
 summer-time, I often rise very early, and repair to my 
 room to do a day’s work before breakfast, and I am al- 
 ways on those occasions deeply impressed by the still- 
 ness and solitude around me. Besides that there is some- 
 thing awful in the being surrounded by familiar faces 
 asleep — in the knowledge that those who are dearest to 
 us and to whom we are dearest, are profoundly unconsci- 
 ous of us, in an impassive state, anticipative of that mys- 
 terious condition to which we are all tending— the stop- 
 ped life, the broken threads of yesterday, the deserted 
 seat, the closed book, the unfinished but abandoned oc- 
 cupation, all are images of Death. The tranquillity of 
 the hour is the tranquillity of Death. The colour and 
 the chill have the same association. Even a certain air 
 that familiar household objects take upon them when 
 they first emerge from the shadows of the night into the 
 morning, of being newer, and as they used to be long 
 ago, has its counterpart in the* subsidence of the worn 
 face of maturity or age, in death, into the old youthful 
 look. Moreover, I once saw the apparition of my father, 
 at this hour. He was alive and well, and nothing ever 
 came of it, but I saw him in the daylight, sitting with 
 his back towards me, on a seat that stood beside my bed„ 
 His head was resting on his hand, and whether he was 
 slumbering or grieving, I could not discern. Amazed to 
 see him there, I sat up, moved my position, leaned out^ 
 of bed, and watched him.* As he did not move, I spoke 
 to him more than once. As he did not move then, I 
 became alarmed and laid my head upon his shoulder, as 
 I thought — and there was no such thing. 
 
 For all these reasons, and for others less easily and 
 briefly statable, I find the early morning to be my most 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 603 
 
 ghostly time. Any house would be more or less haunted 
 to me, in the early morning ; and a haunted house 
 could scarcely address me to greater advantage than 
 then. 
 
 I walked on into the village, with the desertion of this 
 house upon- my mind, and I found the landlord of the 
 little inn, sanding his door-step. I bespoke breakfast, 
 and broached the subject of the house. 
 
 Is it haunted I asked. 
 
 The landlord looked at me, shook his head, and an- 
 swered, I say nothing.” 
 
 Then it, is haunted ? ” 
 
 Well ! ” cried the landlord, in an outburst of frank- 
 ness that had the appearance of desperation — “ I wouldn’t 
 sleep in it.” 
 
 ‘‘ Why not ?” 
 
 /'If I wanted to have all the bells in a house ring, 
 with nobody to ring ’em ; and all the doors in a house 
 bang, with nobody to bang ’em ; and all sorts of feet 
 treading about, with no feet there ; why then,” said the 
 landlord, " I’d sleep in that house.” 
 
 " Is anything seen there ? ” 
 
 The landlord looked at me again, and then, with his 
 former appearance of desperation, called down his stable- 
 yard for " Ikey ! ” 
 
 The call produced a high-shouldered young fellow, 
 with a round, red face, a short crop of sandy hair, a very 
 broad, humorous mouth, a turned-up nose, and a great 
 sleeved waist-coat of purple bars, with mother-of-pearl 
 buttons, that seemed to be growing upon him, and to 
 be in a fair way — ^if it were not pruned — of covering his 
 head and overrunning his boots. 
 
 " This gentleman wants to know,” said the landlord, 
 " if anything’s seen at the Poplars.” 
 
 " ’Ooded woman with a howl,” said Ikey, in a state of 
 great freshness. 
 
 " Do you mean a cry ? ” 
 
 "I mean a bird, sir.” 
 
 " A hooded woman with an owl. Dear me I Did you 
 ever see her ? ” 
 
 " I seen the howl.” 
 
 "Never see the woman?” 
 
 " Not so plain as the howl, but they always keeps to- 
 gether.” 
 
 " Has anybody ever seen the woman as plainly as the 
 owl.” 
 
 "Lord bless you, sir ! Lots.” 
 
 "Who?” 
 
 " Lord bless you sir ! Lots.” 
 
 The general dealer opposite, for instance, who is 
 opening his shop ? ” 
 
604 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ‘"Perkins?^ Bless you, Perkins wouldn’t go a-nigh 
 the place. No ! ” observed the young man, with con- 
 siderable feeling ; ‘'he an’t overwise, an’t Perkins, but 
 he ant such a fool as that” 
 
 (Here, the landlord murmured his confidence in Per- 
 kin’s knowing better.) 
 
 “ Who is — or who was — the hooded woman with thft 
 g)wl ? Do you know ? ” 
 
 “Well ! ” said Ikey, holding up his cap with one hand 
 while he scratched his head with the other, “ they say, in 
 general, that she was murdered, and the howl he ’ooted 
 the while.” 
 
 This very concise summary of the facts was all I could 
 learn except that a young man, as hearty and likely a 
 3^oung man as ever I see, had been took with fits and 
 held down in ’em, after seeing the hooded woman. Also, 
 that a personage, dimly described as “a bold chap, a 
 sort of one-eyed tramp, answering to the name of Joby, 
 unless you challenged him as Greenwood, and then he 
 said, ‘ Why not ? and even if so, mind your own busi- 
 ness,’ ” had encountered the hooded woman a matter of 
 five or six times. But I was not materially assisted by 
 these witnesses, inasmuch as the first was in California, 
 and the last was, as Ikey said (and he was confirmed by 
 the landlord). Anywheres. 
 
 Now, although I regard with a hushed and solemn 
 fear the mysteries between which and this state of ex- 
 istence is interposed the barrier of the great trial and 
 change that fall on all the things that live, and although 
 I have not the audacity to pretend that I know any- 
 thing of them, I can no more reconcile the mere banging 
 of doors, ringing of bells, creaking of boards, and such- 
 like insignificances, with tb'" mhjestic beauty and pre» 
 vading analogy of all the divine rules that I am permit- 
 ted to understand, than I had been able, a little while 
 before, to yoke the spiritual intercourse of my fellow- 
 traveller to the chariot of the rising sun. Moreover, I 
 had lived in two haunted houses — both abroad. In one 
 of these, an old Italian indeed, and which had recently 
 been abandoned on that account, I lived eight months 
 most tranquilly and pleasantly, notwithstanding that the 
 house had a score of mysterious bed-rooms, which were 
 never used, and possessed, in one large room in which I 
 sat reading, times out of number at all hours, and next 
 to which I slept, a haunted chamber of the first preten- 
 sions. I gently hinted these considerations to the land- 
 lord. And as to this particular house having a bad 
 name undeservedly, and how easy it was to give bad 
 names, and did he not think that if he and I were per- 
 sistently to whisper in the village that any weird-look- 
 kig old drunken tinker of the neighborhood had sold 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 605 
 
 hiraself to tlie Devil, lie would come in to be suspected 
 of that commercial venture ! All this wise talk was 
 perfectly ineifective with the landlord, 1 am bound to 
 confess, and was as dead a failure as ever I made in my 
 life. 
 
