I have had some communication with the Doctor, Mrs Pipchin, and he does not consider Paul at all too young for his purpose. He mentioned several instances of boys in Greek at about the same age. If I have any little uneasiness in my own mind, Mrs Pipchin, on the subject of this change, it is not on that head. My son not having known a mother has gradually concentrated much—too much—of his childish affection on his sister. Whether their separation—


Hoity-toity! If she don’t like it, Mr Dombey, she must be taught to lump it.


He, my good madam, he.


It was so classical,


Now, Paul. This is the way indeed to be Dombey and Son, and have money. You are almost a man already.


Almost,


Doctor Blimber is at home, I believe?


How dare you laugh behind the gentleman’s back? And what do you take me for?


I ain’t a laughing at nobody, and I’m sure I don’t take you for nothing, Ma’am,


A pack of idle dogs! only fit to be turnspits. Go and tell your master that Mr Dombey’s here, or it’ll be worse for you! You’re laughing again, Sir,


I ain’t. I never see such a thing as this!


What is the matter, Mrs Pipchin? Softly! Pray!


Oh! he was a precious fellow


And how do you do, Sir? and how is my little friend? how, is, my, lit, tle, friend? Ha! Now I see my little friend. How do you do, my little friend?


how, is, my, lit, tle, friend?


Very well, I thank you, Sir,


Ha! Shall we make a man of him?


Do you hear, Paul?


Shall we make a man of him?


I had rather be a child,


Indeed! Why?


Mrs Pipchin,


I am really very sorry to see this.


Come away from him, do, Miss Dombey,


Never mind. Never mind; we shall substitute new cares and new impressions, Mr Dombey, very shortly. You would still wish my little friend to acquire—


Everything, if you please, Doctor,


Yes. Yes, exactly. Ha! We shall impart a great variety of information to our little friend, and bring him quickly forward, I daresay. I daresay. Quite a virgin soil, I believe you said, Mr Dombey?


Except some ordinary preparation at home, and from this lady, except so far, Paul has, as yet, applied himself to no studies at all. That circumstance, indeed, Doctor Blimber, and the interview I have already had the pleasure of holding with you, renders any further explanation, and consequently, any further intrusion on your valuable time, so unnecessary, that—


Now, Miss Dombey!


Permit me, one moment. Allow me to present Mrs Blimber and my daughter; who will be associated with the domestic life of our young Pilgrim to Parnassus Mrs Blimber. Mr Dombey. My daughter Cornelia, Mr Dombey. Mr Dombey, my love, is so confiding as to—do you see our little friend?


Like a bee, Sir, about to plunge into a garden of the choicest flowers, and sip the sweets for the first time Virgil, Horace, Ovid, Terence, Plautus, Cicero. What a world of honey have we here. It may appear remarkable, Mr Dombey, in one who is a wife—the wife of such a husband—


Hush, hush. Fie for shame.


Mr Dombey will forgive the partiality of a wife,


Not at all:


And it may seem remarkable in one who is a mother also,


And such a mother,


But really. I think if I could have known Cicero, and been his friend, and talked with him in his retirement at Tusculum (beau-ti-ful Tusculum!), I could have died contented.


Who is that? Oh! Come in, Toots; come in. Mr Dombey, Sir. Quite a coincidence! Here we have the beginning and the end. Alpha and Omega. Our head boy, Mr Dombey. An addition to our little Portico, Toots. Mr Dombey’s son.


How are you?


Ask Mr Feeder, if you please, Toots, to prepare a few introductory volumes for Mr Dombey’s son, and to allot him a convenient seat for study. My dear, I believe Mr Dombey has not seen the dormitories.


If Mr Dombey will walk upstairs. I shall be more than proud to show him the dominions of the drowsy god.


Don’t tell me, Sir; I know better. I hope, Mr Dombey, that the arrangements meet your approval.


They are excellent, Sir,


Very fair, indeed,


Mrs Pipchin, will, with your permission, Doctor and Mrs Blimber, visit Paul now and then.


Whenever Mrs Pipchin pleases,


Always happy to see her,


I think. I have given all the trouble I need, and may take my leave. Paul, my child. Good-bye.


Good-bye, Papa.


I shall see you soon, Paul. You are free on Saturdays and Sundays, you know.


Yes, Papa. On Saturdays and Sundays.


And you’ll try and learn a great deal here, and be a clever man, won’t you?


I’ll try,


And you’ll soon be grown up now!


Oh! very soon!


how, is, my, lit, tle, friend?


Can anybody have the goodness to indicate any subject, in any direction, on which I am uninformed? I rather think not. Cornelia. Dombey will be your charge at first. Bring him on, Cornelia, bring him on.


How old are you, Dombey?


Six. I haven’t been well. I have been a weak child. I couldn’t learn a Latin Grammar when I was out, every day, with old Glubb. I wish you’d tell old Glubb to come and see me, if you please.


What a dreadfully low name Unclassical to a degree! Who is the monster, child?


What monster?


Glubb,


He’s no more a monster than you are,


What! Ay, ay, ay? Aha! What’s that?


He’s a very nice old man, Ma’am. He used to draw my couch. He knows all about the deep sea, and the fish that are in it, and the great monsters that come and lie on rocks in the sun, and dive into the water again when they’re startled, blowing and splashing so, that they can be heard for miles. There are some creatures. I don’t know how many yards long, and I forget their names, but Florence knows, that pretend to be in distress; and when a man goes near them, out of compassion, they open their great jaws, and attack him. But all he has got to do, is to keep on turning as he runs away, and then, as they turn slowly, because they are so long, and can’t bend, he’s sure to beat them. And though old Glubb don’t know why the sea should make me think of my Mama that’s dead, or what it is that it is always saying—always saying! he knows a great deal about it. And I wish, that you’d let old Glubb come here to see me, for I know him very well, and he knows me.


Ha! this is bad, but study will do much. Take him round the house, Cornelia, and familiarise him with his new sphere. Go with that young lady, Dombey.


Heigh ho hum! Oh dear me, dear me! Ya-a-a-ah!


Sit down, Dombey.


Thank you, Sir,


You’re a very small chap;


Yes, Sir, I’m small. Thank you, Sir.


Who’s your tailor?


It’s a woman that has made my clothes as yet. My sister’s dressmaker.


My tailor’s Burgess and Co.. Fash’nable. But very dear. Your father’s regularly rich, ain’t he?


Yes, Sir. He’s Dombey and Son.


And which?


And Son, Sir,


You sleep in my room, don’t you?


Master Briggs?


Tozer. Is yours a strong constitution? judging from Paul’s looks, and that it is a pity, for it need be. He then asked Paul if he were going to begin with Cornelia;


yes,


It is remarkable, Mr Feeder, that the Romans— It is remarkable, Mr Feeder, that the Romans, in those gorgeous and profuse entertainments of which we read in the days of the Emperors, when luxury had attained a height unknown before or since, and when whole provinces were ravaged to supply the splendid means of one Imperial Banquet—


Johnson, take some water.


And when, Mr Feeder—


I beg your pardon, Sir. I beg your pardon, Doctor Blimber.


And when, when, Sir, as we read, and have no reason to doubt—incredible as it may appear to the vulgar—of our time—the brother of Vitellius prepared for him a feast, in which were served, of fish, two thousand dishes—


Take some water, Johnson—dishes, Sir,


Of various sorts of fowl, five thousand dishes.


Or try a crust of bread,


And one dish, called, from its enormous dimensions, the Shield of Minerva, and made, among other costly ingredients, of the brains of pheasants—


Ow, ow, ow!


Woodcocks—


The sounds of the fish called scari—


You’ll burst some vessel in your head. You had better let it come.


And the spawn of the lamprey, brought from the Carpathian Sea, when we read of costly entertainments such as these, and still remember, that we have a Titus—


What would be your mother’s feelings if you died of apoplexy!


A Domitian—


And you’re blue, you know,


A Nero, a Tiberius, a Caligula, a Heliogabalus, and many more, it is, Mr Feeder—if you are doing me the honour to attend—remarkable; VERY remarkable, Sir— Gentlemen, rise for Grace! Cornelia, lift Dombey down Johnson will repeat to me tomorrow morning before breakfast, without book, and from the Greek Testament, the first chapter of the Epistle of Saint Paul to the Ephesians. We will resume our studies, Mr Feeder, in half-an-hour.


Yes, Sir.


So am I,


Gentlemen, we will resume our studies at seven to-morrow; Gentlemen, we will resume our studies at seven tomorrow,


his head ached ready to split, and that he should wish himself dead if it wasn’t for his mother, and a blackbird he had at home.


look out, for his turn would come to-morrow.


Bother!


Oh yes!


where his mother was. Melia;


Is that Dombey? Yes, Ma’am:


Come in, Dombey. Now, Dombey,” I am going out for a constitutional.” These are yours, Dombey,


All of ’em, Ma’am?


Yes, and Mr Feeder will look you out some more very soon, if you are as studious as I expect you will be, Dombey.


Thank you, Ma’am,


I am going out for a constitutional, and while I am gone, that is to say in the interval between this and breakfast, Dombey, I wish you to read over what I have marked in these books, and to tell me if you quite understand what you have got to learn. Don’t lose time, Dombey, for you have none to spare, but take them downstairs, and begin directly.


Yes, Ma’am,


Oh, Dombey, Dombey, this is really very careless!


Now, Dombey,” How have you got on with those books?”


Oh, Dombey, Dombey! this is very shocking.


If you please. I think if I might sometimes talk a little to old Glubb, I should be able to do better.


Nonsense, Dombey. I couldn’t hear of it. This is not the place for Glubbs of any kind. You must take the books down, I suppose, Dombey, one by one, and perfect yourself in the day’s instalment of subject A, before you turn at all to subject B. I am sorry to say, Dombey, that your education appears to have been very much neglected.


So Papa says, but I told you—I have been a weak child. Florence knows I have. So does Wickam.


Who is Wickam?


She has been my nurse,


I must beg you not to mention Wickam to me, then. I couldn’t allow it.


You asked me who she was,


Very well, but this is all very different indeed from anything of that sort, Dombey, and I couldn’t think of permitting it. As to having been weak, you must begin to be strong. And now take away the top book, if you please, Dombey, and return when you are master of the theme.


Go on, Dombey!


See here, Susan. These are the names of the little books that Paul brings home to do those long exercises with, when he is so tired. I copied them last night while he was writing.


Don’t show ’em to me, Miss Floy, if you please. I’d as soon see Mrs Pipchin.


