Not a bit, and afore I begin to be, my Hearts-delight, Wal”r will have wrote home from the island, or from some port or another, and made all taut and ship-shape. who I’ll stand by, and not desert until death do us part, and when the stormy winds do blow, do blow, do blow—overhaul the Catechism, and there you’ll find them expressions—if it would console Sol Gills to have the opinion of a seafaring man as has got a mind equal to any undertaking that he puts it alongside of, and as was all but smashed in his “prenticeship, and of which the name is Bunsby, that “ere man shall give him such an opinion in his own parlour as’ll stun him. Ah! as much as if he’d gone and knocked his head again a door!


Let us take this gentleman to see him, and let us hear what he says. Will you go with us now? We have a coach here.


You see I should have bore down on Sol Gills yesterday, and this morning, but she—she took it away and kept it. That’s the long and short of the subject.


Who did, for goodness sake?


The lady of the house, my dear. We had some words about the swabbing of these here planks, and she—In short, she stopped my liberty.


Oh! I wish she had me to deal with! I’d stop her!


Would you, do you, my dear? I don’t know. It’s difficult navigation. She’s very hard to carry on with, my dear. You never can tell how she’ll head, you see. She’s full one minute, and round upon you next. And when she in a tartar. Would you, do you think, my dear?


Clara a-hoy!


A-hoy!


Bunsby aboard?


Ay, ay!


said Bunsby, my lad, how fares it?


Ay, ay, shipmet, how goes it?


Bunsby, here you are; a man of mind, and a man as can give an opinion. Here’s a young lady as wants to take that opinion, in regard of my friend Wal"r; likewise my t’other friend, Sol Gills, which is a character for you to come within hail of, being a man of science, which is the mother of invention, and knows no law. Bunsby, will you wear, to oblige me, and come along with us? Here is a man, that has fell down, more than any man alive; that has had more accidents happen to his own self than the Seamen’s Hospital to all hands; that took as many spars and bars and bolts about the outside of his head when he was young, as you’d want a order for on Chatham-yard to build a pleasure yacht with; and yet that his opinions in that way, it’s my belief, for there ain’t nothing like ’em afloat or ashore.


Shipmet, what’ll the ladies drink?


Whether she can have run, but no, that’s almost impossible or whether she can have been forced by stress of weather,—but that’s not reasonably likely. Or whether there is any hope she so far changed her course as—but even I can hardly hope that!


You have been to see me? Today?


Yes, my dear young lady. I wished to see you with my own eyes, and to hear you with my own ears, once more before—


Before when? Before what?


Did I say ‘before?’ If I did, I must have meant before we should have news of my dear boy.


You are not well. You have been so very anxious I am sure you are not well.


I am as well, as well and firm as any man at my time of life can hope to be. See! It’s steady. Is its master not as capable of resolution and fortitude as many a younger man? I think so. We shall see.


My name’s Jack Bunsby!


He was christened John. Hear him!


And what I says. I stands to.


Now he’s coming out. This is what I meant when I brought him.


Whereby, why not? If so, what odds? Can any man say otherwise? No. Awast then! Do I believe that this here Son and Heir’s gone down, my lads? Mayhap. Do I say so? Which? If a skipper stands out by Sen’ George’s Channel, making for the Downs, what’s right ahead of him? The Goodwins. He isn’t forced to run upon the Goodwins, but he may. The bearings of this observation lays in the application on it. That ain’t no part of my duty. Awast then, keep a bright look-out for’ard, and good luck to you!


What cheer, Sol Gills?


But so-so, Ned. I have been remembering, all this afternoon, that on the very day when my boy entered Dombey’s House, and came home late to dinner, sitting just there where you stand, we talked of storm and shipwreck, and I could hardly turn him from the subject.


Stand by, old friend! Look alive! I tell you what, Sol Gills; arter I’ve convoyed Heart’s-delight safe home. I’ll come back and take you in tow for the rest of this blessed day. You’ll come and eat your dinner along with me, Sol, somewheres or another.


Not today, Ned! Not today. I couldn’t do it!


Why not?


I—I have so much to do. I—I mean to think of, and arrange. I couldn’t do it, Ned, indeed. I must go out again, and be alone, and turn my mind to many things today.


To-morrow, then,


Yes, yes. To-morrow. Think of me to-morrow. Say to-morrow.


I shall come here early, mind, Sol Gills,


Yes, yes. The first thing tomorrow morning, and now good-bye, Ned Cuttle, and God bless you!


Would you, do you think my dear, though?


