The House will once again, Mrs Dombey, be not only in name but in fact Dombey and Son; Dom-bey and Son! Mrs Dombey, my—my dear. He will be christened Paul, my—Mrs Dombey—of course.


Of course,


His father’s name, Mrs Dombey, and his grandfather’s! I wish his grandfather were alive this day! There is some inconvenience in the necessity of writing Junior, but it is merely of a private and personal complexion. It doesn’t enter into the correspondence of the House. Its signature remains the same. Dombey and Son,


Florence, you may go and look at your pretty brother, if you like, I daresay. Don’t touch him! Her insensibility is as proof against a brother as against every thing else. Oh Lord bless me! A very ill-advised and feverish proceeding this, I am sure. Please to ring there for Miss Florence’s nurse. Really the person should be more care- Wait! I—had better ask Doctor Peps if he’ll have the goodness to step upstairs again perhaps. I’ll go down. I’ll go down. I needn’t beg you, to take particular care of this young gentleman, Mrs ——


Blockitt, Sir?


Of this young gentleman, Mrs Blockitt.


No, Sir, indeed. I remember when Miss Florence was born—


Ay, ay, ay. Miss Florence was all very well, but this is another matter. This young gentleman has to accomplish a destiny. A destiny, little fellow!


Well, Sir, do you find that your dear lady is at all roused by your visit?


Stimulated as it were?


It would be a satisfaction to him, if Doctor Parker Peps would walk upstairs again.


Good! We must not disguise from you, Sir, that there is a want of power in Her Grace the Duchess—I beg your pardon; I confound names; I should say, in your amiable lady. That there is a certain degree of languor, and a general absence of elasticity, which we would rather—not—


See,


Quite so, which we would rather not see. It would appear that the system of Lady Cankaby—excuse me: I should say of Mrs Dombey: I confuse the names of cases—


So very numerous, can’t be expected I’m sure—quite wonderful if otherwise—Doctor Parker Peps’s West-End practice—


Thank you, quite so. It would appear, I was observing, that the system of our patient has sustained a shock, from which it can only hope to rally by a great and strong—


And vigorous,


Quite so, and vigorous effort. Mr Pilkins here, who from his position of medical adviser in this family—no one better qualified to fill that position, I am sure.


Oh! 'Praise from Sir Hubert Stanley!'


You are good enough, to say so. Mr Pilkins who, from his position, is best acquainted with the patient’s constitution in its normal state (an acquaintance very valuable to us in forming our opinions in these occasions), is of opinion, with me, that Nature must be called upon to make a vigorous effort in this instance; and that if our interesting friend the Countess of Dombey—I beg your pardon; Mrs Dombey—should not be—


Able,


To make,


That effort,


Successfully. Then, a crisis might arise, which we should both sincerely deplore.


My dear Paul! He’s quite a Dombey!


Well, well! I think he is like the family. Don’t agitate yourself, Louisa.


It’s very foolish of me, but he’s—he’s such a perfect Dombey! It’s so extraordinary, as to be perfectly ridiculous. So completely our family. I never saw anything like it in my life!


But what is this about Fanny, herself? How is Fanny?


My dear Paul, it’s nothing whatever. Take my word, it’s nothing whatever. There is exhaustion, certainly, but nothing like what I underwent myself, either with George or Frederick. An effort is necessary. That’s all. If dear Fanny were a Dombey!—But I daresay she’ll make it; I have no doubt she’ll make it. Knowing it to be required of her, as a duty, of course she’ll make it. My dear Paul, it’s very weak and silly of me, I know, to be so trembly and shaky from head to foot; but I am so very queer that I must ask you for a glass of wine and a morsel of that cake. I shall not drink my love to you, Paul. I shall drink to the little Dombey. Good gracious me!—it’s the most astonishing thing I ever knew in all my days, he’s such a perfect Dombey. I know it’s very weak and silly of me, to be so trembly and shaky from head to foot, and to allow my feelings so completely to get the better of me, but I cannot help it. I thought I should have fallen out of the staircase window as I came down from seeing dear Fanny, and that tiddy ickle sing.


Mrs Chick,


how are you now, my dear friend? My dear Paul, it’s Miss Tox. The kindest creature! I never could have got here without her! Miss Tox, my brother Mr Dombey. Paul, my dear, my very particular friend Miss Tox.


I am sure, that to have the honour of being presented to Mr Dombey is a distinction which I have long sought, but very little expected at the present moment. My dear Mrs Chick—may I say Louisa!


God bless you!


My dear Louisa then, my sweet friend, how are you now?


Better. Take some wine. You have been almost as anxious as I have been, and must want it, I am sure. My dear Paul, what have you been doing! Miss Tox, Paul, knowing how much I have been interested in the anticipation of the event of today, and how trembly and shaky I have been from head to foot in expectation of it, has been working at a little gift for Fanny, which I promised to present. Miss Tox is ingenuity itself.


My dear Louisa. Don’t say so.


It is only a pincushion for the toilette table, Paul, one of those trifles which are insignificant to your sex in general, as it’s very natural they should be—we have no business to expect they should be otherwise—but to which we attach some interest.


Miss Tox is very good,


And I do say, and will say, and must say, that Miss Tox has very prettily adapted the sentiment to the occasion. I call ‘Welcome little Dombey’ Poetry, myself!


Is that the device?


That is the device,


But do me the justice to remember, my dear Louisa, that nothing but the—I have some difficulty in expressing myself—the dubiousness of the result would have induced me to take so great a liberty: ‘Welcome, Master Dombey,’ would have been much more congenial to my feelings, as I am sure you know. But the uncertainty attendant on angelic strangers, will, I hope, excuse what must otherwise appear an unwarrantable familiarity.


My dear Paul. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry when I look at you, I declare, you do so remind me of that dear baby upstairs. Well! after this, I forgive Fanny everything!


I knew you would admire my brother. I told you so beforehand, my dear. And as to his property, my dear!


Ah! Im-mense! But his deportment, my dear Louisa! His presence! His dignity! No portrait that I have ever seen of anyone has been half so replete with those qualities. Something so stately, you know: so uncompromising: so very wide across the chest: so upright! A pecuniary Duke of York, my love, and nothing short of it! That’s what I should designate him.


Why, my dear Paul! you look quite pale! There’s nothing the matter?


I am sorry to say, Louisa, that they tell me that Fanny—


Now, my dear Paul, don’t believe it. Do not allow yourself to receive a turn unnecessarily. Remember of what importance you are to society, and do not allow yourself to be worried by what is so very inconsiderately told you by people who ought to know better. Really I’m surprised at them.


I hope I know, Louisa, how to bear myself before the world.


Nobody better, my dear Paul. Nobody half so well. They would be ignorant and base indeed who doubted it.


Ignorant and base indeed!


But, if you have any reliance on my experience, Paul, you may rest assured that there is nothing wanting but an effort on Fanny’s part. And that effort, she must be encouraged, and really, if necessary, urged to make. Now, my dear Paul, come upstairs with me.


Restless without the little girl. We found it best to have her in again.


Can nothing be done?


We can do no more.


Fanny! Fanny! Fanny, my dear, here’s Mr Dombey come to see you. Won’t you speak to him? They want to lay your little boy—the baby, Fanny, you know; you have hardly seen him yet, I think—in bed; but they can’t till you rouse yourself a little. Don’t you think it’s time you roused yourself a little? Eh? Eh? what was it you said, Fanny? I didn’t hear you.


Now, really, Fanny my dear. I shall have to be quite cross with you, if you don’t rouse yourself. It’s necessary for you to make an effort, and perhaps a very great and painful effort which you are not disposed to make; but this is a world of effort you know, Fanny, and we must never yield, when so much depends upon us. Come! Try! I must really scold you if you don’t!


Fanny! Only look at me. Only open your eyes to show me that you hear and understand me; will you? Good Heaven, gentlemen, what is to be done!


Mama! Mama! Oh dear Mama! oh dear Mama!


I shall never cease to congratulate myself, on having said, when I little thought what was in store for us,—really as if I was inspired by something,—that I forgave poor dear Fanny everything. Whatever happens, that must always be a comfort to me!


Don’t you over-exert yourself, Loo, or you’ll be laid up with spasms, I see. Right tol loor rul! Bless my soul, I forgot! We’re here one day and gone the next!


I am sure. I hope this heart-rending occurrence will be a warning to all of us, to accustom ourselves to rouse ourselves, and to make efforts in time where they’re required of us. There’s a moral in everything, if we would only avail ourselves of it. It will be our own faults if we lose sight of this one.


Which might be better improved, I should think, Mr C., than by the introduction, either of the college hornpipe, or the equally unmeaning and unfeeling remark of rump-te-iddity, bow-wow-wow!


Merely habit, my dear,


Nonsense! Habit! If you’re a rational being, don’t make such ridiculous excuses. Habit! If I was to get a habit (as you call it) of walking on the ceiling, like the flies, I should hear enough of it, I daresay.


Bow-wow-wow! More like a professional singer with the hydrophobia, than a man in your station of life!


How’s the Baby, Loo?


What Baby do you mean?


The poor bereaved little baby. I don’t know of any other, my dear.


You don’t know of any other. More shame for you, I was going to say. I am sure the morning I have had, with that dining-room downstairs, one mass of babies, no one in their senses would believe.


One mass of babies!


It would have occurred to most men, that poor dear Fanny being no more,—those words of mine will always be a balm and comfort to me, it becomes necessary to provide a Nurse.


Oh! Ah! Toor-ru!—such is life, I mean. I hope you are suited, my dear.


Indeed I am not, nor likely to be, so far as I can see, and in the meantime the poor child seems likely to be starved to death. Paul is so very particular—naturally so, of course, having set his whole heart on this one boy—and there are so many objections to everybody that offers, that I don’t see, myself, the least chance of an arrangement. Meanwhile, of course, the child is—


Going to the Devil, to be sure.


Couldn’t something temporary be done with a teapot?


I trust he hadn’t said it in aggravation, because that would do very little honour to his heart. I trust he hadn’t said it seriously, because that would do very little honour to his head. As in any case, he couldn’t, however sanguine his disposition, hope to offer a remark that would be a greater outrage on human nature in general, we would beg to leave the discussion at that point.


My dear Louisa, is the vacancy still unsupplied?


You good soul, yes,


Then, my dear Louisa. I hope and believe—but in one moment, my dear, I’ll introduce the party.


kitch hold of his brother Johnny.


My dear Louisa, knowing your great anxiety, and wishing to relieve it, I posted off myself to the Queen Charlotte’s Royal Married Females, which you had forgot, and put the question, Was there anybody there that they thought would suit? No, they said there was not. When they gave me that answer, I do assure you, my dear, I was almost driven to despair on your account. But it did so happen, that one of the Royal Married Females, hearing the inquiry, reminded the matron of another who had gone to her own home, and who, she said, would in all likelihood be most satisfactory. The moment I heard this, and had it corroborated by the matron—excellent references and unimpeachable character—I got the address, my dear, and posted off again.


Like the dear good Tox, you are!


