How strange to come here by yourself, my love! What? I say, how strange to come here alone! It was unnecessary caution surely, and might have defeated itself. You were to have engaged an attendant at Havre or Rouen, and have had abundance of time for the purpose, though you had been the most capricious and difficult (as you are the most beautiful, my love) of women. I have never seen you look so handsome, as you do tonight. Even the picture I have carried in my mind during this cruel probation, and which I have contemplated night and day, is exceeded by the reality. Hard, unrelenting terms they were! but they are all fulfilled and passed, and make the present more delicious and more safe. Sicily shall be the place of our retreat. In the idlest and easiest part of the world, my soul, we’ll both seek compensation for old slavery. Stand still! or I shall murder you! Stand still! come no nearer me, upon your life! Do you think to frighten me from any purpose that I have, and any course I am resolved upon, by reminding me of the solitude of this place, and there being no help near? Me, who am here alone, designedly? If I feared you, should I not have avoided you? If I feared you, should I be here, in the dead of night, telling you to your face what I am going to tell? And what is that, you handsome shrew? Handsomer so, than any other woman in her best humour? I tell you nothing, until you go back to that chair—except this, once again—Don’t come near me! Not a step nearer. I tell you, if you do, as Heaven sees us, I shall murder you! Do you mistake me for your husband? I have something lying here that is no love trinket, and sooner than endure your touch once more, I would use it on you—and you know it, while I speak—with less reluctance than I would on any other creeping thing that lives. How many times has your bold knavery assailed me with outrage and insult? How many times in your smooth manner, and mocking words and looks, have I been twitted with my courtship and my marriage? How many times have you laid bare my wound of love for that sweet, injured girl and lacerated it? How often have you fanned the fire on which, for two years, I have writhed; and tempted me to take a desperate revenge, when it has most tortured me? I have no doubt, Ma’am, that you have kept a good account, and that it’s pretty accurate. Come, Edith. To your husband, poor wretch, this was well enough— Why, if, if all my other reasons for despising him could have been blown away like feathers, his having you for his counsellor and favourite, would have almost been enough to hold their place. Is that a reason why you have run away with me? Yes, and why we are face to face for the last time. Wretch! We meet tonight, and part tonight. For not one moment after I have ceased to speak, will I stay here! I am a woman, who from her childhood has been shamed and steeled. I have been offered and rejected, put up and appraised, until my very soul has sickened. I have not had an accomplishment or grace that might have been a resource to me, but it has been paraded and vended to enhance my value, as if the common crier had called it through the streets. My poor, proud friends, have looked on and approved; and every tie between us has been deadened in my breast. There is not one of them for whom I care, as I could care for a pet dog. I stand alone in the world, remembering well what a hollow world it has been to me, and what a hollow part of it I have been myself. You know this, and you know that my fame with it is worthless to me. Yes; I imagined that. And calculated on it, and so pursued me. Grown too indifferent for any opposition but indifference, to the daily working of the hands that had moulded me to this; and knowing that my marriage would at least prevent their hawking of me up and down; I suffered myself to be sold, as infamously as any woman with a halter round her neck is sold in any market-place. You know that. Yes. I know that. And calculated on it, and so pursued me. From my marriage day, I found myself exposed to such new shame—to such solicitation and pursuit (expressed as clearly as if it had been written in the coarsest words, and thrust into my hand at every turn) from one mean villain, that I felt as if I had never known humiliation till that time. This shame my husband fixed upon me; hemmed me round with, himself; steeped me in, with his own hands, and of his own act, repeated hundreds of times. And thus—forced by the two from every point of rest I had—forced by the two to yield up the last retreat of love and gentleness within me, or to be a new misfortune on its innocent object—driven from each to each, and beset by one when I escaped the other—my anger rose almost to distraction against both. I do not know against which it rose higher—the master or the man! What should I say of honour or of chastity to you! What meaning would it have to you; what meaning would it have from me! But if I tell you that the lightest touch of your hand makes my blood cold with antipathy; that from the hour when I first saw and hated you, to now, when my instinctive repugnance is enhanced by every minute’s knowledge of you I have since had, you have been a loathsome creature to me which has not its like on earth; how then? Ay! How then, my queen? On that night, when, emboldened by the scene you had assisted at, you dared come to my room and speak to me, what passed? What passed? Your memory is so distinct, that I have no doubt you can recall it. I can. Hear it! Proposing then, this flight—not this flight, but the flight you thought it—you told me that in the having given you that meeting, and leaving you to be discovered there, if you so thought fit; and in the having suffered you to be alone with me many times before,—and having made the opportunities, you said,—and in the having openly avowed to you that I had no feeling for my husband but aversion, and no care for myself—I was lost; I had given you the power to traduce my name; and I lived, in virtuous reputation, at the pleasure of your breath.


All stratagems in love—-


The old adage—


On that night, and then, the struggle that I long had had with something that was not respect for my good fame—that was I know not what—perhaps the clinging to that last retreat—was ended. On that night, and then, I turned from everything but passion and resentment. I struck a blow that laid your lofty master in the dust, and set you there, before me, looking at me now, and knowing what I mean. When I forget that this man put his lips to mine that night, and held me in his arms as he has done again tonight, when I forget the taint of his kiss upon my cheek—the cheek that Florence would have laid her guiltless face against—when I forget my meeting with her, while that taint was hot upon me, and in what a flood the knowledge rushed upon me when I saw her, that in releasing her from the persecution I had caused by my love, I brought a shame and degradation on her name through mine, and in all time to come should be the solitary figure representing in her mind her first avoidance of a guilty creature—then, Husband, from whom I stand divorced henceforth, I will forget these last two years, and undo what I have done, and undeceive you! See these! You have addressed these to me in the false name you go by; one here, some elsewhere on my road. The seals are unbroken. Take them back! We meet and part tonight. You have fallen on Sicilian days and sensual rest, too soon. You might have cajoled, and fawned, and played your traitor’s part, a little longer, and grown richer. You purchase your voluptuous retirement dear!


Edith! Sit down! Have done with this! What devil possesses you?


Their name is Legion, you and your master have raised them in a fruitful house, and they shall tear you both. False to him, false to his innocent child, false every way and everywhere, go forth and boast of me, and gnash your teeth, for once, to know that you are lying! In every vaunt you make. I have my triumph. I single out in you the meanest man I know, the parasite and tool of the proud tyrant, that his wound may go the deeper, and may rankle more. Boast, and revenge me on him! You know how you came here tonight; you know how you stand cowering there; you see yourself in colours quite as despicable, if not as odious, as those in which I see you. Boast then, and revenge me on yourself.


We don’t part so. Do you think I am drivelling, to let you go in your mad temper?


Do you think, that I am to be stayed?


I’ll try, my dear,


God’s mercy on you, if you try by coming near me!


And what, if there are none of these same boasts and vaunts on my part? What if I were to turn too? Come! We must make a treaty of this, or I may take some unexpected course. Sit down, sit down!


Too late! I have thrown my fame and good name to the winds! I have resolved to bear the shame that will attach to me—resolved to know that it attaches falsely—that you know it too—and that he does not, never can, and never shall. I’ll die, and make no sign. For this, I am here alone with you, at the dead of night. For this, I have met you here, in a false name, as your wife. For this, I have been seen here by those men, and left here. Nothing can save you now.


Lastly, take my warning! Look to yourself! You have been betrayed, as all betrayers are. It has been made known that you are in this place, or were to be, or have been. If I live, I saw my husband in a carriage in the street tonight!


Strumpet, it’s false!


Hark! do you hear it?


I am safer there, in any case. If I should not decide, to give this fool a meeting, I am less likely to be traced there, than abroad here, now. And if I should (this cursed fit being over), at least I shall not be alone, without a soul to speak to, or advise with, or stand by me. I shall not be run in upon and worried like a rat.


Who goes there! Monsieur?


Yes.


Monsieur has walked a long way in the dark midnight.


No matter. Everyone to his task. Were there any other horses ordered at the Post-house?


A thousand devils!—and pardons! other horses? at this hour? No.


Listen, my friend. I am much hurried. Let us see how fast we can travel! The faster, the more money there will be to drink. Off we go then! Quick!


Halloa! whoop! Halloa! Hi!


Stop


The devil! what’s the matter?


Hark! What’s that?


What?


That noise?


Ah Heaven, be quiet, cursed brigand! What noise?


Behind. Is it not another carriage at a gallop? There! what’s that?


Miscreant with a Pig’s head, stand still! There is nothing coming.


Nothing.


No, nothing but the day yonder.


You are right, I think. I hear nothing now, indeed. Go on!


Hallo, whoop! Hallo, hi!


What day is this?


Day, Sir?


Is it Wednesday?


Wednesday, Sir? No, Sir. Thursday, Sir.


I forgot. How goes the time? My watch is unwound.


Wants a few minutes of five o’clock, Sir. Been travelling a long time, Sir, perhaps?


Yes


By rail, Sir?


Very confusing, Sir. Not much in the habit of travelling by rail myself, Sir, but gentlemen frequently say so.


Do many gentlemen come here?


Pretty well, Sir, in general. Nobody here at present. Rather slack just now, Sir. Everything is slack, Sir.


At what time, do I leave here, did you say?


About a quarter after four, Sir. Express comes through at four, Sir.—It don’t stop. Nobody going with you, Sir, probably. Two gentlemen here, Sir, but they’re waiting for the train to London.


I thought you said there was nobody here,


Not then, sir. Two gentlemen came in the night by the short train that stops here, Sir. Warm water, Sir?


No; and take away the candle. There’s day enough for me.