Now, my dear Sir, is there anybody you would like to know? Who is there you would wish to meet? Do you take any interest in writing people, or in painting or sculpturing people, or in acting people, or in anything of that sort? My dear Sir—penalty of your eminent position—friend at my house naturally desirous—Lady Skettles and myself participate—trust that genius being superior to ceremonies, you will do us the distinguished favour of giving us the pleasure. My dear Miss Dombey, are you sure you can remember no one whom your good Papa—to whom I beg you present the best compliments of myself and Lady Skettles when you write—might wish you to know?


Is there anybody you can suggest now, Doctor Blimber?


You are very kind, Sir Barnet. Really I am not aware that there is, in particular. I like to know my fellow-men in general, Sir Barnet. What does Terence say? Anyone who is the parent of a son is interesting to me.


Has Mrs Blimber any wish to see any remarkable person?


if Sir Barnet could have made her known to Cicero, she would have troubled him; but such an introduction not being feasible, and she already enjoying the friendship of himself and his amiable lady, and possessing with the Doctor her husband their joint confidence in regard to their dear son—here young Barnet was observed to curl his nose—she asked no more.


Is Florence an orphan like me, aunt?


No, my love. She has no mother, but her father is living.


Is she in mourning for her poor Mama, now?


No; for her only brother.


Has she no other brother?


None.


No sister?


None,


I am very, very sorry! Florence is a favourite with everyone here, and deserves to be, I am sure. Where is her Papa? He is in England, I hope, aunt?


I believe so. Yes; I know he is, indeed.


Has he ever been here?


I believe not. No.


Is he coming here to see her?


I believe not.


Good morning, you are at work early.


I’d be glad to be often at work earlier, Miss, if I had work to do.


Is it so hard to get?


I find it so,


Is that your daughter?


Yes,


Is she in want of employment also?


No, Miss,


I work for both,


Are there only you two, then?


Only us two,


Her mother has been dead these ten year. Martha!


won’t you say a word to the pretty young lady?


I’m afraid she’s worse this morning, my poor girl!


She is ill, then!


I don’t believe my Martha’s had five short days’ good health,


in as many long years.


More than that, you say, do you?


Not to me,


Not to me.


Who would favour my poor girl—to call it favouring—if I didn’t?


Ay, ay,


In reason, John. But you! You rob yourself to give to her. You bind yourself hand and foot on her account. You make your life miserable along of her. And what does she care! You don’t believe she knows it?


Only to get that, he never lets her out of his sight!


Because the day’ll come, and has been coming a long while,


when to get half as much from that unfort’nate child of mine—to get the trembling of a finger, or the waving of a hair—would be to raise the dead.


Dear Florence, live for me, and we will love each other as we might have done, and be as happy as we might have been these many years! It is too late for anything but this; I never could be happier, dear father!


My horse is perfectly quiet, I assure you. I have the honour to address Miss Dombey, I believe?


My name is Carker. I can hardly hope to be remembered by Miss Dombey, except by name. Carker. I beg pardon, a thousand times! But I am going down tomorrow morning to Mr Dombey, at Leamington, and if Miss Dombey can entrust me with any commission, need I say how very happy I shall be?


There is no news of the ship!


Nothing to send, Miss Dombey?


Nothing, but my—but my dear love—if you please.


Holloa! What’s the matter? Steady, my lad, don’t ye speak a word to me as yet!


heave ahead.


Do you mean, tell you, Captain?


Ay!


Well, Sir. I ain’t got much to tell. But look here! And look here! When I woke this morning, Captain, which was about a quarter after five, I found these on my pillow. The shop-door was unbolted and unlocked, and Mr Gills gone.


Gone!


Flowed, Sir, 'For Captain Cuttle,' Sir, is on the keys, and on the packet too. Upon my word and honour, Captain Cuttle, I don’t know anything more about it. I wish I may die if I do! Here’s a sitiwation for a lad that’s just got a sitiwation, his master bolted with his place, and him blamed for it!


'My dear Ned Cuttle. Enclosed is my will!' and Testament’—Where’s the Testament? What have you done with that, my lad?


I never see it. Don’t keep on suspecting an innocent lad, Captain. I never touched the Testament.


'Which don’t break open for a year, or until you have decisive intelligence of my dear Walter, who is dear to you, Ned, too, I am sure.' 'If you should never hear of me, or see me more, Ned, remember an old friend as he will remember you to the last—kindly; and at least until the period I have mentioned has expired, keep a home in the old place for Walter. There are no debts, the loan from Dombey’s House is paid off and all my keys I send with this. Keep this quiet, and make no inquiry for me; it is useless. So no more, dear Ned, from your true friend, Solomon Gills.' 'The boy Rob, well recommended, as I told you, from Dombey’s House. If all else should come to the hammer, take care, Ned, of the little Midshipman.'


Oh, don’t, Captain! I wonder how you can! what have I done to be looked at, like that?


My lad, don’t you sing out afore you’re hurt. And don’t you commit yourself, whatever you do.


