At least it was natural, that you should deem it quite possible to live with Mr Dombey as his wife, at once without submitting to him, and without coming into such violent collision with him. But, Madam, you did not know Mr Dombey (as you have since ascertained), when you thought that. You did not know how exacting and how proud he is, or how he is, if I may say so, the slave of his own greatness, and goes yoked to his own triumphal car like a beast of burden, with no idea on earth but that it is behind him and is to be drawn on, over everything and through everything. Mr Dombey is really capable of no more true consideration for you, Madam, than for me. The comparison is an extreme one; I intend it to be so; but quite just. Mr Dombey, in the plenitude of his power, asked me—I had it from his own lips yesterday morning—to be his go-between to you, because he knows I am not agreeable to you, and because he intends that I shall be a punishment for your contumacy; and besides that, because he really does consider, that I, his paid servant, am an ambassador whom it is derogatory to the dignity—not of the lady to whom I have the happiness of speaking; she has no existence in his mind—but of his wife, a part of himself, to receive. You may imagine how regardless of me, how obtuse to the possibility of my having any individual sentiment or opinion he is, when he tells me, openly, that I am so employed. You know how perfectly indifferent to your feelings he is, when he threatens you with such a messenger. As you, of course, have not forgotten that he did. I do not recall all this to widen the breach between yourself and Mr Dombey, Madam—Heaven forbid! what would it profit me?—but as an example of the hopelessness of impressing Mr Dombey with a sense that anybody is to be considered when he is in question. We who are about him, have, in our various positions, done our part, I daresay, to confirm him in his way of thinking; but if we had not done so, others would—or they would not have been about him; and it has always been, from the beginning, the very staple of his life. Mr Dombey has had to deal, in short, with none but submissive and dependent persons, who have bowed the knee, and bent the neck, before him. He has never known what it is to have angry pride and strong resentment opposed to him. Mr Dombey, though a most honourable gentleman, is so prone to pervert even facts to his own view, when he is at all opposed, in consequence of the warp in his mind, that he—can I give a better instance than this!—he sincerely believes (you will excuse the folly of what I am about to say; it not being mine) that his severe expression of opinion to his present wife, on a certain special occasion she may remember, before the lamented death of Mrs Skewton, produced a withering effect, and for the moment quite subdued her! Madam. I have done with this. Your own opinions are so strong, and, I am persuaded, so unalterable, that I am almost afraid to incur your displeasure anew, when I say that in spite of these defects and my full knowledge of them, I have become habituated to Mr Dombey, and esteem him. But when I say so, it is not, believe me, for the mere sake of vaunting a feeling that is so utterly at variance with your own, and for which you can have no sympathy but to give you an assurance of the zeal with which, in this unhappy matter, I am yours, and the indignation with which I regard the part I am to fill! It is growing late, and you are, as you said, fatigued. But the second object of this interview, I must not forget. I must recommend you, I must entreat you in the most earnest manner, for sufficient reasons that I have, to be cautious in your demonstrations of regard for Miss Dombey.


Cautious! What do you mean?


To be careful how you exhibit too much affection for that young lady.


Too much affection, Sir! Who judges my affection, or measures it out? You?


It is not I who do so.


Who then?


Can you not guess who then?


I do not choose to guess,


Madam. I am in a difficulty here. You have told me you will receive no message, and you have forbidden me to return to that subject; but the two subjects are so closely entwined, I find, that unless you will accept this vague caution from one who has now the honour to possess your confidence, though the way to it has been through your displeasure, I must violate the injunction you have laid upon me.


You know that you are free to do so, Sir. Do it.


His instructions were, that I should inform you that your demeanour towards Miss Dombey is not agreeable to him. That it suggests comparisons to him which are not favourable to himself. That he desires it may be wholly changed; and that if you are in earnest, he is confident it will be; for your continued show of affection will not benefit its object.


That is a threat,


That is a threat, but not directed against you.


Please to leave me. Say no more tonight.


I feel the urgency of this, because it is impossible to say what unforeseen consequences might arise, or how soon, from your being unacquainted with his state of mind. I understand Miss Dombey is concerned, now, at the dismissal of her old servant, which is likely to have been a minor consequence in itself. You don’t blame me for requesting that Miss Dombey might not be present. May I hope so?


I do not. Please to leave me, Sir.


I knew that your regard for the young lady, which is very sincere and strong, I am well persuaded, would render it a great unhappiness to you, ever to be a prey to the reflection that you had injured her position and ruined her future hopes,


No more tonight. Leave me, if you please.


I shall be here constantly in my attendance upon him, and in the transaction of business matters. You will allow me to see you again, and to consult what should be done, and learn your wishes? I cannot even decide whether to tell him I have spoken to you yet; or to lead him to suppose that I have deferred doing so, for want of opportunity, or for any other reason. It will be necessary that you should enable me to consult with you very soon.


At any time but now,


You will understand, when I wish to see you, that Miss Dombey is not to be present; and that I seek an interview as one who has the happiness to possess your confidence, and who comes to render you every assistance in his power, and, perhaps, on many occasions, to ward off evil from her?


Yes!


I am forgiven, and have explained my fault. May I—for Miss Dombey’s sake, and for my own—take your hand before I go?


May this man be a liar! For if he has spoken truth, she is lost to me, and I have no hope left!


See where he goes!


I never thought to look at him again, but it’s well I should, perhaps. I see. I see!


Not changed!


He changed! What for? What has he suffered? There is change enough for twenty in me. Isn’t that enough?


See where he goes! so easy and so trim a-horseback, while we are in the mud.


And of it. We are mud, underneath his horse’s feet. What should we be?


Deary! Alice! Handsome gall Ally! Will you let him go like that, when you can wring money from him? Why, it’s a wickedness, my daughter.


Haven’t I told you, that I will not have money from him? And don’t you yet believe me? Did I take his sister’s money? Would I touch a penny, if I knew it, that had gone through his white hands—unless it was, indeed, that I could poison it, and send it back to him? Peace, mother, and come away.


And him so rich?


Poor in not being able to pay him any of the harm we owe him. Let him give me that sort of riches, and I’ll take them from him, and use them. Come away. Its no good looking at his horse. Come away, mother!


Why, where’s my sprightly Rob been, all this time!


Oh! why can’t you leave a poor cove alone, Misses Brown, when he’s getting an honest livelihood and conducting himself respectable? What do you come and deprive a cove of his character for, by talking to him in the streets, when he’s taking his master’s horse to a honest stable—a horse you’d go and sell for cats’ and dogs’ meat if you had your way! Why, I thought, that you was dead long ago!


This is the way, that he talks to me, who knew him weeks and months together, my deary, and have stood his friend many and many a time among the pigeon-fancying tramps and bird-catchers.


Let the birds be, will you, Misses Brown? I think a cove had better have to do with lions than them little creeturs, for they’re always flying back in your face when you least expect it. Well, how d’ye do and what do you want?


Hark how he speaks to an old friend, my deary! But there’s some of his old friends not so patient as me. If I was to tell some that he knows, and has spotted and cheated with, where to find him—


Will you hold your tongue, Misses Brown? What do you take a pleasure in ruining a cove for? At your time of life too! when you ought to be thinking of a variety of things!


What a gallant horse!


Let him alone, will you, Misses Brown? You’re enough to drive a penitent cove mad!


Why, what hurt do I do him, child?


Hurt? He’s got a master that would find it out if he was touched with a straw.


A good place, Rob, eh? You’re in luck, my child.


Oh don’t talk about luck, Misses Brown. If you’d never come, or if you’d go away, then indeed a cove might be considered tolerable lucky. Can’t you go along, Misses Brown, and not foller me! If the young woman’s a friend of yours, why don’t she take you away, instead of letting you make yourself so disgraceful!


What! Do you deny your old chum! Have you lurked to my house fifty times, and slept sound in a corner when you had no other bed but the paving-stones, and do you talk to me like this! Have I bought and sold with you, and helped you in my way of business, schoolboy, sneak, and what not, and do you tell me to go along? Could I raise a crowd of old company about you to-morrow morning, that would follow you to ruin like copies of your own shadow, and do you turn on me with your bold looks! I’ll go. Come, Alice.


Stop, Misses Brown! What are you doing of? Don’t put yourself in a passion! Don’t let her go, if you please. I haven’t meant any offence. I said ‘how d’ye do,’ at first, didn’t I? But you wouldn’t answer. How you do? Besides, look here! How can a cove stand talking in the street with his master’s prad a-wanting to be took to be rubbed down, and his master up to every individgle thing that happens! Come along to the stables, and have a glass of something that’s good for you, Misses Brown, can’t you? instead of going on, like that, which is no good to you, nor anybody else. Come along with her, will you be so kind? I’m sure I’m delighted to see her, if it wasn’t for the horse!


Here’s master—Mr Carker, child! Lord bless him!


Why, I didn’t tell you who he was,


We know him by sight. We saw him pass this morning, afore he got off his horse; when you were ready to take it.


Ay, ay. What’s the matter with her? Won’t she drink?


Don’t mind her, she’s a strange creetur, if you know’d her, Rob. But Mr Carker—


Hush!


Why, he ain’t here!


I don’t know that,


Good master?


precious sharp.


Lives out of town, don’t he, lovey?


When he’s at home, but we don’t live at home just now.


Where then?


Lodgings; up near Mr Dombey’s. Mr Dombey—you and I used to talk about him, sometimes, you know. You used to get me to talk about him. Well, Mr Dombey, he’s had a fall from his horse, and my master has to be up there, more than usual, either with him, or Mrs Dombey, or some of ’em; and so we’ve come to town.


Are they good friends, lovey?


Who? He and she? What, Mr and Mrs Dombey? How should I know!


Not them—Master and Mrs Dombey, chick,


I don’t know. I suppose so. How curious you are, Misses Brown! Least said, soonest mended.


Why there’s no harm in it! Sprightly Rob, has grown tame since he has been well off! There’s no harm in it.


No, there’s no harm in it, I know, but blabbing, if it’s only about the number of buttons on my master’s coat, won’t do. I tell you it won’t do with him. A cove had better drown himself. He says so. I shouldn’t have so much as told you what his name was, if you hadn’t known it. Talk about somebody else.


Rob, lovey! You were always a pet and favourite of mine. Now, weren’t you? Don’t you know you were?


Yes, Misses Brown,


And you could leave me! You could go away, and grow almost out of knowledge, and never come to tell your poor old friend how fortunate you were, proud lad! Oho, Oho!


Oh here’s a dreadful go for a cove that’s got a master wide awake in the neighbourhood! To be howled over like this here!