Oh my own pretty darling sweet Miss Floy! to think that it should come to this and I should find you here my own dear dove with nobody to wait upon you and no home to call your own but never never will I go away again Miss Floy for though I may not gather moss I’m not a rolling stone nor is my heart a stone or else it wouldn’t bust as it is busting now oh dear oh dear! Oh love! I know all that’s past I know it all my tender pet and I’m a choking give me air!


Susan, dear good Susan!


Oh bless her! I that was her little maid when she was a little child! and is she really, really truly going to be married?


Who told you so?


Oh gracious me! that innocentest creetur Toots. I knew he must be right my dear, because he took on so. He’s the devotedest and innocentest infant! And is my darling really really going to be married!


There, there! Now you’re quite yourself, dear Susan!


I-I-I never did see such a creetur as that Toots in all my born days never!


So kind,


And so comic! The way he’s been going on inside with me with that disrespectable Chicken on the box!


About what, Susan?


Oh about Lieutenant Walters, and Captain Gills, and you my dear Miss Floy, and the silent tomb,


The silent tomb!


He says, that he’ll go down into it now immediately and quite comfortable, but bless your heart my dear Miss Floy he won’t, he’s a great deal too happy in seeing other people happy for that, he may not be a Solomon, nor do I say he is but this I do say a less selfish human creature human nature never knew!


Miss Dombey. To be again permitted to—to—gaze—at least, not to gaze, but—I don’t exactly know what I was going to say, but it’s of no consequence.


I have to thank you so often, that I have no words left, and don’t know how to do it. that I have no words left, and don’t know how to do it.


Miss Dombey, if it was possible that you could, consistently with your angelic nature, Curse me, you would—if I may be allowed to say so—floor me infinitely less, than by these undeserved expressions of kindness Their effect upon me—is—but, this is a digression, and of no consequence at all. I could wish, to take this opportunity, Miss Dombey, if I might, of entering into a word of explanation. I should have had the pleasure of—of returning with Susan at an earlier period; but, in the first place, we didn’t know the name of the relation to whose house she had gone, and, in the second, as she had left that relation’s and gone to another at a distance, I think that scarcely anything short of the sagacity of the Chicken, would have found her out in the time. This, however, is not the point. The company of Susan has been, I assure you, Miss Dombey, a consolation and satisfaction to me, in my state of mind, more easily conceived than described. The journey has been its own reward. That, however, still, is not the point. Miss Dombey, I have before observed that I know I am not what is considered a quick person. I am perfectly aware of that. I don’t think anybody could be better acquainted with his own—if it was not too strong an expression, I should say with the thickness of his own head—than myself. But, Miss Dombey, I do, notwithstanding, perceive the state of—of things—with Lieutenant Walters. Whatever agony that state of things may have caused me (which is of no consequence at all), I am bound to say, that Lieutenant Walters is a person who appears to be worthy of the blessing that has fallen on his—on his brow. May he wear it long, and appreciate it, as a very different, and very unworthy individual, that it is of no consequence to name, would have done! That, however, still, is not the point. Miss Dombey, Captain Gills is a friend of mine; and during the interval that is now elapsing, I believe it would afford Captain Gills pleasure to see me occasionally coming backwards and forwards here. It would afford me pleasure so to come. But I cannot forget that I once committed myself, fatally, at the corner of the Square at Brighton; and if my presence will be, in the least degree, unpleasant to you, I only ask you to name it to me now, and assure you that I shall perfectly understand you. I shall not consider it at all unkind, and shall only be too delighted and happy to be honoured with your confidence.


Mr Toots, if you, who are so old and true a friend of mine, were to stay away from this house now, you would make me very unhappy. It can never, never, give me any feeling but pleasure to see you.


Miss Dombey, if I shed a tear, it is a tear of joy. It is of no consequence, and I am very much obliged to you. I may be allowed to remark, after what you have so kindly said, that it is not my intention to neglect my person any longer. I mean, that I shall consider it my duty as a fellow-creature generally, until I am claimed by the silent tomb, to make the best of myself, and to—to have my boots as brightly polished, as—as—circumstances will admit of. This is the last time, Miss Dombey, of my intruding any observation of a private and personal nature. I thank you very much indeed. If I am not, in a general way, as sensible as my friends could wish me to be, or as I could wish myself, I really am, upon my word and honour, particularly sensible of what is considerate and kind. I feel, as if I could express my feelings, at the present moment, in a most remarkable manner, if—if—I could only get a start. what is now to take place between us, takes place under the sacred seal of confidence. It is the sequel. Captain Gills, of what has taken place between myself and Miss Dombey, upstairs.


Alow and aloft, eh, my lad?


Exactly so, Captain Gills. Miss Dombey, I believe, Captain Gills, is to be shortly united to Lieutenant Walters?


Why, ay, my lad. We’re all shipmets here,—Wal”r and sweet—heart will be jined together in the house of bondage, as soon as the askings is over,


The askings, Captain Gills!


In the church, down yonder,


Oh! Yes!


And then, what follers? That there pretty creetur, as delicately brought up as a foreign bird, goes away upon the roaring main with Wal”r on a woyage to China!


Lord, Captain Gills!


Ay! The ship as took him up, when he was wrecked in the hurricane that had drove her clean out of her course, was a China trader, and Wal”r made the woyage, and got into favour, aboard and ashore—being as smart and good a lad as ever stepped—and so, the supercargo dying at Canton, he got made (having acted as clerk afore), and now he’s supercargo aboard another ship, same owners. And so, you see, the pretty creetur goes away upon the roaring main with Wal”r, on a woyage to China. What then? She loves him true. He loves her true. Them as should have loved and tended of her, treated of her like the beasts as perish. When she, cast out of home, come here to me, and dropped upon them planks, her wownded heart was broke. I know it. I, Ed’ard Cuttle, see it. There’s nowt but true, kind, steady love, as can ever piece it up again. If so be I didn’t know that, and didn’t know as Wal”r was her true love, brother, and she his, I’d have these here blue arms and legs chopped off, afore I’d let her go. But I know it, and what then! Why, then, I say, Heaven go with ’em both, and so it will! Amen!


Captain Gills, let me have the pleasure of shaking hands. You’ve a way of saying things, that gives me an agreeable warmth, all up my back. I say Amen. You are aware, Captain Gills, that I, too, have adored Miss Dombey.


Cheer up! Stand by, boy!


It is my intention, Captain Gills, to cheer up. Also to standby, as much as possible. When the silent tomb shall yawn, Captain Gills, I shall be ready for burial; not before. But not being certain, just at present, of my power over myself, what I wish to say to you, and what I shall take it as a particular favour if you will mention to Lieutenant Walters, is as follows.


Is as follers. Steady!


Miss Dombey being so inexpressably kind, as to say that my presence is the reverse of disagreeable to her, and you and everybody here being no less forbearing and tolerant towards one who—who certainly, would appear to have been born by mistake, I shall come backwards and forwards of an evening, during the short time we can all be together. But what I ask is this. If, at any moment, I find that I cannot endure the contemplation of Lieutenant Walters’s bliss, and should rush out, I hope, Captain Gills, that you and he will both consider it as my misfortune and not my fault, or the want of inward conflict. That you’ll feel convinced I bear no malice to any living creature-least of all to Lieutenant Walters himself—and that you’ll casually remark that I have gone out for a walk, or probably to see what o’clock it is by the Royal Exchange. Captain Gills, if you could enter into this arrangement, and could answer for Lieutenant Walters, it would be a relief to my feelings that I should think cheap at the sacrifice of a considerable portion of my property.


My lad, say no more. There ain’t a colour you can run up, as won’t be made out, and answered to, by Wal”r and self.


Captain Gills, my mind is greatly relieved. I wish to preserve the good opinion of all here. I—I—mean well, upon my honour, however badly I may show it. You know, it’s as exactly as Burgess and Co. wished to oblige a customer with a most extraordinary pair of trousers, and could not cut out what they had in their minds.


As to wages dear Miss Floy, you wouldn’t hint and wrong me so as think of naming them, for I’ve put money by and wouldn’t sell my love and duty at a time like this even if the Savings’ Banks and me were total strangers or the Banks were broke to pieces, but you’ve never been without me darling from the time your poor dear Ma was took away, and though I’m nothing to be boasted of you’re used to me and oh my own dear mistress through so many years don’t think of going anywhere without me, for it mustn’t and can’t be!


Dear Susan, I am going on a long, long voyage.


Well Miss Floy, and what of that? the more you’ll want me. Lengths of voyages ain’t an object in my eyes, thank God!


But, Susan, I am going with Walter, and I would go with Walter anywhere—everywhere! Walter is poor, and I am very poor, and I must learn, now, both to help myself, and help him.


Dear Miss Floy! it’s nothing new to you to help yourself and others too and be the patientest and truest of noble hearts, but let me talk to Mr Walter Gay and settle it with him, for suffer you to go away across the world alone I cannot, and I won’t.


Alone, Susan? Alone? and Walter taking me with him! I am sure you will not speak to Walter if I ask you not, and pray don’t, dear.


Why not, Miss Floy?


Because. I am going to be his wife, to give him up my whole heart, and to live with him and die with him. He might think, if you said to him what you have said to me, that I am afraid of what is before me, or that you have some cause to be afraid for me. Why, Susan, dear, I love him!


keeping up


Walter, dear. Do you know what I have been thinking today?


Thinking how the time is flying on, and how soon we shall be upon the sea, sweet Florence?


I don’t mean that, Walter, though I think of that too. I have been thinking what a charge I am to you.