I haven’t been and committed nothing, Captain!


Keep her free, then, and ride easy.


And I think, Captain, that when Mr Gills was going in and out so often, these last few days, he was taking little things away, piecemeal, not to attract attention.


Ay! Why so, my lad?


Why. I don’t see his shaving tackle. Nor his brushes, Captain. Nor no shirts. Nor yet his shoes.


And what should you say, not committing yourself—about his time of sheering off? Hey?


Why, I think, Captain, that he must have gone pretty soon after I began to snore.


What o’clock was that?


How can I tell, Captain! I only know that I’m a heavy sleeper at first, and a light one towards morning; and if Mr Gills had come through the shop near daybreak, though ever so much on tiptoe, I’m pretty sure I should have heard him shut the door at all events.


that it wam’t him.


Now, look ye here, my lad, to-morrow, I shan’t be found in this here roadstead till night—not till arter midnight p’rhaps. But you keep watch till you hear me knock, and the moment you do, turn-to, and open the door.


Very good, Captain,


You’ll continue to be rated on these here books, and I don’t say but what you may get promotion, if you and me should pull together with a will. But the moment you hear me knock to-morrow night, whatever time it is, turn-to and show yourself smart with the door.


I’ll be sure to do it, Captain,


Because you understand, there may be, for anything I can say, a chase; and I might be took while I was waiting, if you didn’t show yourself smart with the door.


A nice small kidney-pudding now, Cap’en Cuttle, or a sheep’s heart. Don’t mind my trouble.


No thank’ee, Ma’am,


Have a roast fowl, with a bit of weal stuffing and some egg sauce. Come, Cap’en Cuttle! Give yourself a little treat!


I’m sure you’re out of sorts, and want to be stimulated. Why not have, for once in a way, a bottle of sherry wine?


Well, Ma’am, if you’d be so good as take a glass or two, I think I would try that. Would you do me the favour, Ma’am, to accept a quarter’s rent ahead?


And why so, Cap’en Cuttle?


If you would Ma’am, it would oblige me. I can’t keep my money very well. It pays itself out. I should take it kind if you’d comply.


Well, Cap’en Cuttle, you can do as you please. It’s not for me, with my family, to refuse, no more than it is to ask.


And would you, Ma’am, be so good as offer eighteen-pence a-piece to the little family all round? If you could make it convenient, Ma’am, to pass the word presently for them children to come for’ard, in a body, I should be glad to see ’em.


Whew! It’s a breather!


Nothing the matter, is there, Captain?


No, no! But mind ye, my lad; if any lady, except either of them two as you see t’other day, ever comes and asks for Cap’en Cuttle, be sure to report no person of that name known, nor never heard of here; observe them orders, will you?


I’ll take care, Captain,


You might say—if you liked, that you’d read in the paper that a Cap’en of that name was gone to Australia, emigrating, along with a whole ship’s complement of people as had all swore never to come back no more.


Your most obedient, Sir. Damme, Sir, a friend of my friend Dombey’s is a friend of mine, and I’m glad to see you!


I am infinitely obliged, Carker, to Major Bagstock, for his company and conversation. Major Bagstock has rendered me great service, Carker.


By Gad, Sir, there are no thanks due to me, for it’s a give and take affair. A great creature like our friend Dombey, Sir, cannot help improving and exalting his friends. He strengthens and invigorates a man, Sir, does Dombey, in his moral nature. But when my friend Dombey, Sir, talks to you of Major Bagstock, I must crave leave to set him and you right. He means plain Joe, Sir—Joey B.—Josh. Bagstock—Joseph—rough and tough Old J., Sir. At your service. And now, Sir, you and Dombey have the devil’s own amount of business to talk over.


By no means, Major,


Dombey. I know better; a man of your mark—the Colossus of commerce—is not to be interrupted. Your moments are precious. We shall meet at dinner-time. In the interval, old Joseph will be scarce. The dinner-hour is a sharp seven, Mr Carker. I beg your pardon. Dombey, have you any message to ’em?


compliments


By the Lord, Sir, you must make it something warmer than that, or old Joe will be far from welcome.


Regards then, if you will, Major,


Damme, Sir, make it something warmer than that.


What you please, then, Major,


Our friend is sly, Sir, sly, Sir, de-vilish sly. So is Bagstock. Dombey! I envy your feelings. God bless you!


Very great indeed,


I have had my reasons, Carker. I have been alone, and indifferent to it. But you have great social qualifications yourself, and are the more likely to have been surprised.


Oh! I! It’s quite another matter in the case of a man like me. I don’t come into comparison with you.


I shall have the pleasure, Carker, to present you to my—to the Major’s friends. Highly agreeable people.


Ladies among them, I presume?