Not at all. Don’t say so. Arriving at the house (the cleanest place, my dear! You might eat your dinner off the floor), I found the whole family sitting at table; and feeling that no account of them could be half so comfortable to you and Mr Dombey as the sight of them all together, I brought them all away. This gentleman, is the father. Will you have the goodness to come a little forward, Sir?


I’m pretty well, I thank you, Ma’am,


I’m glad to hear it. The other young woman is her unmarried sister who lives with them, and would take care of her children. Her name’s Jemima. How do you do, Jemima?


I’m very glad indeed to hear it. I hope you’ll keep so. Five children. Youngest six weeks. The fine little boy with the blister on his nose is the eldest. The blister, I believe, is not constitutional, but accidental?


Flat iron.


I beg your pardon, Sir, did you—


Flat iron,


Oh yes. Yes! quite true. I forgot. The little creature, in his mother’s absence, smelt a warm flat iron. You’re quite right, Sir. You were going to have the goodness to inform me, when we arrived at the door that you were by trade a—


Stoker,


A choker!


Stoker. Steam ingine.


Oh-h! Yes! And how do you like it, Sir?


Which, Mum?


That. Your trade.


Oh! Pretty well, Mum. The ashes sometimes gets in here; and makes a man speak gruff, as at the present time. But it is ashes, Mum, not crustiness.


These children look healthy. But my God, to think of their some day claiming a sort of relationship to Paul!


But what relationship is there!


Is there!


Can there be, I mean—


Why none. The whole world knows that, I presume. Grief has not made me idiotic, Louisa. Take them away, Louisa! Let me see this woman and her husband. My good woman, I understand you are poor, and wish to earn money by nursing the little boy, my son, who has been so prematurely deprived of what can never be replaced. I have no objection to your adding to the comforts of your family by that means. So far as I can tell, you seem to be a deserving object. But I must impose one or two conditions on you, before you enter my house in that capacity. While you are here, I must stipulate that you are always known as—say as Richards—an ordinary name, and convenient. Have you any objection to be known as Richards? You had better consult your husband. Well? What does your husband say to your being called Richards?


that perhaps if she was to be called out of her name, it would be considered in the wages.


Oh, of course. I desire to make it a question of wages, altogether. Now, Richards, if you nurse my bereaved child, I wish you to remember this always. You will receive a liberal stipend in return for the discharge of certain duties, in the performance of which, I wish you to see as little of your family as possible. When those duties cease to be required and rendered, and the stipend ceases to be paid, there is an end of all relations between us. Do you understand me?


she hoped she knew her place.


I hope you do, Richards. I have no doubt you know it very well. Indeed it is so plain and obvious that it could hardly be otherwise. Louisa, my dear, arrange with Richards about money, and let her have it when and how she pleases. Mr what’s-your name, a word with you, if you please!


You have a son, I believe?


Four on ’em, Sir. Four hims and a her. All alive!


Why, it’s as much as you can afford to keep them!


I couldn’t hardly afford but one thing in the world less, Sir.


What is that?


To lose ’em, Sir.


Can you read?


Why, not partickk’ller, Sir.


Write?


With chalk, Sir?


With anything?


I could make shift to chalk a little bit, I think, if I was put to it,


And yet, you are two or three and thirty, I suppose?


Thereabouts, I suppose, Sir,


Then why don’t you learn?


So I’m a going to, Sir. One of my little boys is a going to learn me, when he’s old enough, and been to school himself.


Well, you heard what I said to your wife just now?


Polly heerd it,


But I ask you if you heard it. You did, I suppose, and understood it?


I heerd it, but I don’t know as I understood it rightly Sir, account of being no scholar, and the words being—ask your pardon—rayther high. But Polly heerd it. It’s all right.


As you appear to leave everything to her, I suppose it is of no use my saying anything to you.


Not a bit,


I won’t detain you any longer then. Where have you worked all your life?


Mostly underground, Sir, till I got married. I come to the level then. I’m a going on one of these here railroads when they comes into full play. We means to bring up little Biler to that line,


who little Biler was.


The eldest on ’em, Sir. It ain’t a common name. Sermuchser that when he was took to church the gen’lm’n said, it wamm’t a chris’en one, and he couldn’t give it. But we always calls him Biler just the same. For we don’t mean no harm. Not we.


Do you mean to say, Man, that you have called a child after a boiler?


No, no, Sir, I should hope not! No, Sir. Arter a BILER Sir. The Steamingine was a’most as good as a godfather to him, and so we called him Biler, don’t you see!


You’ll take a glass yourself, Sir, won’t you?


Thankee, Mum, since you are suppressing.


And you’re very glad to leave your dear good wife in such a comfortable home, ain’t you, Sir?


No, Mum. Here’s wishing of her back agin.


Your little child will thrive charmingly with your sister Jemima, Richards; and you have only to make an effort—this is a world of effort, you know, Richards—to be very happy indeed. You have been already measured for your mourning, haven’t you, Richards? And it’ll fit beautifully. I know, for the same young person has made me many dresses. The very best materials, too!


Lor, you’ll be so smart, that your husband won’t know you; will you, Sir?


I should know her, anyhows and anywheres.


As to living, Richards, you know, why, the very best of everything will be at your disposal. You will order your little dinner every day; and anything you take a fancy to, I’m sure will be as readily provided as if you were a Lady.


And as to porter!—quite unlimited, will it not, Louisa?


Oh, certainly! With a little abstinence, you know, my dear, in point of vegetables.


And pickles, perhaps,


she’ll consult her choice entirely, and be under no restraint at all, my love.


And then, of course, you know, however fond she is of her own dear little child—and I’m sure, Louisa, you don’t blame her for being fond of it?


Oh no!


Still, she naturally must be interested in her young charge, and must consider it a privilege to see a little cherub connected with the superior classes, gradually unfolding itself from day to day at one common fountain—is it not so, Louisa?


Most undoubtedly! You see, my love, she’s already quite contented and comfortable, and means to say goodbye to her sister Jemima and her little pets, and her good honest husband, with a light heart and a smile; don’t she, my dear?


Oh yes! To be sure she does!


Polly, old “ooman, whatever you do, my darling, hold up your head and fight low. That’s the only rule as I know on, that’ll carry anyone through life. You always have held up your head and fought low, Polly. Do it now, or Bricks is no longer so. God bless you, Polly! Me and J’mima will do your duty by you; and with relating to your’n, hold up your head and fight low, Polly, and you can’t go wrong!


she was a quiet-tempered lady


it was the common lot


who’d have thought it


she couldn’t hardly believe it


it seemed exactly like a dream


It’s Miss Florence come home from her aunt’s, no doubt. Hope I see you well, Miss.


Is that my brother?


Yes, my pretty. Come and kiss him.


What have you done with my Mama?


Lord bless the little creeter! what a sad question! I done? Nothing, Miss.


What have they done with my Mama?


I never saw such a melting thing in all my life! Come nearer here, my dear Miss! Don’t be afraid of me.


I am not afraid of you. But I want to know what they have done with my Mama.


My darling, you wear that pretty black frock in remembrance of your Mama.


I can remember my Mama, in any frock.


But people put on black, to remember people when they’re gone.


Where gone?


Come and sit down by me, and I’ll tell you a story. Once upon a time, there was a lady—a very good lady, and her little daughter dearly loved her.


A very good lady and her little daughter dearly loved her,


Who, when God thought it right that it should be so, was taken ill and died. Died, never to be seen again by anyone on earth, and was buried in the ground where the trees grow.


The cold ground?


No! The warm ground, where the ugly little seeds turn into beautiful flowers, and into grass, and corn, and I don’t know what all besides. Where good people turn into bright angels, and fly away to Heaven! So; let me see. So, when this lady died, wherever they took her, or wherever they put her, she went to GOD! and she prayed to Him, this lady did, to teach her little daughter to be sure of that in her heart: and to know that she was happy there and loved her still: and to hope and try—Oh, all her life—to meet her there one day, never, never, never to part any more.


It was my Mama!


And the child’s heart, the little daughter’s heart was so full of the truth of this, that even when she heard it from a strange nurse that couldn’t tell it right, but was a poor mother herself and that was all, she found a comfort in it—didn’t feel so lonely—sobbed and cried upon her bosom—took kindly to the baby lying in her lap—and—there, there, there! There, poor dear!


Oh well, Miss Floy! And won’t your Pa be angry neither! When it was “tickerlerly given out that you wasn’t to go and worrit the wet nurse.


She don’t worry me. I am very fond of children.


Oh! but begging your pardon, Mrs Richards, that don’t matter, you know. I may be very fond of pennywinkles, Mrs Richards, but it don’t follow that I’m to have ’em for tea.


Well, it don’t matter,


Oh, thank’ee, Mrs Richards, don’t it! Remembering, however, if you’ll be so good, that Miss Floy’s under my charge, and Master Paul’s under your’n.


But still we needn’t quarrel,


Oh no, Mrs Richards. Not at all, I don’t wish it, we needn’t stand upon that footing, Miss Floy being a permanency, Master Paul a temporary. Miss Florence has just come home, hasn’t she?


Yes, Mrs Richards, just come, and here, Miss Floy, before you’ve been in the house a quarter of an hour, you go a smearing your wet face against the expensive mourning that Mrs Richards is a wearing for your Ma! She’ll be quite happy, now she has come home again, and will be so pleased to see her dear Papa tonight.


Lork, Mrs Richards! Don’t. See her dear Papa indeed! I should like to see her do it!


Won’t she then?


Lork, Mrs Richards, no, her Pa’s a deal too wrapped up in somebody else, and before there was a somebody else to be wrapped up in she never was a favourite, girls are thrown away in this house, Mrs Richards, I assure you.


Hasn’t Mr Dombey seen her since—


No. Not once since, and he hadn’t hardly set his eyes upon her before that for months and months, and I don’t think he’d have known her for his own child if he had met her in the streets, or would know her for his own child if he was to meet her in the streets to-morrow, Mrs Richards, as to me. I doubt if he’s aweer of my existence.


Pretty dear!


Oh! there’s a Tartar within a hundred miles of where we’re now in conversation, I can tell you, Mrs Richards, present company always excepted too, wish you good morning, Mrs Richards, now Miss Floy, you come along with me, and don’t go hanging back like a naughty wicked child that judgments is no example to, don’t!


God bless the sweet thing! Good-bye, dear!


Good-bye! God bless you! I shall come to see you again soon, and you’ll come to see me? Susan will let us. Won’t you, Susan?


It ain’t right of you to ask it, Miss Floy, for you know I can’t refuse you, but Mrs Richards and me will see what can be done, if Mrs Richards likes, I may wish, you see, to take a voyage to Chaney, Mrs Richards, but I mayn’t know how to leave the London Docks. This house ain’t so exactly ringing with merry-making, that one need be lonelier than one must be. Your Toxes and your Chickses may draw out my two front double teeth, Mrs Richards, but that’s no reason why I need offer ’em the whole set. So I’m agreeable, I’m sure, to live friendly, Mrs Richards, while Master Paul continues a permanency, if the means can be planned out without going openly against orders, but goodness gracious Miss Floy, you haven’t got your things off yet, you naughty child, you haven’t, come along!


Good evening, Richards. How is Master Paul, Richards?


Quite thriving, Sir, and well.


He looks so. They give you everything you want, I hope?