I want you to buy them for me, Susan, if you will, tomorrow morning. I have money enough,


Why, goodness gracious me, Miss Floy, how can you talk like that, when you have books upon books already, and masterses and mississes a teaching of you everything continual, though my belief is that your Pa, Miss Dombey, never would have learnt you nothing, never would have thought of it, unless you’d asked him—when he couldn’t well refuse; but giving consent when asked, and offering when unasked, Miss, is quite two things; I may not have my objections to a young man’s keeping company with me, and when he puts the question, may say ‘yes,’ but that’s not saying ‘would you be so kind as like me.’


But you can buy me the books, Susan; and you will, when you know why I want them.


Well, Miss, and why do you want ’em? If it was to fling at Mrs Pipchin’s head, I’d buy a cart-load.


Paul has a great deal too much to do, Susan. I am sure of it.


And well you may be, Miss, and make your mind quite easy that the willing dear is worked and worked away. If those is Latin legs,


give me English ones.


I am afraid he feels lonely and lost at Doctor Blimber’s, Susan,


Ah. Oh, them ‘Blimbers’


Don’t blame anyone. It’s a mistake.


I say nothing about blame, Miss, for I know that you object, but I may wish, Miss, that the family was set to work to make new roads, and that Miss Blimber went in front and had the pickaxe.


I think I could perhaps give Paul some help, Susan, if I had these books, and make the coming week a little easier to him. At least I want to try. So buy them for me, dear, and I will never forget how kind it was of you to do it!


Oh, Floy! how I love you! How I love you, Floy!


And I you, dear!


Oh! I am sure of that, Floy.


How are you?


Quite well, Sir, thank you,”


Shake hands. How are you?


Quite well, Sir, thank you.


I say! what do you think about?


Oh! I think about a great many things,


Do you, though?


If you had to die,


Don’t you think you would rather die on a moonlight night, when the sky was quite clear, and the wind blowing, as it did last night? I didn’t know about that.”


Not blowing, at least, but sounding in the air like the sea sounds in the shells. It was a beautiful night. When I had listened to the water for a long time, I got up and looked out. There was a boat over there, in the full light of the moon; a boat with a sail.


Smugglers. or Preventive.


A boat with a sail, in the full light of the moon. The sail like an arm, all silver. It went away into the distance, and what do you think it seemed to do as it moved with the waves?


Pitch,


It seemed to beckon, to beckon me to come!—There she is! There she is!


Who?


My sister Florence! looking up here, and waving her hand. She sees me—she sees me! Good-night, dear, good-night, good-night.


Mr Dombey, to a man in your position from a man in mine, there is no show of subservience compatible with the transaction of business between us, that I should think sufficient. I frankly tell you, Sir, I give it up altogether. I feel that I could not satisfy my own mind; and Heaven knows, Mr Dombey, you can afford to dispense with the endeavour.


How do you do this morning?


How do you do, Carker?


Coolish!


Rather,


Any news of the young gentleman who is so important to us all?


Yes—not direct news—I hear he’s very well,


Very well, and becoming a great scholar, no doubt?


I hope so,


Egad! Time flies!


I think so, sometimes,


Oh! You! You have no reason to think so. One who sits on such an elevation as yours, and can sit there, unmoved, in all seasons—hasn’t much reason to know anything about the flight of time. It’s men like myself, who are low down and are not superior in circumstances, and who inherit new masters in the course of Time, that have cause to look about us. I shall have a rising sun to worship, soon.


Time enough, time enough, Carker! Have you anything there for me?


I don’t know that I need trouble you. You have a committee today at three, you know.


And one at three, three-quarters,


Catch you forgetting anything! If Mr Paul inherits your memory, he’ll be a troublesome customer in the House. One of you is enough.


You have an accurate memory of your own,


Oh! I! It’s the only capital of a man like me.


Is Morfin here?


Morfin’s here, humming musical recollections—of his last night’s quartette party, I suppose—through the walls between us, and driving me half mad. I wish he’d make a bonfire of his violoncello, and burn his music-books in it.


You respect nobody, Carker, I think,


No? Well! Not many people, I believe. I wouldn’t answer perhaps, for more than one. Talking of Morfin, he reports a junior dead in the agency at Barbados, and proposes to reserve a passage in the Son and Heir—she’ll sail in a month or so—for the successor. You don’t care who goes, I suppose? We have nobody of that sort here. It’s no very precious appointment. I hope he may bestow it on some orphan nephew of a musical friend. It may perhaps stop his fiddle-playing, if he has a gift that way. Who’s that? Come in!


I beg your pardon, Mr Carker. I didn’t know you were here, Sir. Mr Carker the junior, Sir—


I thought, Sir, that you had been before requested not to drag Mr Carker the Junior into your conversation.


I beg your pardon. I was only going to say that Mr Carker the Junior had told me he believed you were gone out, or I should not have knocked at the door when you were engaged with Mr Dombey. These are letters for Mr Dombey, Sir.


Very well, Sir. Go about your business.


You can leave the room, Sir!


These continual references to Mr Carker the Junior, are, to a man in my position, uttered before one in yours, so unspeakably distressing—


Nonsense, Carker. You are too sensitive.


I am sensitive. If one in your position could by any possibility imagine yourself in my place: which you cannot: you would be so too.


You want somebody to send to the West Indies, you were saying,


Yes,


Send young Gay.


Good, very good indeed. Nothing easier, 'Send young Gay.'


Call him back. Gay. Here is a—


An opening,


In the West Indies. At Barbados. I am going to send you, to fill a junior situation in the counting-house at Barbados. Let your Uncle know from me, that I have chosen you to go to the West Indies.


West Indies.


Somebody must go, and you are young and healthy, and your Uncle’s circumstances are not good. Tell your Uncle that you are appointed. You will not go yet. There will be an interval of a month—or two perhaps.


Shall I remain there, Sir?


Will you remain there, Sir! What do you mean? What does he mean, Carker?


Live there, Sir,


Certainly. That’s all. You will explain to him in good time about the usual outfit and so forth, Carker, of course. He needn’t wait, Carker.


You needn’t wait, Gay,


Unless. Unless he has anything to say.


No, Sir. I hardly know—I—I am much obliged, Sir.


He needn’t wait, Carker,


Bring your friend Mr Carker the Junior to my room, Sir, if you please.


John Carker, what is the league between you and this young man, in virtue of which I am haunted and hunted by the mention of your name? Is it not enough for you, John Carker, that I am your near relation, and can’t detach myself from that—


Say disgrace, James. You mean it, and have reason, say disgrace.


From that disgrace, but is the fact to be blurted out and trumpeted, and proclaimed continually in the presence of the very House! In moments of confidence too? Do you think your name is calculated to harmonise in this place with trust and confidence, John Carker?


No. No, James. God knows I have no such thought.


What is your thought, then? and why do you thrust yourself in my way? Haven’t you injured me enough already?


I have never injured you, James, wilfully.


You are my brother. That’s injury enough.


I wish I could undo it, James.


I wish you could and would.


Mr Carker. Indeed, indeed, this is my fault solely. In a kind of heedlessness, for which I cannot blame myself enough, I have, I have no doubt, mentioned Mr Carker the Junior much oftener than was necessary; and have allowed his name sometimes to slip through my lips, when it was against your expressed wish. But it has been my own mistake, Sir. We have never exchanged one word upon the subject—very few, indeed, on any subject. And it has not been all heedlessness on my part, Sir; for I have felt an interest in Mr Carker ever since I have been here, and have hardly been able to help speaking of him sometimes, when I have thought of him so much!


You are an excitable youth, Gay, and should endeavour to cool down a little now, for it would be unwise to encourage feverish predispositions. Be as cool as you can, Gay. Be as cool as you can. You might have asked Mr John Carker himself (if you have not done so) whether he claims to be, or is, an object of such strong interest.


James, do me justice. I have claimed nothing; and I claim nothing. Believe me, on my—


Honour?


On my Me—on my fallen life! Believe me, I have held myself aloof, and kept alone. This has been unsought by me. I have avoided him and everyone.


Indeed, you have avoided me, Mr Carker. I know it, to my disappointment and regret. When I first came here, and ever since, I am sure I have tried to be as much your friend, as one of my age could presume to be; but it has been of no use.


it will be of still less use, Gay, if you persist in forcing Mr John Carker’s name on people’s attention. That is not the way to befriend Mr John Carker. Ask him if he thinks it is.


It is no service to me. It only leads to such a conversation as the present, which I need not say I could have well spared. No one can be a better friend to me: than in forgetting me, and leaving me to go my way, unquestioned and unnoticed.


Your memory not being retentive, Gay, of what you are told by others. I thought it well that you should be told this from the best authority. You are not likely to forget it now, I hope. That’s all, Gay. You can go.


Think of me more leniently, if you can, James, when I tell you I have had—how could I help having, with my history, written here my whole heart awakened by my observation of that boy, Walter Gay. I saw in him when he first came here, almost my other self.


Your other self!


Not as I am, but as I was when I first came here too; as sanguine, giddy, youthful, inexperienced; flushed with the same restless and adventurous fancies; and full of the same qualities, fraught with the same capacity of leading on to good or evil.


I hope not,


You strike me sharply; and your hand is steady, and your thrust is very deep. I imagined all this when he was a boy. I believed it. It was a truth to me. I saw him lightly walking on the edge of an unseen gulf where so many others walk with equal gaiety, and from which—


The old excuse. So many. Go on. Say, so many fall.


From which ONE traveller fell, who set forward, on his way, a boy like him, and missed his footing more and more, and slipped a little and a little lower; and went on stumbling still, until he fell headlong and found himself below a shattered man. Think what I suffered, when I watched that boy.


You have only yourself to thank for it,


Only myself,


You have divided the shame,


Ah, James. I have been, since then, a useful foil to you. You have trodden on me freely in your climbing up. Don’t spurn me with your heel! That’s all. I watched him with such trembling and such fear, as was some little punishment to me, until he passed the place where I first fell; and then, though I had been his father, I believe I never could have thanked God more devoutly. I didn’t dare to warn him, and advise him; but if I had seen direct cause, I would have shown him my example. I was afraid to be seen speaking with him, lest it should be thought I did him harm, and tempted him to evil, and corrupted him: or lest I really should. There may be such contagion in me; I don’t know. Piece out my history, in connexion with young Walter Gay, and what he has made me feel; and think of me more leniently, James, if you can.


Mr Carker, pray let me thank you! Let me say how much I feel for you! How sorry I am, to have been the unhappy cause of all this! How I almost look upon you now as my protector and guardian! How very, very much, I feel obliged to you and pity you!