They are all—that is to say, they are both—ladies,


Only two?


They are only two. I have confined my visits to their residence, and have made no other acquaintance here.


Sisters, perhaps?


Mother and daughter,


You are very kind. I shall be delighted to know them. Speaking of daughters, I have seen Miss Dombey. I took the liberty of waiting on her, to inquire if she could charge me with any little commission. I am not so fortunate as to be the bearer of any but her—but her dear love.


What business intelligence is there?


There is very little. Upon the whole we have not had our usual good fortune of late, but that is of little moment to you. At Lloyd’s, they give up the Son and Heir for lost. Well, she was insured, from her keel to her masthead.


Carker. I cannot say that young man, Gay, ever impressed me favourably—


Nor me,


—But I wish, he had never gone on board that ship. I wish he had never been sent out.


It is a pity you didn’t say so, in good time, is it not? However, I think it’s all for the best. I really, think it’s all for the best. Did I mention that there was something like a little confidence between Miss Dombey and myself?


No,


I have no doubt, that wherever Gay is, he is much better where he is, than at home here. If I were, or could be, in your place, I should be satisfied of that. I am quite satisfied of it myself. Miss Dombey is confiding and young—perhaps hardly proud enough, for your daughter—if she have a fault. Not that that is much though, I am sure. Will you check these balances with me?


What insupportable creature is this, coming in? I cannot hear it. Go away, whoever you are!


You have not the heart to banish J. B., Ma’am!


Oh it’s you, is it? On second thoughts, you may enter. Sit down, a long way off. Don’t come too near me, for I am frightfully faint and sensitive this morning, and you smell of the Sun. You are absolutely tropical.


By George, Ma’am, the time has been when Joseph Bagstock has been grilled and blistered by the Sun; then time was, when he was forced, Ma’am, into such full blow, by high hothouse heat in the West Indies, that he was known as the Flower. A man never heard of Bagstock, Ma’am, in those days; he heard of the Flower—the Flower of Ours. The Flower may have faded, more or less, Ma’am, but it is a tough plant yet, and constant as the evergreen.


Where is Mrs Granger? Very well. Go away, and shut the door. I am engaged. Dombey, Ma’am,


is as well as a man in his condition can be. His condition is a desperate one, Ma’am. He is touched, is Dombey! Touched! He is bayonetted through the body.


Major Bagstock, although I know but little of the world,—nor can I really regret my experience, for I fear it is a false place, full of withering conventionalities: where Nature is but little regarded, and where the music of the heart, and the gushing of the soul, and all that sort of thing, which is so truly poetical, is seldom heard,—I cannot misunderstand your meaning. There is an allusion to Edith—to my extremely dear child, in your words, to which the tenderest of chords vibrates excessively.


Bluntness, Ma’am, has ever been the characteristic of the Bagstock breed. You are right. Joe admits it.


And that allusion, would involve one of the most—if not positively the most—touching, and thrilling, and sacred emotions of which our sadly-fallen nature is susceptible, I conceive. I feel that I am weak. I feel that I am wanting in that energy, which should sustain a Mama: not to say a parent: on such a subject, but I can hardly approach a topic so excessively momentous to my dearest Edith without a feeling of faintness. Nevertheless, bad man, as you have boldly remarked upon it, and as it has occasioned me great anguish: I will not shrink from my duty. Mr Dombey, was obliging enough, now many weeks ago, to do us the honour of visiting us here; in company, my dear Major, with yourself. I acknowledge—let me be open—that it is my failing to be the creature of impulse, and to wear my heart as it were, outside. I know my failing full well. My enemy cannot know it better. But I am not penitent; I would rather not be frozen by the heartless world, and am content to bear this imputation justly. It gave me (my dearest Edith too, I am sure) infinite pleasure to receive Mr Dombey. As a friend of yours, my dear Major, we were naturally disposed to be prepossessed in his favour; and I fancied that I observed an amount of Heart in Mr Dombey, that was excessively refreshing.


There is devilish little heart in Dombey now, Ma’am,


Wretched man! pray be silent.


J. B. is dumb, Ma’am,


Mr Dombey, accordingly repeated his visit; and possibly finding some attraction in the simplicity and primitiveness of our tastes—for there is always a charm in nature—it is so very sweet—became one of our little circle every evening. Little did I think of the awful responsibility into which I plunged when I encouraged Mr Dombey—to


To beat up these quarters, Ma’am,


Coarse person! you anticipate my meaning, though in odious language. The agony I have endured, as the truth has by degrees dawned upon me, has been too exceedingly terrific to dilate upon. My whole existence is bound up in my sweetest Edith; and to see her change from day to day—my beautiful pet, who has positively garnered up her heart since the death of that most delightful creature, Granger—is the most affecting thing in the world. Edith, who is the perfect pearl of my life, is said to resemble me. I believe we are alike.