 To cut this part of the story short, I was piqued about 
 the Imunted house, and was already half resolved to 
 take it. So, after breakfast, 1 got the keys from Perkin’s 
 brother-in-law (a whip and harness maker, who keeps 
 the Post Office, and is under submission to a most rigor- 
 ous wife of the Doubly Seceding Little Emanuel per- 
 suasion), and went up to the house, attended by my 
 landlord and by Ikey. 
 
 Within, I found it, as I had expected, transcendently 
 dismal. The slowly changing shadows waved on it from 
 the heavy trees, were doleful in the last degree ; the 
 house was ill-placed, ill -built, ill-planned, and ill-fitted. 
 It was damp, it was nor free from dry rot, there was a 
 flavour of rats in it, and it was the gloomy victim of 
 that indescribable decay which settles on all the work of 
 man’s hands whenever it is not turned to man’s account. 
 The kitchens and offices were too large, and remote from 
 each other. Above stairs and below, waste tracts of pas- 
 sage intervened between patches of fertility represented 
 by room ; and there was a mouldy old well with a green 
 growth upon it, hiding like a murderous trap, near the 
 bottom of the back -stairs, under the double row of bells. 
 One of these bells was labelled, on a black ground in 
 faded white letters, Master B. This, they told me, was 
 the bell that rang the most. 
 
 Who was Master B.? ” I asked. ‘ ‘ Is it known what 
 he did while the owl hooted?” 
 
 '‘Rang the bell,” said Ikey. 
 
 I was rather struck by the prompt dexterity with 
 which this young man pitched his fur cap at the bell, 
 and rang it himself. It was a loud, unpleasant bell, and 
 made a very disagreeable sound. The other bells were 
 inscribed according to the names of the rooms to which 
 their wires were conducted : as “ Picture Room,” “ Dou- 
 ble Room,” “Clock Room,” and the like. Following 
 Master B.’s bell to its source, I found that young gen- 
 tleman to have had but indifferent third-class accommo- 
 dation in a triangular cabin under the cock-loft, with a 
 corner fire-place which Master B. must have been exceed- 
 ingly small if he were ever able to warm himself at, 
 and a corner chimney-piece like a pyramidal staircase to 
 the ceiling for Tom Thumb. The papering of one side 
 of the room had dropped down bodily, with fragments 
 of plaster adhering to it, and almost blocked up the 
 door. It appeared that Master B. , in his spiritual com 
 dition, always made a point of pulling the paper dowm 
 
606 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKEl^S. 
 
 Neither the landlord nor Ikey could suggest why he 
 made such a fool of himself. 
 
 Except that the house had an immense large rambling 
 left at the top, I made no other discoveries. It was 
 moderately well furnished, but sparely. Some of the 
 furniture — say, a third — was as old as the house ; the 
 rest was of various periods within the last half century. 
 I was referred to a corn-chandler in the market-place of 
 Ihe county town to treat for the house. I went that day, 
 And I took it for six months. 
 
 It was Just the middle of October when I moved in 
 with my maiden sister (I venture to call her eight-and- 
 thirty, she is so very handsome, sensible, and engaging). 
 We took with us, a deaf stable-man, my bloodhound 
 Turk, two women servants, and a young person called 
 an Odd Girl. I have reason to record of the attendant 
 last enumerated, who was one of the Saint Lawrence's 
 Onion Female Orphans, that she was a fatal mistake and 
 a disastrous engagement. 
 
 The year was dying early, the leaves were falling fast, 
 it was a raw, cold day when we took possession, and the 
 gloom of the house was most depressing. The cook (an 
 amiable woman, but of a weak turn of intellect) burst 
 into tears on beholding the kitchen, and requested that 
 tier silver watch might be delivered over to her sister (2 
 Tuppintock's Gardens, Idgg's Walk, Clapham Rise), in 
 the event of anything happening to her from the damp. 
 Streaker, the housemaid, feigned cheerfulness, but was 
 the greater martyr. The Odd Girl, who had never been 
 In the country, alone was pleased, and made arrange- 
 ments for sowing an acorn in the garden outside the 
 scullery window, and rearing an oak. 
 
 We went, before dark, through all the natural — as op- 
 posed to supernatural — miseries incidental to our state. 
 Dispiriting reports ascended (like the smoke) from the 
 basement in volumes, and descended from the upper 
 rooms. There was no rolling-pin, there was no sala- 
 mander (which failed to surprise me, for I don't knew 
 what it is), there was nothing in the house ; what there 
 was, was broken ; the last people must have lived like 
 pigs ; what could the meaning of the landlord be ? 
 Through these distresses the odd girl was cheerful and 
 exemplary. But within four hours after dark we had 
 got into a supernatural groove, and the Odd Girl had 
 
 seen Eyes," and was in hysterics. 
 
 My sii^ter and I had agreed to keep the haunting strict- 
 ly to ourselves, and my impression was, and still is, that 
 I had not left Ikey, when he helped to unload the cart, 
 alone with the women, or any one of them, for one min- 
 ute. Nevertheless, as I say, the Odd Girl had '"seen 
 Eyes " (no other explanation could ever be drawn from 
 
MISCELLANEOUiS. 
 
 607 
 
 her), before nine, and by ten o’clock bad had as much 
 vinegar applied to her as would pickle a handsome sal- 
 mon. 
 
 I leave a discerning public to judge of my feelings, 
 when, under these untoward circumstances, at about 
 half-past ten o’clock Master B.'s bell began to ring in a 
 most infuriated manner, and Turk howled until the 
 house resounded with his lamentations ! 
 
 I hope I may never again be in a state of mind so un 
 Christian as the mental frame in which I lived for some 
 weeks, respecting the memory of Master B. Whether 
 his bell was rung by rats, or mice, or bats, or wind, or 
 what other accidental vibration, or sometimes by one' 
 cause, sometimes another, and sometimes by collusion, 
 I don’t know ; but, certain it is, that it did ring two 
 nights out of three, until I conceived the happy idea of 
 twisting Master B.’s neck — in other words, breaking 
 his bell short off — and silencing that young gentleman, 
 as to my experience and belief, forever. 
 
 But, by that time, the Odd Girl had developed such 
 improving powers of catalepsy, that she had become a 
 shining example of that very inconvenient disorder. 
 She would stiffen, like a Guy Fawkes endowed with un- 
 reason, on the most irrelevant occasions. I would ad- 
 dress the servants in a lucid manner, pointing out to 
 them that I had painted Master B.’s room and balked 
 the paper, and taken Master B.’s bell away and balked 
 the ringing, and if they could suppose that that con- 
 founded boy had lived and died, to clothe himself with 
 no better behaviour than would most unquestionably 
 have brought him and the sharpest particles of a birch - 
 broom into close acquaintance in the present imperfect 
 state of existence, could they also suppose a mere h uman 
 being, such as I was, capable of those contemptible 
 means of counteracting and limiting the powers of the 
 disembodied spirits of the dead, or of any spirits ? — I say 
 I would become emphatic and cogent, not to say rather 
 complacent, in such an address, when it would all go for 
 nothing by reason of the Odd Girl’s suddenly stiffening 
 from the toes upward, and glaring among us like a par>. 
 ochial petrifaction. 
 