Oh yes, thank you, Sir. If you please, Sir, the child is very much disposed to take notice of things, and—upstairs is a little dull for him, perhaps, Sir.


I begged them to take you out for airings, constantly. Very well! You shall go out oftener. You’re quite right to mention it.


I beg your pardon, Sir, but we go out quite plenty Sir, thank you.


What would you have then?


Indeed Sir, I don’t exactly know, unless—


Yes?


I believe nothing is so good for making children lively and cheerful, Sir, as seeing other children playing about ’em,


I think I mentioned to you, Richards, when you came here, that I wished you to see as little of your family as possible.


Oh dear yes, Sir, I wasn’t so much as thinking of that.


I am glad of it. You can continue your walk if you please.


If you really think that sort of society is good for the child, where’s Miss Florence?


Nothing could be better than Miss Florence, Sir, but I understood from her maid that they were not to—


Tell them always to let Miss Florence be with Richards when she chooses, and go out with her, and so forth. Tell them to let the children be together, when Richards wishes it.


Oh father, try to love me! there’s no one else!


Come in, come in: what is the child afraid of? Come here, Florence. Do you know who I am?


Yes, Papa.


Have you nothing to say to me? There! Be a good girl. Go to Richards! Go!


Oh no, no! He don’t want me. He don’t want me!


Miss Florence was afraid of interrupting, Sir, if she came in to say good-night,


It doesn’t matter. You can let her come and go without regarding me.


I thought you would have been pleased,


Oh yes, Mrs Richards, I’m very well pleased, thank you,


You don’t show it,


Oh! Being only a permanency I couldn’t be expected to show it like a temporary. Temporaries carries it all before ’em here, I find, but though there’s a excellent party-wall between this house and the next, I mayn’t exactly like to go to it, Mrs Richards, notwithstanding!


The streets have thinned, very much. Where’s Walter, I wonder! Here’s dinner been ready, half an hour, and no Walter! If I didn’t know he was too fond of me to make a run of it, and go and enter himself aboard ship against my wishes, I should begin to be fidgetty. I really should. All in the Downs, eh! Lots of moisture! Well! it’s wanted. I believe, that you don’t point more direct and due to the back parlour than the boy’s inclination does after all. And the parlour couldn’t bear straighter either. Due north. Not the twentieth part of a point either way.


Halloa, Uncle Sol!


Halloa, my boy! What! you are here, are you?


Well, Uncle, how have you got on without me all day? Is dinner ready? I’m so hungry.


As to getting on, it would be odd if I couldn’t get on without a young dog like you a great deal better than with you. As to dinner being ready, it’s been ready this half hour and waiting for you. As to being hungry, I am!


Come along then, Uncle! Hurrah for the admiral!


Confound the admiral! You mean the Lord Mayor. Lord Mayor.


No I don’t! Hurrah for the admiral! Hurrah for the admiral! For-ward!


The Lord Mayor, Wally, for ever! No more admirals. The Lord Mayor’s your admiral.


Oh, is he though! Why, the Sword Bearer’s better than him. He draws his sword sometimes.


And a pretty figure he cuts with it for his pains. Listen to me, Wally, listen to me. Look on the mantelshelf.


Why who has cocked my silver mug up there, on a nail?


I have. No more mugs now. We must begin to drink out of glasses today, Walter. We are men of business. We belong to the City. We started in life this morning.


Well, Uncle. I’ll drink out of anything you like, so long as I can drink to you. Here’s to you, Uncle Sol, and Hurrah for the—


Lord Mayor,


For the Lord Mayor, Sheriffs, Common Council, and Livery. Long life to ’em!


And now, let’s hear something about the Firm.


Oh! there’s not much to be told about the Firm, Uncle. It’s a precious dark set of offices, and in the room where I sit, there’s a high fender, and an iron safe, and some cards about ships that are going to sail, and an almanack, and some desks and stools, and an inkbottle, and some books, and some boxes, and a lot of cobwebs, and in one of ’em, just over my head, a shrivelled-up blue-bottle that looks as if it had hung there ever so long.


Nothing else?


No, nothing else, except an old birdcage (I wonder how that ever came there!) and a coal-scuttle.


No bankers’ books, or cheque books, or bills, or such tokens of wealth rolling in from day to day?


Oh yes, plenty of that I suppose, but all that sort of thing’s in Mr Carker’s room, or Mr Morfin’s, or Mr Dombey’s.


Has Mr Dombey been there today?


Oh yes! In and out all day. He didn’t take any notice of you, I suppose?. Yes he did. He walked up to my seat,—I wish he wasn’t so solemn and stiff, Uncle,—and said, ‘Oh! you are the son of Mr Gills the Ships’ Instrument-maker.’ Nephew, Sir. I said nephew, boy. But I could take my oath he said son, Uncle.


You’re mistaken I daresay. It’s no matter.


No, it’s no matter, but he needn’t have been so sharp, I thought. There was no harm in it though he did say son. Then he told me that you had spoken to him about me, and that he had found me employment in the House accordingly, and that I was expected to be attentive and punctual, and then he went away. I thought he didn’t seem to like me much.


You mean, I suppose, that you didn’t seem to like him much?


Well, Uncle. Perhaps so; I never thought of that.


Why, Uncle Sol! what are you about? that’s the wonderful Madeira!—there’s only one more bottle!


You shall drink the other bottle, Wally, when you come to good fortune; when you are a thriving, respected, happy man; when the start in life you have made today shall have brought you, as I pray Heaven it may!—to a smooth part of the course you have to run, my child. My love to you!


Dear Uncle, for the honour you have done me, et cetera, et cetera. I shall now beg to propose Mr Solomon Gills with three times three and one cheer more. Hurrah! and you’ll return thanks, Uncle, when we drink the last bottle together; won’t you?


You see, Walter, in truth this business is merely a habit with me. I am so accustomed to the habit that I could hardly live if I relinquished it: but there’s nothing doing, nothing doing. When that uniform was worn, then indeed, fortunes were to be made, and were made. But competition, competition—new invention, new invention—alteration, alteration—the world’s gone past me. I hardly know where I am myself, much less where my customers are.


Never mind ’em, Uncle!


Since you came home from weekly boarding-school at Peckham, for instance—and that’s ten days. I don’t remember more than one person that has come into the shop.


Two, Uncle, don’t you recollect? There was the man who came to ask for change for a sovereign—


That’s the one,


Why Uncle! don’t you call the woman anybody, who came to ask the way to Mile-End Turnpike?


Oh! it’s true. I forgot her. Two persons.


To be sure, they didn’t buy anything,


No. They didn’t buy anything,


Nor want anything,


No. If they had, they’d gone to another shop,


But there were two of ’em, Uncle. You said only one.


Well, Wally, not being like the Savages who came on Robinson Crusoe’s Island, we can’t live on a man who asks for change for a sovereign, and a woman who inquires the way to Mile-End Turnpike. As I said just now, the world has gone past me. I don’t blame it; but I no longer understand it. Tradesmen are not the same as they used to be, apprentices are not the same, business is not the same, business commodities are not the same. Seven-eighths of my stock is old-fashioned. I am an old-fashioned man in an old-fashioned shop, in a street that is not the same as I remember it. I have fallen behind the time, and am too old to catch it again. Even the noise it makes a long way ahead, confuses me.


Therefore, Wally—therefore it is that I am anxious you should be early in the busy world, and on the world’s track. I am only the ghost of this business—its substance vanished long ago; and when I die, its ghost will be laid. As it is clearly no inheritance for you then, I have thought it best to use for your advantage, almost the only fragment of the old connexion that stands by me, through long habit. Some people suppose me to be wealthy. I wish for your sake they were right. But whatever I leave behind me, or whatever I can give you, you in such a House as Dombey’s are in the road to use well and make the most of. Be diligent, try to like it, my dear boy, work for a steady independence, and be happy!


I’ll do everything I can, Uncle, to deserve your affection. Indeed I will,


I know it. I am sure of it. As to the Sea, that’s well enough in fiction, Wally, but it won’t do in fact: it won’t do at all. It’s natural enough that you should think about it, associating it with all these familiar things; but it won’t do, it won’t do. Think of this wine for instance, which has been to the East Indies and back, I’m not able to say how often, and has been once round the world. Think of the pitch-dark nights, the roaring winds, and rolling seas:


The thunder, lightning, rain, hail, storm of all kinds,


To be sure, that this wine has passed through. Think what a straining and creaking of timbers and masts: what a whistling and howling of the gale through ropes and rigging:


What a clambering aloft of men, vying with each other who shall lie out first upon the yards to furl the icy sails, while the ship rolls and pitches, like mad!


Exactly so, has gone on, over the old cask that held this wine. Why, when the Charming Sally went down in the—


In the Baltic Sea, in the dead of night; five-and-twenty minutes past twelve when the captain’s watch stopped in his pocket; he lying dead against the main-mast—on the fourteenth of February, seventeen forty-nine!


Ay, to be sure! quite right! Then, there were five hundred casks of such wine aboard; and all hands (except the first mate, first lieutenant, two seamen, and a lady, in a leaky boat) going to work to stave the casks, got drunk and died drunk, singing ‘Rule Britannia’, when she settled and went down, and ending with one awful scream in chorus.


But when the George the Second drove ashore, Uncle, on the coast of Cornwall, in a dismal gale, two hours before daybreak, on the fourth of March, “seventy-one, she had near two hundred horses aboard; and the horses breaking loose down below, early in the gale, and tearing to and fro, and trampling each other to death, made such noises, and set up such human cries, that the crew believing the ship to be full of devils, some of the best men, losing heart and head, went overboard in despair, and only two were left alive, at last, to tell the tale.


And when, when the Polyphemus—


Private West India Trader, burden three hundred and fifty tons, Captain, John Brown of Deptford. Owners, Wiggs and Co.,


The same, when she took fire, four days’ sail with a fair wind out of Jamaica Harbour, in the night—


There were two brothers on board, and there not being room for both of them in the only boat that wasn’t swamped, neither of them would consent to go, until the elder took the younger by the waist, and flung him in. And then the younger, rising in the boat, cried out, ‘Dear Edward, think of your promised wife at home. I’m only a boy. No one waits at home for me. Leap down into my place!’ and flung himself in the sea!


Well! suppose we change the subject.


How goes it?


All well,


The?


The,


Look at him! Love! Honour! And Obey! Overhaul your catechism till you find that passage, and when found turn the leaf down. Success, my boy!


But I never wanted two or three words in my life that I didn’t know where to lay my hand upon ’em, Gills. It comes of not wasting language as some do. I suppose he could make a clock if he tried?


I shouldn’t wonder, Captain Cuttle,


And it would go! Lord, how that clock would go!


But he’s chock-full of science,


Look’ye here! Here’s a collection of ’em. Earth, air, or water. It’s all one. Only say where you’ll have it. Up in a balloon? There you are. Down in a bell? There you are. D’ye want to put the North Star in a pair of scales and weigh it? He’ll do it for you. Ah! it’s a fine thing to understand ’em. And yet it’s a fine thing not to understand ’em. I hardly know which is best. It’s so comfortable to sit here and feel that you might be weighed, measured, magnified, electrified, polarized, played the very devil with: and never know how.