A precious, sacred charge, dear heart! Why, I think that sometimes.


You are laughing, Walter. I know that’s much more in your thoughts than mine. But I mean a cost.


A cost, my own?


In money, dear. All these preparations that Susan and I are so busy with—I have been able to purchase very little for myself. You were poor before. But how much poorer I shall make you, Walter!


And how much richer, Florence! Besides, long ago—before I went to sea—I had a little purse presented to me, dearest, which had money in it.


Ah! very little! very little, Walter! But, you must not think, that I regret to be this burden on you. No, dear love, I am glad of it. I am happy in it. I wouldn’t have it otherwise for all the world!


Nor I, indeed, dear Florence.


Ay! but, Walter, you can never feel it as I do. I am so proud of you! It makes my heart swell with such delight to know that those who speak of you must say you married a poor disowned girl, who had taken shelter here; who had no other home, no other friends; who had nothing—nothing! Oh, Walter, if I could have brought you millions, I never could have been so happy for your sake, as I am!


And you, dear Florence? are you nothing?


No, nothing, Walter. Nothing but your wife. I am nothing any more, that is not you. I have no earthly hope any more, that is not you. I have nothing dear to me any more, that is not you. Sire,


Florence, love, the lading of our ship is nearly finished, and probably on the very day of our marriage she will drop down the river. Shall we go away that morning, and stay in Kent until we go on board at Gravesend within a week?


If you please, Walter. I shall be happy anywhere. But—


Yes, my life?


You know, that we shall have no marriage party, and that nobody will distinguish us by our dress from other people. As we leave the same day, will you—will you take me somewhere that morning, Walter—early—before we go to church?


Stand by! Ed’ard Cuttle, my lad,


Susan. I am drawn towards the building. The words which cut me off from Miss Dombey for ever, will strike upon my ears like a knell you know, but upon my word and honour, I feel that I must hear them. Therefore, will you accompany me to-morrow, to the sacred edifice? Susan, before my whiskers began to be observed by anybody but myself, I adored Miss Dombey. While yet a victim to the thraldom of Blimber, I adored Miss Dombey. When I could no longer be kept out of my property, in a legal point of view, and—and accordingly came into it—I adored Miss Dombey. The banns which consign her to Lieutenant Walters, and me to—to Gloom, you know, may be dreadful, will be dreadful; but I feel that I should wish to hear them spoken. I feel that I should wish to know that the ground was certainly cut from under me, and that I hadn’t a hope to cherish, or a—or a leg, in short, to—to go upon.


now I am sure I had no hope, you know, I felt more comfortable—at least not exactly more comfortable, but more comfortably and completely miserable.


Steady, steady! what’s amiss with you? You don’t seem easy in your mind tonight, my boy! It’s my opinion, Di, as you have your doubts of Mrs Richards; but if you’re the animal I take you to be, you’ll think better o’ that; for her looks is her commission. Now, Brother: if so be as you’re ready, heave ahead. Sol Gills ahoy! Hooroar, my lad, hooroar!


Certainly, Captain Gills, whatever you think proper!


Chock full o’ science, as ever he was! Sol Gills, Sol Gills, what have you been up to, for this many a long day, my ould boy?


I’m half blind, Ned,


and almost deaf and dumb with joy.


His wery woice, his wery woice as chock full o’ science as ever it was! Sol Gills, lay to, my lad, upon your own wines and fig-trees like a taut ould patriark as you are, and overhaul them there adwentures o’ yourn, in your own formilior woice. “Tis the woice, of the sluggard, I heerd him complain, you have woke me too soon, I must slumber again. Scatter his ene-mies, and make ’em fall!


Although


Lost to sight, to memory dear,


Exactly so, Captain Gills! Although I had not the pleasure of your acquaintance, Mr—Mr Sols, before that happened, I have the greatest pleasure, I assure you, in—you know, in knowing you. I hope, that you’re as well as can be expected.


Ned Cuttle, my dear boy, although I have heard something of the changes of events here, from my pleasant friend there—what a pleasant face she has to be sure, to welcome a wanderer home!


Hear him! ’Tis woman as seduces all mankind. For which, you’ll overhaul your Adam and Eve, brother.


I shall make a point of doing so, Captain Gills.


Although I have heard something of the changes of events, from her, that they are so great and unexpected, and I am so overpowered by the sight of my dear boy, and by the, that I—I can’t say much tonight. But my dear Ned Cuttle, why didn’t you write?


Write! Write, Sol Gills?


Ay, either to Barbados, or Jamaica, or Demerara, that was what I asked.


What you asked, Sol Gills?


Ay. Don’t you know, Ned? Sure you have not forgotten? Every time I wrote to you.


Sol Gills. I’m gone about and adrift. Pay out a word or two respecting them adwenturs, will you! Can’t I bring up, nohows? Nohows?


You know, Ned, why I left here. Did you open my packet, Ned?


Why, ay, ay. To be sure, I opened the packet. And read it? And read it My dear Ned Cuttle, when I left home for the West Indies in forlorn search of intelligence of my dear- There he sits! There’s Wal”r!


Well, Ned. Now attend a moment! When I wrote first—that was from Barbados—I said that though you would receive that letter long before the year was out, I should be glad if you would open the packet, as it explained the reason of my going away. Very good, Ned. When I wrote the second, third, and perhaps the fourth times—that was from Jamaica—I said I was in just the same state, couldn’t rest, and couldn’t come away from that part of the world, without knowing that my boy was lost or saved. When I wrote next—that, I think, was from Demerara, wasn’t it?


That he thinks was from Demerara, warn’t it!


—I said, that still there was no certain information got yet. That I found many captains and others, in that part of the world, who had known me for years, and who assisted me with a passage here and there, and for whom I was able, now and then, to do a little in return, in my own craft. That everyone was sorry for me, and seemed to take a sort of interest in my wanderings; and that I began to think it would be my fate to cruise about in search of tidings of my boy, until I died.


Began to think as how he was a scientific Flying Dutchman!


But when the news come one day, Ned,—that was to Barbados, after I got back there,—that a China trader home’ard bound had been spoke, that had my boy aboard, then, Ned, I took passage in the next ship and came home; arrived at home tonight to find it true, thank God!


Sol Gills! The observation as I’m a-going to make is calc’lated to blow every stitch of sail as you can carry, clean out of the bolt-ropes, and bring you on your beam ends with a lurch. Not one of them letters was ever delivered to Ed’ard Cuttle. Not one o’ them letters, was ever delivered unto Ed’ard Cuttle, Mariner, of England, as lives at home at ease, and doth improve each shining hour!


And posted by my own hand! And directed by my own hand, Number nine Brig Place!


What do you mean, Sol Gills, my friend, by Number nine Brig Place?


Mean? Your lodgings, Ned. Mrs What’s-her-name! I shall forget my own name next, but I am behind the present time—I always was, you recollect—and very much confused. Mrs—


Sol Gills! it ain’t the name of MacStinger as you’re a trying to remember?


Of course it is! To be sure Ned. Mrs MacStinger!


Overhaul that there again, Sol Gills, will you be so kind?


All these letters I posted with my own hand, and directed with my own hand, to Captain Cuttle, at Mrs MacStinger’s, Number nine Brig Place.


Why, friends all. I cut and run from there!


And no one knew where you were gone, Captain Cuttle?


Bless your heart, Wal”r, she’d never have allowed o’ my coming to take charge o’ this here property. Nothing could be done but cut and run. Lord love you, Wal”r! you’ve only seen her in a calm! But see her when her angry passions rise—and make a note on!


I’d give it her!


Would you, do you think, my dear? Well, my dear, it does you credit. But there ain’t no wild animal I wouldn’t sooner face myself. I only got my chest away by means of a friend as nobody’s a match for. It was no good sending any letter there. She wouldn’t take in any letter, bless you, under them circumstances! Why, you could hardly make it worth a man’s while to be the postman!


Then it’s pretty clear, Captain Cuttle, that all of us, and you and Uncle Sol especially, may thank Mrs MacStinger for no small anxiety.


Mr Toots,


we shall see each other to-morrow morning?


Lieutenant Walters. I shall certainly be present.


This is the last night we shall meet for a long time—the last night we may ever meet. Such a noble heart as yours, must feel, I think, when another heart is bound to it. I hope you know that I am very grateful to you?


Walters. I should be glad to feel that you had reason to be so.


Florence, on this last night of her bearing her own name, has made me promise—it was only just now, when you left us together—that I would tell you—with her dear love— —With her dear love, that she can never have a friend whom she will value above you. That the recollection of your true consideration for her always, can never be forgotten by her. That she remembers you in her prayers tonight, and hopes that you will think of her when she is far away. Shall I say anything for you?


Say, Walter, that I shall think of her every day, but never without feeling happy to know that she is married to the man she loves, and who loves her. Say, if you please, that I am sure her husband deserves her—even her!—and that I am glad of her choice.


Now, Master. I want to know whether this here gammon is to finish it, or whether you’re a going in to win?


Chicken, explain yourself.


Why then, here’s all about it, Master. I ain’t a cove to chuck a word away. Here’s wot it is. Are any on ’em to be doubled up? Come, Master. Is it to be gammon or pluck? Which?


Chicken, your expressions are coarse, and your meaning is obscure.


Why, then, I tell you what, Master. This is where it is. It’s mean.


What is mean, Chicken?


It is. There! Now, Master! Wot! When you could go and blow on this here match to the stiff’un; and when you could knock the winner and all the kit of ’em dead out o’ wind and time, are you going to give in? To give in? Wy, it’s mean!