Won’t you come and see me, Robby? Oho, won’t you ever come and see me?


Yes, I tell you! Yes, I will!


That’s my own Rob! That’s my lovey! At the old place, Rob?


Yes,


Soon, Robby dear? and often?


Yes. Yes. Yes. I will indeed, upon my soul and body.


And then, if he’s true to his word, I’ll never come a-near him though I know where he is, and never breathe a syllable about him! Never! A shilling, dear! or sixpence! For old acquaintance sake. I’m so poor. And my handsome gal she’s my gal, Rob—half starves me.


mother! always money! money from the first, and to the last. Do you mind so little what I said but now? Here. Take it!


Well, John Carker, and what brings you here? I wonder,


We had word this morning in the Counting House, that Mr Dombey was doing well,


You are such a meek fellow, but you have grown so, in the course of years—that if any harm came to him, you’d be miserable, I dare swear now.


I should be truly sorry, James,


He would be sorry! He would be truly sorry! This brother of mine! This junior of the place, this slighted piece of lumber, pushed aside with his face to the wall, like a rotten picture, and left so, for Heaven knows how many years he’s all gratitude and respect, and devotion too, he would have me believe!


I would have you believe nothing, James. Be as just to me as you would to any other man below you. You ask a question, and I answer it.


And have you nothing, Spaniel, to complain of in him? No proud treatment to resent, no insolence, no foolery of state, no exaction of any sort! What the devil! are you man or mouse?


It would be strange if any two persons could be together for so many years, especially as superior and inferior, without each having something to complain of in the other—as he thought, at all events. But apart from my history here—


His history here! Why, there it is. The very fact that makes him an extreme case, puts him out of the whole chapter! Well?


Apart from that, which, as you hint, gives me a reason to be thankful that I alone (happily for all the rest) possess, surely there is no one in the House who would not say and feel at least as much. You do not think that anybody here would be indifferent to a mischance or misfortune happening to the head of the House, or anything than truly sorry for it?


You have good reason to be bound to him too! Why, don’t you believe that you are kept here, as a cheap example, and a famous instance of the clemency of Dombey and Son, redounding to the credit of the illustrious House?


No. I have long believed that I am kept here for more kind and disinterested reasons.


But you were going, to recite some Christian precept, I observed.


Nay, James, though the tie of brotherhood between us has been long broken and thrown away—


Who broke it, good Sir?


I, by my misconduct. I do not charge it upon you.


Oh, you don’t charge it upon me!


I say, though there is not that tie between us, do not, I entreat, assail me with unnecessary taunts, or misinterpret what I say, or would say. I was only going to suggest to you that it would be a mistake to suppose that it is only you, who have been selected here, above all others, for advancement, confidence and distinction (selected, in the beginning, I know, for your great ability and trustfulness), and who communicate more freely with Mr Dombey than anyone, and stand, it may be said, on equal terms with him, and have been favoured and enriched by him—that it would be a mistake to suppose that it is only you who are tender of his welfare and reputation. There is no one in the House, from yourself down to the lowest, I sincerely believe, who does not participate in that feeling.


You lie! You’re a hypocrite, John Carker, and you lie.


James! What do you mean by these insulting words? Why do you so basely use them to me, unprovoked?


I tell you, that your hypocrisy and meekness—that all the hypocrisy and meekness of this place—is not worth that to me, and that I see through it as if it were air! There is not a man employed here, standing between myself and the lowest in place (of whom you are very considerate, and with reason, for he is not far off), who wouldn’t be glad at heart to see his master humbled: who does not hate him, secretly: who does not wish him evil rather than good: and who would not turn upon him, if he had the power and boldness. The nearer to his favour, the nearer to his insolence; the closer to him, the farther from him. That’s the creed here!


I don’t know, who may have abused your ear with such representations; or why you have chosen to try me, rather than another. But that you have been trying me, and tampering with me, I am now sure. You have a different manner and a different aspect from any that I ever saw in you. I will only say to you, once more, you are deceived.


I know I am. I have told you so.


Not by me. By your informant, if you have one. If not, by your own thoughts and suspicions.


I have no suspicions. Mine are certainties. You pusillanimous, abject, cringing dogs! All making the same show, all canting the same story, all whining the same professions, all harbouring the same transparent secret. The faint-hearted, fawning knaves. There’s not one among them, who wouldn’t feign to be so shocked and outraged—! Bah! There’s not one among them, but if he had at once the power, and the wit and daring to use it, would scatter Dombey’s pride and lay it low, as ruthlessly as I rake out these ashes. Without the same queen beckoner too! and there is pride there, not to be forgotten—witness our own acquaintance!


Time was, when it was well to watch even your rising little star, and know in what quarter there were clouds, to shadow you if needful. But a planet has arisen, and you are lost in its light.


Mama, have I offended you?


No.


I must have done something. Tell me what it is. You have changed your manner to me, dear Mama. I cannot say how instantly I feel the least change; for I love you with my whole heart.


As I do you. Ah, Florence, believe me never more than now!


Why do you go away from me so often, and keep away? And why do you sometimes look so strangely on me, dear Mama? You do so, do you not? Why? Tell me why, that I may know how to please you better; and tell me this shall not be so any more.


My Florence, why it is, I cannot tell you. It is neither for me to say, nor you to hear; but that it is, and that it must be, I know. Should I do it if I did not?


Are we to be estranged, Mama?


Yes. Florence! my life! listen to me. I cannot bear to see this grief. Be calmer. You see that I am composed, and is it nothing to me? Not wholly estranged. Partially: and only that, in appearance, Florence, for in my own breast I am still the same to you, and ever will be. But what I do is not done for myself.


Is it for me, Mama?


It is enough, to know what it is; why, matters little. Dear Florence, it is better—it is necessary—it must be—that our association should be less frequent. The confidence there has been between us must be broken off.


When? Oh, Mama, when?


Now,


For all time to come?


I do not say that. I do not know that. Nor will I say that companionship between us is, at the best, an ill-assorted and unholy union, of which I might have known no good could come. My way here has been through paths that you will never tread, and my way henceforth may lie—God knows—I do not see it—


Mama, there is a change in you, in more than what you say to me, which alarms me. Let me stay with you a little.


No, no, dearest. I am best left alone now, and I do best to keep apart from you, of all else. Ask me no questions, but believe that what I am when I seem fickle or capricious to you, I am not of my own will, or for myself. Believe, though we are stranger to each other than we have been, that I am unchanged to you within. Forgive me for having ever darkened your dark home—I am a shadow on it, I know well—and let us never speak of this again.


Mama, we are not to part?


We do this that we may not part. Ask no more. Go, Florence! My love and my remorse go with you!


Good-night,


Indeed, was that Miss Dombey, in the corner? Very pretty, but a little delicate and thoughtful in appearance!


Mrs Dombey, you know, I suppose, that I have instructed the housekeeper that there will be some company to dinner here to-morrow.


I do not dine at home,


Not a large party, merely some twelve or fourteen. My sister, Major Bagstock, and some others whom you know but slightly.


However doubtful reason I may have, Mrs Dombey, to hold the occasion in very pleasant remembrance just now, there are appearances in these things which must be maintained before the world. If you have no respect for yourself, Mrs Dombey—


I have none,


Madam, hear me if you please. I say, if you have no respect for yourself—


And I say I have none,


Tell your sovereign master, Sir, that I will take leave to speak to him on this subject by-and-bye, and that I will speak to him alone. Your daughter is present, Sir. I tell you I will speak to you alone. If you are not mad, heed what I say. You shall!


I would not stop you now. I would not rise and go away, and save you the utterance of one word, if the room were burning. Mrs Dombey, it may not be inconsistent with my daughter’s improvement to know how very much to be lamented, and how necessary to be corrected, a stubborn disposition is, especially when it is indulged in—unthankfully indulged in, I will add—after the gratification of ambition and interest. Both of which, I believe, had some share in inducing you to occupy your present station at this board. No! I would not rise, and go away, and save you the utterance of one word, if the room were burning. Mrs Dombey,


it is not enough that you know what has passed between yourself and me; it is not enough that you can look here, and be reminded of the affronts you have put upon me; it is not enough that you can look here, and think of what you have done, and of the ingenious agony, daily, hourly, constant, you have made me feel in doing it; it is not enough that this day, of all others in the year, is memorable to me for a struggle (well-deserved, but not conceivable by such as you) in which I wish I had died! You add to all this, do you, the last crowning meanness of making her a witness of the depth to which I have fallen; when you know that you have made me sacrifice to her peace, the only gentle feeling and interest of my life, when you know that for her sake, I would now if I could—but I can not, my soul recoils from you too much—submit myself wholly to your will, and be the meekest vassal that you have!


I understand, Madam, the spirit of opposition that turned your affections in that channel, but they have been met, Mrs Dombey; they have been met, and turned back!


The worse for you! Ay! what is the worse for me, is twenty million times the worse for you. Heed that, if you heed nothing else.


Mrs Dombey, you will not conciliate me, or turn me from any purpose, by this course of conduct.


It is the only true although it is a faint expression of what is within me. But if I thought it would conciliate you, I would repress it, if it were repressible by any human effort. I will do nothing that you ask.


I am not accustomed to ask, Mrs Dombey. I direct.


I will hold no place in your house to-morrow, or on any recurrence of to-morrow. I will be exhibited to no one, as the refractory slave you purchased, such a time. If I kept my marriage day, I would keep it as a day of shame. Self-respect! appearances before the world! what are these to me? You have done all you can to make them nothing to me, and they are nothing.


Carker. Mrs Dombey is so forgetful of herself and me in all this, and places me in a position so unsuited to my character, that I must bring this state of matters to a close.


Release me, then, from the chain by which I am bound. Let me go.


Madam?


Loose me. Set me free!


Madam? Mrs Dombey?


Tell him, that I wish for a separation between us. That there had better be one. That I recommend it to him. Tell him it may take place on his own terms—his wealth is nothing to me—but that it cannot be too soon.