Come! Before you have your glass of grog, Ned, we must finish the bottle.


Stand by! Give the boy some more.


No more, thank’e, Uncle!


Yes, yes, a little more. We’ll finish the bottle, to the House, Ned—Walter’s House. Why it may be his House one of these days, in part. Who knows? Sir Richard Whittington married his master’s daughter.


'Turn again Whittington, Lord Mayor of London, and when you are old you will never depart from it,' Wal”r! Overhaul the book, my lad.


And although Mr Dombey hasn’t a daughter,


Yes, yes, he has, Uncle,


Has he? Indeed I think he has too.


Oh! I know he has. Some of ’em were talking about it in the office today. And they do say, Uncle and Captain Cuttle, that he’s taken a dislike to her, and that she’s left, unnoticed, among the servants, and that his mind’s so set all the while upon having his son in the House, that although he’s only a baby now, he is going to have balances struck oftener than formerly, and the books kept closer than they used to be, and has even been seen (when he thought he wasn’t) walking in the Docks, looking at his ships and property and all that, as if he was exulting like, over what he and his son will possess together. That’s what they say. Of course, I don’t know.


He knows all about her already, you see,


Nonsense, Uncle. How can I help hearing what they tell me?


The son’s a little in our way at present, I’m afraid, Ned,


Very much,


Nevertheless, we’ll drink him. So, here’s to Dombey and Son.


Oh, very well, Uncle. Since you have introduced the mention of her, and have connected me with her and have said that I know all about her, I shall make bold to amend the toast. So here’s to Dombey—and Son—and Daughter!


pray tell your friend, Louisa, that she is very good, mention to Miss Tox, Louisa, that I am obliged to her;


Is he not beautiful Mr Dombey! Is he not a Cupid, Sir!


Louisa. I really think I must present your friend with some little token, on the occasion of Paul’s christening. She has exerted herself so warmly in the child’s behalf from the first, and seems to understand her position so thoroughly (a very rare merit in this world, I am sorry to say), that it would really be agreeable to me to notice her.


My dear Paul, you do Miss Tox but justice, as a man of your penetration was sure, I knew, to do. I believe if there are three words in the English language for which she has a respect amounting almost to veneration, those words are, Dombey and Son.


Well. I believe it. It does Miss Tox credit.


Godfathers, of course,


I don’t know why they should be, to my son,


Very true, my dear Paul, perhaps that is a reason why you might have the less objection to allowing Miss Tox to be godmother to the dear thing, if it were only as deputy and proxy for someone else. That it would be received as a great honour and distinction, Paul, I need not say.


Louisa. It is not to be supposed—


Certainly not. I never thought it was.


Good Heaven, Louisa!


No, my dear Paul. I must really be allowed to speak. I am not so clever, or so reasoning, or so eloquent, or so anything, as you are. I know that very well. So much the worse for me. But if they were the last words I had to utter—and last words should be very solemn to you and me, Paul, after poor dear Fanny—I would still say I never thought it was. And what is more. I never did think it was.


It is not to be supposed, Louisa,


I know it isn’t,


but that there are many persons who, supposing that I recognised any claim at all in such a case, have a claim upon me superior to Miss Tox’s. But I do not. I recognise no such thing. Paul and myself will be able, when the time comes, to hold our own—the House, in other words, will be able to hold its own, and maintain its own, and hand down its own of itself, and without any such common-place aids. The kind of foreign help which people usually seek for their children, I can afford to despise; being above it, I hope. So that Paul’s infancy and childhood pass away well, and I see him becoming qualified without waste of time for the career on which he is destined to enter, I am satisfied. He will make what powerful friends he pleases in after-life, when he is actively maintaining—and extending, if that is possible—the dignity and credit of the Firm. Until then, I am enough for him, perhaps, and all in all. I have no wish that people should step in between us. I would much rather show my sense of the obliging conduct of a deserving person like your friend. Therefore let it be so; and your husband and myself will do well enough for the other sponsors, I daresay.


How sound she sleeps!


Why, you know, my dear, she takes a great deal of exercise in the course of the day,


She is a curious child,


Her Mama, all over!


In-deed!


Florence will never, never, never be a Dombey,


I quite fret and worry myself about her,


I really don’t see what is to become of her when she grows older, or what position she is to take. She don’t gain on her Papa in the least. How can one expect she should, when she is so very unlike a Dombey? And the child, you see,


Like the ivy?


Like the ivy. Never! She’ll never glide and nestle into the bosom of her Papa’s affections like—the—


Startled fawn?


Like the startled fawn. Never! Poor Fanny! Yet, how I loved her!


You must not distress yourself, my dear,


We have all our faults. I daresay we have. I never was blind to hers. I never said I was. Far from it. Yet how I loved her!


Oh! dear nurse! let me lie by my brother!


Why, my pet?


Oh! I think he loves me. Let me lie by him. Pray do! I’ll not wake him. I’ll only touch him with my hand, and go to sleep. Oh, pray, pray, let me lie by my brother tonight, for I believe he’s fond of me!


Poor little thing, she has been dreaming, I daresay.


Have the goodness, if you please, Towlinson, first of all, to carry out a pen and ink and take his number legibly.


Yes, Miss,


Then, if you please, Towlinson, have the goodness to turn the cushion. Which, is generally damp, my dear.


I’ll trouble you also, if you please, Towlinson, with this card and this shilling. He’s to drive to the card, and is to understand that he will not on any account have more than the shilling.


No, Miss,


And—I’m sorry to give you so much trouble, Towlinson,


Not at all, Miss,


Mention to the man, then, if you please, Towlinson, that the lady’s uncle is a magistrate, and that if he gives her any of his impertinence he will be punished terribly. You can pretend to say that, if you please, Towlinson, in a friendly way, and because you know it was done to another man, who died.


Certainly, Miss,


And now good-night to my sweet, sweet, sweet, godson, and Louisa, my dear friend, promise me to take a little something warm before you go to bed, and not to distress yourself!


You might keep me in a strait-waistcoat for six weeks, and when I got it off I’d only be more aggravated, who ever heard the like of them two Griffins, Mrs Richards?


And then to talk of having been dreaming, poor dear!


Oh you beauties! Never be a Dombey won’t she? It’s to be hoped she won’t, we don’t want any more such, one’s enough.


Don’t wake the children, Susan dear,


I’m very much beholden to you, Mrs Richards, and really feel it as a honour to receive your commands, being a black slave and a mulotter. Mrs Richards, if there’s any other orders, you can give me, pray mention ’em.


Nonsense; orders,


Oh! bless your heart, Mrs Richards, temporaries always orders permanencies here, didn’t you know that, why wherever was you born, Mrs Richards? But wherever you was born, Mrs Richards, and whenever, and however (which is best known to yourself), you may bear in mind, please, that it’s one thing to give orders, and quite another thing to take ’em. A person may tell a person to dive off a bridge head foremost into five-and-forty feet of water, Mrs Richards, but a person may be very far from diving.


There now, you’re angry because you’re a good little thing, and fond of Miss Florence; and yet you turn round on me, because there’s nobody else.


It’s very easy for some to keep their tempers, and be soft-spoken, Mrs Richards, when their child’s made as much of as a prince, and is petted and patted till it wishes its friends further, but when a sweet young pretty innocent, that never ought to have a cross word spoken to or of it, is rundown, the case is very different indeed. My goodness gracious me, Miss Floy, you naughty, sinful child, if you don’t shut your eyes this minute, I’ll call in them hobgoblins that lives in the cock-loft to come and eat you up alive!


My dear Paul, the beginning, I hope, of many joyful days!


Thank you, Louisa. How do you do, Mr John?


How do you do, Sir?


Perhaps, Louisa, you would have preferred a fire?


Oh, my dear Paul, no, not for me.


Mr John, you are not sensible of any chill?


With my tiddle tol toor rul


Miss Tox!


How do you do, Miss Tox?


I can never forget this occasion, Sir, ’Tis impossible. My dear Louisa, I can hardly believe the evidence of my senses.


Now Florence, child! what are you doing, love? Show yourself to him. Engage his attention, my dear!


Mr John. Take my sister, if you please: my arm today is Miss Tox’s. You had better go first with Master Paul, Richards. Be very careful.


Please to bring the child in quick out of the air there,


into my grave?


There’s a wedding just on, Sir, but it’ll be over directly, if you’ll walk into the westry here.


a tall figure all in white;


Mr John, will you take the bottom of the table, if you please? What have you got there, Mr John?


I have got a cold fillet of veal here, Sir. What have you got there, Sir?


This, is some cold preparation of calf’s head, I think. I see cold fowls—ham—patties—salad—lobster. Miss Tox will do me the honour of taking some wine? Champagne to Miss Tox.


Hem!


Well, Sir. I shall drink this, if you’ll allow me, Sir, to little Paul.


Bless him!


Dear little Dombey!


Mr John, my son would feel and express himself obliged to you, I have no doubt, if he could appreciate the favour you have done him. He will prove, in time to come, I trust, equal to any responsibility that the obliging disposition of his relations and friends, in private, or the onerous nature of our position, in public, may impose upon him.


Louisa!


My dear,


Onerous nature of our position in public may—I have forgotten the exact term.


Expose him to,


Pardon me, my dear. I think not. It was more rounded and flowing. Obliging disposition of relations and friends in private, or onerous nature of position in public—may—impose upon him!


Impose upon him, to be sure,


eloquence indeed!


During the six months or so, Richards, which have seen you an inmate of this house, you have done your duty. Desiring to connect some little service to you with this occasion, I considered how I could best effect that object, and I also advised with my sister, Mrs—


Chick,


Oh, hush if you please!


I was about to say to you, Richards, that I was further assisted in my decision, by the recollection of a conversation I held with your husband in this room, on the occasion of your being hired, when he disclosed to me the melancholy fact that your family, himself at the head, were sunk and steeped in ignorance. I am far from being friendly, to what is called by persons of levelling sentiments, general education. But it is necessary that the inferior classes should continue to be taught to know their position, and to conduct themselves properly. So far I approve of schools. Having the power of nominating a child on the foundation of an ancient establishment, called (from a worshipful company) the Charitable Grinders; where not only is a wholesome education bestowed upon the scholars, but where a dress and badge is likewise provided for them; I have (first communicating, through Mrs Chick, with your family) nominated your eldest son to an existing vacancy; and he has this day, I am informed, assumed the habit. The number of her son, I believe, is one hundred and forty-seven. Louisa, you can tell her.


One hundred and forty-seven. The dress, Richards, is a nice, warm, blue baize tailed coat and cap, turned up with orange coloured binding; red worsted stockings; and very strong leather small-clothes. One might wear the articles one’s self, and be grateful.


There, Richards! Now, indeed, you may be proud. The Charitable Grinders!


I am sure I am very much obliged, Sir, and take it very kind that you should remember my little ones.


I am very glad to see you have so much feeling, Richards,


It makes one almost hope, it really does, that there may yet be some faint spark of gratitude and right feeling in the world.


I don’t know what I wouldn’t give, to see the poor little dear before he gets used to ’em.


Why, then, I tell you what, Mrs Richards, see him and make your mind easy.