Chicken, you’re a perfect Vulture! Your sentiments are atrocious.


My sentiments is Game and Fancy, Master. That’s wot my sentiments is. I can’t abear a meanness. I’m afore the public, I’m to be heerd on at the bar of the Little Helephant, and no Gov’ner o’ mine mustn’t go and do what’s mean. Wy, it’s mean. That’s where it is. It’s mean.


Chicken, you disgust me.


Master, there’s a pair on us, then. Come! Here’s a offer! You’ve spoke to me more than once”t or twice’t about the public line. Never mind! Give me a fi’typunnote to-morrow, and let me go.


Chicken, after the odious sentiments you have expressed, I shall be glad to part on such terms.


Done then. It’s a bargain. This here conduct of yourn won’t suit my book, Master. Wy, it’s mean. That’s where it is; it’s mean!


Baptists or Wesleyans, or some o’ them. Drat ’em, you read the same things over ’em and instead of sovereigns get sixpences!


It must be done, Ma’am. We must marry ’em. We must have our national schools to walk at the head of, and we must have our standing armies. We must marry ’em, Ma’am, and keep the country going.


Only, to walk round the church.


Ahem, you’ll come to us one of these mornings, my dears, unless I’m much mistaken! Well, well, you might do worse. For you’re a tidy pair!


Altogether, Mrs Miff, she is what you may call a rose-bud.


Dear Walter, thank you! I can go away, now, happy.


And when we come back, Florence, we will come and see his grave again.


It is very early, Walter, and the streets are almost empty yet. Let us walk.


But you will be so tired, my love.


Oh no! I was very tired the first time that we ever walked together, but I shall not be so today.


God bless you, Susan; dearest Susan! If you ever can bear witness to the love I have for Walter, and the reason that I have to love him, do it for his sake. Good-bye! Good-bye!


Miss Floy, my darling! look at me! We are all so happy now, dear! One more good-bye, my precious, one more! We are all so—so happy now, my dear Miss Floy! You, you won’t be angry with me now. Now will you?


Angry, Susan!


No, no; I am sure you won’t. I say you won’t, my pet, my dearest! and here’s the Captain too—your friend the Captain, you know—to say good-bye once more!


Hooroar, my Heart’s Delight! Hooroar, Wal”r my lad. Hooroar! Hooroar!


Hooroar, my lad! Hooroar, my Heart’s Delight!


A admiral’s cabin, mind you, ain’t more trim. Ed’ard Cuttle, my lad, you never shaped a better course in your life than when you made that there little property over jintly. You see how the land bore, Ed’ard, and it does you credit, my lad.


My boy has been preserved and thrives. What right have I to be otherwise than thankful and happy!


Sol! There’s the last bottle of the old Madeira down below. Would you wish to have it up tonight, my boy, and drink to Wal”r and his wife?


To Mr Dombey. From Walter. To be sent in three weeks’ time. I’ll read it.


Sir. I am married to your daughter. She is gone with me upon a distant voyage. To be devoted to her is to have no claim on her or you, but God knows that I am. Why, loving her beyond all earthly things, I have yet, without remorse, united her to the uncertainties and dangers of my life, I will not say to you. You know why, and you are her father. Do not reproach her. She has never reproached you. I do not think or hope that you will ever forgive me. There is nothing I expect less. But if an hour should come when it will comfort you to believe that Florence has someone ever near her, the great charge of whose life is to cancel her remembrance of past sorrow, I solemnly assure you, you may, in that hour, rest in that belief.


We won’t drink the last bottle of the old Madeira yet, Ned. Not yet.


Not yet. No. Not yet.


Oh Walter, dearest love, I am so happy! As I hear the sea, and sit watching it, it brings so many days into my mind. It makes me think so much—


Of Paul, my love. I know it does.


things was going wrong. twelve and ninepence in the pound, twelve and ninepence in the pound! Might I make so bold as ask, Sir, are you unhappy in your mind?


My faithful Perch—but no, it cannot be! Leave me, Perch!


it wasn’t for him to betray his trust, was it?


whether this tremendous smash had been at all expected, and how his friend Dombey bore it.


it was a bad world, Sir, altogether; that Joey knew a thing or two, but had been done, Sir, done like an infant; that if you had foretold this, Sir, to J. Bagstock, when he went abroad with Dombey and was chasing that vagabond up and down France, J. Bagstock would have pooh-pooh’d you—would have pooh-pooh’d you, Sir, by the Lord! That Joe had been deceived, Sir, taken in, hoodwinked, blindfolded, but was broad awake again and staring; insomuch, Sir, that if Joe’s father were to rise up from the grave to-morrow, he wouldn’t trust the old blade with a penny piece, but would tell him that his son Josh was too old a soldier to be done again, Sir. That he was a suspicious, crabbed, cranky, used-up, J. B. infidel, Sir; and that if it were consistent with the dignity of a rough and tough old Major, of the old school, who had had the honour of being personally known to, and commended by, their late Royal Highnesses the Dukes of Kent and York, to retire to a tub and live in it, by Gad! Sir, he’d have a tub in Pall Mall to-morrow, to show his contempt for mankind!


In mourning,


Alone! and John here this morning! Is there anything the matter, my dear? But no, your face tells quite another story.


I am afraid it is a selfish revelation that you see there, then,


It is a very pleasant one, and, if selfish, a novelty too, worth seeing in you. But I don’t believe that.


You will not be surprised at my coming alone, or at John’s not having told you I was coming, and you will believe that, when I tell you why I have come. May I do so now?


You can do nothing better.


You were not busy?


I have been, all day. Here’s my witness. I have been confiding all my cares to it. I wish I had none but my own to tell.


Is the House at an end?


Completely at an end.


Will it never be resumed?


Never. Never. You remember what I told you. It has been, all along, impossible to convince him; impossible to reason with him; sometimes, impossible even to approach him. The worst has happened; and the House has fallen, never to be built up any more.


And Mr Dombey, is he personally ruined?


Ruined.


Will he have no private fortune left? Nothing?


The extent of Mr Dombey’s resources is not accurately within my knowledge; but though they are doubtless very large, his obligations are enormous. He is a gentleman of high honour and integrity. Any man in his position could, and many a man in his position would, have saved himself, by making terms which would have very slightly, almost insensibly, increased the losses of those who had had dealings with him, and left him a remnant to live upon. But he is resolved on payment to the last farthing of his means. His own words are, that they will clear, or nearly clear, the House, and that no one can lose much. Ah, Miss Harriet, it would do us no harm to remember oftener than we do, that vices are sometimes only virtues carried to excess! His pride shows well in this.


Have you seen him lately?


No one sees him. When this crisis of his affairs renders it necessary for him to come out of his house, he comes out for the occasion, and again goes home, and shuts himself up, and will see no one. He has written me a letter, acknowledging our past connexion in higher terms than it deserved, and parting from me. I am delicate of obtruding myself upon him now, never having had much intercourse with him in better times; but I have tried to do so. I have written, gone there, entreated. Quite in vain. Well, well, Miss Harriet, this is not to the purpose. You have not come here to hear this. Some other and pleasanter theme is in your mind. Let it be in mine, too, and we shall talk upon more equal terms. Come!


No, it is the same theme. Is it not likely that it should be? Is it not natural that John and I should have been thinking and speaking very much of late of these great changes? Mr Dombey, whom he served so many years—you know upon what terms—reduced, as you describe; and we quite rich! I need not remind you, through what means our circumstances changed. You have not forgotten that our brother James, upon that dreadful day, left no will, no relations but ourselves. You know, our history, the history of both my brothers, in connexion with the unfortunate, unhappy gentleman, of whom you have spoken so truly. You know how few our wants are—John’s and mine—and what little use we have for money, after the life we have led together for so many years; and now that he is earning an income that is ample for us, through your kindness. You are not unprepared to hear what favour I have come to ask of you?


I hardly know. I was, a minute ago. Now, I think, I am not.


Of my dead brother I say nothing. If the dead know what we do—but you understand me. Of my living brother I could say much; but what need I say more, than that this act of duty, in which I have come to ask your indispensable assistance, is his own, and that he cannot rest until it is performed!


Dear Sir,


it must be done very quietly and secretly. Your experience and knowledge will point out a way of doing it. Mr Dombey may, perhaps, be led to believe that it is something saved, unexpectedly, from the wreck of his fortunes; or that it is a voluntary tribute to his honourable and upright character, from some of those with whom he has had great dealings; or that it is some old lost debt repaid. There must be many ways of doing it. I know you will choose the best. The favour I have come to ask is, that you will do it for us in your own kind, generous, considerate manner. That you will never speak of it to John, whose chief happiness in this act of restitution is to do it secretly, unknown, and unapproved of: that only a very small part of the inheritance may be reserved to us, until Mr Dombey shall have possessed the interest of the rest for the remainder of his life; that you will keep our secret, faithfully—but that I am sure you will; and that, from this time, it may seldom be whispered, even between you and me, but may live in my thoughts only as a new reason for thankfulness to Heaven, and joy and pride in my brother.


My dear Harriet. I was not prepared for this. Do I understand you that you wish to make your own part in the inheritance available for your good purpose, as well as John’s?


Oh, yes,


When we have shared everything together for so long a time, and have had no care, hope, or purpose apart, could I bear to be excluded from my share in this? May I not urge a claim to be my brother’s partner and companion to the last?


Heaven forbid that I should dispute it!


We may rely on your friendly help?


I knew we might!