 Streaker, the housemaid, too, had an attribute of a 
 most discomfiting nature. I am unable to say whether 
 she was of an unusually lymphatic temperament, or 
 what else was the matter with her, but this young wo- 
 man became a mere distillery for the production of the 
 largest and most transparent tears I ever met with. 
 Combined with these characteristics, was a peculiar ten* 
 acity of hold in those specimens, so that they didn’t 
 fall, but hung upon her face and nose. In this condition, 
 and mildly and deplorably shaking her head, her silence 
 would throw me more heavily than the Admirable Crich- 
 
608 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ton conld have done in a verbal disputation for a purse 
 of money. Cook, likewise, always covered me with con- 
 fusion as with a garment, by neatly winding up the ses- 
 sion with the protest that the 'Ouse was wearing her out, 
 and by meekly repeating her last wishes regarding her 
 silver watch. 
 
 As to our nightly life, the contagion of suspicion and 
 fear was among us, aud there is no such contagion under 
 the sky. Hooded woman ? According to the accounts, 
 we were in a perfect Convent of hooded women. Noises? 
 With that contagion downstairs, I myself have sat in 
 the dismal parlour, listening, until I have heard so many 
 and such strange noises, that they would have chilled 
 my blood if I had not warmed it by dashing out to make 
 discoveries. Try this in bed, in the dead of the night ; 
 try this at your own comfortable fireside, in the life of 
 the night. You can fill any house with noises, if you 
 will, until you have a noise for every nerve in your ner- 
 vous system. 
 
 I repeat ; the contagion of suspicion and fear was 
 among us, and there is no such contagion under the sky. 
 The women (their noses in a chronic state of excoriation 
 from smelling-salts), were alv^^ays primed and loaded for 
 a swoon, and ready to go off with hair-triggers. The 
 two elder despatched the Odd Girl on all expeditions that 
 were considered doubly hazardous, and she always es- 
 tablished the reputation of such adventures by coming 
 back cataleptic. If Cook or Streaker went over-head 
 after dark, we knew we should presently hear a bump on 
 the ceiling ; and this took place so constantly, that' it 
 was as if a fighting man were engaged to go about the 
 house, administering a touch of his art which I believe 
 is called The Auctioneer, to every domestic he met 
 with. 
 
 It was in vain to do anything. It was in vain to be 
 frightened, for the moment in one's own person, by a 
 real owl, and then to show the owl. It was in vain to 
 discover, by striking an accidental discord on the piano, 
 that Turk always howled at particular notes and combi- 
 nations. It was in vain to be a Rhadamanthus with the 
 bells, and if an unfortunate bell rang without leaf e, to 
 have it down inexorably and silence it. It was in vain 
 to fire up chimneys, let torches down the well, charge 
 furiously into suspected rooms and recesses. Wo 
 changed servants, and it was no better. Tlie new set 
 ran away, and a third set came, and it was no better. 
 At last, our comfortable housekeeper jrot to be so disor- 
 ganized and wretched, that I one night dejectedly said 
 to my sister : Patty, I begin to despair of our getting 
 people to go on with us here, aud I think we must give 
 this up." 
 
 My sister, who is a woman of immense spirit, replied. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 609 
 
 John don’t give it up. Don’t be beaten, John. 
 There is another way.” 
 
 And what is that ? ” said I. 
 
 John,” returned my sister, we are not to be 
 driven out of this house, and that for no reason what- 
 ever, that is apparent to you and me, we must help our- 
 selves and take the house wholly and solely into our 
 own hands. ” 
 
 But the servants,” said I. 
 
 Have no servants,” said my sister, boldly. 
 
 Like most people in my grade of life, I had never 
 thought of the possibility of going on without those faith- 
 ful obstructions. The notion was so new to me when 
 suggested, that I looked very doubtful. 
 
 We know they come here to be frightened and infect 
 one another,” said my sister. 
 
 ‘‘ With the exception of Bottles,” I observed, in a med- 
 itative tone. 
 
 (The deaf stableman. I kept him in my service, and 
 still keep him, as a phenomenon of moroseness not to be 
 matched in England.) 
 
 To be sure, John,” assented my sister ; ‘^except Bot- 
 tles. And what does that go to prove ? Bottles talks to 
 nobody, and hears nobody unless he is absolutely roared 
 at, and what alarm lias Bottles ever given, or taken ! 
 None.” 
 
 This was perfectly true ; the individual in question 
 having retired, every night at ten o’clock, to his bed over 
 the coach-house, with no other company than a pitchfork 
 and a pail of water. That the pail of water would have 
 been over me, and the pitchfork through me, if I had 
 put myself without announcement in Bottles’s way after 
 that minute, I had deposited in my own mind as a fact 
 worth remembering. Neither had Bottles ever taken 
 the least notice of any of our many uproars. An imper- 
 turbable and speechless man, he had sat at his supper, 
 with Streaker present in a swoon, and the Odd Girl mar- 
 ble, and had only put another potato in his cheek, or 
 profited by the general misery to help himself to beef- 
 steak pie. 
 
 ^‘And so,” continued my sister, exempt Bottles. 
 And considering, John, that the house is too large, and 
 perhaps too lonely, to be kept well in hand by Bottles, 
 you, and me, I propose that we cast about among our 
 friends for a certain selected number of the most relia- 
 ble and willing — form a Society here for three months — 
 wait upon ourselves and one another — live cheerfully 
 and socially — and see what happens.” 
 
 I was so charmed with my sister, that I embraced her 
 on the spot, and went into her plan with the greatest ar- 
 dour. 
 
610 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 W e were then in the third week of November ; hut we 
 took our measures so vigorously, and were so well sec- 
 onded by the friends in whom we confided, that there 
 was still a week of the month unexpired, when our party 
 all came down together merrily, and mustered in the 
 haunted house. 
 
 I will mention, in this place, two small changes that I 
 inade while my sister and I were yet alone. It occur- 
 ring to me as not improbable that Turk howled in the 
 house at night, partly because he wanted to get out of it, 
 I stationed him in his kennel outside, but unchained ; 
 and I seriously warned the village that any man who 
 came in his way must not expect to leave him without a 
 rip in his own throat. I then casually asked Ik^y if he 
 were a judge of a gun ? On his saying, Yes, sir, I 
 knows a good gun when I sees her,” I begged the favour 
 of h\s stepping up to the house and looking at mine. 
 
 She’s a true one, sir,” said Ikey, after inspecting, a 
 double-barrelled rifle that I bought in New York a few 
 years ago. “ No mistake about her, sir.” 
 
 Ikey,” said I, “don’t mention it ; I have seen some- 
 thing in this house.” 
 