There is one man in the world who never will admit that anyone resembles you, Ma’am, and that man’s name is Old Joe Bagstock.


If my charming girl inherits any advantages from me, wicked one! she inherits also my foolish nature. She has great force of character—mine has been said to be immense, though I don’t believe it—but once moved, she is susceptible and sensitive to the last extent. What are my feelings when I see her pining! They destroy me. The confidence, that has subsisted between us—the free development of soul, and openness of sentiment—is touching to think of. We have been more like sisters than Mama and child.


J. B.“s own sentiment, expressed by J. B. fifty thousand times!


Do not interrupt, rude man! What are my feelings, then, when I find that there is one subject avoided by us! That there is a what’s-his-name—a gulf—opened between us. That my own artless Edith is changed to me! They are of the most poignant description, of course. From day to day I see this, my dear Major. From day to day I feel this. From hour to hour I reproach myself for that excess of faith and trustfulness which has led to such distressing consequences; and almost from minute to minute, I hope that Mr Dombey may explain himself, and relieve the torture I undergo, which is extremely wearing. But nothing happens, my dear Major; I am the slave of remorse—take care of the coffee-cup: you are so very awkward—my darling Edith is an altered being; and I really don’t see what is to be done, or what good creature I can advise with.


Advise with Joe, Ma’am.


Then, you aggravating monster, why don’t you talk to me? you know what I mean. Why don’t you tell me something to the purpose? Is there as much Heart in Mr Dombey as I gave him credit for? Do you think he is in earnest, my dear Major? Would you recommend his being spoken to, or his being left alone? Now tell me, like a dear man, what would you advise.


Shall we marry him to Edith Granger, Ma’am?


Mysterious creature! How can we marry him?


Shall we marry him to Edith Granger, Ma’am, I say? Dombey, Ma’am, is a great catch.


Oh, mercenary wretch! I am shocked.


And Dombey, Ma’am, is in earnest. Joseph says it; Bagstock knows it; J. B. keeps him to the mark. Leave Dombey to himself, Ma’am. Dombey is safe, Ma’am. Do as you have done; do no more; and trust to J. B. for the end.


You really think so, my dear Major?


Sure of it, Ma’am. Cleopatra the peerless, and her Antony Bagstock, will often speak of this, triumphantly, when sharing the elegance and wealth of Edith Dombey’s establishment. Dombey’s right-hand man, Ma’am, has arrived.


This morning?


This morning, Ma’am. And Dombey’s anxiety for his arrival, Ma’am, is to be referred—take J. B.“s word for this; for Joe is devilish sly—to his desire that what is in the wind should become known to him without Dombey’s telling and consulting him. For Dombey is as proud, Ma’am, as Lucifer.


A charming quality, reminding one of dearest Edith.


Well, Ma’am. I have thrown out hints already, and the right-hand man understands ’em; and I’ll throw out more, before the day is done. Dombey projected this morning a ride to Warwick Castle, and to Kenilworth, to-morrow, to be preceded by a breakfast with us. I undertook the delivery of this invitation. Will you honour us so far, Ma’am?


Hush! Edith!


My dearest Edith, where on earth have you been? I have wanted you, my love, most sadly.


You said you were engaged, and I stayed away,


It was cruel to Old Joe, Ma’am,


It was very cruel, I know,


Major Bagstock, my darling Edith, who is generally the most useless and disagreeable creature in the world: as you know—


It is surely not worthwhile, Mama, to observe these forms of speech. We are quite alone. We know each other.


My darling girl,


Not woman yet? How very odd you are today, my dear! Pray let me say, my love, that Major Bagstock has brought the kindest of notes from Mr Dombey, proposing that we should breakfast with him to-morrow, and ride to Warwick and Kenilworth. Will you go, Edith? Will I go!


I knew you would, my own. It is, as you say, quite a form to ask. Here is Mr Dombey’s letter, Edith.


Thank you. I have no desire to read it,


Then perhaps I had better answer it myself, though I had thought of asking you to be my secretary, darling. Your regards, Edith, my dear?


What you will, Mama,


As to alteration in her, Sir, as to alteration, Sir, and pining, and so forth, that won’t go down with Joseph Bagstock, None of that, Sir. It won’t do here. But as to there being something of a division between ’em—or a gulf as the mother calls it—damme, Sir, that seems true enough. And it’s odd enough! Well, Sir! Edith Granger and Dombey are well matched; let ’em fight it out! Bagstock backs the winner!


Well, Sir! How have you passed the time since I had the happiness of meeting you? Have you walked at all?


A saunter of barely half an hour’s duration. We have been so much occupied.


Business, eh?


A variety of little matters necessary to be gone through, but I feel quite confidential with you, Major Bagstock.