Walter. I am far removed from you, and may I ever be. Do you know what I am?


What you are!


It was begun, before my twenty-first birthday—led up to, long before, but not begun till near that time. I had robbed them when I came of age. I robbed them afterwards. Before my twenty-second birthday, it was all found out; and then, Walter, from all men’s society, I died. The House was very good to me. May Heaven reward the old man for his forbearance! This one, too, his son, who was then newly in the Firm, where I had held great trust! I was called into that room which is now his—I have never entered it since—and came out, what you know me. For many years I sat in my present seat, alone as now, but then a known and recognised example to the rest. They were all merciful to me, and I lived. Time has altered that part of my poor expiation; and I think, except the three heads of the House, there is no one here who knows my story rightly. Before the little boy grows up, and has it told to him, my corner may be vacant. I would rather that it might be so! This is the only change to me since that day, when I left all youth, and hope, and good men’s company, behind me in that room. God bless you, Walter! Keep you, and all dear to you, in honesty, or strike them dead!


last half


Dombey, I am going to send home your analysis.


Thank you, Ma’am,


You know what I mean, do you, Dombey?


No, Ma’am,


Dombey, Dombey. I begin to be afraid you are a sad boy. When you don’t know the meaning of an expression, why don’t you seek for information?


Mrs Pipchin told me I wasn’t to ask questions,


I must beg you not to mention Mrs Pipchin to me, on any account, Dombey. I couldn’t think of allowing it. The course of study here, is very far removed from anything of that sort. A repetition of such allusions would make it necessary for me to request to hear, without a mistake, before breakfast-time to-morrow morning, from Verbum personale down to simillimia cygno.


I didn’t mean, Ma’am—


I must trouble you not to tell me that you didn’t mean, if you please, Dombey. That is a line of argument I couldn’t dream of permitting. Analysis of the character of P. Dombey. If my recollection serves me, the word analysis as opposed to synthesis, is thus defined by Walker. ‘The resolution of an object, whether of the senses or of the intellect, into its first elements.’ As opposed to synthesis, you observe. Now you know what analysis is, Dombey. Analysis, of the character of P. Dombey.’ I find that the natural capacity of Dombey is extremely good; and that his general disposition to study may be stated in an equal ratio. Thus, taking eight as our standard and highest number, I find these qualities in Dombey stated each at six three-fourths! Violence two. Selfishness two. Inclination to low company, as evinced in the case of a person named Glubb, originally seven, but since reduced. Gentlemanly demeanour four, and improving with advancing years. Now what I particularly wish to call your attention to, Dombey, is the general observation at the close of this analysis. It may be generally observed of Dombey, that his abilities and inclinations are good, and that he has made as much progress as under the circumstances could have been expected. But it is to be lamented of this young gentleman that he is singular (what is usually termed old-fashioned) in his character and conduct, and that, without presenting anything in either which distinctly calls for reprobation, he is often very unlike other young gentlemen of his age and social position.’ Now, Dombey. Now, Dombey, do you understand that?


I think I do, Ma’am,


This analysis, you see, Dombey, is going to be sent home to your respected parent. It will naturally be very painful to him to find that you are singular in your character and conduct. It is naturally painful to us; for we can’t like you, you know, Dombey, as well as we could wish.


Not so fond, not so fond as I am of Florence, of course; that could never be. You couldn’t expect that, could you, Ma’am?


Oh! the old-fashioned little soul!


But I like everybody here very much, and I should grieve to go away, and think that anyone was glad that I was gone, or didn’t care.


Bring him on, Cornelia! Bring him on!


Aha, Dombey, there you are, are you? And there you are, too, Dombey. That’s yours.


Mine, Sir?


Your invitation. Mr P. Dombey’s company at an early party on Wednesday Evening the Seventeenth Instant; and that the hour was half-past seven o’clock; and that the object was Quadrilles.


Mr Toots’s company at an early party on Wednesday Evening the Seventeenth Instant, when the hour was half-past seven o’clock, and when the object was Quadrilles.


Mr Briggs’s company, and of Mr Tozer’s company, and of every young gentleman’s company, was requested by Doctor and Mrs Blimber on the same genteel Occasion.


he had better not refer to the festive occasion, in the hearing of Doctor and Mrs Blimber; as these preliminaries, and the whole of the arrangements, were conducted on principles of classicality and high breeding; and that Doctor and Mrs Blimber on the one hand, and the young gentlemen on the other, were supposed, in their scholastic capacities, not to have the least idea of what was in the wind.


Ah! Come, come! That’s well! How is my little friend now?


Oh, quite well, thank you, Sir,


Mrs Pipchin, don’t tell Florence!


Don’t tell Florence what, my little Paul?


About me,


No, no,


What do you think I mean to do when I grow up, Mrs Pipchin? I mean, to put my money all together in one Bank, never try to get any more, go away into the country with my darling Florence, have a beautiful garden, fields, and woods, and live there with her all my life!


Indeed!


Yes. That’s what I mean to do, when I— If I grow up,


How are you now, Dombey?


Cheer up, little Dombey!


Yes, I think, Doctor Blimber, we may release this young gentleman from his books just now; the vacation being so very near at hand.


By all means. My love, you will inform Cornelia, if you please.


Assuredly,


Thank you, Sir.


Our little friend, has never complained.


Oh no! He was not likely to complain.


You find him greatly better?


Oh! he is greatly better, Sir,


How do you do, Sir?


old-fashioned


What could that old fashion be, that seemed to make the people sorry! What could it be!


Gentlemen, we will resume our studies on the twenty-fifth of next month.


Blimber


Ay, ay, ay! God bless my soul!


What do you think of this, Dombey?


Cook ’em.


But what is the matter, Floy?


Nothing, darling; nothing,


Why, Floy!


We’ll go home together, and I’ll nurse you, love,


Nurse me! Floy. Tell me, dear, Do you think I have grown old-fashioned?


No.


Because I know they say so, and I want to know what they mean, Floy.


And what room is this now, for instance? Melia.


Doctor Blimber’s study, Ma’am,


Very good. And this little creature, now. Is he one of the—


Young gentlemen, Ma’am; yes, Ma’am,


And what is your name, my pale child?


Dombey,


City—very rich—most respectable—Doctor mentioned it. Will you tell your good Papa that Sir Barnet Skettles rejoiced to hear that he was very well, and sent him his best compliments?


Yes, Sir,


That is my brave boy. Barnet, this is a young gentleman you ought to know. This is a young gentleman you may know, Barnet,


What eyes! What hair! What a lovely face!


My sister,


Of something connected with statistics, I’ll swear?


Why no, Sir Barnet. No, not exactly.


Figures of some sort, I would venture a bet,


Why yes, yes, but not of that sort. Mr Baps is a very worthy sort of man, Sir Barnet, and—in fact he’s our Professor of dancing.


Had I a heart for falsehood framed, I ne’er could injure You!


Do, Floy! Please! For me, my dear!


Good-bye, Doctor Blimber,


Good-bye, my little friend,


I’m very much obliged to you, Sir. Ask them to take care of Diogenes, if you please.


Dombey, Dombey, you have always been my favourite pupil. God bless you!


Dombey’s going!


Little Dombey’s going!


Is Dombey there? Is Dombey there?


Oh Floy, take me home, and never leave me! Take me home, Floy! take me home! I want to speak to Florence, if you please. To Florence by herself, for a moment! Floy, my pet, wasn’t that Papa in the hall, when they brought me from the coach?


Yes, dear.


He didn’t cry, and go into his room, Floy, did he, when he saw me coming in? I’m very glad he didn’t cry. I thought he did. Don’t tell them that I asked.


Well! at last and at least, Uncle Sol must be told,


Stinger. Cuttle. Wal"r!


Ay, ay, Captain Cuttle, only me


What’s the matter, my lad? Gills an’t been and sprung nothing again?


No, no. My Uncle’s all right, Captain Cuttle.


Though you’re early, Wal"r,


Why, the fact is, Captain Cuttle. I was afraid you would have gone out, and I want to benefit by your friendly counsel.


So you shall, what’ll you take?


I want to take your opinion, Captain Cuttle. That’s the only thing for me.


Come on then. With a will, my lad!


You see, Captain Cuttle, for myself, I am young, as Mr Dombey said, and not to be considered. I am to fight my way through the world, I know; but there are two points I was thinking, as I came along, that I should be very particular about, in respect to my Uncle. I don’t mean to say that I deserve to be the pride and delight of his life—you believe me, I know—but I am. Now, don’t you think I am? If I live and have my health, and I am not afraid of that, still, when I leave England I can hardly hope to see my Uncle again. He is old, Captain Cuttle; and besides, his life is a life of custom—


Steady, Wal"r! Of a want of custom?


Too true, but I meant a life of habit, Captain Cuttle—that sort of custom. And if (as you very truly said, I am sure) he would have died the sooner for the loss of the stock, and all those objects to which he has been accustomed for so many years, don’t you think he might die a little sooner for the loss of—


Of his Nevy. Right!


Well then, we must do our best to make him believe that the separation is but a temporary one, after all; but as I know better, or dread that I know better, Captain Cuttle, and as I have so many reasons for regarding him with affection, and duty, and honour, I am afraid I should make but a very poor hand at that, if I tried to persuade him of it. That’s my great reason for wishing you to break it out to him; and that’s the first point.


Keep her off a point or so!


What did you say, Captain Cuttle?


Stand by!


Now, the second point, Captain Cuttle. I am sorry to say, I am not a favourite with Mr Dombey. I have always tried to do my best, and I have always done it; but he does not like me. He can’t help his likings and dislikings, perhaps. I say nothing of that. I only say that I am certain he does not like me. He does not send me to this post as a good one; he disclaims to represent it as being better than it is; and I doubt very much if it will ever lead me to advancement in the House—whether it does not, on the contrary, dispose of me for ever, and put me out of the way. Now, we must say nothing of this to my Uncle, Captain Cuttle, but must make it out to be as favourable and promising as we can; and when I tell you what it really is, I only do so, that in case any means should ever arise of lending me a hand, so far off, I may have one friend at home who knows my real situation.


Wal"r, my boy. May we never want a friend in need, nor a bottle to give him! When found, make a note of. When found, make a note of.