Mr Dombey wouldn’t like it,


Oh, wouldn’t he, Mrs Richards! he’d like it very much, I think when he was asked.


You wouldn’t ask him, I suppose, at all?


No, Mrs Richards, quite contrairy, and them two inspectors Tox and Chick, not intending to be on duty tomorrow, as I heard ’em say, me and Miss Floy will go along with you tomorrow morning, and welcome, Mrs Richards, if you like, for we may as well walk there as up and down a street, and better too. What’s the matter with the child?


He’s cold, I think,


That’s my house, Susan,


Is it, indeed, Mrs Richards?


And there’s my sister Jemima at the door, I do declare with my own sweet precious baby in her arms!


Why, Polly! You! what a turn you have given me! who’d have thought it! come along in Polly! How well you do look to be sure! The children will go half wild to see you Polly, that they will.


Look! there’s a pretty little lady come to see you, and see how quiet she is! what a beautiful little lady, ain’t she? Oh do come in and sit down a minute, Susan, please. This is my sister Jemima, this is. Jemima, I don’t know what I should ever do with myself, if it wasn’t for Susan Nipper; I shouldn’t be here now but for her.


Oh do sit down, Miss Nipper, if you please. I never was so glad to see anybody in all my life; now really I never was, Miss Nipper. Do untie your bonnet-strings, and make yourself at home, Miss Nipper, please. I am afraid it’s a poorer place than you’re used to; but you’ll make allowances, I’m sure.


But where’s my pretty boy? My poor fellow? I came all this way to see him in his new clothes.


Ah what a pity! He’ll break his heart, when he hears his mother has been here. He’s at school, Polly. Gone already! Yes. He went for the first time yesterday, for fear he should lose any learning. But it’s half-holiday, Polly: if you could only stop till he comes home—you and Miss Nipper, leastways,


And how does he look, Jemima, bless him!


Well, really he don’t look so bad as you’d suppose,


Ah! I knew his legs must be too short.


His legs is short, especially behind; but they’ll get longer, Polly, every day.


And where’s Father, Jemima dear?


There again! What a pity! Father took his dinner with him this morning, and isn’t coming home till night. But he’s always talking of you, Polly, and telling the children about you; and is the peaceablest, patientest, best-temperedest soul in the world, as he always was and will be!


Thankee, Jemima,


Oh you needn’t thank me, Polly. I say the same of you sometimes, and think it too.


Do you think that we might make time to go a little round in that direction, Susan?


Why not, Mrs Richards?


It’s getting on towards our dinner time you know,


Susan! Susan! Oh, where are they? where are they?


Where are they? Why did you run away from ’em?


I was frightened. I didn’t know what I did. I thought they were with me. Where are they?


I’ll show you.


You needn’t be frightened now. Come along with me.


I—I don’t know you. What’s your name?


Mrs Brown,


Mrs Brown.


Are they near here?


Susan ain’t far off, and the others are close to her.


Is anybody hurt?


Not a bit of it. Good Mrs Brown.


Now don’t be a young mule. I’m not a going to hurt you. Sit upon the rags. I’m not a going to keep you, even, above an hour. D’ye understand what I say?


Yes.


Then, don’t vex me. If you don’t, I tell you I won’t hurt you. But if you do, I’ll kill you. I could have you killed at any time—even if you was in your own bed at home. Now let’s know who you are, and what you are, and all about it. So your name’s Dombey, eh? I want that pretty frock, Miss Dombey, and that little bonnet, and a petticoat or two, and anything else you can spare. Come! Take ’em off.


Humph! I don’t see anything else—except the shoes. I must have the shoes, Miss Dombey.


Why couldn’t you let me be! when I was contented? You little fool!


I beg your pardon. I don’t know what I have done. I couldn’t help it.


Couldn’t help it! How do you expect I can help it? Why, Lord!


anybody but me would have had ’em off, first of all.


If I hadn’t once had a gal of my own—beyond seas now—that was proud of her hair. I’d have had every lock of it. She’s far away, she’s far away! Oho! Oho!


Now then! We haven’t got anything for you, little girl. Be off!


If you please, is this the City?


Ah! It’s the City. You know that well enough, I daresay. Be off! We haven’t got anything for you.


I don’t want anything, thank you. Except to know the way to Dombey and Son’s.


Why, what can you want with Dombey and Son’s?


To know the way there, if you please.


Joe!


Joe it is!


Where’s that young spark of Dombey’s who’s been watching the shipment of them goods?


Just gone, by tt’other gate,


Call him back a minute. You’re Dombey’s jockey, ain’t you?


I’m in Dombey’s House, Mr Clark,


Look’ye here, then,


I am lost, if you please!


Lost!


Yes, I was lost this morning, a long way from here—and I have had my clothes taken away, since—and I am not dressed in my own now—and my name is Florence Dombey, my little brother’s only sister—and, oh dear, dear, take care of me, if you please!


Don’t cry, Miss Dombey. What a wonderful thing for me that I am here! You are as safe now as if you were guarded by a whole boat’s crew of picked men from a man-of-war. Oh, don’t cry.


I won’t cry any more. I am only crying for joy.


Crying for joy! and I’m the cause of it! Come along, Miss Dombey. There’s the other shoe off now! Take mine, Miss Dombey.


No, no, no. These do better. These do very well.


Why, to be sure, mine are a mile too large. What am I thinking about! You never could walk in mine! Come along, Miss Dombey. Let me see the villain who will dare molest you now.


Have we far to go?


Ah! By-the-bye, let me see; where are we? Oh! I know. But the offices are shut up now, Miss Dombey. There’s nobody there. Mr Dombey has gone home long ago. I suppose we must go home too? or, stay. Suppose I take you to my Uncle’s, where I live—it’s very near here—and go to your house in a coach to tell them you are safe, and bring you back some clothes. Won’t that be best?


I think so. Don’t you? What do you think?


Why, I think it’s Mr Carker. Carker in our House. Not Carker our Manager, Miss Dombey—the other Carker; the Junior—Halloa! Mr Carker!


Is that Walter Gay? I couldn’t believe it, with such a strange companion.


What do you advise, Mr Carker? You always give me good advice, you know, when you do speak to me. That’s not often, though.


I think your own idea is the best,


Mr Carker. Come! Here’s a chance for you. Go you to Mr Dombey’s, and be the messenger of good news. It may do you some good, Sir. I’ll remain at home. You shall go.


I!


Yes. Why not, Mr Carker? Come, Miss Dombey, we’ll go to my Uncle’s as quick as we can. Did you ever hear Mr Dombey speak of Mr Carker the Junior, Miss Florence?


No. I don’t often hear Papa speak.


Ah! true! more shame for him. The strangest man, Mr Carker the Junior is, Miss Florence, that ever you heard of. If you could understand what an extraordinary interest he takes in me, and yet how he shuns me and avoids me; and what a low place he holds in our office, and how he is never advanced, and never complains, though year after year he sees young men passed over his head, and though his brother (younger than he is), is our head Manager, you would be as much puzzled about him as I am.


Holloa, Uncle Sol! Here’s a wonderful adventure! Here’s Mr Dombey’s daughter lost in the streets, and robbed of her clothes by an old witch of a woman—found by me—brought home to our parlour to rest—look here!


Good Heaven! It can’t be! Well, I—


No, nor anybody else. Nobody would, nobody could, you know. Here! just help me lift the little sofa near the fire, will you, Uncle Sol—take care of the plates—cut some dinner for her, will you, Uncle—throw those shoes under the grate. Miss Florence—put your feet on the fender to dry—how damp they are—here’s an adventure, Uncle, eh?—God bless my soul, how hot I am!


Here, wait a minute, Uncle, till I run upstairs, and get another jacket on, and then I’ll be off. I say, Uncle, isn’t this an adventure?


My dear boy, it’s the most extraordinary—


No, but do, Uncle, please—do, Miss Florence—dinner, you know, Uncle.


Yes, yes, yes. I’ll take care of her, Wally! I understand. Pretty dear! Famished, of course. You go and get ready. Lord bless me! Sir Richard Whittington thrice Lord Mayor of London.


That’s capital! Now I’m off. I’ll just take a crust of bread with me, for I’m very hungry—and don’t wake her, Uncle Sol.


No, no. Pretty child.


Pretty, indeed! I never saw such a face, Uncle Sol. Now I’m off.


That’s right,


I say, Uncle Sol,


Here he is again,


How does she look now?


Quite happy,


That’s famous! now I’m off.


I hope you are,


Here he is again!


We met Mr Carker the Junior in the street, queerer than ever. He bade me good-bye, but came behind us here—there’s an odd thing!—for when we reached the shop door, I looked round, and saw him going quietly away, like a servant who had seen me home, or a faithful dog. How does she look now, Uncle?


Pretty much the same as before, Wally,


That’s right. Now I am off!


Oh! I beg your pardon, Sir, but I’m happy to say it’s all right, Sir. Miss Dombey’s found!


I told you, Louisa, that she would certainly be found. Let the servants know that no further steps are necessary. This boy who brings the information, is young Gay, from the office. How was my daughter found, Sir? I know how she was lost. But how was she found? Who found her?


Why, I believe I found Miss Dombey, Sir, at least I don’t know that I can claim the merit of having exactly found her, Sir, but I was the fortunate instrument of—


What do you mean, Sir, by not having exactly found my daughter, and by being a fortunate instrument? Be plain and coherent, if you please. You hear this, girl? Take what is necessary, and return immediately with this young man to fetch Miss Florence home. Gay, you will be rewarded to-morrow.


Oh! thank you, Sir. You are very kind. I’m sure I was not thinking of any reward, Sir.


You are a boy, and what you think of, or affect to think of, is of little consequence. You have done well, Sir. Don’t undo it. Louisa, please to give the lad some wine.


Good-night! You have been very good to me. Good-night, Walter! Good-bye!


Good-bye!


I’ll never forget you. No! indeed I never will. Good-bye, Walter! Where’s Walter? Good-night, Walter! Good-bye, Walter! Shake hands once more, Walter!


for Mrs Richards. Mrs Richards


kissed her once upon the forehead, and cautioned her not to run away again, or wander anywhere with treacherous attendants.


Ah, Richards! It would have been much more satisfactory to those who wish to think well of their fellow creatures, and much more becoming in you, if you had shown some proper feeling, in time, for the little child that is now going to be prematurely deprived of its natural nourishment.


Cut off, from one common fountain!


If it was my ungrateful case, and I had your reflections, Richards, I should feel as if the Charitable Grinders’ dress would blight my child, and the education choke him.


Louisa! It is not necessary to prolong these observations. The woman is discharged and paid. You leave this house, Richards, for taking my son—my son, into haunts and into society which are not to be thought of without a shudder. As to the accident which befel Miss Florence this morning, I regard that as, in one great sense, a happy and fortunate circumstance; inasmuch as, but for that occurrence, I never could have known—and from your own lips too—of what you had been guilty. I think, Louisa, the other nurse, the young person, being so much younger, and necessarily influenced by Paul’s nurse, may remain. Have the goodness to direct that this woman’s coach is paid to to Staggs’s Gardens.


something so truly military; native,


Joey B., Sir, is worth a dozen of you. If you had a few more of the Bagstock breed among you, Sir, you’d be none the worse for it. Old Joe, Sir, needn’t look far for a wife even now, if he was on the look-out; but he’s hard-hearted, Sir, is Joe—he’s tough, Sir, tough, and de-vilish sly!