Good Heaven, Mrs Dombey! do you imagine it possible that I could ever listen to such a proposition? Do you know who I am, Madam? Do you know what I represent? Did you ever hear of Dombey and Son? People to say that Mr Dombey—Mr Dombey!—was separated from his wife! Common people to talk of Mr Dombey and his domestic affairs! Do you seriously think, Mrs Dombey, that I would permit my name to be banded about in such connexion? Pooh, pooh, Madam! Fie for shame! You’re absurd. No, Mrs Dombey. No, Madam. There is no possibility of separation between you and me, and therefore I the more advise you to be awakened to a sense of duty. And, Carker, as I was about to say to you— —As I was about to say to you. I must beg you, now that matters have come to this, to inform Mrs Dombey, that it is not the rule of my life to allow myself to be thwarted by anybody—anybody, Carker—or to suffer anybody to be paraded as a stronger motive for obedience in those who owe obedience to me than I am my self. The mention that has been made of my daughter, and the use that is made of my daughter, in opposition to me, are unnatural. Whether my daughter is in actual concert with Mrs Dombey, I do not know, and do not care; but after what Mrs Dombey has said today, and my daughter has heard today, I beg you to make known to Mrs Dombey, that if she continues to make this house the scene of contention it has become, I shall consider my daughter responsible in some degree, on that lady’s own avowal, and shall visit her with my severe displeasure. Mrs Dombey has asked ‘whether it is not enough,’ that she had done this and that. You will please to answer no, it is not enough.


A moment! permit me! painful as my position is, at the best, and unusually painful in seeming to entertain a different opinion from you. I must ask, had you not better reconsider the question of a separation. I know how incompatible it appears with your high public position, and I know how determined you are when you give Mrs Dombey to understand that nothing but death can ever part you. Nothing else. But when you consider that Mrs Dombey, by living in this house, and making it as you have said, a scene of contention, not only has her part in that contention, but compromises Miss Dombey every day (for I know how determined you are), will you not relieve her from a continual irritation of spirit, and a continual sense of being unjust to another, almost intolerable? Does this not seem like—I do not say it is—sacrificing Mrs Dombey to the preservation of your preeminent and unassailable position?


Carker, you mistake your position in offering advice to me on such a point, and you mistake me (I am surprised to find) in the character of your advice. I have no more to say.


Perhaps, you mistook my position, when you honoured me with the negotiations in which I have been engaged here


Not at all, Sir, not at all. You were employed—


Being an inferior person, for the humiliation of Mrs Dombey. I forgot. Oh, yes, it was expressly understood! I beg your pardon!


Don’t come near me! Keep away! Let me go by!


Mama!


Don’t call me by that name! Don’t speak to me! Don’t look at me!—Florence! don’t touch me!


Where is Mama?


Gone out to dinner,


And Papa?


Mr Dombey is in his own room, Miss Dombey, and the best thing you can do, is to take off your things and go to bed this minute.


But what! what was it?


But the inner dressing-room was locked and the key gone.


Oh dear, dear Papa!


It’s Heart’s Delight! It’s the sweet creetur grow’d a woman! My Heart’s Delight! If you can hail Ned Cuttle with a finger, do it! My Heart’s Delight! For the sake of Wal”r drownded in the briny deep, turn to, and histe up something or another, if able!


Cheerily. Cheerily! Stand by, my pretty one, stand by! There! You’re better now. Steady’s the word, and steady it is. Keep her so! Drink a little drop o’ this here. There you are! What cheer now, my pretty, what cheer now? What cheer, my pretty? What cheer now? You’ve done her some good, my lad, I believe. Put you back half-an-hour every morning, and about another quarter towards the arternoon, and you’re a watch as can be ekalled by few and excelled by none. What cheer, my lady lass!


Captain Cuttle! Is it you?


Yes, yes, my lady lass,


Is Walter’s Uncle here?


Here, pretty? He ain’t been here this many a long day. He ain’t been heerd on, since he sheered off arter poor Wal”r. But. Though lost to sight, to memory dear, and England, Home, and Beauty!


Do you live here?


Yes, my lady lass,


Oh, Captain Cuttle! Save me! keep me here! Let no one know where I am! I’ll tell you what has happened by-and-by, when I can. I have no one in the world to go to. Do not send me away!


Send you away, my lady lass! You, my Heart’s Delight! Stay a bit! We’ll put up this here deadlight, and take a double turn on the key!


My lady lass, don’t you say a word to Ed’ard Cuttle, until such times as you finds yourself a riding smooth and easy; which won’t be today, nor yet to-morrow. And as to giving of you up, or reporting where you are, yes verily, and by God’s help, so I won’t, Church catechism, make a note on!


Steady! Steady! You’re too weak to stand, you see, my pretty, and must lie down here again. There, there! And now, you must take some breakfast, lady lass, and the dog shall have some too. And arter that you shall go aloft to old Sol Gills’s room, and fall asleep there, like a angel.


Well, well! arter turning in, my Heart’s Delight, you’ll get more way upon you. Now, I’ll serve out your allowance, my lad. And you shall keep guard on your mistress aloft.


Can there be anybody there!


No, my lady lass. Who’d stay there, without making any noise! Keep up a good heart, pretty. It’s only people going by.


If there should be someone listening and watching. Someone who saw me come—who followed me, perhaps.


It ain’t the young woman, lady lass, is it?


Susan? Ah no! Susan has been gone from me a long time.


Not deserted, I hope? Don’t say that that there young woman’s run, my pretty!


Oh, no, no! She is one of the truest hearts in the world!


So you’re quiet now, are you, brother? There warn’t nobody there, my lady lass, bless you!


My lady lass! you’re as safe here as if you was at the top of St Paul’s Cathedral, with the ladder cast off. Sleep is what you want, afore all other things, and may you be able to show yourself smart with that there balsam for the still small woice of a wounded mind! When there’s anything you want, my Heart’s Delight, as this here humble house or town can offer, pass the word to Ed’ard Cuttle, as’ll stand off and on outside that door, and that there man will wibrate with joy.


How de do, Captain Gills?


How are, you, my lad?


Well, I’m pretty well, thank’ee, Captain Gills. You know I’m never quite what I could wish to be, now. I don’t expect that I ever shall be any more. Captain Gills, if I could have the pleasure of a word with you, it’s—it’s rather particular.


Why, you see, my lad. I ain’t what you may call exactly free this morning; and therefore if you can clap on a bit, I should take it kindly.


Certainly, Captain Gills. To clap on, is exactly what I could wish to do. Naturally.


If so be, my lad. Do it!


I beg your pardon, Captain Gills, but you don’t happen to see anything particular in me, do you?


No, my lad. No.


Because you know. I know I’m wasting away. You needn’t at all mind alluding to that. I—I should like it. Burgess and Co. have altered my measure, I’m in that state of thinness. It’s a gratification to me. I—I’m glad of it. I—I’d a great deal rather go into a decline, if I could. I’m a mere brute you know, grazing upon the surface of the earth, Captain Gills. But I was going to say, Captain Gills. Happening to be this way early this morning—to tell you the truth, I was coming to breakfast with you. As to sleep, you know, I never sleep now. I might be a Watchman, except that I don’t get any pay, and he’s got nothing on his mind.


Carry on, my lad!


Certainly, Captain Gills. Perfectly true! Happening to be this way early this morning (an hour or so ago), and finding the door shut—


What! were you waiting there, brother?


Not at all, Captain Gills. I didn’t stop a moment. I thought you were out. But the person said—by the bye, you don’t keep a dog, you, Captain Gills? To be sure, that’s exactly what I said. I knew you didn’t. There is a dog, Captain Gills, connected with—but excuse me. That’s forbidden ground. The person said, that he had heard a dog barking in the shop: which I knew couldn’t be, and I told him so. But he was as positive as if he had seen the dog.


What person, my lad?


Why, you see there it is, Captain Gills. It’s not for me to say what may have taken place, or what may not have taken place. Indeed, I don’t know. I get mixed up with all sorts of things that I don’t quite understand, and I think there’s something rather weak in my—in my head, in short. But the person said, as we were walking away, that you knew what, under existing circumstances, might occur—he said ‘might,’ very strongly—and that if you were requested to prepare yourself, you would, no doubt, come prepared.


Person, my lad


I don’t know what person, I’m sure, Captain Gills. I haven’t the least idea. But coming to the door, I found him waiting there; and he said was I coming back again, and I said yes; and he said did I know you, and I said, yes, I had the pleasure of your acquaintance—you had given me the pleasure of your acquaintance, after some persuasion; and he said, if that was the case, would I say to you what I have said, about existing circumstances and coming prepared, and as soon as ever I saw you, would I ask you to step round the corner, if it was only for one minute, on most important business, to Mr Brogley’s the Broker’s. Now, I tell you what, Captain Gills—whatever it is, I am convinced it’s very important; and if you like to step round, now, I’ll wait here till you come back.


If so be, as you’ll excuse my doing of it, brother.


Captain Gills, whatever you do, is satisfactory to me.


Captain Gills. I hope and trust there’s nothing wrong?


Thank’ee, my lad, not a bit. Quite contrairy.


You have the appearance of being overcome, Captain Gills, observed Mr Toots.


Why, my lad, I am took aback. I am.


Is there anything I can do, Captain Gills? If there is, make use of me.


No, thank’ee. Nothing. Only I’ll take it as a favour if you’ll part company for the present. I believe, brother, that, after Wal”r, and on a different model, you’re as good a lad as ever stepped.


Upon my word and honour, Captain Gills, it’s delightful to me to possess your good opinion. Thank’ee.


And bear a hand and cheer up. What! There’s more than one sweet creetur in the world!


Not to me, Captain Gills. Not to me, I assure you. The state of my feelings towards Miss Dombey is of that unspeakable description, that my heart is a desert island, and she lives in it alone. I’m getting more used up every day, and I’m proud to be so. If you could see my legs when I take my boots off, you’d form some idea of what unrequited affection is. I have been prescribed bark, but I don’t take it, for I don’t wish to have any tone whatever given to my constitution. I’d rather not. This, however, is forbidden ground. Captain Gills, goodbye!


My pretty, what cheer?


Dear friend, is it you?


What cheer, bright di’mond?


I have surely slept very long. When did I come here? Yesterday?


This here blessed day, my lady lass,


Has there been no night? Is it still day?


Getting on for evening now, my pretty. See!


Better now, my pretty! Cheerily, cheerily, I’ll go down below, and get some dinner ready. Will you come down of your own self, arterwards, pretty, or shall Ed’ard Cuttle come and fetch you?


My lady lass, cheer up, and try to eat a deal. Stand by, my deary! Liver wing it is. Sarse it is. Sassage it is. And potato! The whole row o’ dead lights is up, for’ard, lady lass, and everythink is made snug. Try and pick a bit, my pretty. If Wal”r was here—


Ah! If I had him for my brother now!


Don’t! don’t take on, my pretty! awast, to obleege me! He was your nat’ral born friend like, warn’t he, Pet?


Oh, dear, dear Paul! oh, Walter!