Captain Cuttle, next to my Uncle Sol, I love you. There is no one on earth in whom I can more safely trust, I am sure. As to the mere going away, Captain Cuttle, I don’t care for that; why should I care for that! If I were free to seek my own fortune—if I were free to go as a common sailor—if I were free to venture on my own account to the farthest end of the world—I would gladly go! I would have gladly gone, years ago, and taken my chance of what might come of it. But it was against my Uncle’s wishes, and against the plans he had formed for me; and there was an end of that. But what I feel, Captain Cuttle, is that we have been a little mistaken all along, and that, so far as any improvement in my prospects is concerned, I am no better off now than I was when I first entered Dombey’s House—perhaps a little worse, for the House may have been kindly inclined towards me then, and it certainly is not now.


Turn again, Whittington,


Ay, and turn a great many times, too, Captain Cuttle, I’m afraid, before such fortune as his ever turns up again. Not that I complain. I have nothing to complain of. I am provided for. I can live. When I leave my Uncle, I leave him to you; and I can leave him to no one better, Captain Cuttle. I haven’t told you all this because I despair, not I; it’s to convince you that I can’t pick and choose in Dombey’s House, and that where I am sent, there I must go, and what I am offered, that I must take. It’s better for my Uncle that I should be sent away; for Mr Dombey is a valuable friend to him, as he proved himself, you know when, Captain Cuttle; and I am persuaded he won’t be less valuable when he hasn’t me there, every day, to awaken his dislike. So hurrah for the West Indies, Captain Cuttle! How does that tune go that the sailors sing? For the Port of Barbados, Boys! Cheerily! Leaving old England behind us, Boys! Cheerily!


Oh cheerily, cheerily! Oh cheer-i-ly!


And now, Captain Cuttle, if you’ll come and break the news to Uncle Sol (which he ought to have known, days upon days ago, by rights), I’ll leave you at the door, you know, and walk about until the afternoon.


It’s an old habit of mine, Wal"r, any time these fifty year. When you see Ned Cuttle bite his nails, Wal"r, then you may know that Ned Cuttle’s aground. There’s a friend of mine, but he’s at present coasting round to Whitby, that would deliver such an opinion on this subject, or any other that could be named, as would give Parliament six and beat ’em. Been knocked overboard, that man, twice, and none the worse for it. Was beat in his apprenticeship, for three weeks (off and on), about the head with a ring-bolt. And yet a clearer-minded man don’t walk. If you was to take and show that man the buoy at the Nore, and ask him his opinion of it, Wal"r, he’d give you an opinion that was no more like that buoy than your Uncle’s buttons are. There ain’t a man that walks—certainly not on two legs—that can come near him. Not near him!


What’s his name, Captain Cuttle?


His name’s Bunsby. But Lord, it might be anything for the matter of that, with such a mind as his!


Or if there should be any little hitch between ’em, it only wants a word in season from a friend of both parties, to set it right and smooth, and make all taut again.


Would ye be so good, my lad, as report Cap’en Cuttle here?


Now, Wal”r, my boy, you may help me on with them slops.


You’re going in?


Yes,


And you won’t forget anything?


No,


I’ll go upon my walk at once, and then I shall be out of the way, Captain Cuttle.


Take a good long “un, my lad!


Staggs’s Gardens, Mr Walter! if you please, oh do!


Eh? what is the matter?


Oh, Mr Walter, Staggs’s Gardens, if you please!


There! that’s the way the young lady’s been a goin’ on for up’ards of a mortal hour, and me continivally backing out of no thoroughfares, where she would drive up. I’ve had a many fares in this coach, first and last, but never such a fare as her.


Do you want to go to Staggs’s Gardens, Susan?


Ah! She wants to go there! WHERE IS IT?


I don’t know where it is! Mr Walter, I was there once myself, along with Miss Floy and our poor darling Master Paul, on the very day when you found Miss Floy in the City, for we lost her coming home, Mrs Richards and me, and a mad bull, and Mrs Richards’s eldest, and though I went there afterwards, I can’t remember where it is, I think it’s sunk into the ground. Oh, Mr Walter, don’t desert me, Staggs’s Gardens, if you please! Miss Floy’s darling—all our darlings—little, meek, meek Master Paul! Oh Mr Walter!


Good God! Is he very ill?


The pretty flower! has took the fancy that he’d like to see his old nurse, and I’ve come to bring her to his bedside, Mrs Staggs, of Polly Toodle’s Gardens, someone pray!


Belonged to the Railroad, didn’t he?


Yes sir, yes!


Has the little boy been long ill, Susan?


Ailing for a deal of time, but no one knew how much. Oh, them Blimbers!


Blimbers?


I couldn’t forgive myself at such a time as this, Mr Walter, and when there’s so much serious distress to think about, if I rested hard on anyone, especially on them that little darling Paul speaks well of, but I may wish that the family was set to work in a stony soil to make new roads, and that Miss Blimber went in front, and had the pickaxe! Where’s Mrs Richards? Oh Mrs Richards, Mrs Richards, come along with me, my dear creetur!


Why, if it ain’t Susan!


Yes, Mrs Richards, it’s me, and I wish it wasn’t, though I may not seem to flatter when I say so, but little Master Paul is very ill, and told his Pa today that he would like to see the face of his old nurse, and him and Miss Floy hope you’ll come along with me—and Mr Walter, Mrs Richards—forgetting what is past, and do a kindness to the sweet dear that is withering away. Oh, Mrs Richards, withering away!


Polly! cut away!


I am better. I am a great deal better, thank you! Tell Papa so! Why, will it never stop, Floy? It is bearing me away, I think! You are always watching me, Floy, let me watch you, now!


Floy! What is that?


Where, dearest?


There! at the bottom of the bed.


There’s nothing there, except Papa!


My own boy! Don’t you know me?


Don’t be sorry for me, dear Papa! Indeed I am quite happy! Don’t be sorry for me! Indeed I am quite happy!


Floy, did I ever see Mama?


No, darling, why?


Did I ever see any kind face, like Mama’s, looking at me when I was a baby, Floy?


Oh yes, dear!


Whose, Floy?


Your old nurse’s. Often.


And where is my old nurse? Is she dead too? Floy, are we all dead, except you? Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please!


She is not here, darling. She shall come to-morrow.


Thank you, Floy! Floy, is it tomorrow? Is she come?


And who is this? Is this my old nurse? Yes. Floy! this is a kind good face! I am glad to see it again. Don’t go away, old nurse! Stay here. Who was that, who said ‘Walter’? Someone said Walter. Is he here? I should like to see him very much.


Call him back, then: let him come up!


Good-bye!


Good-bye, my child! Not good-bye?


Yes, good-bye! Walter dear, good-bye! Where is Papa? Remember Walter, dear Papa. Remember Walter. I was fond of Walter! Now lay me down, and, Floy, come close to me, and let me see you! How fast the river runs, between its green banks and the rushes, Floy! But it’s very near the sea. I hear the waves! They always said so! Mama is like you, Floy. I know her by the face! But tell them that the print upon the stairs at school is not divine enough. The light about the head is shining on me as I go!


Dear me, dear me! To think, that Dombey and Son should be a Daughter after all!


But I’m behind the time, you understand, and I would rather have my dear boy here. It’s an old-fashioned notion, I daresay. He was always fond of the sea He’s he’s glad to go.


Uncle Sol! if you say that, I won’t go. No. Captain Cuttle, I won’t. If my Uncle thinks I could be glad to leave him, though I was going to be made Governor of all the Islands in the West Indies, that’s enough. I’m a fixture.


Wal"r, my lad. Steady! Sol Gills, take an observation of your nevy. Here is a certain craft, a-going to put out on a certain voyage. What name is wrote upon that craft indelibly? Is it The Gay? or, is it The Gills?


Ned. I know. I know. Of course I know that Wally considers me more than himself always. That’s in my mind. When I say he is glad to go, I mean I hope he is. Eh? look you, Ned and you too, Wally, my dear, this is new and unexpected to me; and I’m afraid my being behind the time, and poor, is at the bottom of it. Is it really good fortune for him, do you tell me, now? Really and truly? Is it? I can reconcile myself to almost anything that advances Wally, but I won’t have Wally putting himself at any disadvantage for me, or keeping anything from me. You, Ned Cuttle! are you dealing plainly by your old friend? Speak out, Ned Cuttle. Is there anything behind? Ought he to go? How do you know it first, and why?


Matey. One of your Governors is named Carker. Look’ee here, mate, my name’s Cap’en Cuttle. If you’ll be so good as just report Cap’en Cuttle here, when you get a chance. I’ll wait.


What name was it you said?


Cap’en,


Yes,


Cuttle.


Oh! I’ll see if he’s disengaged now. I don’t know. Perhaps he may be for a minute.


Ay, ay, my lad, I won’t detain him longer than a minute,


Will Captain Cuttle walk this way?


Mr Carker?


I believe so,


You see. I’m a seafaring man myself, Mr Carker, and Wal"r, as is on your books here, is almost a son of mine.


Walter Gay?


Wal"r Gay it is, right! I’m a intimate friend of his and his Uncle’s. Perhaps, you may have heard your head Governor mention my name?—Captain Cuttle.


No!


Well. I’ve the pleasure of his acquaintance. I waited upon him down on the Sussex coast there, with my young friend Wal"r, when—in short, when there was a little accommodation wanted. You remember, I daresay?


I think. I had the honour of arranging the business.


To be sure! Right again! you had. Now I’ve took the liberty of coming here—


Won’t you sit down?


Thank’ee. A man does get more way upon himself, perhaps, in his conversation, when he sits down. Won’t you take a cheer yourself?


No thank you. You have taken the liberty, you were going to say—though it’s none—


Thank’ee kindly, my lad, of coming here, on account of my friend Wal"r. Sol Gills, his Uncle, is a man of science, and in science he may be considered a clipper; but he ain’t what I should altogether call a able seaman—not man of practice. Wal"r is as trim a lad as ever stepped; but he’s a little down by the head in one respect, and that is, modesty. Now what I should wish to put to you, in a friendly way, entirely between you and me, and for my own private reckoning, “till your head Governor has wore round a bit, and I can come alongside of him, is this.—Is everything right and comfortable here, and is Wal"r out’ard bound with a pretty fair wind?


What do you think now, Captain Cuttle? You are a practical man; what do you think?


Come! what do you say? Am I right or wrong?


Right. I have no doubt.


Out’ard bound with fair weather, then, I say. Wind right astarn, and plenty of it. Ay, ay! I know’d how she headed, well enough; I told Wal"r so. Thank’ee, thank’ee.


Gay has brilliant prospects, all the world before him.


All the world and his wife too, as the saying is. I’d bet a gill of old Jamaica, that I know what you’re a smiling at. It goes no farther?