Good morning, Ma’am,


Good morning, Sir,


Joe Bagstock, Ma’am, has not had the happiness of bowing to you at your window, for a considerable period. Joe has been hardly used, Ma’am. His sun has been behind a cloud. Joe’s luminary has been out of town, Ma’am, perhaps,


I? out of town? oh no, I have not been out of town. I have been much engaged lately. My time is nearly all devoted to some very intimate friends. I am afraid I have none to spare, even now. Good morning, Sir!


Why, damme, Sir, six months ago, the woman loved the ground Josh Bagstock walked on. What’s the meaning of it? But you won’t catch Joe, Ma’am. He’s tough, Ma’am, tough, is J.B. Tough, and de-vilish sly!


It’s a Baby, Sir, for fifty thousand pounds!


You’ll quite win my brother Paul’s heart, and that’s the truth, my dear. He grows more like Paul every day,


His mother, my dear, whose acquaintance I was to have made through you, does he at all resemble her?


Not at all,


She was—she was pretty, I believe?


Why, poor dear Fanny was interesting. Certainly interesting. She had not that air of commanding superiority which one would somehow expect, almost as a matter of course, to find in my brother’s wife; nor had she that strength and vigour of mind which such a man requires. But she was pleasing: extremely so. And she meant!—oh, dear, how well poor Fanny meant!


You Angel! You Picture of your own Papa!


Papa! what’s money?


What is money, Paul? Money?


Yes, what is money?


Gold, and silver, and copper. Guineas, shillings, half-pence. You know what they are?


Oh yes, I know what they are. I don’t mean that, Papa. I mean what’s money after all?


What is money after all!


I mean, Papa, what can it do?


You’ll know better by-and-by, my man. Money, Paul, can do anything.


Anything, Papa?


Yes. Anything—almost,


Anything means everything, don’t it, Papa?


It includes it: yes,


Why didn’t money save me my Mama? It isn’t cruel, is it?


Cruel! No. A good thing can’t be cruel.


If it’s a good thing, and can do anything. I wonder why it didn’t save me my Mama.


It can’t make me strong and quite well, either, Papa; can it?


Why, you are strong and quite well. Are you not? You are as strong and well as such little people usually are? Eh?


Florence is older than I am, but I’m not as strong and well as Florence. I know, and I believe that when Florence was as little as me, she could play a great deal longer at a time without tiring herself. I am so tired sometimes, and my bones ache so (Wickam says it’s my bones), that I don’t know what to do.


Ay! But that’s at night, little people should be tired at night, for then they sleep well.


Oh, it’s not at night, Papa, it’s in the day; and I lie down in Florence’s lap, and she sings to me. At night I dream about such cu-ri-ous things!


I want Florence to come for me,


Won’t you come with your poor Nurse Wickam, Master Paul?


No, I won’t,


For the child is hardly, as stout as I could wish.


My dear Paul, with your usual happy discrimination, which I am weak enough to envy you, every time I am in your company; and so I think is Miss Tox.


Oh my dear! how could it be otherwise? Presumptuous as it is to aspire to such a level; still, if the bird of night may—but I’ll not trouble Mr Dombey with the sentiment. It merely relates to the Bulbul.


With your usual happy discrimination, my dear Paul, you have hit the point at once. Our darling is altogether as stout as we could wish. The fact is, that his mind is too much for him. His soul is a great deal too large for his frame. I am sure the way in which that dear child talks! no one would believe. His expressions, Lucretia, only yesterday upon the subject of Funerals!


I am afraid, that some of those persons upstairs suggest improper subjects to the child. He was speaking to me last night about his—about his Bones. What on earth has anybody to do with the—with the—Bones of my son? He is not a living skeleton, I suppose.


Very far from it,


I hope so. Funerals again! who talks to the child of funerals? We are not undertakers, or mutes, or grave-diggers, I believe.


Then who puts such things into his head? Really I was quite dismayed and shocked last night. Who puts such things into his head, Louisa?


My dear Paul, it is of no use inquiring. I do not think, I will tell you candidly that Wickam is a person of very cheerful spirit, or what one would call a—


A daughter of Momus,


Exactly so, but she is exceedingly attentive and useful, and not at all presumptuous; indeed I never saw a more biddable woman. I would say that for her, if I was put upon my trial before a Court of Justice.


Well! you are not put upon your trial before a Court of Justice, at present, Louisa, and therefore it don’t matter.


My dear Paul. I must be spoken to kindly, or there is an end of me,


I was inquiring, Louisa, about Paul’s health and actual state.


If the dear child, is a little weakened by that last attack, and is not in quite such vigorous health as we could wish; and if he has some temporary weakness in his system, and does occasionally seem about to lose, for the moment, the use of his—


members.


Members!


I think the medical gentleman mentioned legs this morning, my dear Louisa, did he not?


Why, of course he did, my love. How can you ask me? You heard him. I say, if our dear Paul should lose, for the moment, the use of his legs, these are casualties common to many children at his time of life, and not to be prevented by any care or caution. The sooner you understand that, Paul, and admit that, the better. If you have any doubt as to the amount of care, and caution, and affection, and self-sacrifice, that has been bestowed upon little Paul, I should wish to refer the question to your medical attendant, or to any of your dependants in this house. Call Towlinson. I believe he has no prejudice in our favour; quite the contrary. I should wish to hear what accusation Towlinson can make!


Surely you must know, Louisa,


I am glad to hear it, Paul, but really you are very odd, and sometimes talk very strangely, though without meaning it, I know. If your dear boy’s soul is too much for his body, Paul, you should remember whose fault that is—who he takes after, I mean—and make the best of it. He’s as like his Papa as he can be. People have noticed it in the streets. The very beadle, I am informed, observed it, so long ago as at his christening. He’s a very respectable man, with children of his own. He ought to know.


Mr Pilkins saw Paul this morning, I believe?


Yes, he did. Miss Tox and myself were present. Miss Tox and myself are always present. We make a point of it. Mr Pilkins has seen him for some days past, and a very clever man I believe him to be. He says it is nothing to speak of; which I can confirm, if that is any consolation; but he recommended, today, sea-air. Very wisely, Paul, I feel convinced.


Sea-air,


There is nothing to be made uneasy by, in that. My George and Frederick were both ordered sea-air, when they were about his age; and I have been ordered it myself a great many times. I quite agree with you, Paul, that perhaps topics may be incautiously mentioned upstairs before him, which it would be as well for his little mind not to expatiate upon; but I really don’t see how that is to be helped, in the case of a child of his quickness. If he were a common child, there would be nothing in it. I must say I think, with Miss Tox, that a short absence from this house, the air of Brighton, and the bodily and mental training of so judicious a person as Mrs Pipchin for instance—


Who is Mrs Pipchin, Louisa?


Mrs Pipchin, my dear Paul, is an elderly lady—Miss Tox knows her whole history—who has for some time devoted all the energies of her mind, with the greatest success, to the study and treatment of infancy, and who has been extremely well connected. Her husband broke his heart in—how did you say her husband broke his heart, my dear? I forget the precise circumstances.


In pumping water out of the Peruvian Mines,


Not being a Pumper himself, of course, but having invested money in the speculation, which failed. I believe that Mrs Pipchin’s management of children is quite astonishing. I have heard it commended in private circles ever since I was—dear me—how high!


Perhaps I should say of Mrs Pipchin, my dear Sir, having been so pointedly referred to, that the encomium which has been passed upon her by your sweet sister is well merited. Many ladies and gentleman, now grown up to be interesting members of society, have been indebted to her care. The humble individual who addresses you was once under her charge. I believe juvenile nobility itself is no stranger to her establishment.


Do I understand that this respectable matron keeps an establishment, Miss Tox?


Why, I really don’t know, whether I am justified in calling it so. It is not a Preparatory School by any means. Should I express my meaning, if I designated it an infantine Boarding-House of a very select description?


On an exceedingly limited and particular scale,


Oh! Exclusion itself!


Supposing we should decide, on to-morrow’s inquiries, to send Paul down to Brighton to this lady, who would go with him?


I don’t think you could send the child anywhere at present without Florence, my dear Paul. It’s quite an infatuation with him. He’s very young, you know, and has his fancies.


Anybody else, Louisa?


Wickam, of course. Wickam would be quite sufficient, I should say. Paul being in such hands as Mrs Pipchin’s, you could hardly send anybody who would be a further check upon her. You would go down yourself once a week at least, of course.


Of course,


Well, Sir, how do you think you shall like me?


I don’t think I shall like you at all. I want to go away. This isn’t my house.


No. It’s mine,


It’s a very nasty one,


There’s a worse place in it than this though, where we shut up our bad boys.


Has he ever been in it?


a smell of building;


You,


And what are you thinking about me?


I’m thinking how old you must be,


You mustn’t say such things as that, young gentleman. That’ll never do.


Why not?


Because it’s not polite,


Not polite?


No.


It’s not polite, to eat all the mutton chops and toast


Wickam, is a wicked, impudent, bold-faced hussy.


What’s that?


Never you mind, Sir. Remember the story of the little boy that was gored to death by a mad bull for asking questions.


If the bull was mad, how did he know that the boy had asked questions? Nobody can go and whisper secrets to a mad bull. I don’t believe that story.


You don’t believe it, Sir?


No,


Not if it should happen to have been a tame bull, you little Infidel?


What a pretty fellow he is when he’s asleep!


Ah! He need be.


Why, he’s not ugly when he’s awake,


No, Ma’am. Oh, no. No more was my Uncle’s Betsey Jane. My Uncle’s wife, died just like his Mama. My Uncle’s child took on just as Master Paul do.


Took on! You don’t think he grieves for his Mama, sure? He can’t remember anything about her, you know, Mrs Wickam. It’s not possible.


No, Ma’am. No more did my Uncle’s child. But my Uncle’s child said very strange things sometimes, and looked very strange, and went on very strange, and was very strange altogether. My Uncle’s child made people’s blood run cold, some times, she did!


How?


I wouldn’t have sat up all night alone with Betsey Jane! not if you’d have put Wickam into business next morning for himself. I couldn’t have done it, Miss Berry. Betsey Jane, was as sweet a child as I could wish to see. I couldn’t wish to see a sweeter. Everything that a child could have in the way of illnesses, Betsey Jane had come through. The cramps was as common to her, as biles is to yourself, Miss Berry. But Betsey Jane, had been minded, in her cradle, by her departed mother. I couldn’t say how, nor I couldn’t say when, nor I couldn’t say whether the dear child knew it or not, but Betsey Jane had been watched by her mother, Miss Berry!


Nonsense!


You may say nonsense! I ain’t offended, Miss. I hope you may be able to think in your own conscience that it is nonsense; you’ll find your spirits all the better for it in this—you’ll excuse my being so free—in this burying-ground of a place; which is wearing of me down. Master Paul’s a little restless in his sleep. Pat his back, if you please.


Of course you think, that he has been nursed by his mother, too?