 “No, sir?” he whispered, gi'^edily opening his eyes. 
 ^’Ooded lady, sir?” 
 
 “ Don’t be frightened,” said I. It was a figure rather 
 like you.” 
 
 “Lord, sir?” 
 
 “Ikey !” said I; shaking hands with him warmly, I 
 may say affectionately, “ if there is any truth in these 
 ghost stories, the greatest service I can do you is to fire 
 at that figure. And I promise you, by heaven and earth, 
 I will do it with this gun if I see it again ! ” 
 
 The young man thanked me, and took his leave with 
 some little precipitation, after declining a glass of liquor. 
 I imparted my secret to him, because I had never quite 
 forgotten his throwing his cap at the bell ; because I 
 had, on another occasion, noticed something very like a 
 fur cap, lying not far from the bell, one night when it 
 had burst out ringing ; and because I had remarked that 
 we were at our ghostliest whenever Re came up in the 
 evening to comfort the servants. Let me do Ikey no in- 
 justice. He was afraid of the house, and believed in its 
 being haunted; and yet be would play false on the 
 haunting side, so surely as h<. ;^ot an opportunity. The 
 Odd Girl’s case was exactly similar. She went about 
 the house in a state of real terror, and yet lied monstrous- 
 ly and wilfully, and invented many of the alarms she 
 spread, and made many of the sounds we heard. I had 
 had my eye on the two, and I know it. It is not neces- 
 sary for me, here, to account for this preposterous state 
 of mind ; I content myself with remarking that it is fa- 
 miliarly known to every intelligent man who has had 
 
MiyCELLANEOUS, 
 
 611 
 
 fair medical, legal, or other watchful experience, that it 
 is as well established and as common a state of mind as 
 any with which observers are acquainted, and that it is 
 one of the first elements, above all others, rationally to 
 be suspected in, and strictly looked for, and separated 
 from, any question of this kind. 
 
 To return to our party. The first thing that we did 
 when we were all assembled, was, to draw lots for bed- 
 rooms. That done, and every bedroom, and indeed, the 
 whole house, having been minutely examined by the 
 whole body, we allotted the various household duties, as 
 if we had been on a gipsy party, or a yachting party, or 
 a hunting party, or were shipwrecked. I then recount- 
 ed the floating rumours concerning the hooded lady, the 
 owl, and Master B., with others still more filmy, which 
 had floated about during our occupation, relative to some 
 ridiculous old ghost of the female gender who went ilp 
 and down, carrying the ghost of around table ; and also 
 to an impalpable jackass, whom nobody was ever able to 
 catch. Some of these ideas I really believe our people 
 below had communicated to one another in some diseased 
 way, without conveying them in words. We then grave- 
 ly called one another to witness that we were not there 
 to be deceived, or to deceive — which we co»sidered pret- 
 ty much the same thing — and that, with a serious sense 
 of responsibility, we would be strictly true to one another, 
 and would strictly follow out the truth. The under- 
 standing was established, that any one who heard un- 
 usual noises in the night, and who wished to trace them, 
 should knock at my door ; lastly, that on Twelfth Night, 
 the last night of holy Christmas, all our individual ex- 
 periences since that then present hour of our coming to- 
 gether in the haunted house, should be brought to light 
 for the good of all ; and that we would hold our peace 
 on the subject till then, unless on some remarkable pro- 
 vocation to break silence. 
 
 We were in number and in character as follows : 
 
 First — to get my sister and myself out of the way — 
 there were we two. In the drawing of lots, my sister 
 drew her own room, and I drew Master B.’s. Next there 
 was our first cousin. John Herschel, so called after the 
 great astronomer, than whom I suppose a better man at 
 a telescope does not breathe. With him was his wife, a 
 charming creature to whom he had been married in the 
 previous spring. I thought it (under the circumstances) 
 rather imprudent to bring her, because there is no know- 
 ing what even a false alarm may do at such a time ; out 
 I suppose he knew his own business best, and I must say 
 that if she had been my wife, I never could have left her 
 endearing and bright face behind. They drew the Clock 
 Boom. Alfred Starling, an uncommonly agreeable young 
 
612 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 fellow of eight-and -twenty, for whom I have the greatest 
 {iking, was in the Double Room • mine, usually, and design 
 Dated by that name from having a dressing-room withirj 
 it, with two large and cumbersome windows, which no 
 wedges I was ever able to make, would keep from shak^ 
 Ing, in any weather, wind or no wind. Alfred is a young 
 fellow who pretends to be fast” (another word for loose, 
 as I understand the term), but who is much too good and 
 sensible for that nonsense, and who would have distin- 
 guished himself before now, if his father had not unfor- 
 tunately left him a small independence of two hundrecj 
 a year, on the strength of which his only occupation in 
 life has been to spend six. 1 am in hopes, however, that 
 his banker may break, or that he may enter into some 
 speculation guaranteed to pay twenty per cent ; for, I am 
 convinced that if he could only be ruined, his fortune is 
 made. Belinda Bates, bosom friend of my sister, and a 
 most intellectual, amiable, and delightful girl, got the 
 Picture Room. She has a fine genius for poetry, com- 
 bined with real business earnestness, and ‘^goes in ” — ^to 
 use an expression of Alfred's — ^for Woman's mission 
 Woman's rights. Woman's wrongs, and everything that 
 is woman's with a capital W, or is not and ought to be, 
 or is and not ought to be. “ Most praiseworthy, my dear, 
 and Heaven prosper you !” I whisper tcTher on the first 
 night of my taking leave of her at the Picture-Room 
 door, ‘‘ but don't overdo it. And in respect of the great 
 necessity there is, my darling, for more employments 
 being within the reach of Woman than our civilization 
 has as yet assigned to her, don’t fly at the unfortunate 
 men, even those men who are at first sight in your way, 
 as if they were the natural oppressors of your sex ; for, 
 trust me, Belinda, they do sometimes spend their wages 
 among wives and daughters, sisters, mothers, aunts, and 
 grandmothers ; and the play is, really, not all Wolf and 
 Red Riding-Hood, but has other parts in it.” However, 
 I digress. 
 
 Belinda, as I have mentioned, . occupied the Picture 
 Room. We had but three other chambers : the Corner 
 Room, the Cupboard Room, and the Garden Room. My 
 old friend, Jack Governor, Slung his hammock,” as he 
 called it, in the Corner Room. I have always regarded 
 Jack as the finest-looking sailor that ever sailed. He is 
 gray now, but as handsome as he was a quarter of a cen- 
 tury ago — nay, handsomer. A portly, cheery, well-built 
 figure of a broad-shouldered man, with a frank smile, a 
 brilliant dark eye, and a rich dark eyebrow. I remember 
 those under darker hair, and they look all the better for 
 their silver setting. He has been wherever his Union 
 namesake flies, has Jack, and I have met old shipmates 
 of his, away in the Mediterranean and on the other side 
 of the Atlantic, who have beamed and brightened at the 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 613 
 
 casual mention of Ms name, and have cried, You know 
 Jack Governor? Then you know a prince of meni"' 
 That he is I And so unmistakably a naval officer, that if 
 you were to meet him coming out of an Esquimaux snow- 
 nut in seal's skin you would be vaguely persuaded he 
 was in full naval uniform. 
 