The wery planks she walked on, was as high esteemed by Wal”r, as the water brooks is by the hart which never rejices! I see him now, the wery day as he was rated on them Dombey books, a speaking of her with his face a glistening with doo—leastways with his modest sentiments—like a new blowed rose, at dinner. Well, well! If our poor Wal”r was here, my lady lass—or if he could be—for he’s drownded, ain’t he? Yes, yes; drownded, as I was saying, if he could be here he’d beg and pray of you, my precious, to pick a leetle bit, with a look-out for your own sweet health. Whereby, hold your own, my lady lass, as if it was for Wal”r’s sake, and lay your pretty head to the wind. Wal”r was a trim lad, warn’t he, precious? and a brave lad, and a good lad? And he’s drownded, Beauty, ain’t he? He was older than you, my lady lass, but you was like two children together, at first; wam’t you?


Yes.


And Wal”r’s drownded. Ain’t he?


Poor Wal”r. Ay, ay! Drownded. Ain’t he?


Dear Captain Cuttle. I don’t want this money, indeed. I have not spent any of it. I have money of my own.


My lady lass, take care on it for me, will you be so good, till such time as I ask ye for it?


May I put it back in its usual place, and keep it there?


Ay, ay, put it anywheres, my lady lass, so long as you know where to find it again. It ain’t o’ no use to me. I wonder I haven’t chucked it away afore now.


Good-night, dear heart. Poor Wal”r!


Poor, poor Walter!


Drownded, ain’t he? Good-night, my lady lass!


God bless you, dear, kind friend! Is anything the matter, dear Captain Cuttle? Have you anything to tell me?


To tell you, lady lass! No, no; what should I have to tell you, pretty! You don’t expect as I’ve got anything good to tell you, sure?


No!


No. Poor Wal”r! My Wal”r, as I used to call you! Old Sol Gills’s nevy! Welcome to all as knowed you, as the flowers in May! Where are you got to, brave boy? Drownded, ain’t he? Drownded, ain’t he, pretty?


Yes, my lady lass. Are you all right, di’mond?


Poor Wal”r! Drownded, ain’t he?


You never was at sea, my own?


No,


Ay, it’s a almighty element. There’s wonders in the deep, my pretty. Think on it when the winds is roaring and the waves is rowling. Think on it when the stormy nights is so pitch dark, as you can’t see your hand afore you, excepting when the wiwid lightning reweals the same; and when you drive, drive, drive through the storm and dark, as if you was a driving, head on, to the world without end, evermore, amen, and when found making a note of. Them’s the times, my beauty, when a man may say to his messmate (previously a overhauling of the wollume), ‘A stiff nor’wester’s blowing, Bill; hark, don’t you hear it roar now! Lord help ’em, how I pitys all unhappy folks ashore now!’ A stiff nor’wester’s blowing, Bill; hark, don’t you hear it roar now! Lord help ’em, how I pitys all unhappy folks ashore now! Stand by!


Were you ever in a dreadful storm?


Why ay, my lady lass, I’ve seen my share of bad weather, and I’ve had my share of knocking about; but—but it ain’t of myself as I was a meaning to speak. Our dear boy. Wal”r, darling, as was drownded.


Your face is changed. You are altered in a moment. What is it? Dear Captain Cuttle, it turns me cold to see you!


What! Lady lass, don’t be took aback. No, no! All’s well, all’s well, my dear. As I was a saying—Wal”r—he’s—he’s drownded. Ain’t he? There’s perils and dangers on the deep, my beauty, and over many a brave ship, and many and many a bould heart, the secret waters has closed up, and never told no tales. But there’s escapes upon the deep, too, and sometimes one man out of a score,—ah! maybe out of a hundred, pretty,—has been saved by the mercy of God, and come home after being given over for dead, and told of all hands lost. I—I know a story, Heart’s Delight, o’ this natur, as was told to me once; and being on this here tack, and you and me sitting alone by the fire, maybe you’d like to hear me tell it. Would you, deary? There’s nothing there, my beauty. Don’t look there.


Why not?


The story was about a ship, my lady lass, as sailed out of the Port of London, with a fair wind and in fair weather, bound for—don’t be took aback, my lady lass, she was only out’ard bound, pretty, only out’ard bound! Shall I go on, Beauty?


Yes, yes, pray!


That there unfort’nate ship met with such foul weather, out at sea, as don’t blow once in twenty year, my darling. There was hurricanes ashore as tore up forests and blowed down towns, and there was gales at sea in them latitudes, as not the stoutest wessel ever launched could live in. Day arter day that there unfort’nate ship behaved noble, I’m told, and did her duty brave, my pretty, but at one blow a’most her bulwarks was stove in, her masts and rudder carved away, her best man swept overboard, and she left to the mercy of the storm as had no mercy but blowed harder and harder yet, while the waves dashed over her, and beat her in, and every time they come a thundering at her, broke her like a shell. Every black spot in every mountain of water that rolled away was a bit o’ the ship’s life or a living man, and so she went to pieces, Beauty, and no grass will never grow upon the graves of them as manned that ship.


They were not all lost! Some were saved!—Was one?


Aboard o’ that there unfort’nate wessel, was a lad, a gallant lad—as I’ve heerd tell—that had loved, when he was a boy, to read and talk about brave actions in shipwrecks—I’ve heerd him! I’ve heerd him!—and he remembered of ’em in his hour of need; for when the stoutest and oldest hands was hove down, he was firm and cheery. It warn’t the want of objects to like and love ashore that gave him courage, it was his nat’ral mind. I’ve seen it in his face, when he was no more than a child—ay, many a time!—and when I thought it nothing but his good looks, bless him!


And was he saved! Was he saved!


That brave lad, look at me, pretty! Don’t look round—


Because there’s nothing there, my deary. Don’t be took aback, pretty creetur! Don’t, for the sake of Wal”r, as was dear to all on us! That there lad, arter working with the best, and standing by the faint-hearted, and never making no complaint nor sign of fear, and keeping up a spirit in all hands that made ’em honour him as if he’d been a admiral—that lad, along with the second-mate and one seaman, was left, of all the beatin’ hearts that went aboard that ship, the only living creeturs—lashed to a fragment of the wreck, and driftin’ on the stormy sea.


Were they saved?


Days and nights they drifted on them endless waters, until at last—No! Don’t look that way, pretty!—a sail bore down upon ’em, and they was, by the Lord’s mercy, took aboard: two living and one dead.


Which of them was dead?


Not the lad I speak on,


Thank God! oh thank God!


Amen! Don’t be took aback! A minute more, my lady lass! with a good heart!—aboard that ship, they went a long voyage, right away across the chart (for there warn’t no touching nowhere), and on that voyage the seaman as was picked up with him died. But he was spared, and— Was spared,


and—?


And come home in that ship, and—don’t be frightened, pretty—and landed; and one morning come cautiously to his own door to take a obserwation, knowing that his friends would think him drownded, when he sheered off at the unexpected—


At the unexpected barking of a dog?


Yes. Steady, darling! courage! Don’t look round yet. See there! upon the wall!


Wal”r, my lad, here is a little bit of property as I should wish to make over, jintly!


Going, Walter!


Where?


He slings his hammock for the present, lady lass, round at Brogley’s. Within hail, Heart’s Delight.


I am the cause of your going away, Walter. There is a houseless sister in your place.


Dear Miss Dombey, if it is not too bold to call you so! —If anything could make me happier in being allowed to see and speak to you, would it not be the discovery that I had any means on earth of doing you a moment’s service! Where would I not go, what would I not do, for your sake? You are so changed,


I changed!


—To me, changed to me. I left you such a child, and find you—oh! something so different—


But your sister, Walter. You have not forgotten what we promised to each other, when we parted?


Forgotten! I would! Heaven knows I would!


Oh, Walter. Dear brother! Show me some way through the world—some humble path that I may take alone, and labour in, and sometimes think of you as one who will protect and care for me as for a sister! Oh, help me, Walter, for I need help so much!


Miss Dombey! Florence! I would die to help you. But your friends are proud and rich. Your father—


No, no! Walter!


There, precious! Awast, awast, my eyes! Wal”r, dear lad, sheer off for tonight, and leave the pretty one to me!


Drownded. Ain’t he, pretty?


Captain Cuttle, nothing at all of Uncle Sol, in all that time!


Nothing at all, my lad,


Gone in search of me, dear, kind old man, yet never write to you! But why not? He says, in effect, in this packet that you gave me, that if you never hear from him before opening it, you may believe him dead. Heaven forbid! But you would have heard of him, even if he were dead! Someone would have written, surely, by his desire, if he could not; and have said, ‘on such a day, there died in my house,’ or ‘under my care,’ or so forth, ‘Mr Solomon Gills of London, who left this last remembrance and this last request to you’.


Well said, my lad; wery well said.


I have been thinking of this, or, at least,


Oh Di, you bad, forgetful dog! Dear Mr Toots, I am so rejoiced to see you!


Thankee. I am pretty well, I’m much obliged to you, Miss Dombey. I hope all the family are the same. Captain Gills and Lieutenant Walters have mentioned, Miss Dombey, that I can do you some service. If I could by any means wash out the remembrance of that day at Brighton, when I conducted myself—much more like a Parricide than a person of independent property. I should sink into the silent tomb with a gleam of joy.


Pray, Mr Toots, do not wish me to forget anything in our acquaintance. I never can, believe me. You have been far too kind and good to me always.


Miss Dombey, your consideration for my feelings is a part of your angelic character. Thank you a thousand times. It’s of no consequence at all.


What we thought of asking you, is, whether you remember where Susan, whom you were so kind as to accompany to the coach-office when she left me, is to be found.


Why I do not certainly, Miss Dombey, remember the exact name of the place that was on the coach; and I do recollect that she said she was not going to stop there, but was going farther on. But, Miss Dombey, if your object is to find her, and to have her here, myself and the Chicken will produce her with every dispatch that devotion on my part, and great intelligence on the Chicken’s, can ensure. Miss Dombey. Good-bye! Allow me to take the liberty of saying, that your misfortunes make me perfectly wretched, and that you may trust me, next to Captain Gills himself. I am quite aware, Miss Dombey, of my own deficiencies—they’re not of the least consequence, thank you—but I am entirely to be relied upon, I do assure you, Miss Dombey. Captain Gills, to tell you the truth, I am not in a frame of mind at the present moment, in which I could see Lieutenant Walters with that entirely friendly feeling towards him that I should wish to harbour in my breast. We cannot always command our feelings, Captain Gills, and I should take it as a particular favour if you’d let me out at the private door.