I should be a worse man than,—than I hope I am, or would willingly believe myself, if I could not give you that assurance from my heart and soul. You may, implicitly. Upon my honour, I will keep your secret. And if it should be found that Mr Dombey is so reduced as I fear he will be, acting on a determination that there seem to be no means of influencing, I will assist you to accomplish the design, on which you and John are jointly resolved. Harriet. To speak to you of the worth of any sacrifice that you can make now—above all, of any sacrifice of mere money—would be idle and presumptuous. To put before you any appeal to reconsider your purpose or to set narrow limits to it, would be, I feel, not less so. I have no right to mar the great end of a great history, by any obtrusion of my own weak self. I have every right to bend my head before what you confide to me, satisfied that it comes from a higher and better source of inspiration than my poor worldly knowledge. I will say only this: I am your faithful steward; and I would rather be so, and your chosen friend, than I would be anybody in the world, except yourself. Are you going home? Let me go with you.


Not tonight. I am not going home now; I have a visit to make alone. Will you come to-morrow?


Well, well. I’ll come to-morrow. In the meantime, I’ll think of this, and how we can best proceed. And perhaps I’ll think of it, dear Harriet, and—and—think of me a little in connexion with it.


How is your patient, nurse, tonight?


In a poor way, Miss, I am afraid. Oh how she do remind me, sometimes, of my Uncle’s Betsey Jane!


In what respect?


Miss, in all respects, except that she’s grown up, and Betsey Jane, when at death’s door, was but a child.


But you have told me she recovered, so there is the more reason for hope, Mrs Wickam.


Ah, Miss, hope is an excellent thing for such as has the spirits to bear it! My own spirits is not equal to it, but I don’t owe it any grudge. I envys them that is so blest!


You should try to be more cheerful,


Thank you, Miss, I’m sure. If I was so inclined, the loneliness of this situation—you’ll excuse my speaking so free—would put it out of my power, in four and twenty hours; but I ain’t at all. I’d rather not. The little spirits that I ever had, I was bereaved of at Brighton some few years ago, and I think I feel myself the better for it.


Alice!


am I late tonight?


You always seem late, but are always early.


You are better?


It matters very little! Better or worse today, is but a day’s difference—perhaps not so much.


while we are here, let us repeat the mixture as before.


No, evil courses, and remorse, travel, want, and weather, storm within, and storm without, have worn my life away. It will not last much longer. I lie here, sometimes, thinking I should like to live until I had had a little time to show you how grateful I could be! It is a weakness, and soon passes. Better for you as it is. Better for me!


How long is it, since I went to you and told you what I had done, and when you were advised it was too late for anyone to follow?


It is a year and more,


A year and more. Months upon months since you brought me here!


Yes.


Brought me here, by force of gentleness and kindness. Me! and made me human by woman’s looks and words, and angel’s deeds! Mother, tell her what you know.


Tonight, my deary?


Ay, mother, tonight!


My handsome gal—


Changed, long ago, mother! Withered, long ago. Don’t grieve for that now.


—My daughter, my gal who’ll soon get better, and shame ’em all with her good looks. Who’ll soon get better, I say, and who’ll shame ’em all with her good looks—she will. I say she will! she shall! my daughter has been turned away from, and cast out, but she could boast relationship to proud folks too, if she chose. Ah! To proud folks! There’s relationship without your clergy and your wedding rings—they may make it, but they can’t break it—and my daughter’s well related. Show me Mrs Dombey, and I’ll show you my Alice’s first cousin. What! Though I am old and ugly now,—much older by life and habit than years though,—I was once as young as any. Ah! as pretty too, as many! I was a fresh country wench in my time, darling, and looked it, too. Down in my country, Mrs Dombey’s father and his brother were the gayest gentlemen and the best-liked that came a visiting from London—they have long been dead, though! Lord, Lord, this long while! The brother, who was my Ally’s father, longest of the two. They were as like, as you could see two brothers, so near an age—there wasn’t much more than a year between them, as I recollect—and if you could have seen my gal, as I have seen her once, side by side with the other’s daughter, you’d have seen, for all the difference of dress and life, that they were like each other. Oh! is the likeness gone, and is it my gal—only my gal—that’s to change so!


We shall all change, mother, in our turn,


Turn! but why not hers as soon as my gal’s! The mother must have changed—she looked as old as me, and full as wrinkled through her paint—but she was handsome. What have I done, I, what have I done worse than her, that only my gal is to lie there fading! That’s what Alice bade me tell you, deary. That’s all. I found it out when I began to ask who she was, and all about her, away in Warwickshire there, one summer-time. Such relations was no good to me, then. They wouldn’t have owned me, and had nothing to give me. I should have asked ’em, maybe, for a little money, afterwards, if it hadn’t been for my Alice; she’d a’most have killed me, if I had, I think. She was as proud as t’other in her way, for all she’s so quiet now; but she’ll shame ’em with her good looks yet. Ha, ha! She’ll shame ’em, will my handsome daughter!


I have felt, lying here, that I should like you to know this. It might explain, I have thought, something that used to help to harden me. I had heard so much, in my wrongdoing, of my neglected duty, that I took up with the belief that duty had not been done to me, and that as the seed was sown, the harvest grew. I somehow made it out that when ladies had bad homes and mothers, they went wrong in their way, too; but that their way was not so foul a one as mine, and they had need to bless God for it. That is all past. It is like a dream, now, which I cannot quite remember or understand. It has been more and more like a dream, every day, since you began to sit here, and to read to me. I only tell it you, as I can recollect it. Will you read to me a little more? You will not forget my mother? I forgive her, if I have any cause. I know that she forgives me, and is sorry in her heart. You will not forget her?


Never, Alice! Alice!


A moment yet. Lay your head so, dear, that as you read I may see the words in your kind face.


I shall come, very early in the morning.


our people’s credit ain’t so easy shook as that comes to, thank God


whatever they do, let ’em stand by one another now, Towlinson, for there’s no telling how soon they may be divided. They have been in that house... through a funeral, a wedding, and a running-away; and let it not be said that they couldn’t agree among themselves at such a time as the present.


Cook is an angel.


far be it from him to stand in the way of that good feeling which he could wish to see foreigners is only his fun, and that him and Anne have now resolved to take one another for better for worse, and to settle in Oxford Market in the general greengrocery and herb and leech line, where your kind favours is particular requested.


girls,


Oh a long time, bless you! Take your oath of that. and bring up sweet peas in the spring.


Suppose the wages shouldn’t be paid! Because if that is your religious feelings, Mary Daws, I don’t know where you mean to go to.


Your master’s in difficulties. You know that, I suppose?


No more than yourself!


That’s your opinion, Mrs Impudence, is it?


Yes, Mrs Pipchin, it is. And what then, pray?


Why, then you may go as soon as you like. The sooner the better; and I hope I shall never see your face again. Now those that choose, can go about their business, that slut of a cook, who’ll go immediately.


That, she certainly will! I wish you good day, Mrs Pipchin, and sincerely wish I could compliment you on the sweetness of your appearance!


Get along with you,


Hear, hear!


Go one, go all!


it’s right, and only hopes it’s not done as a compliment to her, but from a sense of duty.


from a sense of duty; I don’t think it over-respectable to remain in a house where Sales and such-like are carrying forwards.


I’m sure of it; a strange man, in a carpet cap, offered, this very morning, to kiss her on the stairs.


For what,


How is my brother, Mrs Pipchin? I don’t know any more than the deuce,


But good gracious me! How long is this to last! If my brother will not make an effort, Mrs Pipchin, what is to become of him? I am sure I should have thought he had seen enough of the consequences of not making an effort, by this time, to be warned against that fatal error.


Hoity toity!


My brother,


Paul, I may be very foolish, and I have no doubt I am, but I cannot understand how your affairs can have got into this state, he should actually fly at me, and request that I will come to see him no more until he asks me!


Ah! It’s a pity he hadn’t a little more to do with mines. They’d have tried his temper for him.


And what, is it to end in? That’s what I want to know. What does my brother mean to do? He must do something. It’s of no use remaining shut up in his own rooms. Business won’t come to him. No. He must go to it. Then why don’t he go? He knows where to go, I suppose, having been a man of business all his life. Very good. Then why not go there? Besides, who ever heard of such obstinacy as his staying shut up here through all these dreadful disagreeables? It’s not as if there was no place for him to go to. Of course he could have come to our house. He knows he is at home there, I suppose? Mr Chick has perfectly bored about it, and I said with my own lips, ‘Why surely, Paul, you don’t imagine that because your affairs have got into this state, you are the less at home to such near relatives as ourselves? You don’t imagine that we are like the rest of the world?’ But no; here he stays all through, and here he is. Why, good gracious me, suppose the house was to be let! What would he do then? He couldn’t remain here then. If he attempted to do so, there would be an ejectment, an action for Doe, and all sorts of things; and then he must go. Then why not go at first instead of at last? And that brings me back to what I said just now, and I naturally ask what is to be the end of it?


I know what’s to be the end of it, as far as I am concerned, and that’s enough for me. I’m going to take myself off in a jiffy.


In a which, Mrs Pipchin,


In a jiffy,


Ah, well! really I can’t blame you, Mrs Pipchin,


It would be pretty much the same to me, if you could. At any rate I’m going. I can’t stop here. I should be dead in a week. I had to cook my own pork chop yesterday, and I’m not used to it. My constitution will be giving way next. Besides, I had a very fair connexion at Brighton when I came here—little Pankey’s folks alone were worth a good eighty pounds a-year to me—and I can’t afford to throw it away. I’ve written to my niece, and she expects me by this time.


Have you spoken to my brother?