 Jack once had that bright, clear eye of his on my sis- 
 ter ; but it fell out that he married another lady and 
 took her to South America, where she died. This was a 
 dozen years or more. He brought down with him to our 
 haunted house a little cask of salt beef ; for, he is always 
 convinced that all salt beef not of his own pickling, is 
 mere carrion, and invariably, when he goes to London, 
 packs a piece in his portmanteau. He had also volun- 
 teered to bring with him one ‘‘ Nat Beaver," an old com- 
 rade of his, captain of a merchantman. Mr. Beaver, 
 with a thick-set, wooden face and figure, and apparently 
 as hard as a block all over, proved to be an intelligent 
 man, with a world of watery experiences in him, and 
 great practical knowledge. At times, there was a curi- 
 ous nervousness about him, apparently the lingering re- 
 sult of some old illness ; but it seldom lasted many min- 
 utes. He got the Cupboard Room, and lay there next to 
 Mr. Uii.dery, my friend and solicitor, who came down, in 
 an amateur capacity, “to go through with it," as he 
 said, and who plays whist better than the whole Law 
 List, from the red cover at the beginning to the red cover 
 at the end. 
 
 I never was happier in my life, and I believe it was 
 the universal feeling among us. Jack Governor, always 
 ^ man of wonderful resources, was Chief Cook, and made 
 some of the best dishes I ever ate, including unapproach- 
 able curries. My sister was pastrycook and confectioner, 
 Btarling and I were Cook's Mate, turn and turn about, 
 and on special occasions the chief cook “ press " Mr. 
 Beaver. We had a great deal of out-door sport and ex- 
 ercise, but nothing was neglected within, and there was 
 no ill-hum.our or misunderstanding among us, and our 
 evenings were so delightful that we had at least one 
 good reason for being reluctant to go to bed. 
 
 We had a few night alarms in the beginning. On the 
 first might, I was knocked up by Jack with a most won- 
 derful ship's lantern in his hand, like the gill of some 
 monster of the deep, who informed me that he was 
 “going aloft to the main-truck," to have the weather- * 
 cock down. It was a stormy night, and I remonstrated ; 
 but Jack called my attention to its making a sound like 
 a cry of despair, and said somebody w^ould be “hailing a 
 ghost" presently, if it wasn't done. So, up to the top of 
 the house, where I could hardly stand for the wind, we 
 went, accompanied by Mr. Beaver : and there Jack, Ian- 
 
614 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 tern and all, witli Mr. Beaver after Lim, swarmed up to 
 the top of the cupola, some two dozen feet above the 
 chimneys, and stood upon nothing particular, coolly 
 knocking the weathercock off, until they both got into 
 such good spirits with the wind and the height, that I 
 thought they would never come down. Another night, 
 they turned out again , and had a chimney-cowl off. Anoth- 
 er night, they cut a sobbing and gulping water-pipe away. 
 Another night, they found out something else. On sev- 
 eral occasions, they both, in the coolest' manner, simul- 
 taneously dropped out of their respective bedroom win- 
 dows, hand over hand by their counterpanes, to over- 
 haul something mysterious in the garden. 
 
 The engagement among us was faithfully kept, and 
 nobody revealed anything. All we knew was, if any 
 one’s room were haunted, no one looked the worse for it. 
 
 THE GHOST IN MASTER B.’S ROOM. 
 
 When I established myself in the triangular garret 
 which had gained so distinguished a reputation, my 
 thoughts naturally turned to Master B. My speculations 
 about him were uneasy and manifold. Whether his 
 Christian name was Benjamin, Bissextile (from having 
 been born in Leap Year), Bartholomew, or Bill. Whether 
 the initial letter belonged to his family name, and that 
 was Baxter, Black, Brown, Barker, Buggins, Baker, or 
 Bird. Whether he was a foundling, and had been bap- 
 tized B. Whether he was a lion-hearted boy, and B. 
 was short for Briton, or for Bull. Whether he could 
 possibly have been kith and kin to an illustrious lady 
 who brightened my own childhood, and had come of the 
 brilliant Mother Bunch. 
 
 With these profitless meditations I tormented myself 
 much. 1 also carried the mysterious letter into the ap- 
 pearance and pursuits of the deceased ; wondering 
 whether he dressed in Blue, wore Boots (he couldn’t have 
 been Bald), was a boy of Brains, liked Books, was good 
 at Bowling, had any skill as a Boxer, even in his Buoy- 
 ant Boyhood Bathed from the Bathing-machine at Bog- 
 nor, Bangor, Bournemouth, Brighton, or Broadstairs, 
 like a Bounding Billiard Ball ? 
 
 So, from the first I was haunted by the letter B. 
 
 It was not long before I remarked that I never by any 
 hazard had a dream of Master B., or for ano thing belong- 
 ing to him. But the instant I awoke from sleep, at 
 whatever hour of the night, my thoughts took him up, 
 and roamed away, trying to attach his initial letter to 
 something that would fit it and keep it quiet. 
 
 For six nights I had been worried thus in Master B.’s 
 room, when I began to perceive that things were going 
 wrong. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 615 
 
 The first appearance that presented itself was early in 
 the morning, when it was bnt just daylight and no more. 
 I was standing shaving at my glass, when I suddenly 
 discovered, to my consternation and amazement, that I 
 was shaving — not myself — I am fifty — but a boy. Ap- 
 parently Master B. ? 
 
 I trembled and looked over my shoulder ; nothing 
 there. I looked again in the glass, and distinctly saw 
 the features and expression of a boy, who was shaving, 
 not to get rid of a beardt but to get one. Extremely 
 troubled in my mind, I took a few turns in the room, and 
 went back to the looking-glass, resolved to steady my 
 hand and complete the operation in which I had beeir 
 disturbed. Opening my eyes, which I had shut while 
 recovering my firmness,'! now met in the glass, looking 
 straight at me, the eyes of a young man of four or five 
 and twenty. Terrified by this new ghost, I closed my 
 eyes, and made a strong effort to recover myself. Open, 
 ing them again, I saw, shaving his cheek in f ie glass, 
 my father, who had long been dead. Nay, I even saw 
 my grandfather too, whom I never did see in my life. 
 
 Although naturally affected by these remarkable visi- 
 tations, I determined to keep my secret until the time 
 agreed upon for the present general disclosure. Agitated 
 by a multitude of curious thoughts I retired to my room, 
 that night, prepared to encounter some new experience 
 of a spectral character. Nor was my preparation need« 
 less, for, waking from an uneasy sleep, at exactly two 
 o’clock in the morning, what were my feelings to find 
 that I was sharing my bed with the skeleton of Master B. 
 