Brother, you shall shape your own course. Wotever course you take, is plain and seamanlike, I’m wery sure.


Captain Gills, you’re extremely kind. Your good opinion is a consolation to me. There is one thing, that I hope you’ll bear in mind, Captain Gills, and that I should wish Lieutenant Walters to be made acquainted with. I have quite come into my property now, you know, and—and I don’t know what to do with it. If I could be at all useful in a pecuniary point of view, I should glide into the silent tomb with ease and smoothness.


I think he’s down below, my lady lass, in a trice.


Captain Cuttle tells me, Miss Dombey. You are not so well today. You look distressed. You have been weeping.


Walter. I am not quite well, and I have been weeping. I want to speak to you.


I have always worn it round my neck! If I had gone down in the deep, it would have been with me at the bottom of the sea.


And you will wear it still, Walter, for my old sake?


Until I die!


I am glad of that. I shall be always glad to think so, Walter. Do you recollect that a thought of this change seemed to come into our minds at the same time that evening, when we were talking together?


No!


Yes, Walter. I had been the means of injuring your hopes and prospects even then. I feared to think so, then, but I know it now. If you were able, then, in your generosity, to hide from me that you knew it too, you cannot do so now, although you try as generously as before. You do. I thank you for it, Walter, deeply, truly; but you cannot succeed. You have suffered too much in your own hardships, and in those of your dearest relation, quite to overlook the innocent cause of all the peril and affliction that has befallen you. You cannot quite forget me in that character, and we can be brother and sister no longer. But, dear Walter, do not think that I complain of you in this. I might have known it—ought to have known it—but forgot it in my joy. All I hope is that you may think of me less irksomely when this feeling is no more a secret one; and all I ask is, Walter, in the name of the poor child who was your sister once, that you will not struggle with yourself, and pain yourself, for my sake, now that I know all!


Oh, Miss Dombey, is it possible that while I have been suffering so much, in striving with my sense of what is due to you, and must be rendered to you, I have made you suffer what your words disclose to me? Never, never, before Heaven, have I thought of you but as the single, bright, pure, blessed recollection of my boyhood and my youth. Never have I from the first, and never shall I to the last, regard your part in my life, but as something sacred, never to be lightly thought of, never to be esteemed enough, never, until death, to be forgotten. Again to see you look, and hear you speak, as you did on that night when we parted, is happiness to me that there are no words to utter; and to be loved and trusted as your brother, is the next gift I could receive and prize!


Walter, what is that which is due to me, and must be rendered to me, at the sacrifice of all this?


Respect. Reverence. I have not a brother’s right. I have not a brother’s claim. I left a child. I find a woman. I owe it to a heart so trusting, pure, and good, even to tear myself from it, though I rend my own. How dare I say it is my sister’s! If you had been happy; surrounded as you should be by loving and admiring friends, and by all that makes the station you were born to enviable, and if you had called me brother, then, in your affectionate remembrance of the past, I could have answered to the name from my distant place, with no inward assurance that I wronged your spotless truth by doing so. But here—and now!


Oh thank you, thank you, Walter! Forgive my having wronged you so much. I had no one to advise me. I am quite alone.


Florence! If I had been prosperous; if I had any means or hope of being one day able to restore you to a station near your own; I would have told you that there was one name you might bestow upon—me—a right above all others, to protect and cherish you—that I was worthy of in nothing but the love and honour that I bore you, and in my whole heart being yours. I would have told you that it was the only claim that you could give me to defend and guard you, which I dare accept and dare assert; but that if I had that right, I would regard it as a trust so precious and so priceless, that the undivided truth and fervour of my life would poorly acknowledge its worth. Dear Florence! Dearest Florence! whom I called so in my thoughts before I could consider how presumptuous and wild it was. One last time let me call you by your own dear name, and touch this gentle hand in token of your sisterly forgetfulness of what I have said.


No, Walter, I cannot forget it. I would not forget it, for the world. Are you—are you very poor?


I am but a wanderer, making voyages to live, across the sea. That is my calling now.


Are you soon going away again, Walter?


Very soon.


If you will take me for your wife, Walter, I will love you dearly. If you will let me go with you, Walter, I will go to the world’s end without fear. I can give up nothing for you—I have nothing to resign, and no one to forsake; but all my love and life shall be devoted to you, and with my last breath I will breathe your name to God if I have sense and memory left.


Ay! lady lass!


Dear Captain, I want to tell you something, if you please.


What! Heart’s Delight! Is it that?


Yes!


Wal”r! Husband! THAT?


What, Wal”r my lad! So there ain’t NO other character, ain’t there? Ed’ard Cuttle, my lad, you never shaped a better course in your life, than when you made that there little property over, jintly!


My dear Paul! your wife! that upstart woman! Is it possible that what I hear confusedly, is true, and that this is her return for your unparalleled devotion to her; extending, I am sure, even to the sacrifice of your own relations, to her caprices and haughtiness? My poor brother!


I thank you, Louisa, for this mark of your affection; but desire that our conversation may refer to any other subject. When I bewail my fate, Louisa, or express myself as being in want of consolation, you can offer it, if you will have the goodness.


My dear Paul. I know your great spirit, and will say no more upon a theme so painful and revolting; but pray let me ask you—though I dread to hear something that will shock and distress me—that unfortunate child Florence—


Louisa! silence! Not another word of this!


An unusually cold spring,


Damme, Sir. Joseph Bagstock is a bad hand at a counterfeit. If you want to hold your friends off, Dombey, and to give them the cold shoulder, J. B. is not the man for your purpose. Joe is rough and tough, Sir; blunt, Sir, blunt, is Joe. His Royal Highness the late Duke of York did me the honour to say, deservedly or undeservedly—never mind that—‘If there is a man in the service on whom I can depend for coming to the point, that man is Joe—Joe Bagstock.’ Now, Dombey. I am a man of the world. Our friend Feenix—if I may presume to—


Honoured, I am sure,


—is, also a man of the world. Dombey, you are a man of the world. Now, when three men of the world meet together, and are friends—as I believe—


I am sure, most friendly.


—and are friends. Old Joe’s opinion is (I may be wrong), that the opinion of the world on any particular subject, is very easily got at.


Undoubtedly. In point of fact, it’s quite a self-evident sort of thing. I am extremely anxious, Major, that my friend Dombey should hear me express my very great astonishment and regret, that my lovely and accomplished relative, who was possessed of every qualification to make a man happy, should have so far forgotten what was due to—in point of fact, to the world—as to commit herself in such a very extraordinary manner. I have been in a devilish state of depression ever since; and said indeed to Long Saxby last night—man of six foot ten, with whom my friend Dombey is probably acquainted—that it had upset me in a confounded way, and made me bilious. It induces a man to reflect, this kind of fatal catastrophe, that events do occur in quite a providential manner; for if my Aunt had been living at the time, I think the effect upon a devilish lively woman like herself, would have been prostration, and that she would have fallen, in point of fact, a victim.


Now, Dombey!—


I beg your pardon. Allow me another word. My friend Dombey will permit me to say, that if any circumstance could have added to the most infernal state of pain in which I find myself on this occasion, it would be the natural amazement of the world at my lovely and accomplished relative (as I must still beg leave to call her) being supposed to have so committed herself with a person—man with white teeth, in point of fact—of very inferior station to her husband. But while I must, rather peremptorily, request my friend Dombey not to criminate my lovely and accomplished relative until her criminality is perfectly established, I beg to assure my friend Dombey that the family I represent, and which is now almost extinct (devilish sad reflection for a man), will interpose no obstacle in his way, and will be happy to assent to any honourable course of proceeding, with a view to the future, that he may point out. I trust my friend Dombey will give me credit for the intentions by which I am animated in this very melancholy affair, and—a—in point of fact, I am not aware that I need trouble my friend Dombey with any further observations.


Now, Dombey, our friend Feenix having, with an amount of eloquence that Old Joe B. has never heard surpassed—no, by the Lord, Sir! never! stated the case as regards the lady, I shall presume upon our friendship, Dombey, to offer a word on another aspect of it. Sir, the world in these things has opinions, which must be satisfied.


I know it,


Of course you know it, Dombey. Damme, Sir, I know you know it. A man of your calibre is not likely to be ignorant of it.


I hope not,


Dombey! you will guess the rest. I speak out—prematurely, perhaps—because the Bagstock breed have always spoke out. Little, Sir, have they ever got by doing it; but it’s in the Bagstock blood. A shot is to be taken at this man. You have J. B. at your elbow. He claims the name of friend. God bless you!


Major. I am obliged. I shall put myself in your hands when the time comes. The time not being come, I have forborne to speak to you.


Where is the fellow, Dombey?


I don’t know.


Any intelligence of him?


Yes.


Dombey, I am rejoiced to hear it. I congratulate you.


You will excuse—even you, Major, my entering into any further detail at present. The intelligence is of a singular kind, and singularly obtained. It may turn out to be valueless; it may turn out to be true; I cannot say at present. My explanation must stop here.


Well, he’s pretty much as usual.


Externally. But what he feels within!


Ah! Perhaps. I suppose so. to tell you my mind, Lucretia, I think it’s a good riddance. I don’t want any of your brazen faces here, myself!


Brazen indeed! Well may you say brazen, Mrs Pipchin! To leave him! Such a noble figure of a man!


I don’t know about noble, I’m sure. But I know this—that when people meet with trials, they must bear ’em. Hoity, toity! I have had enough to bear myself, in my time! What a fuss there is! She’s gone, and well got rid of. Nobody wants her back, I should think!


Pretty well, Towlinson, I thank you. I beg you’ll have the goodness, when you happen to see me here, not to mention it. My visits are merely to Mrs Pipchin. Shocking circumstances occur, Towlinson. I hope, Towlinson, that what has happened here, will be a warning to you, Towlinson.


Sir. Madam, why do you look so pale?


Oh, Perch!


which, is what these wretches in the form of woman have to answer for, Mrs P. It ain’t the harm they do themselves so much as what they reflect upon us, Ma’am; and I see it in Perch’s eye.


talk it over


You may give him up, mother. He’ll not come here.


Death give him up! He will come here.


We shall see,


We shall see him,


And doomsday,


You think I’m in my second childhood, I know!


That’s the respect and duty that I get from my own gal, but I’m wiser than you take me for. He’ll come. T’other day when I touched his coat in the street, he looked round as if I was a toad. But Lord, to see him when I said their names, and asked him if he’d like to find out where they was!


Was it so angry?