You do me honour, Sir. You may be.


Do you know, then, that I have not found our friend so attentive to business today, as usual?


No?


I have found him a little abstracted, and with his attention disposed to wander,


By Jove, Sir, there’s a lady in the case.


Indeed, I begin to believe there really is. I thought you might be jesting when you seemed to hint at it; for I know you military men


Well! we are gay dogs, there’s no denying. she was a woman of extraordinary charms, Sir. That she was a young widow, Sir. That she was of a fine family, Sir. That Dombey was over head and ears in love with her, Sir, and that it would be a good match on both sides; for she had beauty, blood, and talent, and Dombey had fortune; and what more could any couple have? Mr Carker would see her tomorrow morning, and would judge for himself;


Dombey, you don’t eat; what’s the matter?


Thank you. I am doing very well; I have no great appetite today.


Why, Dombey, what’s become of it? Where’s it gone? You haven’t left it with our friends, I’ll swear, for I can answer for their having none today at luncheon. I can answer for one of ’em, at least: I won’t say which. Fill this to the brim, you scoundrel. Fill Mr Carker’s to the brim too. And Mr Dombey’s too. By Gad, gentlemen, we’ll consecrate this glass of wine to a Divinity whom Joe is proud to know, and at a distance humbly and reverently to admire. Edith, is her name; angelic Edith!


To angelic Edith!


Edith, by all means,


For though among ourselves, Joe Bagstock mingles jest and earnest on this subject, Sir, he holds that name too sacred to be made the property of these fellows, or of any fellows. Not a word, Sir, while they are here!


Yes, I play picquet a little,


Backgammon, perhaps?


Yes, I play backgammon a little too,


Carker plays at all games, I believe, and plays them well.


Yes, I play chess a little. I have sometimes played, and won a game—it’s a mere trick—without seeing the board.


By Gad, Sir! you are a contrast to Dombey, who plays nothing.


Oh! He! He has never had occasion to acquire such little arts. To men like me, they are sometimes useful. As at present, Major Bagstock, when they enable me to take a hand with you.


Now to see the second Mrs Dombey!


Let me tell your fortune, my pretty lady,


I can tell it for myself,


Ay, ay, pretty lady; but not right. You didn’t tell it right when you were sitting there. I see you! Give me a piece of silver, pretty lady, and I’ll tell your fortune true. There’s riches, pretty lady, in your face.


I know. I knew it before.


What! You won’t give me nothing? You won’t give me nothing to tell your fortune, pretty lady? How much will you give me to tell it, then? Give me something, or I’ll call it after you! You give me something then, or I’ll call it after her! Or come, give me something, or I’ll call it after you!


After me, old lady!


Yes. I know!


What do you know? Do you know who the handsome lady is?


Good! One child dead, and one child living: one wife dead, and one wife coming. Go and meet her!


What was that you said, Bedlamite?


Go and meet her!


My dear Mr Dombey. I am afraid we are late, but Edith has been out already looking for a favourable point of view for a sketch, and kept me waiting for her. Falsest of Majors, how do you do?


Mrs Skewton, let me gratify my friend Carker: by presenting him to you. You have heard me mention Mr Carker.


I am charmed, I am sure. Why, where, for Heaven’s sake, is Edith?


Carker—


I am obliged to the gentleman, for sparing me some annoyance from an importunate beggar just now.


I am obliged to my good fortune, for the opportunity of rendering so slight a service to one whose servant I am proud to be.


Really, really now, this is one of the most enchanting coincidences that I ever heard of. The idea! My dearest Edith, there is such an obvious destiny in it, that really one might almost be induced to cross one’s arms upon one’s frock, and say, like those wicked Turks, there is no What’s-his-name but Thingummy, and What-you-may-call-it is his prophet!


It gives me great pleasure, that a gentleman so nearly connected with myself as Carker is, should have had the honour and happiness of rendering the least assistance to Mrs Granger. But it gives me some pain, and it occasions me to be really envious of Carker; envious of Carker, that I had not that honour and that happiness myself.


By the Lord, Sir, it’s an extraordinary thing to me that no one can have the honour and happiness of shooting all such beggars through the head without being brought to book for it. But here’s an arm for Mrs Granger if she’ll do J. B. the honour to accept it; and the greatest service Joe can render you, Ma’am, just now, is, to lead you into table!


I am quite rejoiced, Mr Carker, that you have timed your visit so happily, as to go with us today. It is the most enchanting expedition!


Any expedition would be enchanting in such society, but I believe it is, in itself, full of interest.


Oh! the Castle is charming!—associations of the Middle Ages—and all that—which is so truly exquisite. Don’t you dote upon the Middle Ages, Mr Carker?