 I sprang up, and the skelton sprang up also, I then 
 heard a plaintive voice saying, Where am I ? What is 
 become of me?” and, looking hard in that direction, 
 perceived the ghost of Master B. 
 
 The young spectre was dressed in an obsolete fashion ; 
 or rather, was not so much dressed as put into a case of 
 inferior pepper-and-salt cloth, made horribly by means 
 of shining buttons. I observed that these buttons went, 
 in a double row over each shoulder of the young ghost, 
 and appeared to descend his back. He wore a frill round 
 his neck. His right hand (which I distinctly noticed to 
 be inky) was laid upon his stomach ; connecting this 
 action with some feeble pimples on his countenance, and 
 his general air of nausea, I concluded this ghost to be 
 the ghost of a boy who had habitually taken a great deal 
 too much medicine. 
 
 Where am I ? ” said the little spectre, in a pathetic 
 voice. And why was I born in the Calomel days, and 
 why did I have all that Calomel given me ? ” 
 
 I replied, with sincere earnestness, that upon my soul 
 I couldn’t tell him. 
 
616 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES HICKENS. 
 
 Where is my little sister/’ said the ghost, ''and 
 where my angelic little wife, and where is the boy I 
 went to school with ? ’’ 
 
 I entreated the phantom to be comforted, and above 
 all things to take heart in respecting the loss of the boy 
 he went to school with. I represented to him that prob- 
 ably that boy hever did, within human experience, come 
 out well, when discovered. I urged that I myself had, 
 in later life, turned up several boys whom I went to 
 school with, and none of thena had at all answered. I 
 expressed my humble belief that that boy never did 
 answer. I represented that he was a mythic character, 
 a delusion, and a snare. I recounted how, the last time 
 I found him, I found him at a dinner party behind a 
 wail of white cravat, with an inconclusive opinion on 
 every possible subject, and a power of silent boredom 
 absolutely Titanic. I related how, on the strength of 
 our having been together at " Old Doylance’s ’’ he had 
 asked himself to breakfast with me (a social offence of 
 the largest magnitude) ; how, fanning my weak embers 
 of belief in Doylance’s boys, I had let him in ; and how, 
 he had proved to be a fearful wanderer about the earth, 
 pursuing the race of Adam with inexplicable notions 
 concerning the currency, and with a proposition that the 
 Bank of England should, on pain of being abolished, 
 instantly strike off and circulate, God knows how many 
 thousand millions of ten-and-six-penny notes. 
 
 The ghost heard me in silence, and with a fixed stare. 
 " Barber ! ’’ it apostrophized me when I finished. 
 
 " Barber I repeated — for I am not of that profes- 
 
 sion, 
 
 "Condemned,’^ said the ghost, " to have a constant 
 change of customers — now me — now a young man— now 
 thyself as thou art — now thy father — now thy grand- 
 father ; condemned, too, to lie down with a skeleton 
 every night, and to rise with it every morn — ’’ 
 
 (I shuddered on hearing this announcement.) 
 
 "Barber! Pursue me!” 
 
 I had felt even before the words were uttered, that I 
 was under a spell to pursue the phantom. I immediately 
 did so, and was in Master B.’s room no longer. 
 
 Most people know what long and fatiguing night- 
 journeys had been forced upon the witches who used to 
 confess^ and who, no doubt, told the exact truth — par- 
 ticularly as they were always assisted with leading ques- 
 tions, and the Torture was always ready. I asseverate 
 that, during my occupation of Master B.’s room, I was 
 taken by the ghost that haunted it, on expeditions fully 
 as long and wild as any of those. Assuredly, I was pre- 
 sented to no shabby old man with goat’s horns and tail 
 (something between Pan and an old-clothesman), holding 
 
mSCELLANEOUS. 
 
 617 
 
 conventional conceptions, as stupid as those of real life 
 and less decent ; but, I game upon other things which 
 appeared to me to have more meaning. 
 
 Confident that I speak the truth and shall be believed, 
 I declare without hesitation, that I follov/ed the ghost, 
 in the first instance on a broom-stick, and afterwards on 
 a rocking-horse. The very smell of the animaTs paint 
 — especially when I brought it out, by making him warm 
 — I am ready to swear to. I followed the ghost, after- 
 wards, in a hackney coach — an institution with the 
 peculiar smell of which the present generation is unac- 
 quainted, but to which I am again ready to swear as a 
 combination of stable, dog with the mange, and very 
 old bellows. (In this, I appeal to previous generations to 
 confirm or refute me.) I pursued the phantom on a head- 
 less donkey — at least, upon a donkey who was so inter- 
 ested in the state of his stomach that his head was always 
 down there, investigating it, on ponies, expressly born 
 to kick up behind ; on the roundabouts and swings, 
 from fair ; in the first cab — another forgotten institution 
 where the fare regularly got into bed, and v/as tucked 
 up with the driver. Not to trouble you with a detailed 
 account of all my travels in pursuit of the ghost of 
 Master B., which were longei* and more wonderful than 
 those of Sindbad the Sailor, I will confine myself to one 
 experience, from which you may judge of many. 
 
 I was marvellously changed. I was myself, yet not 
 myself. I was conscious of something within me which, 
 has been the same ail through my life, and which I have 
 always recognized under all its phases a varieties as 
 never altering, and yet I was not the I who had gone to 
 bed in Master B.’s room. I had the smoothest of faces 
 and the shortest of legs, and I had taken another creature 
 like myself, also with the smoothest of faces and the 
 shortest of legs, behind a door, and was confiding t© 
 him a proposition of the most astounding nature. 
 
 This proposition was, that we should have a Seraglio. 
 
 The other creature assented warmly. He had no notion 
 of respectability : neither had I. It was the custom of 
 the East, it was the way of the good Caliph Haroun 
 Alraschid (let me have the corrupted name again for 
 once, it is so scented with sweet memories !), the usage 
 was highly laudable, and most worthy of imitation. 
 
 O yes ! let us,” said the other creature, with a jump, 
 “ have a Seraglio.” 
 
 It was not because we entertained the faintest doubts 
 of the meritorious character of the Oriental establish- 
 ment we proposed to import, that we perceived it must 
 be kept a secret from Miss Griffin. It was because we 
 knew Miss Griffin to be bereft of human sympathies, 
 and incapable of appreciating the greatness of the great 
 
618 
 
 WORKS OP CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Haroun. Mystery impenetrably shrouded from Miss 
 Griffin then, let us entrust it to Miss Buie. 
 
 We were ten in Miss Griffin’s establishment by Hamp- 
 stead Ponds ; eight ladies and two gentlemen. Miss 
 Buie, whom I judge to have attained the ripe age of 
 eight or nine, took the lead in society. I opened the 
 subject to her in the course of the day, and proposed 
 that she should become the Favourite. 
 