Angry? ask if it was bloody. That’s more like the word. Angry? Ha, ha! To call that only angry! I might as well call your face only angry, when you think or talk about ’em. Hark! I hear a step coming. It’s not the tread of anyone that lives about here, or comes this way often. We don’t walk like that. We should grow proud on such neighbours! Do you hear him?


I believe you are right, mother. Peace! open the door.


It’s a poor place for a great gentleman like your worship. I told you so, but there’s no harm in it.


Who is that?


That’s my handsome daughter. Your worship won’t mind her. She knows all about it.


Woman. I believe that I am weak and forgetful of my station in coming here, but you know why I come, and what you offered when you stopped me in the street the other day. What is it that you have to tell me concerning what I want to know; and how does it happen that I can find voluntary intelligence in a hovel like this, when I have exerted my power and means to obtain it in vain? I do not think, that you are so audacious as to mean to trifle with me, or endeavour to impose upon me. But if you have that purpose, you had better stop on the threshold of your scheme. My humour is not a trifling one, and my acknowledgment will be severe.


Oh a proud, hard gentleman! oh hard, hard, hard! But your worship shall see with your own eyes and hear with your own ears; not with ours—and if your worship’s put upon their track, you won’t mind paying something for it, will you, honourable deary?


Money, will bring about unlikely things, I know. It may turn even means as unexpected and unpromising as these, to account. Yes. For any reliable information I receive, I will pay. But I must have the information first, and judge for myself of its value.


Do you know nothing more powerful than money?


Not here, I should imagine,


You should know of something that is more powerful elsewhere, as I judge. Do you know nothing of a woman’s anger?


You have a saucy tongue, Jade,


Not usually. I speak to you now, that you may understand us better, and rely more on us. A woman’s anger is pretty much the same here, as in your fine house. I am angry. I have been so, many years. I have as good cause for my anger as you have for yours, and its object is the same man. Yes. Wide as the distance may seem between us, it is so. How it is so, is no matter; that is my story, and I keep my story to myself. I would bring you and him together, because I have a rage against him. My mother there, is avaricious and poor; and she would sell any tidings she could glean, or anything, or anybody, for money. It is fair enough, perhaps, that you should pay her some, if she can help you to what you want to know. But that is not my motive. I have told you what mine is, and it would be as strong and all-sufficient with me if you haggled and bargained with her for a sixpence. I have done. My saucy tongue says no more, if you wait here till sunrise tomorrow.


Go on—what do you know? Oh, not so fast, your worship! we must wait for someone. It’s to be got from someone else—wormed out—screwed and twisted from him.


What do you mean?


Patience. Patience. I’ll get at it. I know I can! If he was to hold it back from me. I’d tear it out of him!


Do you tell me, woman, that there is another person expected here?


Yes!


From whom you are to exact the intelligence that is to be useful to me?


Yes,


A stranger?


Chut! What signifies! Well, well; no. No stranger to your worship. But he won’t see you. He’d be afraid of you, and wouldn’t talk. You’ll stand behind that door, and judge him for yourself. We don’t ask to be believed on trust What! Your worship doubts the room behind the door? Oh the suspicion of you rich gentlefolks! Look at it, then.


How long, before this person comes?


Not long. Would your worship sit down for a few odd minutes?


Here he is! And here’s my bonny boy, at last!—oho, oho! You’re like my own son, Robby!


Oh! Misses Brown! Don’t! Can’t you be fond of a cove without squeedging and throttling of him? Take care of the birdcage in my hand, will you?


Thinks of a birdcage, afore me! Me that feels more than a mother for him!


Well, I’m sure I’m very much obliged to you, Misses Brown, but you’re so jealous of a cove. I’m very fond of you myself, and all that, of course; but I don’t smother you, do I, Misses Brown? As if that was a crime! Why, look’ee here! Do you know who this belongs to?


To Master, dear?


Ah! It’s our parrot, this is.


Mr Carker’s parrot, Rob?


Will you hold your tongue, Misses Brown? What do you go naming names for? I’m blest, if she ain’t enough to make a cove run wild!


What! Do you snub me, thankless boy!


Good gracious, Misses Brown, no! Was there ever such a—! Don’t I dote upon you, Misses Brown?


Do you, sweet Rob? Do you truly, chickabiddy?


what a thing it is to be perfectly pitched into with affection like this here. I wish she was—How have you been, Misses Brown?


Ah! Not here since this night week!


Good gracious, Misses Brown. I said tonight’s a week, that I’d come tonight, didn’t I? And here I am. How you do go on! I wish you’d be a little rational, Misses Brown. I’m hoarse with saying things in my defence, and my very face is shiny with being hugged!


Drink a little drop to comfort you, my Robin,


Thank’ee, Misses Brown. Here’s your health. And long may you—et ceterer. and wishing her the same and many of ’em! Well, I say, Misses Brown! To go on a little rational now. You’re a judge of birds, and up to their ways, as I know to my cost.


Cost!


Satisfaction, I mean. How you do take up a cove, Misses Brown! You’ve put it all out of my head again.


Judge of birds, Robby,


Ah! Well, I’ve got to take care of this parrot—certain things being sold, and a certain establishment broke up—and as I don’t want no notice took at present, I wish you’d attend to her for a week or so, and give her board and lodging, will you? If I must come backwards and forwards. I may as well have something to come for.


Something to come for?


Besides you, I mean, Misses Brown. Not that I want any inducement but yourself, Misses Brown, I’m sure. Don’t begin again, for goodness’ sake.


He don’t care for me! He don’t care for me, as I care for him! But I’ll take care of his bird.


Take good care of it too, you know, Mrs Brown. If you was so much as to stroke its feathers once the wrong way, I believe it would be found out.


Ah, so sharp as that, Rob?


Sharp, Misses Brown! But this is not to be talked about.


Out of place now, Robby?


Never you mind, Misses Brown,


Board wages, perhaps, Rob?


Pretty Polly!


I wonder Master didn’t take you with him, Rob. Robby, my child.


Well, Misses Brown,


I say I wonder Master didn’t take you with him, dear.


Never you mind, Misses Brown. Misses Brown! let go, will you? What are you doing of? Help, young woman! Misses Brow—Brow—!


Well done, mother. Tear him to pieces!


What, young woman! are you against me too? What have I been and done? What am I to be tore to pieces for, I should like to know? Why do you take and choke a cove who has never done you any harm, neither of you? Call yourselves females, too! I’m surprised at you! Where’s your feminine tenderness?


You thankless dog! You impudent insulting dog!


What have I been and done to go and give you offence, Misses Brown? You was very much attached to me a minute ago.


To cut me off with his short answers and his sulky words. Me! Because I happen to be curious to have a little bit of gossip about Master and the lady, to dare to play at fast and loose with me! But I’ll talk to you no more, my lad. Now go!


I’m sure, Misses Brown. I never insiniwated that I wished to go. Don’t talk like that, Misses Brown, if you please.


I won’t talk at all. Not another word with him shall pass my lips. He’s an ungrateful hound. I cast him off. Now let him go! And I’ll slip those after him that shall talk too much; that won’t be shook away; that’ll hang to him like leeches, and slink arter him like foxes. What! He knows ’em. He knows his old games and his old ways. If he’s forgotten ’em, they’ll soon remind him. Now let him go, and see how he’ll do Master’s business, and keep Master’s secrets, with such company always following him up and down. Ha, ha, ha! He’ll find ’em a different sort from you and me, Ally; Close as he is with you and me. Now let him go, now let him go!


Misses Brown. I’m sure you wouldn’t injure a cove, on second thoughts, and in cold blood, would you?


Don’t talk to me. Now let him go, now let him go!


Misses Brown. I didn’t mean to—Oh, what a thing it is for a cove to get into such a line as this!—I was only careful of talking, Misses Brown, because I always am, on account of his being up to everything; but I might have known it wouldn’t have gone any further. I’m sure I’m quite agreeable, for any little bit of gossip, Misses Brown. Don’t go on like this, if you please. Oh, couldn’t you have the goodness to put in a word for a miserable cove, here?


Come, mother, you hear what he says, try him once more, and if you fall out with him again, ruin him, if you like, and have done with him.


And how’s Master, deary dear?


Hush! If you’d be so good, Misses Brown, as to speak a little lower. Why, he’s pretty well, thank’ee, I suppose.


You’re not out of place, Robby?


Why, I’m not exactly out of place, nor in. I—I’m still in pay, Misses Brown.


And nothing to do, Rob?


Nothing particular to do just now, Misses Brown, but to—keep my eyes open,


Master abroad, Rob?


Oh, for goodness’ sake, Misses Brown, couldn’t you gossip with a cove about anything else? Ye-es, Misses Brown, I believe he’s abroad. What’s she staring at?


Don’t mind her, lad. It’s her way—her way. Tell me, Rob. Did you ever see the lady, deary?


Oh, Misses Brown, what lady?


What lady? The lady; Mrs Dombey.


Yes, I believe I see her once,


The night she went away, Robby, eh? Aha! I know it was that night.


Well, if you know it was that night, you know, Misses Brown, it’s no use putting pinchers into a cove to make him say so.


Where did they go that night, Rob? Straight away? How did they go? Where did you see her? Did she laugh? Did she cry? Tell me all about it. Come! Begin! I want to be told all about it. What, Rob, boy! You and me can keep a secret together, eh? We’ve done so before now. Where did they go first, Rob? Are you dumb?


Lord, Misses Brown, no! You expect a cove to be a flash of lightning. I wish I was the electric fluency. I’d have a shock at somebody, that would settle their business.


What do you say?


I’m wishing my love to you, Misses Brown. Where did they go to first was it? Him and her, do you mean?


Ah! Them two.


Why, they didn’t go nowhere—not together, I mean. That was the art of it, that’s the way nobody saw ’em go, or has been able to say how they did go. They went different ways, I tell you Misses Brown.


Ay, ay, ay! To meet at an appointed place,


Why, if they weren’t a going to meet somewhere, I suppose they might as well have stayed at home, mightn’t they, Brown?


Well, Rob? Well?


What, haven’t we talked enough yet, Misses Brown? Did she laugh that night, was it? Didn’t you ask if she laughed, Misses Brown?


Or cried?


Neither. She kept as steady when she and me—oh, I see you will have it out of me, Misses Brown! But take your solemn oath now, that you’ll never tell anybody. She kept as steady, then, when she and me went down to Southampton, as a image. In the morning she was just the same, Misses Brown. And when she went away in the packet before daylight, by herself—me pretending to be her servant, and seeing her safe aboard—she was just the same. Now, are you contented, Misses Brown?


No, Rob. Not yet,


Oh, here’s a woman for you! What did you wish to know next, Misses Brown?