Oh, yes, it’s very easy to say speak to him. How is it done? I called out to him yesterday, that I was no use here, and that he had better let me send for Mrs Richards. He grunted something or other that meant yes, and I sent. Grunt indeed! If he had been Mr Pipchin, he’d have had some reason to grunt. Yah! I’ve no patience with it!


I tell you what, Polly, me dear, being now an ingine-driver, and well to do in the world, I shouldn’t allow of your coming here, to be made dull-like, if it warn’t for favours past. But favours past, Polly, is never to be forgot. To them which is in adversity, besides, your face is a cord’l. So let’s have another kiss on it, my dear. You wish no better than to do a right act, I know; and my views is, that it’s right and dutiful to do this. Good-night, Polly!


Oh, Polly, when I looked in to have a little lesson with the children just now, I got the message that you left for me; and as soon as I could recover my spirits at all, I came on after you. Is there no one here but you?


Ah! not a soul,


Have you seen him?


Bless you, no; he has not been seen this many a day. They tell me he never leaves his room.


Is he said to be ill?


No, Ma’am, not that I know of, except in his mind. He must be very bad there, poor gentleman!


Damme, Sir, the woman’s a born idiot!


Let him remember it in that room, years to come!


Let him remember it in that room, years to come! The rain that falls upon the roof, the wind that mourns outside the door, may have foreknowledge in their melancholy sound. Let him remember it in that room, years to come!


Papa! Papa! Speak to me, dear Papa!


Hush! what?


Papa! Dearest Papa! Pardon me, forgive me! I have come back to ask forgiveness on my knees. I never can be happy more, without it! Dear Papa, oh don’t look strangely on me! I never meant to leave you. I never thought of it, before or afterwards. I was frightened when I went away, and could not think. Papa, dear, I am changed. I am penitent. I know my fault. I know my duty better now. Papa, don’t cast me off, or I shall die! Papa, love, I am a mother. I have a child who will soon call Walter by the name by which I call you. When it was born, and when I knew how much I loved it, I knew what I had done in leaving you. Forgive me, dear Papa! oh say God bless me, and my little child! My little child was born at sea, Papa I prayed to God (and so did Walter for me) to spare me, that I might come home. The moment I could land, I came back to you. Never let us be parted any more, Papa. Never let us be parted any more! You will come home with me, Papa, and see my baby. A boy, Papa. His name is Paul. I think—I hope—he’s like— Dear Papa, for the sake of my child, for the sake of the name we have given him, for my sake, pardon Walter. He is so kind and tender to me. I am so happy with him. It was not his fault that we were married. It was mine. I loved him so much. He is the darling of my heart, Papa I would die for him. He will love and honour you as I will. We will teach our little child to love and honour you; and we will tell him, when he can understand, that you had a son of that name once, and that he died, and you were very sorry; but that he is gone to Heaven, where we all hope to see him when our time for resting comes. Kiss me, Papa, as a promise that you will be reconciled to Walter—to my dearest husband—to the father of the little child who taught me to come back, Papa Who taught me to come back!


Oh my God, forgive me, for I need it very much!


And so Dombey and Son, as I observed upon a certain sad occasion, is indeed a daughter, Polly, after all. is indeed a daughter, Polly, after all.


And a good one!


You are right, and it’s a credit to you, Polly, that you were always her friend when she was a little child. You were her friend long before I was, Polly, and you’re a good creature. Robin! Robin. I have just observed to your mother, as you may have heard, that she is a good creature.


And so she is, Miss,


Very well, Robin. I am glad to hear you say so. Now, Robin, as I am going to give you a trial, at your urgent request, as my domestic, with a view to your restoration to respectability, I will take this impressive occasion of remarking that I hope you will never forget that you have, and have always had, a good mother, and that you will endeavour so to conduct yourself as to be a comfort to her.


Upon my soul I will, Miss. I have come through a good deal, and my intentions is now as straightfor’ard, Miss, as a cove’s—


I must get you to break yourself of that word, Robin, if you please,


If you please, Miss, as a chap’s—


Thankee, Robin, no. I should prefer individual.


As a indiwiddle’s—,


Much better, infinitely more expressive!


—can be. If I hadn’t been and got made a Grinder on, Miss and Mother, which was a most unfortunate circumstance for a young co—indiwiddle—


Very good indeed,


—and if I hadn’t been led away by birds, and then fallen into a bad service. I hope I might have done better. But it’s never too late for a—


Indi—


—widdle, to mend; and I hope to mend, Miss, with your kind trial; and wishing, Mother, my love to father, and brothers and sisters, and saying of it.


I am very glad indeed to hear it. Will you take a little bread and butter, and a cup of tea, before we go, Robin?


Thankee, Miss,


Gentlemen, we will resume our studies on the twenty-fifth of next month. Gentlemen, when our friend Cincinnatus retired to his farm, he did not present to the senate any Roman who he sought to nominate as his successor. But there is a Roman here, adolescents imprimis gravis et doctus, gentlemen, whom I, a retiring Cincinnatus, wish to present to my little senate, as their future Dictator. Gentlemen, we will resume our studies on the twenty-fifth of next month, under the auspices of Mr Feeder, B.A.


MR AND MRS TOOTS!


Mrs Blimber, allow me to present my wife. And as you’ve known me for a long time, you know, let me assure you that she is one of the most remarkable women that ever lived.


My dear!


Upon my word and honour she is, I—I assure you, Mrs Blimber, she’s a most extraordinary woman. Well, old Buck! Well! Here we are! Taken in and done for. Eh? Feeder, I give you joy. If you’re as—as—as perfectly blissful in a matrimonial life, as I am myself, you’ll have nothing to desire. I don’t forget my old friends, you see. I ask em to my wedding, Toots. Feeder, the fact is, that there were several circumstances which prevented me from communicating with you until after my marriage had been solemnised. In the first place, I had made a perfect brute of myself to you, on the subject of Miss Dombey; and I felt that if you were asked to any wedding of mine, you would naturally expect that it was with Miss Dombey, which involved explanations, that upon my word and honour, at that crisis, would have knocked me completely over. In the second place, our wedding was strictly private; there being nobody present but one friend of myself and Mrs Toots’s, who is a Captain in—I don’t exactly know in what, but it’s of no consequence. I hope, Feeder, that in writing a statement of what had occurred before Mrs Toots and myself went abroad upon our foreign tour, I fully discharged the offices of friendship.


Toots, my boy. I was joking.


And now, Feeder. I should be glad to know what you think of my union.


Capital!


You think it’s capital, do you, Feeder? Then how capital must it be to Me! For you can never know what an extraordinary woman that is. You see, what I wanted in a wife was—in short, was sense. Money, Feeder, I had. Sense I—I had not, particularly.


Oh, yes, you had, Toots!


No, Feeder, I had not. Why should I disguise it? I had not. I knew that sense was There, in perfect heaps. I had no relation to object or be offended, on the score of station; for I had no relation. I have never had anybody belonging to me but my guardian, and him, Feeder, I have always considered as a Pirate and a Corsair. Therefore, you know it was not likely, that I should take his opinion.


No,


Accordingly. I acted on my own. Bright was the day on which I did so! Feeder! Nobody but myself can tell what the capacity of that woman’s mind is. If ever the Rights of Women, and all that kind of thing, are properly attended to, it will be through her powerful intellect—Susan, my dear! pray do not exert yourself!


My dear. I was only talking.


But, my love, pray do not exert yourself. You really must be careful. Do not, my dear Susan, exert yourself. She’s so easily excited, and then she forgets the medical man altogether.


My dear Susan, don’t exert yourself! I really, in this house, where whatever was done to me in the way of—of any mental confusion sometimes—which is of no consequence and I impute to nobody—I was always treated like one of Doctor Blimber’s family, and had a desk to myself for a considerable period—can—not—allow—my friend Feeder to be—


married.


It may not be inappropriate to the occasion, or altogether uninteresting, to observe that my wife is a most extraordinary woman, and would do this much better than myself—allow my friend Feeder to be married—especially to—


to Miss Blimber.


To Mrs Feeder, my love! ‘whom God hath joined,’ you know, ‘let no man’—don’t you know? I cannot allow my friend Feeder to be married—especially to Mrs Feeder—without proposing their—their—Toasts; and may, may the torch of Hymen be the beacon of joy, and may the flowers we have this day strewed in their path, be the—the banishers of—of gloom!


Very good, Toots! Very well said, indeed, Toots!


My dear Susan, fright is worse than exertion. Pray be calm!


Who is it from?


Why, my love, it’s from Captain Gills. Do not excite yourself. Walters and Miss Dombey are expected home!


My dear, don’t try to deceive me, for it’s no use, they’re come home—I see it plainly in your face!


She’s a most extraordinary woman! You’re perfectly right, my love, they have come home. Miss Dombey has seen her father, and they are reconciled!


Reconciled!


My dear, pray do not exert yourself. Do remember the medical man! Captain Gills says—at least he don’t say, but I imagine, from what I can make out, he means—that Miss Dombey has brought her unfortunate father away from his old house, to one where she and Walters are living; that he is lying very ill there—supposed to be dying; and that she attends upon him night and day. My dearest Susan, do, do, if you possibly can, remember the medical man! If you can’t, it’s of no consequence—but do endeavour to!


Well, Cap’en Cuttle! This is indeed a meeting! I bear no malice now, Cap’en Cuttle—you needn’t fear that I’m a going to cast any reflections. I hope to go to the altar in another spirit. My “usband, Cap’en Cuttle! Cap’en Cuttle, if you would wish to heal up past animosities, and to see the last of your friend, my “usband, as a single person, we should be “appy of your company to chapel. Here is a lady here, my bridesmaid, that will be glad of your protection, Cap’en Cuttle.