 Miss Buie, after struggling with the diffidence so 
 natural to, and charming in, her adorable sex, expressed 
 herself as flattered by the idea, but wished to know how 
 it was proposed to provide for Miss Pipson? Miss Buie 
 — who was understood to have vowed towards that young 
 lady a friendship, halves, and no secrets, until death, on 
 the Church Service and Lessons complete in two volumes 
 with case and lock — Miss Buie said she could not, as the 
 friend of Pipson, disguise from herself, or me, that Pip- 
 son was not one of the common. 
 
 Now, Miss Pipson, having curly, light hair and blue 
 eyes (which was my idea of anything mortal and femi- 
 nine that was called Fair), I promptly replied that I re- 
 garded Miss Pipson in the light of Fair Circassian. 
 
 And what then ? ” Miss Buie pensively asked. 
 
 I replied that she must be inveigled by a merchant, 
 brought to me veiled, and purchased as a slave. 
 
 [The other creature had already fallen into the second 
 male place in the State, and set apart for Grand Vizier. 
 He afterwards resisted this disposal of events, but had 
 his hair pulled until he yielded.) 
 
 Shall I not be jealous?” Miss Buie inquired, casting 
 down her eyes. 
 
 Zobeide, no,” I replied, ** you will ever be the favour- 
 ite Sultana ; the first place in my heart, and on my 
 throne, will be ever yours. 
 
 Miss Buie, upon that assurance, consented to propound 
 the idea to her seven beautiful companions. It occur- 
 ring to me in the course of the same day, that we knew 
 we could trust a grinning and good-natured soul callea 
 Tabby, v/ho was the serving drudge of the house, and 
 had no more figure than one of the beds, and upon whose 
 face there was always more or less blacklead, I slipped 
 into Miss Buie’s hand after supper, a little note to that 
 effect : dwelling on the black-lead as being in a manner 
 deposited by the finger of Providence, pointing Tabby 
 out for Mesrour, the celebrated chief of the Blacks of 
 the Harem. , 
 
 There were difficulties in the formation of the desired 
 institution, as there are in all combinations. The other 
 creature showed himself of a low character, and, when 
 defeated in aspiring to the throne, pretended to have con- 
 scientious scruples about prostrating himself before 
 Caliph ; wouldn’t call him Commander of the Faithful ; 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 619 
 
 spoke of him slightingly and inconsistently ac a mere 
 “chap;” said he, the other creature, “wouldn’t play” 
 — Play I— :and was otherwise coarse and offensive. This 
 meanness of disposition was, however, put down by the 
 general indignation of an united Seraglio, and I became 
 blessed in the smiles of eight of the fairest of the daugh- 
 ters of men. 
 
 The smiles could only be bestowed when Miss GrilBn 
 was looking another way, and only then in a very wary 
 manner, for there was a legend among the followers of 
 the Prophet that she saw with a little round ornament 
 In the middle of the pattern on the back of her shawl. 
 But every day after dinner, for an hour, we were all to- 
 gether, and then the Favorite and the rest of the Royal 
 Harem competed who should most beguile the leisure of 
 the Serene Haroun reposing from the cares of State — 
 which were generally, as in most affairs of State, of an 
 arithmetical character, the Commander of the Faithful 
 being a fearful boggier at a sum. 
 
 On these occasions, the devoted Mesrour, chief of the 
 Blacks of the Harem, was always in attendance (Miss 
 Griffin usually ringing for that officer, at the same time, 
 with great vehemence), but never acquitted himself in a 
 manner worthy of his historical reputation. In the first 
 place, his bringing a broom into the Divan of the Caliph, 
 even when Haroun wore on his shoulders the red robe of 
 anger (Miss Pipson’s pelisse), though it might be got 
 over for the moment, was never to be quite satisfactorily 
 accounted for. In the second place, his breaking out 
 into grinning exclamations of “ Lork, you pretties ! ” was 
 neither Eastern nor respectful. In the third place, when 
 specially instructed to say “ Bismillah ! ” he always said 
 “Hallelujah?” This officer, unlike his class, was too 
 good-humored altogether, kept his mouth open far too 
 wide, expressed approbation to an incongruous extent, 
 and even once — it was on the occasion of the purchase of 
 the Fair Circassian for five hundred thousand purses of 
 gold, and cheap, too — embraced the Slave, the Favourite, 
 and the Caliph, all round. (Parenthetically let me say 
 God bless Mesrour, and may there have been sons and 
 daughters on that tender bosom, softening many a hard 
 day since 1) 
 
 Miss Griffin was a model of propriety, and I am at a 
 loss to imagine what the feelings of the virtuous woman 
 would have been, if she had known, when she paraded 
 us down the Hampstead road two and two, that she was 
 walking with a stately step at the head of Polygamy and 
 Mohammedanism. I believe that a mysteriou^and ter- 
 rible joy with which the contemplation of Miss Griffin, 
 in this unconscious state, inspired us, and a grim sense 
 prevalent among us that there was a dreadful power in 
 our knowledge of what Miss Griffin (who knew all things 
 
620 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 that could be learnt out of book) didn’t know, were the 
 iaaainspring of the preservation of our secret. It was 
 wonderfully kept, but was once upon the verge of self- 
 betrayal. The danger and escape occurred upon a Sun- 
 day. We were all ten ranged in a conspicuous part of 
 the gallery at church, with Miss Griffin at our head — as 
 we were every Sunday — advertising the establishment 
 in an unsecular sort of way — when the description of 
 Solomon in his domestic glory happened to be read. 
 The moment that monarch was thus referred to, con- 
 science whispered me, ‘'Thou, too, Haroun!” The 
 officiating minister had a cast in his eye, and it assisted 
 conscience by giving him the appearance of reading per- 
 sonally at me. A crimson blush, attended by a fearful 
 perspiration, suffused my features. The Grand Vizier 
 became more dead than alive, and the whole Seraglio 
 reddened as if the sunset of Bagdad shone direct upon 
 their lovely faces. At this portentous time the awful 
 Griffin rose, and balefully surveyed the children of Islam. 
 My own impression was, that Church and State had 
 entered into a conspiracy with Miss Griffin to expose us, 
 and that we should be put into white sheets, and exhib- 
 ited in the centre aisle. But, so Westerly — if I may be 
 allowed the expression as opposite to Eastern associa-' 
 tions — was Miss Griffin’s sense of rectitude, that she 
 merely suspected Apples, and we were saved. 
 
 I have called the Seraglio united. Upon the Question, 
 solely, whether the Commander of the Faithful durst 
 exercise a right of kissing in that sanctuary of the pal- 
 ace, where its peerless inmates divided. Zobeide assert- 
 ed a counter right in the Favourite to scratch, and the 
 fair Circassian put her face, for refuge, into a green 
 baize bag, originally designed for books. On the other 
 hand, a young antelope of transcendent beauty from the 
 fruitful plains of Camden-town (whence she had been 
 brought, by traders, in the half-yearly caravan that cross- 
 ed the intermediate desert after the holidays), held more 
 liberal opinions, but stipulated for limiting the benefit 
 of them to that dog, and son of a dog, the Grand Vizier 
 —who had no rights, and was not in question. At length, 
 the difficulty was compromised by the installation of a 
 very youthful slave as Deputy. She, raised upon a stool, 
 officially received upon her cheeks the salutes intended 
 by the gracious Haroun for other Sultanas, and was 
 privately rewarded from the coffers of the Ladies of the 
 Harem. 
 