What became of Master? Where did he go?


Upon my soul, I don’t know, Misses Brown. Upon my soul I don’t know what he did, nor where he went, nor anything about him I only know what he said to me as a caution to hold my tongue, when we parted; and I tell you this, Misses Brown, as a friend, that sooner than ever repeat a word of what we’re saying now, you had better take and shoot yourself, or shut yourself up in this house, and set it a-fire, for there’s nothing he wouldn’t do, to be revenged upon you. You don’t know him half as well as I do, Misses Brown. You’re never safe from him, I tell you.


Haven’t I taken an oath, and won’t I keep it?


Well, I’m sure I hope you will, Misses Brown. For your own sake, quite as much as mine.


Rob. Good gracious, Misses Brown, what’s the matter now? Rob! where did the lady and Master appoint to meet?


How should I know, Misses Brown?


Come, lad! It’s no use leading me to that, and there leaving me. I want to know


How can I pronounce the names of foreign places, Mrs Brown? What an unreasonable woman you are!


But you have heard it said, Robby, and you know what it sounded like. Come!


I never heard it said, Misses Brown,


Then, you have seen it written, and you can spell it.


Now I tell you beforehand what it is, Misses Brown, it’s no use asking me anything else. I won’t answer anything else; I can’t. How long it was to be before they met, or whose plan it was that they was to go away alone, I don’t know no more than you do. I don’t know any more about it. If I was to tell you how I found out this word, you’d believe that. Shall I tell you, Misses Brown?


Yes, Rob.


Well then, Misses Brown. The way—now you won’t ask any more, you know?


Not another word,


When a certain person left the lady with me, he put a piece of paper with a direction written on it in the lady’s hand, saying it was in case she should forget. She wasn’t afraid of forgetting, for she tore it up as soon as his back was turned, and when I put up the carriage steps, I shook out one of the pieces—she sprinkled the rest out of the window, I suppose, for there was none there afterwards, though I looked for ’em. There was only one word on it, and that was this, if you must and will know. But remember! You’re upon your oath, Misses Brown! D Will you hold your tongue, Misses Brown? I won’t have it read out. Be quiet, will you!


Then write large, Rob, for my eyes are not good, even at print.


D


There! Now, I hope you’re contented, Misses Brown!


What will he do, Ally?


Mischief,


Murder?


He’s a madman, in his wounded pride, and may do that, for anything we can say, or he either.


I’ve stepped over from Balls Pond at a early hour, agreeable to my instructions last night. They was, to be sure and bring a note to you, Mr Carker, before you went out in the morning. I should have been here a good hour and a half ago, but for the state of health of Mrs P., who I thought I should have lost in the night, I do assure you, five distinct times.


Is your wife so ill?


Why, you see, she takes what has happened in our House so much to heart, Miss. Her nerves is so very delicate, you see, and soon unstrung. Not but what the strongest nerves had good need to be shook, I’m sure. You feel it very much yourself, no doubts. I’m sure I feel it myself, in my humble way, in a manner I couldn’t have believed if I hadn’t been called upon to undergo. It has almost the effect of drink upon me. I literally feels every morning as if I had been taking more than was good for me over-night. Therefore I can judge, of the feelings of such as is at all peculiarly sitiwated in this most painful rewelation. If I rightly recollect, there was no answer, but perhaps you’ll be so good as cast your eye over it, Sir. Then I shall wish you good morning, Miss, and hoping, I’m sure, that you’ll not permit yourself to be more reduced in mind than you can help, by the late painful rewelation. The Papers, is more eager for news of it than you’d suppose possible. One of the Sunday ones, in a blue cloak and a white hat, that had previously offered for to bribe me—need I say with what success?—was dodging about our court last night as late as twenty minutes after eight o’clock. I see him myself, with his eye at the counting-house keyhole, which being patent is impervious. Another one, with military frogs, is in the parlour of the King’s Arms all the blessed day. I happened, last week, to let a little obserwation fall there, and next morning, which was Sunday, I see it worked up in print, in a most surprising manner.


Dear John. There are bad tidings in that letter.


Yes. But nothing unexpected. I saw the writer yesterday.


The writer?


Mr Dombey. He passed twice through the Counting House while I was there. I had been able to avoid him before, but of course could not hope to do that long. I know how natural it was that he should regard my presence as something offensive; I felt it must be so, myself.


He did not say so?


No; he said nothing: but I saw that his glance rested on me for a moment, and I was prepared for what would happen—for what has happened. I am dismissed! I need not tell you, why your name would henceforth have an unnatural sound, in however remote a connexion with mine, or why the daily sight of anyone who bears it, would be unendurable to me. I have to notify the cessation of all engagements between us, from this date, and to request that no renewal of any communication with me, or my establishment, be ever attempted by you.’—Enclosed is an equivalent in money to a generously long notice, and this is my discharge. Heaven knows, Harriet, it is a lenient and considerate one, when we remember all!


If it be lenient and considerate to punish you at all, John, for the misdeed of another, yes.


We have been an ill-omened race to him. He has reason to shrink from the sound of our name, and to think that there is something cursed and wicked in our blood. I should almost think it too, Harriet, but for you.


Brother, don’t speak like this. If you have any special reason, as you say you have, and think you have—though I say, No!—to love me, spare me the hearing of such wild mad words! After so many years, this parting is a melancholy thing, I know, and the cause of it is dreadful to us both. We have to live, too, and must look about us for the means. Well, well! We can do so, undismayed. It is our pride, not our trouble, to strive, John, and to strive together! Oh, dearest sister! Tied, of your own noble will, to a ruined man! whose reputation is blighted; who has no friend himself, and has driven every friend of yours away! John! for my sake! In remembrance of our long companionship! Now, let me tell you, dear. I have, as you have, expected this; and when I have been thinking of it, and fearing that it would happen, and preparing myself for it, as well as I could, I have resolved to tell you, if it should be so, that I have kept a secret from you, and that we have a friend.


What’s our friend’s name, Harriet?


Indeed, I don’t know, but he once made a very earnest protestation to me of his friendship and his wish to serve us: and to this day I believe him.


Harriet! where does this friend live?


Neither do I know that. But he knows us both, and our history—all our little history, John. That is the reason why, at his own suggestion, I have kept the secret of his coming, here, from you, lest his acquaintance with it should distress you.


Here! Has he been here, Harriet?


Here, in this room. Once.


What kind of man?


Not young. ‘Grey-headed,’ as he said, ‘and fast growing greyer.’ But generous, and frank, and good, I am sure. In this room only once, but when here, he entreated me to suffer him to see me once a week as he passed by, in token of our being well, and continuing to need nothing at his hands. For I told him, when he proffered us any service he could render—which was the object of his visit—that we needed nothing. Once every week since then, and always on the same day, and at the same hour, he his gone past; always on foot; always going in the same direction—towards London; and never pausing longer than to bow to me, and wave his hand cheerfully, as a kind guardian might. He made that promise when he proposed these curious interviews, and has kept it so faithfully and pleasantly, that if I ever felt any trifling uneasiness about them in the beginning (which I don’t think I did, John; his manner was so plain and true) it very soon vanished, and left me quite glad when the day was coming. Last Monday—the first since this terrible event—he did not go by; and I have wondered whether his absence can have been in any way connected with what has happened.


How?


I don’t know how. I have only speculated on the coincidence; I have not tried to account for it. I feel sure he will return. When he does, dear John, let me tell him that I have at last spoken to you, and let me bring you together. He will certainly help us to a new livelihood. His entreaty was that he might do something to smooth my life and yours; and I gave him my promise that if we ever wanted a friend, I would remember him. Then his name was to be no secret.


Harriet, describe this gentleman to me. I surely ought to know one who knows me so well.


John! It is the gentleman I told you of, today!


is greatly relieved to hear you say that: he has been devising ways and means, all the way here, of explaining himself, and has been satisfied with none. Mr John, I am not quite a stranger here. You were stricken with astonishment when you saw me at your door just now. I observe you are more astonished at present. Well! That’s reasonable enough under existing circumstances. If we were not such creatures of habit as we are, we shouldn’t have reason to be astonished half so often. There’s nothing astonishing, in my having conceived a desire to see your sister, Mr John, or in my having gratified it in my own way. As to the regularity of my visits since (which she may have mentioned to you), there is nothing extraordinary in that. They soon grew into a habit; and we are creatures of habit—creatures of habit! It’s this same habit that confirms some of us, who are capable of better things, in Lucifer’s own pride and stubbornness—that confirms and deepens others of us in villainy—more of us in indifference —that hardens us from day to day, according to the temper of our clay, like images, and leaves us as susceptible as images to new impressions and convictions. You shall judge of its influence on me, John. For more years than I need name, I had my small, and exactly defined share, in the management of Dombey’s House, and saw your brother (who has proved himself a scoundrel! Your sister will forgive my being obliged to mention it) extending and extending his influence, until the business and its owner were his football; and saw you toiling at your obscure desk every day; and was quite content to be as little troubled as I might be, out of my own strip of duty, and to let everything about me go on, day by day, unquestioned, like a great machine—that was its habit and mine—and to take it all for granted, and consider it all right. My Wednesday nights came regularly round, our quartette parties came regularly off, my violoncello was in good tune, and there was nothing wrong in my world—or if anything not much—or little or much, it was no affair of mine.


I can answer for your being more respected and beloved during all that time than anybody in the House, Sir,


Pooh! Good-natured and easy enough, I daresay, a habit I had. It suited the Manager; it suited the man he managed: it suited me best of all. I did what was allotted to me to do, made no court to either of them, and was glad to occupy a station in which none was required. So I should have gone on till now, but that my room had a thin wall. You can tell your sister that it was divided from the Manager’s room by a wainscot partition. They were adjoining rooms; had been one, Perhaps, originally; and were separated, as Mr Morfin says. I have whistled, hummed tunes, gone accurately through the whole of Beethoven’s Sonata in B, to let him know that I was within hearing, but he never heeded me. It happened seldom enough that I was within hearing of anything of a private nature, certainly. But when I was, and couldn’t otherwise avoid knowing something of it, I walked out. I walked out once, John, during a conversation between two brothers, to which, in the beginning, young Walter Gay was a party. But I overheard some of it before I left the room. You remember it sufficiently, perhaps, to tell your sister what its nature was?


It referred, Harriet, to the past, and to our relative positions in the House.