What cheer, my lad, what cheer?


D——d bad,


Jack Bunsby, do you do this here, of your own free will?


No.


Why do you do it, then, my lad? Why not sheer off?


Eh?


Sheer off,


Where’s the good? She’d capter me agen.


Try! Cheer up! Come! Now’s your time. Sheer off, Jack Bunsby!


It all began in that there chest o’ yourn. Why did I ever conwoy her into port that night?


My lad. I thought as you had come over her; not as she had come over you. A man as has got such opinions as you have! Come! now’s your time! Sheer off! I’ll cover your retreat. The time’s a flying. Bunsby! It’s for liberty. Will you once? Bunsby! will you twice? Bunsby! it’s for liberty; will you three times? Now or never!


And is your Pa very ill, my darling dear Miss Floy?


He is very, very ill. But, Susan, dear, you must not speak to me as you used to speak. And what’s this? Your old dress, dear? Your old cap, curls, and all?


My dear Miss Dombey. I’ll explain. She’s the most extraordinary woman. There are not many to equal her! She has always said—she said before we were married, and has said to this day—that whenever you came home, she’d come to you in no dress but the dress she used to serve you in, for fear she might seem strange to you, and you might like her less. I admire the dress myself, of all things. I adore her in it! My dear Miss Dombey, she’ll be your maid again, your nurse, all that she ever was, and more. There’s no change in her. But, Susan, my dear, all I ask is, that you’ll remember the medical man, and not exert yourself too much!


Where is Florence?


I am here, Papa, I am here.


I don’t know her! We have been parted so long, that I don’t know her!


Yes, dear Papa;


very much.


Go and walk, my dearest, in the sweet air. Go to your good husband!


My dear, there is someone downstairs who wishes to speak to you. No, no, my love! I have seen the gentleman myself, and spoken with him. Nothing has happened. Will you come?


I could have wished, I am sure, to have had an earlier opportunity of offering my congratulations; but, in point of fact, so many painful occurrences have happened, treading, as a man may say, on one another’s heels, that I have been in a devil of a state myself, and perfectly unfit for every description of society. The only description of society I have kept, has been my own; and it certainly is anything but flattering to a man’s good opinion of his own sources, to know that, in point of fact, he has the capacity of boring himself to a perfectly unlimited extent. I have been mentioning to my friend Mr Gay, if I may be allowed to have the honour of calling him so, that I am rejoiced to hear that my friend Dombey is very decidedly mending. I trust my friend Dombey will not allow his mind to be too much preyed upon, by any mere loss of fortune. I cannot say that I have ever experienced any very great loss of fortune myself: never having had, in point of fact, any great amount of fortune to lose. But as much as I could lose, I have lost; and I don’t find that I particularly care about it. I know my friend Dombey to be a devilish honourable man; and it’s calculated to console my friend Dombey very much, to know, that this is the universal sentiment. Even Tommy Screwzer,—a man of an extremely bilious habit, with whom my friend Gay is probably acquainted—cannot say a syllable in disputation of the fact. The fact is, that my friend Gay and myself have been discussing the propriety of entreating a favour at your hands; and that I have the consent of my friend Gay—who has met me in an exceedingly kind and open manner, for which I am very much indebted to him—to solicit it. I am sensible that so amiable a lady as the lovely and accomplished daughter of my friend Dombey will not require much urging; but I am happy to know, that I am supported by my friend Gay’s influence and approval. As in my parliamentary time, when a man had a motion to make of any sort—which happened seldom in those days, for we were kept very tight in hand, the leaders on both sides being regular Martinets, which was a devilish good thing for the rank and file, like myself, and prevented our exposing ourselves continually, as a great many of us had a feverish anxiety to do—as, in my parliamentary time, I was about to say, when a man had leave to let off any little private popgun, it was always considered a great point for him to say that he had the happiness of believing that his sentiments were not without an echo in the breast of Mr Pitt; the pilot, in point of fact, who had weathered the storm. Upon which, a devilish large number of fellows immediately cheered, and put him in spirits. Though the fact is, that these fellows, being under orders to cheer most excessively whenever Mr Pitt’s name was mentioned, became so proficient that it always woke ’em. And they were so entirely innocent of what was going on, otherwise, that it used to be commonly said by Conversation Brown—four-bottle man at the Treasury Board, with whom the father of my friend Gay was probably acquainted, for it was before my friend Gay’s time—that if a man had risen in his place, and said that he regretted to inform the house that there was an Honourable Member in the last stage of convulsions in the Lobby, and that the Honourable Member’s name was Pitt, the approbation would have been vociferous.


My love, there is nothing the matter.


There is nothing the matter, upon my honour, and I am deeply distressed at being the means of causing you a moment’s uneasiness. I beg to assure you that there is nothing the matter. The favour that I have to ask is, simply—but it really does seem so exceedingly singular, that I should be in the last degree obliged to my friend Gay if he would have the goodness to break the—in point of fact, the ice,


My dearest, it is no more than this. That you will ride to London with this gentleman, whom you know.


And my friend Gay, also—I beg your pardon!


—And with me—and make a visit somewhere.


To whom?


If I might entreat, that you would not press for an answer to that question, I would venture to take the liberty of making the request.


Do you know, Walter?


Yes.


And think it right?


Yes. Only because I am sure that you would too. Though there may be reasons I very well understand, which make it better that nothing more should be said beforehand.


If Papa is still asleep, or can spare me if he is awake, I will go immediately,


I will leave, a card for my friend Dombey, sincerely trusting that he will pick up health and strength with every returning hour. And I hope my friend Dombey will do me the favour to consider me a man who has a devilish warm admiration of his character, as, in point of fact, a British merchant and a devilish upright gentleman. My place in the country is in a most confounded state of dilapidation, but if my friend Dombey should require a change of air, and would take up his quarters there, he would find it a remarkably healthy spot—as it need be, for it’s amazingly dull. If my friend Dombey suffers from bodily weakness, and would allow me to recommend what has frequently done myself good, as a man who has been extremely queer at times, and who lived pretty freely in the days when men lived very freely, I should say, let it be in point of fact the yolk of an egg, beat up with sugar and nutmeg, in a glass of sherry, and taken in the morning with a slice of dry toast. Jackson, who kept the boxing-rooms in Bond Street—man of very superior qualifications, with whose reputation my friend Gay is no doubt acquainted—used to mention that in training for the ring they substituted rum for sherry. I should recommend sherry in this case, on account of my friend Dombey being in an invalided condition; which might occasion rum to fly—in point of fact to his head—and throw him into a devil of a state.


Walter, what is this? Who is here?


Are you not coming, Walter?


No, I will remain here. Don’t tremble there is nothing to fear, dearest Florence.


I know that, Walter, with you so near. I am sure of that, but—


Great Heaven! what is this?


No, no! Mama! Oh, Mama, Mama! why do we meet like this? Why were you ever kind to me when there was no one else, that we should meet like this? I dare not think of that. I am come from Papa’s sick bed. We are never asunder now; we never shall be If you would have me ask his pardon, I will do it, Mama. I am almost sure he will grant it now, if I ask him. May Heaven grant it to you, too, and comfort you! Walter—I am married to him, and we have a son, is at the door, and has brought me here. I will tell him that you are repentant; that you are changed, and he will speak to Papa with me, I know. Is there anything but this that I can do?


The stain upon your name, upon your husband’s, on your child’s. Will that ever be forgiven, Florence?


Will it ever be, Mama? It is! Freely, freely, both by Walter and by me. If that is any consolation to you, there is nothing that you may believe more certainly. You do not—you do not, speak of Papa; but I am sure you wish that I should ask him for his forgiveness. I am sure you do. I will! I will bring it you, if you will let me; and then, perhaps, we may take leave of each other, more like what we used to be to one another. I have not, I have not shrunk back from you, Mama, because I fear you, or because I dread to be disgraced by you. I only wish to do my duty to Papa. I am very dear to him, and he is very dear to me. But I never can forget that you were very good to me. Oh, pray to Heaven, pray to Heaven, Mama, to forgive you all this sin and shame, and to forgive me if I cannot help doing this (if it is wrong), when I remember what you used to be!


Florence! My better angel! Before I am mad again, before my stubbornness comes back and strikes me dumb, believe me, upon my soul I am innocent! Guilty of much! Guilty of that which sets a waste between us evermore. Guilty of what must separate me, through the whole remainder of my life, from purity and innocence—from you, of all the earth. Guilty of a blind and passionate resentment, of which I do not, cannot, will not, even now, repent; but not guilty with that dead man. Before God! Florence! purest and best of natures,—whom I love—who might have changed me long ago, and did for a time work some change even in the woman that I am,—believe me, I am innocent of that; and once more, on my desolate heart, let me lay this dear head, for the last time! I trust, that my lovely and accomplished relative will excuse my having, by a little stratagem, effected this meeting. I cannot say that I was, at first, wholly incredulous as to the possibility of my lovely and accomplished relative having, very unfortunately, committed herself with the deceased person with white teeth; because in point of fact, one does see, in this world—which is remarkable for devilish strange arrangements, and for being decidedly the most unintelligible thing within a man’s experience—very odd conjunctions of that sort. But as I mentioned to my friend Dombey, I could not admit the criminality of my lovely and accomplished relative until it was perfectly established. And feeling, when the deceased person was, in point of fact, destroyed in a devilish horrible manner, that her position was a very painful one—and feeling besides that our family had been a little to blame in not paying more attention to her, and that we are a careless family—and also that my aunt, though a devilish lively woman, had perhaps not been the very best of mothers—I took the liberty of seeking her in France, and offering her such protection as a man very much out at elbows could offer. Upon which occasion, my lovely and accomplished relative did me the honour to express that she believed I was, in my way, a devilish good sort of fellow; and that therefore she put herself under my protection. Which in point of fact I understood to be a kind thing on the part of my lovely and accomplished relative, as I am getting extremely shaky, and have derived great comfort from her solicitude.