Not an inch,


You’re thinking of a capital F perhaps? Anything about a L, or a O? Am I right, again? He know’d her first, in an uncommon manner—you remember his finding her in the street when she was a’most a babby—he has liked her ever since, and she him, as much as two youngsters can. We’ve always said, Sol Gills and me, that they was cut out for each other. There’s a general indraught that way. Wind and water sets in that direction, you see. Look at his being present t’other day!


Most favourable to his hopes,


Look at his being towed along in the wake of that day! Why what can cut him adrift now?


Nothing,


You’re right again. Nothing it is. So! steady! There’s a son gone: pretty little creetur. Ain’t there?


Yes, there’s a son gone,


Pass the word, and there’s another ready for you. Nevy of a scientific Uncle! Nevy of Sol Gills! Wal"r! Wal"r, as is already in your business! And who—comes from Sol Gills’s daily, to your business, and your buzzums. Am I right?


Captain Cuttle, your views in reference to Walter Gay are thoroughly and accurately right. I understand that we speak together in confidence.


Honour! Not a word.


To him or anyone? But merely for your own satisfaction and guidance—and guidance, of course, with a view to your future proceedings.


Thank’ee kindly, I am sure,


I have no hesitation in saying, that’s the fact. You have hit the probabilities exactly.


And with regard to your head Governor, why an interview had better come about nat’ral between us. There’s time enough.


Time enough.


And as I know—it’s what I always said—that Wal"r’s in a way to make his fortune,


To make his fortune,


And as Wal"r’s going on this little voyage is, as I may say, in his day’s work, and a part of his general expectations here,


Of his general expectations here,


Why, so long as I know that, there’s no hurry, and my mind’s at ease.


Farewell! I ain’t a man of many words, but I take it very kind of you to be so friendly, and above-board. You’ll excuse me if I’ve been at all intruding, will you?


Not at all,


Thank’ee. My berth ain’t very roomy, but it’s tolerably snug; and if you was to find yourself near Brig Place, number nine, at any time—will you make a note of it?—and would come upstairs, without minding what was said by the person at the door, I should be proud to see you. Good day! Stand by, Ned! You’ve done a little business for the youngsters today, my lad!


I’ll give you for a toast. Wal"r!


Who?


Wal"r!


I always said at Mrs Pipchin’s that it would be so,


there’s a fate in it, and wants to know if anybody can tell him of any good that ever came of living in a corner house.


What’s that?


Yes.


I wish to have it done at once.


It shall be done immediately, Sir.


There is really nothing to inscribe but name and age, you see.


I beg your pardon, Sir; but as you wish it done immediately, and it may be put in hand when I get back—


Well?


Will you be so good as read it over again? I think there’s a mistake.


Where?


beloved and only child. It should be, ‘son,’ I think, Sir?


You are right. Of course. Make the correction.


it seems like Sunday.


Amendment to us all!


There’s room enough, God knows.


Oh my brother, oh my dearly loved and loving brother! Only friend and companion of my slighted childhood! Could any less idea shed the light already dawning on your early grave, or give birth to the softened sorrow that is springing into life beneath this rain of tears!


My dear child, when you are as old as I am—


Which will be the prime of life,


You will then, you will then know that all grief is unavailing, and that it is our duty to submit.


I will try, dear aunt I do try,


I am glad to hear it, because; my love, as our dear Miss Tox—of whose sound sense and excellent judgment, there cannot possibly be two opinions—


My dear Louisa, I shall really be proud, soon,


—will tell you, and confirm by her experience, we are called upon on all occasions to make an effort It is required of us. If any—my dear. I want a word. Mis—Mis-


Demeanour?


No, no, no. How can you! Goodness me, it’s on, the end of my tongue. Mis-


Placed affection?


Good gracious, Lucretia! How very monstrous! Misanthrope, is the word I want. The idea! Misplaced affection! I say, if any misanthrope were to put, in my presence, the question ‘Why were we born?’ I should reply, ‘To make an effort’.


Very good indeed. Very good.


Unhappily, we have a warning under our own eyes. We have but too much reason to suppose, my dear child, that if an effort had been made in time, in this family, a train of the most trying and distressing circumstances might have been avoided. Nothing shall ever persuade me, but that if that effort had been made by poor dear Fanny, the poor dear darling child would at least have had a stronger constitution. Therefore, Florence, pray let us see that you have some strength of mind, and do not selfishly aggravate the distress in which your poor Papa is plunged.


Dear aunt! Tell me more about Papa. Pray tell me about him! Is he quite heartbroken?


Florence, my dear child, your poor Papa is peculiar at times; and to question me about him, is to question me upon a subject which I really do not pretend to understand. I believe I have as much influence with your Papa as anybody has. Still, all I can say is, that he has said very little to me; and that I have only seen him once or twice for a minute at a time, and indeed have hardly seen him then, for his room has been dark. I have said to your Papa, ‘Paul!’—that is the exact expression I used—‘Paul! why do you not take something stimulating?’ Your Papa’s reply has always been, ‘Louisa, have the goodness to leave me. I want nothing. I am better by myself.’ If I was to be put upon my oath to-morrow, Lucretia, before a magistrate. I have no doubt I could venture to swear to those identical words.


My Louisa is ever methodical!


In short, Florence, literally nothing has passed between your poor Papa and myself, until today; when I mentioned to your Papa that Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles had written exceedingly kind notes—our sweet boy! Lady Skettles loved him like a—where’s my pocket handkerchief? Exceedingly kind notes, proposing that you should visit them for change of scene. Mentioning to your Papa that I thought Miss Tox and myself might now go home (in which he quite agreed), I inquired if he had any objection to your accepting this invitation. He said, ‘No, Louisa, not the least!’ At the same time, if you would prefer staying here, Florence, to paying this visit at present, or to going home with me—


I should much prefer it, aunt,


Why then, child, you can. It’s a strange choice, I must say. But you always were strange. Anybody else at your time of life, and after what has passed—my dear Miss Tox, I have lost my pocket handkerchief again—would be glad to leave here, one would suppose.


I should not like to feel, as if the house was avoided. I should not like to think that the—his—the rooms upstairs were quite empty and dreary, aunt. I would rather stay here, for the present. Oh my brother! oh my brother!


Well, child! I wouldn’t on any account say anything unkind to you, and that I’m sure you know. You will remain here, then, and do exactly as you like. No one will interfere with you, Florence, or wish to interfere with you, I’m sure. I had no sooner begun to advise your poor Papa that he really ought to seek some distraction and restoration in a temporary change, than he told me he had already formed the intention of going into the country for a short time. I’m sure I hope he’ll go very soon. He can’t go too soon. But I suppose there are some arrangements connected with his private papers and so forth, consequent on the affliction that has tried us all so much—I can’t think what’s become of mine: Lucretia, lend me yours, my dear—that may occupy him for one or two evenings in his own room. Your Papa’s a Dombey, child, if ever there was one. He’ll make an effort. There’s no fear of him.


Is there nothing, aunt. I might do to—


Lord, my dear child, what are you talking about? If your Papa said to Me—I have given you his exact words, ‘Louisa, I want nothing; I am better by myself’—what do you think he’d say to you? You mustn’t show yourself to him, child. Don’t dream of such a thing.


Aunt. I will go and lie down on my bed.


Good-night, Papa,


A visitor! To me, Susan!


Well, it is a wonder, ain’t it now, Miss Floy? but I wish you had a many visitors, I do, indeed, for you’d be all the better for it, and it’s my opinion that the sooner you and me goes even to them old Skettleses, Miss, the better for both, I may not wish to live in crowds, Miss Floy, but still I’m not a oyster.


But the visitor, Susan,


Mr Toots! My own feelings exactly, Miss Floy. Immediately I see that Innocent in the Hall, Miss Floy, I burst out laughing first, and then I choked.


How d’ye do, Miss Dombey? I’m very well, I thank you; how are you?


How d’ye do, Miss Dombey? I’m very well, I thank you; how are you? I’m very well indeed. Very well indeed, I am. I don’t remember, that I was ever better, thank you.


It’s very kind of you to come. I am very glad to see you. You were very kind to my dear brother. He often talked to me about you.


Oh it’s of no consequence. Warm, ain’t it?


It is beautiful weather,


It agrees with me! I don’t think I ever was so well as I find myself at present, I’m obliged to you.


You have left Dr Blimber’s, I think?


I should hope so. Well! Good morning, Miss Dombey.


Are you going?


I don’t know, though. No, not just at present. The fact is—I say, Miss Dombey!


Don’t be afraid to speak to me. I should be very glad if you would talk about my brother.


Would you, though? Poor Dombey! I’m sure I never thought that Burgess and Co.—fashionable tailors (but very dear), that we used to talk about—would make this suit of clothes for such a purpose. Poor Dombey! I say! Miss Dombey!


Yes,


There’s a friend he took to very much at last. I thought you’d like to have him, perhaps, as a sort of keepsake. You remember his remembering Diogenes?


Oh yes! oh yes


Poor Dombey! So do I. I say. Miss Dombey! I could have had him stolen for ten shillings, if they hadn’t given him up: and I would: but they were glad to get rid of him, I think. If you’d like to have him, he’s at the door. I brought him on purpose for you. He ain’t a lady’s dog, you know, but you won’t mind that, will you?


Come, then, Di! Dear Di! Make friends with your new mistress. Let us love each other, Di!


Your Pa’s a going off, Miss Floy, tomorrow morning.


To-morrow morning, Susan?


Yes, Miss; that’s the orders. Early.


Do you know, where Papa is going, Susan?


Not exactly, Miss. He’s going to meet that precious Major first, and I must say if I was acquainted with any Major myself (which Heavens forbid), it shouldn’t be a blue one!


Hush, Susan!


Well, Miss Floy. I can’t help it, blue he is, and while I was a Christian, although humble, I would have natural-coloured friends, or none. Talk of him being a change, indeed! If he’s a change, give me a constancy.


Good-night, Susan,


Good-night, my darling dear Miss Floy.


Papa! Papa! speak to me, dear Papa!


What is the matter? Why do you come here? What has frightened you?


I ask you, Florence, are you frightened? Is there anything the matter, that you come here?


I came, Papa—


Against my wishes. Why? You are tired, I daresay, and want rest. We all want rest. Go, Florence. You have been dreaming. I will remain here to light you up the stairs. The whole house is yours above there. You are its mistress now. Good-night!


Good-night, dear Papa,


Oh, Di! Oh, dear Di! Love me for his sake!