Its matter was not new to me, but was presented in a new aspect. It shook me in my habit—the habit of nine-tenths of the world—of believing that all was right about me, because I was used to it, and induced me to recall the history of the two brothers, and to ponder on it. I think it was almost the first time in my life when I fell into this train of reflection—how will many things that are familiar, and quite matters of course to us now, look, when we come to see them from that new and distant point of view which we must all take up, one day or other? I was something less good-natured, as the phrase goes, after that morning, less easy and complacent altogether. Before I knew what to do, or whether I could do anything, there was a second conversation between the same two brothers, in which their sister was mentioned. I had no scruples of conscience in suffering all the waifs and strays of that conversation to float to me as freely as they would. I considered them mine by right. After that, I came here to see the sister for myself. The first time I stopped at the garden gate, I made a pretext of inquiring into the character of a poor neighbour; but I wandered out of that tract, and I think Miss Harriet mistrusted me. The second time I asked leave to come in; came in; and said what I wished to say. Your sister showed me reasons which I dared not dispute, for receiving no assistance from me then; but I established a means of communication between us, which remained unbroken until within these few days, when I was prevented, by important matters that have lately devolved upon me, from maintaining them.


How little I have suspected this, when I have seen you every day, Sir! If Harriet could have guessed your name—


Why, to tell you the truth, John. I kept it to myself for two reasons. I don’t know that the first might have been binding alone; but one has no business to take credit for good intentions, and I made up my mind, at all events, not to disclose myself until I should be able to do you some real service or other. My second reason was, that I always hoped there might be some lingering possibility of your brother’s relenting towards you both; and in that case, I felt that where there was the chance of a man of his suspicious, watchful character, discovering that you had been secretly befriended by me, there was the chance of a new and fatal cause of division. I resolved, to be sure, at the risk of turning his displeasure against myself—which would have been no matter—to watch my opportunity of serving you with the head of the House; but the distractions of death, courtship, marriage, and domestic unhappiness, have left us no head but your brother for this long, long time. And it would have been better for us, to have been a lifeless trunk. All I could desire to say, and more, I have now said. All I mean goes beyond words, as I hope you understand and believe. The time has come, John—though most unfortunately and unhappily come—when I may help you without interfering with that redeeming struggle, which has lasted through so many years; since you were discharged from it today by no act of your own. It is late; I need say no more tonight. You will guard the treasure you have here, without advice or reminder from me. But go you first, John, with a light, without saying what you want to say, whatever that may be; and let me have a word with your sister. We have talked alone before, and in this room too; though it looks more natural with you here. You wish to ask me something of the man whose sister it is your misfortune to be.


I dread to ask,


You have looked so earnestly at me more than once, that I think I can divine your question. Has he taken money? Is it that?


Yes.


He has not.


I thank Heaven! For the sake of John.


That he has abused his trust in many ways, that he has oftener dealt and speculated to advantage for himself, than for the House he represented; that he has led the House on, to prodigious ventures, often resulting in enormous losses; that he has always pampered the vanity and ambition of his employer, when it was his duty to have held them in check, and shown, as it was in his power to do, to what they tended here or there; will not, perhaps, surprise you now. Undertakings have been entered on, to swell the reputation of the House for vast resources, and to exhibit it in magnificent contrast to other merchants’ Houses, of which it requires a steady head to contemplate the possibly—a few disastrous changes of affairs might render them the probably—ruinous consequences. In the midst of the many transactions of the House, in most parts of the world: a great labyrinth of which only he has held the clue: he has had the opportunity, and he seems to have used it, of keeping the various results afloat, when ascertained, and substituting estimates and generalities for facts. But latterly—you follow me, Miss Harriet?


Perfectly, perfectly. Pray tell me all the worst at once.


Latterly, he appears to have devoted the greatest pains to making these results so plain and clear, that reference to the private books enables one to grasp them, numerous and varying as they are, with extraordinary ease. As if he had resolved to show his employer at one broad view what has been brought upon him by ministration to his ruling passion! That it has been his constant practice to minister to that passion basely, and to flatter it corruptly, is indubitable. In that, his criminality, as it is connected with the affairs of the House, chiefly consists.


One other word before you leave me, dear Sir. There is no danger in all this?


How danger?


To the credit of the House?


I cannot help answering you plainly, and trusting you completely,


You may. Indeed you may!


I am sure I may. Danger to the House’s credit? No; none There may be difficulty, greater or less difficulty, but no danger, unless—unless, indeed—the head of the House, unable to bring his mind to the reduction of its enterprises, and positively refusing to believe that it is, or can be, in any position but the position in which he has always represented it to himself, should urge it beyond its strength. Then it would totter.


But there is no apprehension of that?


There shall be no half-confidence, between us. Mr Dombey is unapproachable by anyone, and his state of mind is haughty, rash, unreasonable, and ungovernable, now. But he is disturbed and agitated now beyond all common bounds, and it may pass. You now know all, both worst and best. No more tonight, and good-night! Mr Dombey is unapproachable by anyone, and his state of mind is haughty, rash, unreasonable, and ungovernable, now. But he is disturbed and agitated now beyond all common bounds, and it may pass. You now know all, both worst and best. No more tonight, and good-night!


Let me in! Let me in! I want to speak to you! Let me in! Let me speak to you! I am thankful—quiet—humble—anything you like. But let me speak to you.


May I come in, or shall I speak here?


What is it that you want? What is it that you have to say?


Not much, but let me say it out, or I shall never say it. I am tempted now to go away. There seem to be hands dragging me from the door. Let me come in, if you can trust me for this once!


Sit there, and look at me. You remember me?


I do.


You remember what I told you I had been, and where I came from, ragged and lame, with the fierce wind and weather beating on my head?


Yes.


You know how I came back that night, and threw your money in the dirt, and you and your race. Now, see me here, upon my knees. Am I less earnest now, than I was then?


If what you ask, is forgiveness—


But it’s not! What I ask is to be believed. Now you shall judge if I am worthy of belief, both as I was, and as I am.


When I was young and pretty, and this, was only handled delicately, and couldn’t be admired enough, my mother, who had not been very mindful of me as a child, found out my merits, and was fond of me, and proud of me. She was covetous and poor, and thought to make a sort of property of me. No great lady ever thought that of a daughter yet, I’m sure, or acted as if she did—it’s never done, we all know—and that shows that the only instances of mothers bringing up their daughters wrong, and evil coming of it, are among such miserable folks as us. What came of that, I needn’t say. Wretched marriages don’t come of such things, in our degree; only wretchedness and ruin. Wretchedness and ruin came on me—came on me. I am wasting time, and there is none to spare; yet if I hadn’t thought of all, I shouldn’t be here now. Wretchedness and ruin came on me, I say. I was made a short-lived toy, and flung aside more cruelly and carelessly than even such things are. By whose hand do you think?


Why do you ask me?


Why do you tremble? His usage made a Devil of me. I sunk in wretchedness and ruin, lower and lower yet. I was concerned in a robbery—in every part of it but the gains—and was found out, and sent to be tried, without a friend, without a penny. Though I was but a girl, I would have gone to Death, sooner than ask him for a word, if a word of his could have saved me. I would! To any death that could have been invented. But my mother, covetous always, sent to him in my name, told the true story of my case, and humbly prayed and petitioned for a small last gift—for not so many pounds as I have fingers on this hand. Who was it, do you think, who snapped his fingers at me in my misery, lying, as he believed, at his feet, and left me without even this poor sign of remembrance; well satisfied that I should be sent abroad, beyond the reach of farther trouble to him, and should die, and rot there? Who was this, do you think?


Why do you tremble? but that the answer is on your lips! It was your brother James. When I knew you were his sister—which was on that night—I came back, weary and lame, to spurn your gift. I felt that night as if I could have travelled, weary and lame, over the whole world, to stab him, if I could have found him in a lonely place with no one near. Do you believe that I was earnest in all that?


I do! Good Heaven, why are you come again?


Since then. I have seen him! I have followed him with my eyes. In the broad day. If any spark of my resentment slumbered in my bosom, it sprung into a blaze when my eyes rested on him. You know he has wronged a proud man, and made him his deadly enemy. What if I had given information of him to that man?


Information!


What if I had found out one who knew your brother’s secret; who knew the manner of his flight, who knew where he and the companion of his flight were gone? What if I had made him utter all his knowledge, word by word, before his enemy, concealed to hear it? What if I had sat by at the time, looking into this enemy’s face, and seeing it change till it was scarcely human? What if I had seen him rush away, mad, in pursuit? What if I knew, now, that he was on his road, more fiend than man, and must, in so many hours, come up with him?


Remove your hand! Go away! Your touch is dreadful to me!


I have done this. Do I speak and look as if I really had? Do you believe what I am saying?


I fear I must. Let my arm go!


Not yet. A moment more. You can think what my revengeful purpose must have been, to last so long, and urge me to do this?


Dreadful!


Then when you see me now, here again, kneeling quietly on the ground, with my touch upon your arm, with my eyes upon your face, you may believe that there is no common earnestness in what I say, and that no common struggle has been battling in my breast. I am ashamed to speak the words, but I relent. I despise myself; I have fought with myself all day, and all last night; but I relent towards him without reason, and wish to repair what I have done, if it is possible. I wouldn’t have them come together while his pursuer is so blind and headlong. If you had seen him as he went out last night, you would know the danger better.


How can it be prevented? What can I do?


All night long. I had dreams of him—and yet I didn’t sleep—in his blood. All day, I have had him near me.


What can I do?


If there is anyone who’ll write, or send, or go to him, let them lose no time. He is at Dijon. Do you know the name, and where it is?


Yes.


Warn him that the man he has made his enemy is in a frenzy, and that he doesn’t know him if he makes light of his approach. Tell him that he is on the road—I know he is!—and hurrying on. Urge him to get away while there is time—if there is time—and not to meet him yet. A month or so will make years of difference. Let them not encounter, through me. Anywhere but there! Any time but now! Let his foe follow him, and find him for himself, but not through me! There is enough upon my head without.


Who’s that? Who had bade them to do so?


Monsieur had commanded it, when it was his pleasure to take the apartment. Monsieur had said, when he stayed there for an hour, en route, and left the letter for Madame—Madame had received it surely?


A thousand pardons! The sudden apprehension that it might have been forgotten had struck him; with despair! Monsieur had said that supper was to be ready at that hour: also that he had forewarned Madame of the commands he had given, in his letter. Monsieur had done the Golden Head the honour to request that the supper should be choice and delicate. Monsieur would find that his confidence in the Golden Head was not misplaced.


She couldn’t say. It was all one.


I came here alone It was my choice to do so. I am well used to travelling; I want no attendance. They need send nobody to me.