My lovely and accomplished relative, will excuse me, if, for her satisfaction, and my own, and that of my friend Dombey, whose lovely and accomplished daughter we so much admire, I complete the thread of my observations. She will remember that, from the first, she and I never alluded to the subject of her elopement. My impression, certainly, has always been, that there was a mystery in the affair which she could explain if so inclined. But my lovely and accomplished relative being a devilish resolute woman, I knew that she was not, in point of fact, to be trifled with, and therefore did not involve myself in any discussions. But, observing lately, that her accessible point did appear to be a very strong description of tenderness for the daughter of my friend Dombey, it occurred to me that if I could bring about a meeting, unexpected on both sides, it might lead to beneficial results. Therefore, we being in London, in the present private way, before going to the South of Italy, there to establish ourselves, in point of fact, until we go to our long homes, which is a devilish disagreeable reflection for a man, I applied myself to the discovery of the residence of my friend Gay—handsome man of an uncommonly frank disposition, who is probably known to my lovely and accomplished relative—and had the happiness of bringing his amiable wife to the present place. And now. I do conjure my relative, not to stop half way, but to set right, as far as she can, whatever she has done wrong—not for the honour of her family, not for her own fame, not for any of those considerations which unfortunate circumstances have induced her to regard as hollow, and in point of fact, as approaching to humbug—but because it is wrong, and not right.


I debated with myself a long time, whether to write this at all, in case of dying suddenly or by accident, and feeling the want of it upon me. I have deliberated, ever since, when and how to destroy it. Take it, Florence. The truth is written in it.


Is it for Papa?


It is for whom you will. It is given to you, and is obtained by you. He never could have had it otherwise.


Mama, he has lost his fortune; he has been at the point of death; he may not recover, even now. Is there any word that I shall say to him from you?


Did you tell me, that you were very dear to him?


Yes!


Tell him I am sorry that we ever met.


No more?


Tell him, if he asks, that I do not repent of what I have done—not yet—for if it were to do again to-morrow, I should do it. But if he is a changed man— —But that being a changed man, he knows, now, it would never be. Tell him I wish it never had been.


May I say, that you grieved to hear of the afflictions he has suffered?


Not, if they have taught him that his daughter is very dear to him. He will not grieve for them himself, one day, if they have brought that lesson, Florence.


You wish well to him, and would have him happy. I am sure you would! Oh! let me be able, if I have the occasion at some future time, to say so?


Tell him that if, in his own present, he can find any reason to compassionate my past, I sent word that I asked him to do so. Tell him that if, in his own present, he can find a reason to think less bitterly of me, I asked him to do so. Tell him, that, dead as we are to one another, never more to meet on this side of eternity, he knows there is one feeling in common between us now, that there never was before. I trust myself to that, for his better thoughts of me, and mine of him. When he loves his Florence most, he will hate me least. When he is most proud and happy in her and her children, he will be most repentant of his own part in the dark vision of our married life. At that time, I will be repentant too—let him know it then—and think that when I thought so much of all the causes that had made me what I was, I needed to have allowed more for the causes that had made him what he was. I will try, then, to forgive him his share of blame. Let him try to forgive me mine!


Oh Mama! How it lightens my heart, even in such a strange meeting and parting, to hear this!


Strange words in my own ears, and foreign to the sound of my own voice! But even if I had been the wretched creature I have given him occasion to believe me, I think I could have said them still, hearing that you and he were very dear to one another. Let him, when you are dearest, ever feel that he is most forbearing in his thoughts of me—that I am most forbearing in my thoughts of him! Those are the last words I send him! Now, goodbye, my life!


This kiss for your child! These kisses for a blessing on your head! My own dear Florence, my sweet girl, farewell! To meet again!


Never again! Never again! When you leave me in this dark room, think that you have left me in the grave. Remember only that I was once, and that I loved you!


I am devilish sorry, that the lovely and accomplished daughter of my friend Dombey and amiable wife of my friend Gay, should have had her sensitive nature so very much distressed and cut up by the interview which is just concluded. But I hope and trust I have acted for the best, and that my honourable friend Dombey will find his mind relieved by the disclosures which have taken place. I exceedingly lament that my friend Dombey should have got himself, in point of fact, into the devil’s own state of conglomeration by an alliance with our family; but am strongly of opinion that if it hadn’t been for the infernal scoundrel Barker—man with white teeth—everything would have gone on pretty smoothly. In regard to my relative who does me the honour to have formed an uncommonly good opinion of myself, I can assure the amiable wife of my friend Gay, that she may rely on my being, in point of fact, a father to her. And in regard to the changes of human life, and the extraordinary manner in which we are perpetually conducting ourselves, all I can say is, with my friend Shakespeare—man who wasn’t for an age but for all time, and with whom my friend Gay is no doubt acquainted—that its like the shadow of a dream.


This is a very rare and most delicious wine.


Ed’ard Cuttle, my lad, if your mother could ha’ know’d as you would ever be a man o’ science, the good old creetur would ha’ been took aback in-deed!


Captain Gills, and Mr Sols, I am happy to inform you that Mrs Toots has had an increase to her family.


And it does her credit!


I give you joy, Mr Toots!


Thank’ee. I’m very much obliged to you. I knew that you’d be glad to hear, and so I came down myself. We’re positively getting on, you know. There’s Florence, and Susan, and now here’s another little stranger.


A female stranger?


Yes, Captain Gills,


Stand by! Here’s to her, and may she have ever so many more!


Thank’ee, Captain Gills. I echo the sentiment. If you’ll allow me, as my so doing cannot be unpleasant to anybody, under the circumstances, I think I’ll take a pipe. Of all the remarkable instances that that delightful woman has given of her excellent sense, Captain Gills and Mr Sols, I think none is more remarkable than the perfection with which she has understood my devotion to Miss Dombey. Because you know, I have never changed my sentiments towards Miss Dombey. They are the same as ever. She is the same bright vision to me, at present, that she was before I made Walters’s acquaintance. When Mrs Toots and myself first began to talk of—in short, of the tender passion, you know, Captain Gills.


Ay, ay, my lad, as makes us all slue round—for which you’ll overhaul the book—


I shall certainly do so, Captain Gills, when we first began to mention such subjects, I explained that I was what you may call a Blighted Flower, you know. But Lord bless me, she was as entirely conscious of the state of my feelings as I was myself. There was nothing I could tell her. She was the only person who could have stood between me and the silent Tomb, and she did it, in a manner to command my everlasting admiration. She knows that there’s nobody in the world I look up to, as I do to Miss Dombey. Knows that there’s nothing on earth I wouldn’t do for Miss Dombey. She knows that I consider Miss Dombey the most beautiful, the most amiable, the most angelic of her sex. What is her observation upon that? The perfection of sense. ‘My dear, you’re right. I think so too.’


And so do I!


So do I,


Then, what an observant woman my wife is! What sagacity she possesses! What remarks she makes! It was only last night, when we were sitting in the enjoyment of connubial bliss—which, upon my word and honour, is a feeble term to express my feelings in the society of my wife—that she said how remarkable it was to consider the present position of our friend Walters. ‘Here,’ observes my wife, ‘he is, released from sea-going, after that first long voyage with his young bride’—as you know he was, Mr Sols.


Quite true,


‘Here he is,’ says my wife, ‘released from that, immediately; appointed by the same establishment to a post of great trust and confidence at home; showing himself again worthy; mounting up the ladder with the greatest expedition; beloved by everybody; assisted by his uncle at the very best possible time of his fortunes’—which I think is the case, Mr Sols? My wife is always correct.


Why yes, yes—some of our lost ships, freighted with gold, have come home, truly. Small craft, Mr Toots, but serviceable to my boy!


Exactly so. You’ll never find my wife wrong. ‘Here he is,’ says that most remarkable woman, ‘so situated,—and what follows? What follows?’ observed Mrs Toots. Now pray remark, Captain Gills, and Mr Sols, the depth of my wife’s penetration. ‘Why that, under the very eye of Mr Dombey, there is a foundation going on, upon which a—an Edifice;’ that was Mrs Toots’s word, is gradually rising, perhaps to equal, perhaps excel, that of which he was once the head, and the small beginnings of which (a common fault, but a bad one, Mrs Toots said) escaped his memory. Thus,’ said my wife, ‘from his daughter, after all, another Dombey and Son will ascend’—no ‘rise;’ that was Mrs Toots’s word—‘triumphant!’


Sol Gills, you man of science and my ould pardner, what did I tell Wal”r to overhaul on that there night when he first took to business? Was it this here quotation, ‘Turn again Whittington, Lord Mayor of London, and when you are old you will never depart from it.’ Was it them words, Sol Gills?


It certainly was, Ned. I remember well.


Then I tell you what. I’ll give you Lovely Peg right through; and stand by, both on you, for the chorus!


What, grandpa! Am I so like my poor little Uncle again? Yes, Paul. But he was weak, and you are very strong.


Oh yes, I am very strong.


And he lay on a little bed beside the sea, and you can run about.


Dear grandpapa, why do you cry when you kiss me?


Little Florence! little Florence!