A few hours more, and no dream I ever had here when I was a schoolboy will be so little mine as this old room. The dream may come back in my sleep, and I may return waking to this place, it may be: but the dream at least will serve no other master, and the room may have a score, and every one of them may change, neglect, misuse it. Uncle, what shall I send you home from Barbados?


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! And as to lively turtles, and limes for Captain Cuttle’s punch, and preserves for you on Sundays, and all that sort of thing, why I’ll send you ship-loads, Uncle: when I’m rich enough. That’s right, Uncle! You cheer up me! I’ll cheer up you! We’ll be as gay as larks to-morrow morning, Uncle, and we’ll fly as high! As to my anticipations, they are singing out of sight now.


Wally, my dear boy. I’ll do my best, I’ll do my best.


And your best, Uncle, is the best best that I know. You’ll not forget what you’re to send me, Uncle?


No, Wally, no, 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. I have just been up there.


Ay, ay, ay?


Not to see her, though I could have seen her, I daresay, if I had asked, Mr Dombey being out of town: but to say a parting word to Susan. I thought I might venture to do that, you know, under the circumstances, and remembering when I saw Miss Dombey last.


Yes, my boy, yes,


So I saw her. Susan, I mean: and I told her I was off and away to-morrow. And I said, Uncle, that you had always had an interest in Miss Dombey since that night when she was here, and always wished her well and happy, and always would be proud and glad to serve her in the least: I thought I might say that, you know, under the circumstances. Don’t you think so?


And I added, 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. 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. So, if you ever see her, Uncle. 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, tell her, if you don’t mind, Uncle, that I kept those shoes—she’ll remember how often they fell off, that night—and took them away with me as a remembrance!


Why, Uncle! What’s the matter?


Miss Dombey!


Is it possible? Here!


Going away, Walter?


Yes, Miss Dombey. I have a voyage before me.


And your Uncle. He is sorry you are going, I am sure. Ah! I see he is! Dear Walter, I am very sorry too.


Goodness knows, 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.


So grown!


So improved! And yet not altered! Just the same!


Indeed!


Ye—yes. Yes, that expression was in the younger face, too!


You remember me, and what a little creature I was then?


My dear young lady, 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? Thank you, Walter! Oh thank you, Walter! I was afraid you might be going away and hardly thinking of me;


I—I am afraid I must call you Walter’s Uncle, Sir, if you’ll let me.


My dear young lady. Let you! Good gracious!


We always knew you by that name, and talked of you. The nice old parlour! Just the same! How well I recollect it!


Ah! time, time, time!


I want to tell Walter’s Uncle, 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? You will let me come to see you,


Wally! say a word for me, my dear. I’m very grateful.


No, Walter. Say nothing for him, if you please. I understand him very well, and we must learn to talk together without you, dear Walter.


Miss Florence. 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?


Oh! but, Walter, there is something that I wish to say to you before you go away, and you must call me Florence, if you please, and not speak like a stranger.


Like a stranger! 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, he liked you very much, and said before he died that he was fond of you, and said ‘Remember Walter!’ and if you’ll be a brother to me, Walter, now that he is gone and I have none on earth, I’ll be your sister all my life, and think of you like one wherever we may be! This is what I wished to say, dear Walter, but I cannot say it as I would, because my heart is full.


Walter,


like you, I hope for better things. I will pray for them, and believe that they will arrive. I made this little gift for Paul. Pray take it with my love, and do not look at it until you are gone away. And now, God bless you, Walter! never forget me. You are my brother, dear!


And, Wal”r, if your Uncle’s the man I think him, he’ll bring out the last bottle of the Madeira on the present occasion.


No, no, Ned. No! That shall be opened when Walter comes home again.


Well said! Hear him! Train up a fig-tree in the way it should go, and when you are old sit under the shade on it. Overhaul the—Well. I ain’t quite certain where that’s to be found, but when found, make a note of. Sol Gills, heave ahead again!


But there or somewhere, it shall lie, Ned, until Wally comes back to claim it. That’s all I meant to say.


and if we three don’t crack that bottle in company, I’ll give you two leave to.


Mr Carker! Pray come in! This is kind of you, to be here so early to say good-bye to me. You knew how glad it would make me to shake hands with you, once, before going away. I cannot say how glad I am to have this opportunity. Pray come in.


It is not likely that we may ever meet again, Walter, and I am glad of this opportunity too. I may venture to speak to you, and to take you by the hand, on the eve of separation. I shall not have to resist your frank approaches, Walter, any more.


Ah, Mr Carker! Why did you resist them? You could have done me nothing but good, I am very sure.


If there were any good. 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. I have often talked to him about you, and he will be glad to tell you all he hears from me. I have not. I have not told him anything about our last conversation, Mr Carker; not even him, believe me.


If I ever make acquaintance with him, Walter, it will be that I may hear tidings of you. Rely on my not wronging your forbearance and consideration. It would be to wrong it, not to tell him all the truth, before I sought a word of confidence from him. But I have no friend or acquaintance except you: and even for your sake, am little likely to make any.


I wish, you had suffered me to be your friend indeed. I always wished it, Mr Carker, as you know; but never half so much as now, when we are going to part.


It is enough, that you have been the friend of my own breast, and that when I have avoided you most, my heart inclined the most towards you, and was fullest of you. Walter, good-bye!


Good-bye, Mr Carker. Heaven be with you, Sir!


if when you come back, you miss me from my old corner, and should hear from anyone where I am lying, come and look upon my grave. Think that I might have been as honest and as happy as you! And let me think, when I know time is coming on, that some one like my former self may stand there, for a moment, and remember me with pity and forgiveness! Walter, good-bye!


Wal”r,” a parting gift, my lad. Put it back half an hour every morning, and about another quarter towards the arternoon, and it’s a watch that’ll do you credit.


Captain Cuttle! I couldn’t think of it! Pray take it back. I have one already.


Then, Wal”r,” take this here trifle of plate, instead.


No, no, I couldn’t indeed! a thousand thanks! Don’t throw them away, Captain Cuttle! They’ll be of much more use to you than me. Give me your stick. I have often thought I should like to have it. There! Good-bye, Captain Cuttle! Take care of my Uncle! Uncle Sol, God bless you!


Mr Dombey, Sir. Joey” B. is not in general a man of sentiment, for Joseph is tough. But Joe has his feelings, Sir, and when they are awakened—Damme, Mr Dombey, this is weakness, and I won’t submit to it! It is not for an old soldier of the Bagstock breed, to deliver himself up, a prey to his own emotions; but—damme, Sir. I condole with you!


Dombey. 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, you are very obliging.


No, Sir. 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, it’s an honour to me!


Where is my scoundrel? You villain! where’s the breakfast? Dombey, 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,


You have been looking over the way, Sir. Have you seen our friend?


You mean Miss Tox. No.


Charming woman, Sir,


Miss Tox is a very good sort of person, I believe,


Old Joe, Sir, was a bit of a favourite in that quarter once. But Joe has had his day. J. Bagstock is extinguished—outrivalled—floored, Sir.


I should have supposed, that the lady’s day for favourites was over: but perhaps you are jesting, Major.


Perhaps you are jesting, Dombey? I beg your pardon. I see you are in earnest. I tell you what, Dombey. That’s a de-vilish ambitious woman, Sir.


Indeed?


That woman, Sir, 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. That ridiculous old spectacle, Sir, aspires. She aspires sky-high, Sir. Matrimonially, Dombey.


I am sorry for her,


Don’t say that, Dombey,


Why should I not, Major?


She has taken an interest in your household, and has been a frequent visitor at your house for some time now.


Yes. Miss Tox was originally received there, at the time of Mrs Dombey’s death, as a friend of my sister’s; and being a well-behaved person, and showing a liking for the poor infant, she was permitted—may I say encouraged—to repeat her visits with my sister, and gradually to occupy a kind of footing of familiarity in the family. I have. I have a respect for Miss Tox. She has been so obliging as to render many little services in my house: trifling and insignificant services perhaps, Major, but not to be disparaged on that account: and I hope I have had the good fortune to be enabled to acknowledge them by such attention and notice as it has been in my power to bestow. I hold myself indebted to Miss Tox, Major, for the pleasure of your acquaintance.


Dombey, no! No, Sir! Joseph Bagstock can never permit that assertion to pass uncontradicted. Your knowledge of old Joe, Sir, such as he is, and old Joe’s knowledge of you, Sir, had its origin in a noble fellow, Sir—in a great creature, Sir. Dombey! we knew each other through your boy. Our friend had a remote connexion with that event, and all the credit that belongs to her, J. B. is willing to give her, Sir. Notwithstanding which, Ma’am, you’re a scheming jade, Ma’am, and your ambition is a piece of monstrous impudence. If it only made yourself ridiculous, Ma’am, you might do that to your heart’s content, Ma’am, without any objection, I assure you, on the part of Bagstock. But when, Ma’am, you compromise other people, and generous, unsuspicious people too, as a repayment for their condescension, you stir the blood of old Joe in his body.


Major. I hope you do not hint at anything so absurd on the part of Miss Tox as—


Dombey. I hint at nothing. But Joey B. has lived in the world, Sir: lived in the world with his eyes open, Sir, and his ears cocked: and Joe tells you, Dombey, that there’s a devilish artful and ambitious woman over the way. That’s all on such a subject that shall pass the lips of Joseph Bagstock. Joe is not a tale-bearer, but there are times when he must speak, when he will speak!—confound your arts, Ma’am, when the provocation is too strong to admit of his remaining silent. 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, what it is you people see in Joe to make you hold him in such great request, all of you; but this I know, Sir, that if he wasn’t pretty tough, and obstinate in his refusals, you’d kill him among you with your invitations and so forth, in double-quick time.


J. B., Dombey is the man for you to choose as a friend.


Mr Towlinson. Miss Tox appearing at her window, waved a lilywhite handkerchief.


Beg your pardon, Sir, but I hope you’re a doin’ pretty well, Sir. I shall have the honour of stokin’ of you down, Sir. Beg your pardon, Sir.—I hope you find yourself a coming round? ’Scuse the liberty, Sir, but my wife Polly, as was called Richards in your family—


Your wife wants money, I suppose,


No thank’ee, Sir. I can’t say she does. I don’t. No, Sir, 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. We lost one babby, there’s no denyin’.


Lately,


No, Sir, up’ard of three years ago, but all the rest is hearty. And in the matter o readin’, Sir, them boys o’ mine, they learned me, among ’em, arter all. They’ve made a wery tolerable scholar of me, Sir, them boys.


Come, Major!