Betsey Jane, was put upon as that child has been put upon, and changed as that child has changed. I have seen her sit, often and often, think, think, thinking, like him. I have seen her look, often and often, old, old, old, like him. I have heard her, many a time, talk just like him. I consider that child and Betsey Jane on the same footing entirely, Miss Berry.


Is your Uncle’s child alive?


Yes, Miss, she is alive, and is married to a silver-chaser. Oh yes, Miss, SHE is alive. I wouldn’t wish to make you uneasy. Don’t ask me. She took fancies to people; whimsical fancies, some of them; others, affections that one might expect to see—only stronger than common. They all died. Remember my words, Miss Berry, and be thankful that Master Paul is not too fond of you. I am, that he’s not too fond of me, I assure you; though there isn’t much to live for—you’ll excuse my being so free—in this jail of a house!


He’s asleep now, my dear, you’d better go to bed again. Don’t you feel cold?


No, nurse. Not at all.


Ah! we shall be cold enough, some of us, by and by!


Good-night, Miss! Good-night! Your aunt is an old lady, Miss Berry, and it’s what you must have looked for, often.


Go away, if you please. Thank you, but I don’t want you. I am very well, I thank you. But you had better go and play, if you please. We don’t want any others, do we? Kiss me, Floy. Floy, where’s India, where that boy’s friends live?


Oh, it’s a long, long distance off,


Weeks off?


Yes dear. Many weeks’ journey, night and day.


If you were in India, Floy. I should—what is it that Mama did? I forget.


Loved me!


No, no. Don’t I love you now, Floy? What is it?—Died. If you were in India, I should die, Floy. Oh! I am a great deal better now! I don’t mean that. I mean that I should die of being so sorry and so lonely, Floy! I want to know what it says. The sea” Floy, what is it that it keeps on saying? Yes, yes. But I know that they are always saying something. Always the same thing. What place is over there? I don’t mean that: he meant further away—farther away!


Uncle Sol. I don’t think you’re well. You haven’t eaten any breakfast. I shall bring a doctor to you, if you go on like this.


He can’t give me what I want, my boy. At least he is in good practice if he can—and then he wouldn’t.


What is it, Uncle? Customers?


Ay. Customers would do.


Confound it, Uncle! when I see the people going up and down the street in shoals all day, and passing and re-passing the shop every minute, by scores, I feel half tempted to rush out, collar somebody, bring him in, and make him buy fifty pounds’ worth of instruments for ready money. What are you looking in at the door for?— That’s no use. I could do that. Come in and buy it! There he goes! That’s the way with ’em all. But, Uncle—I say, Uncle Sol Don’t be cast down. Don’t be out of spirits, Uncle. When orders do come, they’ll come in such a crowd, you won’t be able to execute ’em.


I shall be past executing ’em, whenever they come, my boy. They’ll never come to this shop again, till I am out of t.


I say, Uncle! You musn’t really, you know! Don’t! There’s nothing more than usual the matter; is there, Uncle? Be open with me, Uncle, if there is, and tell me all about it.


No, no, no. More than usual? No, no. What should there be the matter more than usual?


That’s what I want to know, and you ask me! I’ll tell you what, Uncle, when I see you like this, I am quite sorry that I live with you. Yes. Though nobody ever was happier than I am and always have been with you, I am quite sorry that I live with you, when I see you with anything in your mind.


I am a little dull at such times, I know,


What I mean, Uncle Sol. What I mean, Uncle Sol, is, that then I feel you ought to have, sitting here and pouring out the tea instead of me, a nice little dumpling of a wife, you know,—a comfortable, capital, cosy old lady, who was just a match for you, and knew how to manage you, and keep you in good heart. Here am I, as loving a nephew as ever was (I am sure I ought to be!) but I am only a nephew, and I can’t be such a companion to you when you’re low and out of sorts as she would have made herself, years ago, though I’m sure I’d give any money if I could cheer you up. And so I say, when I see you with anything on your mind, that I feel quite sorry you haven’t got somebody better about you than a blundering young rough-and-tough boy like me, who has got the will to console you, Uncle, but hasn’t got the way—hasn’t got the way,


Wally, my dear boy, if the cosy little old lady had taken her place in this parlour five and forty years ago, I never could have been fonder of her than I am of you.


I know that, Uncle Sol. Lord bless you, I know that. But you wouldn’t have had the whole weight of any uncomfortable secrets if she had been with you, because she would have known how to relieve you of ’em, and I don’t.


Yes, yes, you do,


Well then, what’s the matter, Uncle Sol? Come! What’s the matter? All I can say is, Uncle Sol, that if there is—


But there isn’t,


Very well. Then I’ve no more to say; and that’s lucky, for my time’s up for going to business. I shall look in by-and-by when I’m out, to see how you get on, Uncle. And mind, Uncle! I’ll never believe you again, and never tell you anything more about Mr Carker the Junior, if I find out that you have been deceiving me!


Well, Uncle Sol! How are you now? Is there anything the matter?


No, no. There’s nothing the matter. Don’t let it put you out of the way. The fact is, there’s a little payment on a bond debt —three hundred and seventy odd, overdue: and I’m in possession.


In possession!


Ah! It’s an execution. That’s what it is. Don’t let it put you out of the way. I come myself, because of keeping it quiet and sociable. You know me. It’s quite private.


Uncle Sol!


Wally, my boy. It’s the first time. Such a calamity never happened to me before. I’m an old man to begin.


Uncle Sol! Pray! oh don’t! For God’s sake don’t do that. Mr Brogley, what shall I do?


I should recommend you looking up a friend or so, and talking it over.


To be sure! Certainly! Thankee. Captain Cuttle’s the man, Uncle. Wait till I run to Captain Cuttle. Keep your eye upon my Uncle, will you, Mr Brogley, and make him as comfortable as you can while I am gone? Don’t despair, Uncle Sol. Try and keep a good heart, there’s a dear fellow!


Wal”r, my lad! Stand by and knock again. Hard! It’s washing day. Hard it is!


Captain Cuttle’s at home, I know,


Is he? In-deed!


He has just been speaking to me,


Has he? Then p’raps you’ll give him Mrs MacStinger’s respects, and say that the next time he lowers himself and his lodgings by talking out of the winder she’ll thank him to come down and open the door too.


I’ll mention it, if you’ll have the goodness to let me in, Ma’am.


A boy that can knock my door down, can get over that, I should hope!


Never owed her a penny, Wal”r. Done her a world of good turns, and the children too. Vixen at times, though. Whew!


I should go away, Captain Cuttle,


Dursn’t do it, Wal”r. She’d find me out, wherever I went. Sit down. How’s Gills?


How’s Gills?


Oh, Captain Cuttle!


Wal”r, go afore, my lad. Sing out, ‘good-bye, Captain Cuttle,’ when you’re in the passage, and shut the door. Then wait at the corner of the street “till you see me.


Uncle much hove down, Wal”r?


I am afraid so. If you had seen him this morning, you would never have forgotten it.


Walk fast, Wal”r, my lad, and walk the same all the days of your life. Overhaul the catechism for that advice, and keep it! Gills! Lay your head well to the wind, and we’ll fight through it. All you’ve got to do, is to lay your head well to the wind, and we’ll fight through it! what the damage was. Come! What do you make of it?


Why, Lord help you! you don’t suppose that property’s of any use, do you?


Why not?


Why? The amount’s three hundred and seventy, odd,


Never mind, all’s fish that comes to your net, I suppose?


Certainly. But sprats ain’t whales, you know.


Gills, what’s the bearings of this business? Who’s the creditor?


Hush! Come away. Don’t speak before Wally. It’s a matter of security for Wally’s father—an old bond. I’ve paid a good deal of it, Ned, but the times are so bad with me that I can’t do more just now. I’ve foreseen it, but I couldn’t help it. Not a word before Wally, for all the world.


You’ve got some money, haven’t you?


Yes, yes—oh yes—I’ve got some,


but I—the little I have got, isn’t convertible, Ned; it can’t be got at. I have been trying to do something with it for Wally, and I’m old fashioned, and behind the time. It’s here and there, and—and, in short, it’s as good as nowhere,


I’m behind the time altogether, my dear Ned, a long way. It’s no use my lagging on so far behind it. The stock had better be sold—it’s worth more than this debt—and I had better go and die somewhere, on the balance. I haven’t any energy left. I don’t understand things. This had better be the end of it. Let ’em sell the stock and take him down,


and let us both be broken up together.


And what d’ye mean to do with Wal”r? There, there! Sit ye down, Gills, sit ye down, and let me think o’ this. If I warn’t a man on a small annuity, that was large enough till today, I hadn’t need to think of it. But you only lay your head well to the wind, and you’re all right!


Wal”r! I’ve got it.


Have you, Captain Cuttle?


Come this way, my lad. The stock’s the security. I’m another. Your governor’s the man to advance money.


Mr Dombey!


Look at him. Look at Gills. If they was to sell off these things now, he’d die of it. You know he would. We mustn’t leave a stone unturned—and there’s a stone for you.


A stone!—Mr Dombey!


You run round to the office, first of all, and see if he’s there. Quick! I tell you what, Wal”r! We’ll go to Brighton. I’ll back you, my boy. I’ll back you, Wal”r. We’ll go to Brighton by the afternoon’s coach.


which


has been fifty to one in favour of Joey B., Sir, ever since his elder brother died of Yellow Jack in the West Indies.


Would you, Ma’am, would you! Would you give Joey B. the go-by, Ma’am? Not yet, Ma’am, not yet! Damme, not yet, Sir. Joe is awake, Ma’am. Bagstock is alive, Sir. J. B. knows a move or two, Ma’am. Josh has his weather-eye open, Sir. You’ll find him tough, Ma’am. Tough, Sir, tough is Joseph. Tough, and de-vilish sly!


But my little friend here, Sir, makes a boy of me again: An old soldier, Sir—Major Bagstock, at your service—is not ashamed to confess it. Damme, Sir. I envy you. Excuse my freedom. An old campaigner, Sir, a smoke-dried, sun-burnt, used-up, invalided old dog of a Major, Sir, was not afraid of being condemned for his whim by a man like Mr Dombey. I have the honour of addressing Mr Dombey, I believe?


I am the present unworthy representative of that name, Major,


By G—, Sir! it’s a great name. It’s a name, Sir, that is known and honoured in the British possessions abroad. It is a name, Sir, that a man is proud to recognise. There is nothing adulatory in Joseph Bagstock, Sir. His Royal Highness the Duke of York observed on more than one occasion, ‘there is no adulation in Joey. He is a plain old soldier is Joe. He is tough to a fault is Joseph:’ but it’s a great name, Sir. By the Lord, it’s a great name!


You are good enough to rate it higher than it deserves, perhaps, Major,


No, Sir. No, Mr Dombey, let us understand each other. That is not the Bagstock vein, Sir. You don’t know Joseph B. He is a blunt old blade is Josh. No flattery in him, Sir. Nothing like it. My little friend here, Sir, will certify for Joseph Bagstock that he is a thorough-going, down-right, plain-spoken, old Trump, Sir, and nothing more. That boy, Sir, will live in history. That boy, Sir, is not a common production. Take care of him, Mr Dombey. Here is a boy here, Sir. Son of Bitherstone of Bengal. Bill Bitherstone formerly of ours. That boy’s father and myself, Sir, were sworn friends. Wherever you went, Sir, you heard of nothing but Bill Bitherstone and Joe Bagstock. Am I blind to that boy’s defects? By no means. He’s a fool, Sir.