 And now it was, at the full height of enjoyment of my 
 bliss, that I became heavily troubled. I began to think 
 of my mother, and what she would say to my taking 
 home at Midsummer eight of the most beautiful of the 
 daughters of men, but all unexpected. I thought of the 
 number of beds we made up at our house, of my father’s 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 621 
 
 income, and of fhe baker, and my despondency redoubled. 
 The Seraglio and malicious Vizier, divining the cause of 
 their Lord’s unhappiness, did their utmost to augment 
 it. They professed unbounded fidelity, and declared 
 that they would live and die with him. Reduced to the 
 utmost wretchedness by these protestations of attach- 
 ment, I lay awake, for hours at a time, ruminating on 
 my frightful lot. In my despair, I think I might have 
 taken an early opportunity of falling on my knees before 
 Miss Griffin, avowing my resemblance to Solomon, and 
 praying to be dealt with according to the outraged laws 
 of my country, if an unthought-of means of escape had 
 not opened before me. 
 
 One day we were out walking, two and two— on which 
 occasion the Vizier had his usual instructions to take 
 note of the boy at the turnpike, and if he profanely 
 gazed (which he always did) at the beauties ~of the Har- 
 em, to have him bowstrung in the course of the night— 
 and it happened that our hearts were veiled in gloom. 
 An unaccountable action on the part of the antelope had 
 plunged the State into disgrace. That charmer, on the 
 representation that the previous day was her birthday, 
 and that vast treasures had been sent in a hamper for its 
 celebration (both baseless assertions), had scarcely but 
 most pressingly invited thirty-five princes and princesses 
 to a ball and supper, with a special stipulation that they 
 were ‘‘ not to be fetched till twelve.” This wandering 
 of the antelopes fancy, led to the surprising arrival at 
 Miss Griffin’s door, in divers equipages and under various 
 escorts of a great company in full dress, who were de- 
 posited on the top step in a flush of high expectancy, 
 and who were dismissed in tears. At the beginning 
 the double knocks attendant on these ceremonies, the 
 antelope had retired to a back attic, and bolted herself 
 in ; and at every new arrival. Miss Griffin had gone so 
 much more and more distracted, that at last she had 
 been seen to tear her front. Ultimate capitulation on 
 the part of the offender, had been followed by solitude 
 in the linen-closet, bread and water, and a lecture to all, 
 of vindictive length, in which Miss Gifford had used ex- 
 pressions : Firstly, I believe you all of you knew of 
 it ; ” Secondly, Every one of you is as wicked as an- 
 other ; ” Thirdly, “ A pack of little wretches.” 
 
 Under these circumstances, we were walking drearily 
 along ; and I especially, with my Mussulman responsibiU 
 ities heavy on me, was in a very low state of mind ; 
 when a strange man accosted Miss Griffin, and, after 
 Walking on at her side for a little while and talking with^ 
 her, looked at me. Supposing him to be a minion of the 
 law, and that my hour was come, I instantly ran away^ 
 with a general purpose of making for Egy^pt. 
 
 The whole Seraglio cried out, when they saw me 
 
622 
 
 WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 mg off as fast as njy legs would carry me (I had an im- 
 pression that the first turning on the left, and round by 
 the public-house, would be the shortest way to the Pyr- 
 amids), Miss Griffin screamed after me, the faithless 
 Vizier ran after me, and the boy at the turnpike dodged 
 me into a corner, like a sheep, and cut me off. Nobody 
 scolded me when I was taken and brought back ; Miss 
 Griffin only said, with a stunning gentleness, This was 
 very curious ! Why had I run away when the gentle- 
 man looked at me ? 
 
 If I had had any breath to answer with, I dare say I 
 should have made no answer ; having no breath I certain- 
 ly made none. Miss Griffin and the strange man took me 
 between them and walked me back to the palace in a sort 
 of state ; but not at all (as I couldn’t help feeling, with 
 astonishment), in culprit state. 
 
 When we got there, we went into a room by ourselves, 
 and Miss Griffin called in to her assistance, Mesrour, on 
 being whispered to, began to shed tears. 
 
 Bless you, my precious ! ” said that officer, turning 
 to me ; “ your Pa’s took bitter bad ! ” 
 
 I asked, with a fluttered heart, ‘‘Is he very ill? ” 
 
 “ Lord temper the wind to you, my lamb ! ” said the 
 good Mesrour, kneeling down, that I might have a com- 
 forting shoulder for my head to rest on, “your Pa’s 
 dead ! ” 
 
 Haroun Alraschid took to flight at the words ; the Ser- 
 aglio vanished ; from that moment, I never again saw 
 one of the eight of the fairest of the daughters of men. 
 
 I was taken home, and there was Debt at home as 
 well as Death, and we had a sale there. My own little 
 bed was so superciliously looked upon by a Power un- 
 known to me, hazily called “ The IVade,” that a brass 
 coal-scuttle, a roasting-jack, and a bird-cage, were 
 obliged to be put into it to make a Lot of it, and then it 
 went for a song. So I heard mentioned, and I wondered 
 what song, and thought what a dismal song it must 
 have been to sing ! 
 
 Then, I was sent to a great, cold, bare, school of big 
 boys ; where everything to eat and wear was thick and 
 clumpy, without being enough ; where everybody, large 
 and small, was cruel ; where the boys knew all about 
 the sale, before I got there, and asked me what I had 
 fetched, and who had bought me, and hooted at me, 
 “ Going, going, gone ! ” I never whispered in that 
 wretched place that I had been Haroun, or had had a 
 Seraglio ; for I knew that if I mentioned my reverses, I 
 should be so worried, that I should have to drown my- 
 self in the muddy pond near the play-ground, which 
 looked like the beer. 
 
 Ah me, ah me ! No other ghost has haunted the boy’s 
 
MISCELLAi^EOUS. 
 
 623 
 
 room, my friends, since I have occupied it, than the 
 ghost of my own childhood, the ghost of my own inno- 
 cence, the ghost of my own airy belief. Many a time 
 have I pursued the phantom— never with this man’s 
 stride of mine to come up with it, never with these 
 man’s hands of mine to touch it, never more to this 
 man’s heart of mine to hold it in its purity. And here 
 you see me working out, as cheerfully and thankfully 
 as I may, my doom of shaving in the glass a constant 
 change of customers, and of lying down and rising up 
 with the skeleton allotted to me for my mortal compan- 
 ion. 
 
 END OF VOLUME TWELVE. 
 

 K 
 
 f