Beg your pardon, Sir. 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. What about him?


Why, Sir. I’m forced to say, Sir, that he’s gone wrong.


He has gone wrong, has he? with a hard kind of satisfaction


He has fell into bad company, you see, genelmen. He has got into bad ways. God send he may come to again, genelmen, but he’s on the wrong track now! You could hardly be off hearing of it somehow, Sir,


and it’s better I should out and say my boy’s gone rather wrong. Polly’s dreadful down about it, genelmen,


A son of this man’s whom I caused to be educated, Major. The usual return!


Take advice from plain old Joe, and never educate that sort of people, Sir. Damme, Sir, it never does! It always fails!


The usual return!


it would never do: that it always failed: and that if he were to educate “his own vagabond,” he would certainly be hanged.


Dombey, don’t be thoughtful. It’s a bad habit, Old Joe, Sir, wouldn’t be as tough as you see him, if he had ever encouraged it. You are too great a man, Dombey, to be thoughtful. In your position, Sir, you’re far above that kind of thing.


Bagstock, your friend Dombey now, what is the view he takes of such and such a question? Though, by the Rood, Sir, how they discovered that J. B. ever came to know you, is a mystery!


Why, what the devil have we here, Sir!


My dearest Edith! Major Bagstock!


Joe Bagstock, is a proud and happy man for the rest of his life.


You false creature! Where do you come from? I can’t bear you.


Then suffer old Joe to present a friend, Ma’am, as a reason for being tolerated. Mr Dombey, Mrs Skewton. Mr Dombey, Mrs Granger. I am delighted, Sir, to have this opportunity. Mrs Skewton, Dombey, makes havoc in the heart of old Josh.


You perfidious goblin, have done! How long have you been here, bad man?


One day,


And can you be a day, or even a minute, in the garden of what’s-its-name.


Eden, I suppose, Mama,


My dear Edith. I cannot help it. I never can remember those frightful names—without having your whole Soul and Being inspired by the sight of Nature; by the perfume, of her artless breath, you creature!


Mr Dombey is devoted to Nature, I trust?


My friend Dombey, Ma’am, may be devoted to her in secret, but a man who is paramount in the greatest city in the universe—


No one can be a stranger, to Mr Dombey’s immense influence.


You reside here, Madam?


No, we have been to a great many places. To Harrogate and Scarborough, and into Devonshire. We have been visiting, and resting here and there. Mama likes change.


Edith of course does not,


I have not found that there is any change in such places,


They libel me. There is only one change, Mr Dombey, for which I really care, and that I fear I shall never be permitted to enjoy. People cannot spare one. But seclusion and contemplation are my what-his-name—


If you mean Paradise, Mama, you had better say so, to render yourself intelligible,


My dearest Edith, you know that I am wholly dependent upon you for those odious names. I assure you, Mr Dombey, Nature intended me for an Arcadian. I am thrown away in society. Cows are my passion. What I have ever sighed for, has been to retreat to a Swiss farm, and live entirely surrounded by cows—and china. What I want, is heart. What I want, is frankness, confidence, less conventionality, and freer play of soul. We are so dreadfully artificial. In short. I want Nature everywhere. It would be so extremely charming.


Nature is inviting us away now, Mama, if you are ready,


Stop a moment, Withers! Where are you staying, abomination? You may come and see us any evening when you are good. If Mr Dombey will honour us, we shall be happy. Withers, go on!


I tell you what, Sir. If Joe Bagstock were a younger man, there’s not a woman in the world whom he’d prefer for Mrs Bagstock to that woman. By George, Sir! she’s superb!


Do you mean the daughter?


Is Joey B. a turnip, Dombey, that he should mean the mother?


You were complimentary to the mother,


An ancient flame, Sir. Devilish ancient. I humour her.


She impresses me as being perfectly genteel,


Genteel, Sir. The Honourable Mrs Skewton, Sir, is sister to the late Lord Feenix, and aunt to the present Lord. The family are not wealthy—they’re poor, indeed—and she lives upon a small jointure; but if you come to blood, Sir!


You addressed the daughter, I observed, as Mrs Granger.


Edith Skewton, Sir, married (at eighteen) Granger of Ours; Granger, Sir, was Colonel of Ours; a de-vilish handsome fellow, Sir, of forty-one. He died, Sir, in the second year of his marriage.


How long is this ago?


Edith Granger, Sir, is, at this present time, not quite thirty. And damme, Sir, she’s a peerless woman!


Was there any family?


Yes, Sir. There was a boy. Who was drowned, Sir. When a child of four or five years old.


Indeed?


By the upsetting of a boat in which his nurse had no business to have put him. That’s his history. Edith Granger is Edith Granger still; but if tough old Joey B., Sir, were a little younger and a little richer, the name of that immortal paragon should be Bagstock.


Provided the lady made no objection, I suppose?


By Gad, Sir, the Bagstock breed are not accustomed to that sort of obstacle. Though it’s true enough that Edith might have married twenty times, but for being proud, Sir, proud. It’s a great quality after all. By the Lord, it’s a high quality! Dombey! You are proud yourself, and your friend, Old Joe, respects you for it, Sir.


You are a shocking bear and I have a great mind not to forgive you, but if you are very good indeed. Compliments (in which Edith unites) to Mr Dombey.


I hope, Mrs Granger, we are not the cause of your ceasing to play?


You! oh no!


Why do you not go on then, my dearest Edith?


I left off as I began—of my own fancy.


Do you know, Mr Dombey, that occasionally my dearest Edith and myself actually almost differ—


Not quite, sometimes, Mama?


Oh never quite, my darling! Fie, fie, it would break my heart, —about these old conventionalities of manner that are observed in little things? Why are we not more natural? Dear me! With all those yearnings, and gushings, and impulsive throbbings that we have implanted in our souls, and which are so very charming, why are we not more natural?


It was very true, very true.


We could be more natural I suppose if we tried?


It possible.


Devil a bit, Ma’am. 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, be mute.


Cleopatra commands, and Antony Bagstock obeys.


The man has no sensitiveness. No sympathy. And what do we live for but sympathy! What else is so extremely charming! Without that gleam of sunshine on our cold cold earth, how could we possibly bear it? In short, obdurate man! I would have my world all heart; and Faith is so excessively charming, that I won’t allow you to disturb it, do you hear?


There is not much company here, it would seem?


I believe not. We see none.


Why really, there are no people here just now with whom we care to associate.


They have not enough heart,


My dearest Edith rallies me, you see! Wicked one!


You have been here before, if I am not mistaken?


Oh, several times. I think we have been everywhere.


A beautiful country!


I suppose it is. Everybody says so.


Your cousin Feenix raves about it, Edith,


I hope, for the credit of my good taste, that I am tired of the neighbourhood,


You have almost reason to be, Madam, if these beautiful productions are from your hand. Have they that interest? Are they yours?


Yes.


And you play, I already know.


And sing?


You have many resources against weariness at least,


Whatever their efficiency may be, you know them all now. I have no more.


May I hope to prove them all?


Oh certainly! If you desire it!


We are going to have some music, Mr Dombey, I hope?


Mrs Granger has been kind enough to promise so,


Ah! That’s very nice. Do you propose, Major?


No, Ma’am,


You’re a barbarous being, and my hand’s destroyed. You are fond of music, Mr Dombey?


Eminently so,


Yes. Yes. It’s very nice,


So much heart in it—undeveloped recollections of a previous state of existence—and all that—which is so truly charming. Do you know, 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!


Why do you answer it?


The messenger is out, and I am the next,


You are the next? Yes! Creditable to me! There! I am sorry to trouble you, James. Harriet who? what Harriet? I know nobody of that name.


She is not well, and has changed very much of late.


She changed very much, a great many years ago


I think if you would hear me—


Why should I hear you, Brother John? 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 thing. Though believe me, James, I am as sorry for her sacrifice as you.


As I?


As sorry for her choice—for what you call her choice—as you are angry at it,


Angry? Displeased. Whatever word you like best. You know my meaning. There is no offence in my intention. There is offence in everything you do,


When Harriet tried in vain to plead for me with you, on your first just indignation, and my first disgrace; and when she left you, James, to follow my broken fortunes, and devote herself, in her mistaken affection, to a ruined brother, because without her he had no one, and was lost; she was young and pretty. I think if you could see her now—if you would go and see her—she would move your admiration and compassion. We thought in those days: you and I both: that she would marry young, and lead a happy and light-hearted life. Oh if you knew how cheerfully she cast those hopes away; how cheerfully she has gone forward on the path she took, and never once looked back; you never could say again that her name was strange in your ears. Never! May I go on?


On your way? If you will have the goodness. If she has gone, and goes, her own way cheerfully, you may tell her that I go as cheerfully on mine. If she has never once looked back, you may tell her that I have, sometimes, to recall her taking part with you, and that my resolution is no easier to wear away; 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, 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.


Would you please to be engaged, Sir? Why, Sir, really nobody, Sir, to speak of at present. Mr Gills the Ship’s Instrument-maker, Sir, has looked in, about a little matter of payment, he says: but I mentioned to him, Sir, that you was engaged several deep; several deep. Anybody else? Well, Sir, 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,


You said he wanted something to do, didn’t you, Perch?


Why, Sir, his expression certainly were that he was in wants of a sitiwation, and that he considered something might be done for him about the Docks, being used to fishing with a rod and line: but—


What does he say when he comes?


Whether, 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. I’m so timid, myself, by nature, Sir, and my nerves is so unstrung by Mrs Perch’s state, that I could take my affidavit easy.


Let me see this fellow, Perch. Bring him in!


Yes, Sir. Begging your pardon, Sir, he’s rough, Sir, in appearance.


Never mind. If he’s there, bring him in. I’ll see Mr Gills directly. Ask him to wait.


Come along with you!


Come, Sir! You let me alone, will you!


Let you alone! What! I have got you, have I? You dog. I’ll strangle you!


I haven’t done nothing to you, Sir,


You young scoundrel! What do you mean by daring to come here?


I didn’t mean no harm, Sir. I’ll never come again, Sir. I only wanted work.


Work, young Cain that you are! Ain’t you the idlest vagabond in London? Ain’t you a thief?


No, sir,


You are!


I ain’t indeed, Sir. I never did such a thing as thieve, Sir, if you’ll believe me. I know I’ve been a going wrong, Sir, ever since I took to bird-catching and walking-matching. I’m sure a cove might think, that singing birds was innocent company, but nobody knows what harm is in them little creeturs and what they brings you down to. I ain’t been home twenty times since them birds got their will of me, and that’s ten months. How can I go home when everybody’s miserable to see me! I wonder, that I haven’t been and drownded myself over and over again.