Very much, indeed,


Such charming times! So full of faith! So vigorous and forcible! So picturesque! So perfectly removed from commonplace! Oh dear! If they would only leave us a little more of the poetry of existence in these terrible days! We are dreadfully real, Mr Carker, are we not? Pictures at the Castle, quite divine! I hope you dote upon pictures?


I assure you, Mrs Skewton, that Carker has a very good taste for pictures; quite a natural power of appreciating them. He is a very creditable artist himself. He will be delighted, I am sure, with Mrs Granger’s taste and skill.


Damme, Sir! my opinion is, that you’re the admirable Carker, and can do anything.


Oh! you are much too sanguine, Major Bagstock. I can do very little. But Mr Dombey is so generous in his estimation of any trivial accomplishment a man like myself may find it almost necessary to acquire, and to which, in his very different sphere, he is far superior, that—


You have been to Warwick often, unfortunately?


Several times.


The visit will be tedious to you, I am afraid.


Oh no; not at all.


Ah! You are like your cousin Feenix, my dearest Edith. He has been to Warwick Castle fifty times, if he has been there once; yet if he came to Leamington to-morrow—I wish he would, dear angel!—he would make his fifty-second visit next day.


We are all enthusiastic, are we not, Mama?


Too much so, for our peace, perhaps, my dear, but we won’t complain. Our own emotions are our recompense. If, as your cousin Feenix says, the sword wears out the what’s-its-name—


The scabbard, perhaps,


Exactly—a little too fast, it is because it is bright and glowing, you know, my dearest love.


Those darling byegone times, Mr Carker, with their delicious fortresses, and their dear old dungeons, and their delightful places of torture, and their romantic vengeances, and their picturesque assaults and sieges, and everything that makes life truly charming! How dreadfully we have degenerated!


Yes, we have fallen off deplorably,


We have no Faith left, positively. We have no Faith in the dear old Barons, who were the most delightful creatures—or in the dear old Priests, who were the most warlike of men—or even in the days of that inestimable Queen Bess, upon the wall there, which were so extremely golden. Dear creature! She was all Heart And that charming father of hers! I hope you dote on Harry the Eighth!


I admire him very much,


So bluff! wasn’t he? So burly. So truly English. Such a picture, too, he makes, with his dear little peepy eyes, and his benevolent chin!


Ah, Ma’am! but if you speak of pictures, there’s a composition! What gallery in the world can produce the counterpart of that?


My dearest Edith knows I was admiring her! Sweet pet!


Here, Carker, have the goodness to assist me, will you?


Very true, Carker. Indeed, Carker,


But I am afraid I trouble you too much,


By no means. Where would you wish it taken from? I would rather you chose for yourself,


Suppose then, we say from here. It appears a good spot for the purpose, or—Carker, what do you think?


Might I venture to suggest to Mrs Granger, that that is an interesting—almost a curious—point of view?


Will you like that?


I shall be charmed,


My pencils are all pointless,


Pray allow me. Or Carker will do it better, as he understands these things. Carker, have the goodness to see to these pencils for Mrs Granger.


Are you satisfied with that, or shall I finish it a little more?


It is most extraordinary. I was not prepared for anything so beautiful, and so unusual altogether.


Edith, my dearest love. Mr Dombey is dying to hear you, I know.


Mr Dombey has life enough left to say so for himself, Mama, I have no doubt.


I shall be immensely obliged,


What do you wish?


Piano?


Whatever you please. You have only to choose.


I hope so. I think so.


I have requested Mrs Granger’s permission to call on her to-morrow morning—for a purpose—and she has appointed twelve o’clock. May I hope to have the pleasure of finding you at home, Madam, afterwards?


Dombey, come along! Damme, Sir, old Joe has a great mind to propose an alteration in the name of the Royal Hotel, and that it should be called the Three Jolly Bachelors, in honour of ourselves and Carker.


Why don’t you tell me, that he is coming here to-morrow by appointment?


Because you know it. Mother. You know he has bought me. Or that he will, to-morrow. He has considered of his bargain; he has shown it to his friend; he is even rather proud of it; he thinks that it will suit him, and may be had sufficiently cheap; and he will buy to-morrow. God, that I have lived for this, and that I feel it!


What do you mean? Haven’t you from a child—


A child! when was I a child? What childhood did you ever leave to me? I was a woman—artful, designing, mercenary, laying snares for men—before I knew myself, or you, or even understood the base and wretched aim of every new display I learnt You gave birth to a woman. Look upon her. She is in her pride tonight. Look at me, who have never known what it is to have an honest heart, and love. Look at me, taught to scheme and plot when children play; and married in my youth—an old age of design—to one for whom I had no feeling but indifference. Look at me, whom he left a widow, dying before his inheritance descended to him—a judgment on you! well deserved!—and tell me what has been my life for ten years since.