Really?


That is what he is, sir. He’s a fool. Joe Bagstock never minces matters. The son of my old friend Bill Bitherstone, of Bengal, is a born fool, Sir. My little friend is destined for a public school, I presume, Mr Dombey?


I am not quite decided. I think not. He is delicate.


If he’s delicate, Sir, you are right. None but the tough fellows could live through it, Sir, at Sandhurst. We put each other to the torture there, Sir. We roasted the new fellows at a slow fire, and hung ’em out of a three pair of stairs window, with their heads downwards. Joseph Bagstock, Sir, was held out of the window by the heels of his boots, for thirteen minutes by the college clock. But it made us what we were, Sir. We were iron, Sir, and it forged us. Are you remaining here, Mr Dombey?


I generally come down once a week, Major. I stay at the Bedford.


I shall have the honour of calling at the Bedford, Sir, if you’ll permit me. Joey B., Sir, is not in general a calling man, but Mr Dombey’s is not a common name. I am much indebted to my little friend, Sir, for the honour of this introduction. and the oldsters too, Sir, if you come to that,


My dearest Louisa, if I should seem at all reserved to Major Bagstock, or under any constraint with him, promise me not to notice it.


My dear Lucretia, what mystery is involved in this remarkable request? I must insist upon knowing.


Since you are resolved to extort a confession from me, Louisa. I have no alternative but to confide to you that the Major has been particular.


Particular!


The Major has long been very particular indeed, my love, in his attentions, occasionally they have been so very marked, that my position has been one of no common difficulty.


Is he in good circumstances?


I have every reason to believe, my dear—indeed I may say I know, that he is wealthy. He is truly military, and full of anecdote. I have been informed that his valour, when he was in active service, knew no bounds. I am told that he did all sorts of things in the Peninsula, with every description of fire-arm; and in the East and West Indies, my love, I really couldn’t undertake to say what he did not do.


Very creditable to him indeed, extremely so; and you have given him no encouragement, my dear?


If I were to say, Louisa, that I never encouraged Major Bagstock slightly, I should not do justice to the friendship which exists between you and me. It is, perhaps, hardly in the nature of woman to receive such attentions as the Major once lavished upon myself without betraying some sense of obligation. But that is past—long past. Between the Major and me there is now a yawning chasm, and I will not feign to give encouragement, Louisa, where I cannot give my heart. My affections, but, Louisa, this is madness!


Your family monopolises Joe’s light, Sir. Joe lives in darkness. Princess’s Place is changed into Kamschatka in the winter time. There is no ray of sun, Sir, for Joey B., now.


Miss Tox is good enough to take a great deal of interest in Paul, Major,


Damme Sir. I’m jealous of my little friend. I’m pining away Sir. The Bagstock breed is degenerating in the forsaken person of old Joe.


Sly, Sir—sly, Sir—de-vil-ish sly!


Would you, Ma’am, would you? Mrs Dombey, eh, Ma’am? I think not, Ma’am. Not while Joe B. can put a spoke in your wheel, Ma’am. J. B.“s even with you now, Ma’am. He isn’t altogether bowled out, yet, Sir, isn’t Bagstock. She’s deep, Sir, deep, but Josh is deeper. Wide awake is old Joe—broad awake, and staring, Sir!


Papa! Papa! Here’s Walter! and he won’t come in.


Who? What does she mean? What is this?


Walter, Papa! Who found me when I was lost.


Does she mean young Gay, Louisa? Really, this child’s manners have become very boisterous. She cannot mean young Gay, I think. See what it is, will you? Tell the boy to come in now. Now, Gay, what is the matter? Who sent you down here? Was there nobody else to come?


I beg your pardon, Sir. I have not been sent. I have been so bold as to come on my own account, which I hope you’ll pardon when I mention the cause.


What’s that? Who is that? I think you have made some mistake in the door, Sir.


Oh, I’m very sorry to intrude with anyone, Sir, but this is—this is Captain Cuttle, Sir.


Wal”r, my lad, stand by!


Now, Gay. What have you got to say to me?


Wal”r, standby!


I am afraid, Sir, that I take a very great liberty in coming—indeed, I am sure I do. I should hardly have had the courage to ask to see you, Sir, even after coming down, I am afraid, if I had not overtaken Miss Dombey, and—


Well! Go on, if you please.


Ay, ay. Well said! Go on, Wal”r.


It is entirely a private and personal matter, that has brought me here, Sir, and Captain Cuttle—


Here!


Who is a very old friend of my poor Uncle’s, and a most excellent man, Sir, was so good as to offer to come with me, which I could hardly refuse.


No, no, no; Of course not. No call for refusing. Go on, Wal”r.


And therefore, Sir, therefore I have come, with him, Sir, to say that my poor old Uncle is in very great affliction and distress. That, through the gradual loss of his business, and not being able to make a payment, the apprehension of which has weighed very heavily upon his mind, months and months, as indeed I know, Sir, he has an execution in his house, and is in danger of losing all he has, and breaking his heart. And that if you would, in your kindness, and in your old knowledge of him as a respectable man, do anything to help him out of his difficulty, Sir, we never could thank you enough for it. It is a very large sum, Sir. More than three hundred pounds. My Uncle is quite beaten down by his misfortune, it lies so heavy on him; and is quite unable to do anything for his own relief. He doesn’t even know yet, that I have come to speak to you. You would wish me to say, Sir, exactly what it is I want. I really don’t know, Sir. There is my Uncle’s stock, on which I believe I may say, confidently, there are no other demands, and there is Captain Cuttle, who would wish to be security too. I—I hardly like to mention, such earnings as mine; but if you would allow them—accumulate—payment—advance—Uncle—frugal, honourable, old man.


Half a loaf’s better than no bread, and the same remark holds good with crumbs. There’s a few. Annuity of one hundred pound premium also ready to be made over. If there is a man chock full of science in the world, it’s old Sol Gills. If there is a lad of promise—one flowing, with milk and honey—it’s his nevy!


What was this debt contracted for? Who is the creditor?


He don’t know. I do. It came of helping a man that’s dead now, and that’s cost my friend Gills many a hundred pound already. More particulars in private, if agreeable.


People who have enough to do to hold their own way, had better be content with their own obligations and difficulties, and not increase them by engaging for other men. It is an act of dishonesty and presumption, too, great presumption; for the wealthy could do no more. Paul, come here! If you had money now— Look at me! If you had money now, as much money as young Gay has talked about; what would you do?


Give it to his old Uncle,


Lend it to his old Uncle, eh? Well! When you are old enough, you know, you will share my money, and we shall use it together.


Dombey and Son,


Dombey and Son. Would you like to begin to be Dombey and Son, now, and lend this money to young Gay’s Uncle?


Oh! if you please, Papa! and so would Florence.


Girls, have nothing to do with Dombey and Son. Would you like it?


Yes, Papa, yes!


Then you shall do it. Then you shall do it. And you see, Paul, how powerful money is, and how anxious people are to get it. Young Gay comes all this way to beg for money, and you, who are so grand and great, having got it, are going to let him have it, as a great favour and obligation.


Give that, the first thing to-morrow morning, to Mr Carker. He will immediately take care that one of my people releases your Uncle from his present position, by paying the amount at issue; and that such arrangements are made for its repayment as may be consistent with your Uncle’s circumstances. You will consider that this is done for you by Master Paul. You will consider that it is done by Master Paul. I have explained that to him, and he understands it. I wish no more to be said.


My dear Sir, I think you have overlooked something. Pardon me, Mr Dombey, I think, in the nobility of your character, and its exalted scope, you have omitted a matter of detail.


Indeed, Miss Tox!


The gentleman with the—Instrument has left upon the table, at your elbow—


Good Heaven! Take these things away. I am obliged to you, Miss Tox; it is like your usual discretion. Have the goodness to take these things away, Sir!


Will you never be a Dombey, my dear child!


Dear aunt. Don’t be angry with me. I am so thankful to Papa!


Damme, Sir, he’s a prince, is my friend Dombey in the City. I tell you what, Sir. If you had a few more men among you like old Joe Bagstock and my friend Dombey in the City, Sir, you’d do!


I hope, Miss Berry, that you’ll come into whatever little property there may be to leave. You deserve it, I am sure, for yours is a trying life. Though there don’t seem much worth coming into—you’ll excuse my being so open—in this dismal den.


Berry’s very fond of you, ain’t she?


Yes,


Why?


Why! How can you ask such things, Sir! why are you fond of your sister Florence?


Because she’s very good. There’s nobody like Florence.


Well! and there’s nobody like me, I suppose.


Ain’t there really though?


No,


I am glad of that. That’s a very good thing.


Mrs Pipchin. How do you do?


Thank you, Sir. I am pretty well, considering. I can’t expect, Sir, to be very well, but such health as I have, I am grateful for.


Mrs Pipchin, I have taken the liberty of calling, to consult you in reference to my son. I have had it in my mind to do so for some time past; but have deferred it from time to time, in order that his health might be thoroughly re-established. You have no misgivings on that subject, Mrs Pipchin?


Brighton has proved very beneficial, Sir. Very beneficial, indeed.


I purpose, his remaining at Brighton. But, but possibly that he should now make a change, and lead a different kind of life here. In short, Mrs Pipchin, that is the object of my visit. My son is getting on, Mrs Pipchin. Really, he is getting on. Six years old! Dear me, six will be changed to sixteen, before we have time to look about us.


Ten years, is a long time.


It depends on circumstances, at all events, Mrs Pipchin, my son is six years old, and there is no doubt, I fear, that in his studies he is behind many children of his age—or his youth, his youth is a more appropriate expression. Now, Mrs Pipchin, instead of being behind his peers, my son ought to be before them; far before them. There is an eminence ready for him to mount upon. There is nothing of chance or doubt in the course before my son. His way in life was clear and prepared, and marked out before he existed. The education of such a young gentleman must not be delayed. It must not be left imperfect. It must be very steadily and seriously undertaken, Mrs Pipchin.


Well, Sir. I can say nothing to the contrary.


I was quite sure, Mrs Pipchin, that a person of your good sense could not, and would not.


There is a great deal of nonsense—and worse—talked about young people not being pressed too hard at first, and being tempted on, and all the rest of it, Sir. It never was thought of in my time, and it has no business to be thought of now. My opinion is ‘keep ’em at it’.


My good madam, you have not acquired your reputation undeservedly; and I beg you to believe, Mrs Pipchin, that I am more than satisfied with your excellent system of management, and shall have the greatest pleasure in commending it whenever my poor commendation— can be of any service. I have been thinking of Doctor Blimber’s, Mrs Pipchin.


My neighbour, Sir? I believe the Doctor’s is an excellent establishment. I’ve heard that it’s very strictly conducted, and there is nothing but learning going on from morning to night.


And it’s very expensive,


And it’s very expensive, Sir,