You’re a nice young gentleman! There’s hemp-seed sown for you, my fine fellow!


I’m sure, Sir. 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?


Wag, Sir. Wagging from school.


Do you mean pretending to go there, and not going?


Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir, that’s wagging, Sir. I was chivied through the streets, Sir, when I went there, and pounded when I got there. So I wagged, and hid myself, and that began it.


And you mean to tell me, that you want a place, do you?


I should be thankful to be tried, Sir,


Tell Mr Gills to come here. Mr Gills! sit down. How do you do? You continue to enjoy your health, I hope?


Thank you, Sir. Nothing ails me in body but old age. Twenty-five, Sir.


You are as punctual and exact, Mr Gills, as one of your own chronometers. Quite right.


The Son and Heir has not been spoken, I find by the list, Sir,


The Son and Heir has not been spoken. There seems to have been tempestuous weather, Mr Gills, and she has probably been driven out of her course.


She is safe, I trust in Heaven!


She is safe, I trust in Heaven! Mr Gills, you must miss your nephew very much? Mr Gills, it would be company to you to have a young fellow in your shop just now, and it would be obliging me if you would give one house-room for the present. No, to be sure, 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! Will you give him house-room, Mr Gills?


the wooden Midshipman would consider himself happy to receive in his berth any visitor of Mr Carker’s selecting.


I’ll dispose of him so, then, Mr Gills, until I make up my mind what to do with him, and what he deserves. As I consider myself responsible for him, Mr Gills. I shall be glad if you’ll look sharply after him, and report his behaviour to me. I’ll ask a question or two of his parents as I ride home this afternoon—respectable people—to confirm some particulars in his own account of himself; and that done, Mr Gills, I’ll send him round to you to-morrow morning. Goodbye! Now, boy! You have heard me?


Yes, Sir.


Perhaps you understand, that if you ever deceive or play tricks with me, you had better have drowned yourself, indeed, once for all, before you came here?


If you have lied to me, in anything, never come in my way again. If not, you may let me find you waiting for me somewhere near your mother’s house this afternoon. I shall leave this at five o’clock, and ride there on horseback. Now, give me the address. Mr Carker the Manager did a great deal of business in the course of the day, and bestowed his teeth upon a great many people. In the office, in the court, in the street, and on “Change, they glistened and bristled to a terrible extent. Five o’clock arriving, and with it Mr Carker’s bay horse, they got on horseback, and went gleaming up Cheapside.


Now, Sir, come along!


Oh Rob, my poor boy, what have you done at last!


Nothing, mother, ask the gentleman!


Don’t be alarmed. I want to do him good. This fellow, is your son, eh, Ma’am?


Yes, Sir,


A bad son, I am afraid?


Never a bad son to me, Sir,


To whom then?


He has been a little wild, Sir, and has gone with wrong companions: but I hope he has seen the misery of that, Sir, and will do well again.


Your husband, I take it, is not at home?


No, Sir. He’s down the line at present.


Then. 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.


I’ll try hard, dear mother, now. Upon my soul I will!


Oh do, my dear boy! I am sure you will, for our sakes and your own! But you’re coming back to speak to me, when you have seen the gentleman away?


I don’t know, mother. Father—when’s he coming home?


Not till two o’clock to-morrow morning.


I’ll come back, mother dear!


What! You have a bad father, have you?


No, Sir! There ain’t a better nor a kinder father going, than mine is.


Why don’t you want to see him then?


There’s such a difference between a father and a mother, Sir. He couldn’t hardly believe yet that I was doing to do better—though I know he’d try to—but a mother—she always believes what’s good, Sir; at least, I know my mother does, God bless her!


You’ll come to me tomorrow morning, and you shall be shown where that old gentleman lives; that old gentleman who was with me this morning; where you are going, as you heard me say.


Yes, Sir,


I have a great interest in that old gentleman, and in serving him, you serve me, boy, do you understand? Well. I see you do. I want to know all about that old gentleman, and how he goes on from day to day—for I am anxious to be of service to him—and especially who comes there to see him. Do you understand?


I should like to know that he has friends who are attentive to him, and that they don’t desert him—for he lives very much alone now, poor fellow; but that they are fond of him, and of his nephew who has gone abroad. There is a very young lady who may perhaps come to see him. I want particularly to know all about her.


I’ll take care, Sir,


And take care, take care you talk about affairs of mine to nobody but me.


To nobody in the world, Sir,


Neither there, nor anywhere else. I’ll try how true and grateful you can be. I’ll prove you!


A very young lady! Ay! when I saw her last, she was a little child. With dark eyes and hair, I recollect, and a good face; a very good face! I daresay she’s pretty.


Oh! Good morning! For Mr Dombey. For Miss Dombey. Oh, I beg your pardon. Is the young woman at home? Oh! How de do? How’s Diogenes going on?


Miss Florence is quite well, Sir,


Oh, it’s of no consequence, thank’ee,


Go in and win. When your man’s before you and your work cut out, go in and do it,


Perhaps you’d like to walk upstairs, Sir!


Well, I think I will come in!


Go along with you! or Ill tear your eyes out.


Just another!


Go along with you! Innocents like you, too! Who’ll begin next? Go along, Sir!


I beg your pardon, Sir. I hope you are not hurt?


Oh no, thank you, it’s of no consequence


If the dog’s teeth have entered the leg, Sir—


No, thank you, it’s all quite right. It’s very comfortable, thank you.


I have the pleasure of knowing Mr Dombey,


Have you though?


And you will allow me, perhaps, to apologise, in his absence, for such a misadventure, and to wonder how it can possibly have happened.


Better late than never, dear Miss Floy, and I do say, that even a visit to them old Skettleses will be a Godsend.


It is very good of Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles, Susan, to repeat their invitation so kindly.


They know what they’re about, if ever people did, oh! trust them Skettleses for that!


I am not very anxious to go to Fulham, Susan, I confess, but it will be right to go. I think it will be better.


Much better,


And so, 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 I say, Miss Floy, Oh be joyful! Ah! h—h!


How long it is before we have any news of Walter, Susan!


Long indeed, Miss Floy! And Perch said, when he came just now to see for letters—but what signifies what he says! Much he knows about it! If I hadn’t, if I hadn’t more manliness than that insipidest of his sex, I’d never take pride in my hair again, but turn it up behind my ears, and wear coarse caps, without a bit of border, until death released me from my insignificance. I may not be a Amazon, Miss Floy, and wouldn’t so demean myself by such disfigurement, but anyways I’m not a giver up, I hope.


Give up! What?


Why, nothing, Miss. Good gracious, nothing! It’s only that wet curl-paper of a man, Perch, that anyone might almost make away with, with a touch, and really it would be a blessed event for all parties if someone would take pity on him, and would have the goodness!


Does he give up the ship, Susan?


No, Miss. I should like to see him make so bold as do it to my face! No, Miss, but he goes on about some bothering ginger that Mr Walter was to send to Mrs Perch, and shakes his dismal head, and says he hopes it may be coming; anyhow, he says, it can’t come now in time for the intended occasion, but may do for next, which really, puts me out of patience with the man, for though I can bear a great deal, I am not a camel, neither am I, if I know myself, a dromedary neither.


What else does he say, Susan? Won’t you tell me?


As if I wouldn’t tell you anything, Miss Floy, and everything! Why, nothing Miss, he says that there begins to be a general talk about the ship, and that they have never had a ship on that voyage half so long unheard of, and that the Captain’s wife was at the office yesterday, and seemed a little put out about it, but anyone could say that, we knew nearly that before.


I must visit Walter’s uncle, before I leave home. I will go and see him this morning. Let us walk there, directly, Susan.


Mrs Richards’s eldest, Miss! and the worrit of Mrs Richards’s life!


Strays! Whoo-oop! Strays! Strays! Whoo-oop! Strays!


Is this the way you show your penitence, when Mrs Richards has been fretting for you months and months? Where’s Mr Gills?


Mr Gills was out.


Fetch him home, and say that my young lady’s here.


I don’t know where he’s gone,


Is that your penitence?


Why how can I go and fetch him when I don’t know where to go? How can you be so unreasonable?


Did Mr Gills say when he should be home?


Yes, Miss. 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?


Yes, Miss. I should say he was, very much so. He ain’t indoors, Miss, not a quarter of an hour together. He can’t settle in one place five minutes. He goes about, like a—just like a stray,


Do you know a friend of Mr Gills, called Captain Cuttle?


Him with a hook, Miss? Yes, Miss. He was here the day before yesterday.


Has he not been here since?


No, Miss,


Perhaps Walter’s Uncle has gone there, Susan,


To Captain Cuttle’s, Miss? no, he’s not gone there, Miss. Because he left particular word that if Captain Cuttle called, I should tell him how surprised he was, not to have seen him yesterday, and should make him stop till he came back.


Do you know where Captain Cuttle lives?


I beg your pardon, Ma’am. Is this Captain Cuttle’s house?


No,


Not Number Nine?


Who said it wasn’t Number Nine? What do you want with Captain Cuttle, I should wish to know?


Should you? Then I’m sorry that you won’t be satisfied,


Hush, Susan! If you please! 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? I said it wasn’t Cap’en Cuttle’s house—and it ain’t his house—and forbid it, that it ever should be his house—for Cap’en Cuttle don’t know how to keep a house—and don’t deserve to have a house—it’s my house—and when I let the upper floor to Cap’en Cuttle, oh I do a thankless thing, and cast pearls before swine!


Steady below!


Since you want Cap’en Cuttle, there he is!


You are amazed to see us, I am sure,


Stand by! Stand by!


But I couldn’t rest, 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? Have you any fears for Walter’s safety?


No, Heart’s-delight. I am not afeard. Wal”r is a lad as’ll go through a deal o’ hard weather. Wal”r is a lad as’ll bring as much success to that “ere brig as a lad is capable on. Wal”r, is what you may call a out’ard and visible sign of an in’ard and spirited grasp, and when found make a note of. I am not afeard, my Heart’s-delight. There’s been most uncommon bad weather in them latitudes, there’s no denyin’, and they have drove and drove and been beat off, may be t’other side the world. But the ship’s a good ship, and the lad’s a good lad; and it ain’t easy, thank the Lord, to break up hearts of oak, whether they’re in brigs or buzzums. Here we have ’em both ways, which is bringing it up with a round turn, and so I ain’t a bit afeard as yet.


As yet?