We have been making every effort to endeavour to secure to you a good establishment. That has been your life. And now you have got it.


There is no slave in a market: there is no horse in a fair: so shown and offered and examined and paraded, Mother, as I have been, for ten shameful years. Is it not so? Have I been made the bye-word of all kinds of men? Have fools, have profligates, have boys, have dotards, dangled after me, and one by one rejected me, and fallen off, because you were too plain with all your cunning: yes, and too true, with all those false pretences: until we have almost come to be notorious? The licence of look and touch, have I submitted to it, in half the places of resort upon the map of England? Have I been hawked and vended here and there, until the last grain of self-respect is dead within me, and I loathe myself? Has been my late childhood? I had none before. Do not tell me that I had, tonight of all nights in my life!


You might have been well married, twenty times at least, Edith, if you had given encouragement enough.


No! Who takes me, refuse that I am, and as I well deserve to be, shall take me, as this man does, with no art of mine put forth to lure him. He sees me at the auction, and he thinks it well to buy me. Let him! When he came to view me—perhaps to bid—he required to see the roll of my accomplishments. I gave it to him. When he would have me show one of them, to justify his purchase to his men, I require of him to say which he demands, and I exhibit it. I will do no more. He makes the purchase of his own will, and with his own sense of its worth, and the power of his money; and I hope it may never disappoint him. I have not vaunted and pressed the bargain; neither have you, so far as I have been able to prevent you.


You talk strangely tonight, Edith, to your own Mother.


It seems so to me; stranger to me than you. But my education was completed long ago. I am too old now, and have fallen too low, by degrees, to take a new course, and to stop yours, and to help myself. The germ of all that purifies a woman’s breast, and makes it true and good, has never stirred in mine, and I have nothing else to sustain me when I despise myself. So, as we are genteel and poor, I am content that we should be made rich by these means; all I say is, I have kept the only purpose I have had the strength to form—I had almost said the power, with you at my side, Mother—and have not tempted this man on.


This man! You speak, as if you hated him.


And you thought I loved him, did you not? Shall I tell you, who already knows us thoroughly, and reads us right, and before whom I have even less of self-respect or confidence than before my own inward self; being so much degraded by his knowledge of me?


This is an attack, I suppose, on poor, unfortunate what’s-his-name—Mr Carker! Your want of self-respect and confidence, my dear, in reference to that person (who is very agreeable, it strikes me), is not likely to have much effect on your establishment. Why do you look at me so hard? Are you ill?


So the day has come at length, Susan, when we are going back to our quiet home!


Very quiet indeed, Miss Floy, no doubt. Excessive so.


When I was a child, did you ever see that gentleman who has taken the trouble to ride down here to speak to me, now three times—three times, I think, Susan?


Three times, Miss. Once when you was out a walking with them Sket— With Sir Barnet and his lady, I mean to say, Miss, and the young gentleman. And two evenings since then.


When I was a child, and when company used to come to visit Papa, did you ever see that gentleman at home, Susan?


Well, Miss. I really couldn’t say I ever did. When your poor dear Ma died, Miss Floy, I was very new in the family, you see, and my element: was the floor below the attics.


To be sure, you are not likely to have known who came to the house. I quite forgot.


Not, Miss, but what we talked about the family and visitors, and but what I heard much said, although the nurse before Mrs Richards make unpleasant remarks when I was in company, and hint at little Pitchers, but that could only be attributed, poor thing, to habits of intoxication, for which she was required to leave, and did. At all events, Miss. I remember very well that this same gentleman, Mr Carker, was almost, if not quite, as great a gentleman with your Papa then, as he is now. It used to be said in the house then, Miss, that he was at the head of all your Pa’s affairs in the City, and managed the whole, and that your Pa minded him more than anybody, which, begging your pardon, Miss Floy, he might easy do, for he never minded anybody else. I knew that, Pitcher as I might have been. And that Mr Carker has not fallen off, Miss,


How are you, Toots?


How de do, Sir Barnet? What a surprising thing that I should see you here! I never was so surprised! Is Miss Dombey there? Oh, Diogenes is quite well, Miss Dombey. I called to ask this morning.


Thank you very much!


Won’t you come ashore, Toots? Come! you’re in no hurry. Come and see us.


Oh, it’s of no consequence, thank you! I thought Miss Dombey might like to know, that’s all. Good-bye! Oh, how de do, Miss Dombey? thank you, I’m very well indeed, I hope you’re the same, so was Diogenes yesterday.


You are very kind,


Thank you, it’s of no consequence. I thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind, in this fine weather, coming home by water, Miss Dombey. There’s plenty of room in the boat for your maid.


I am very much obliged to you. I really am—but I would rather not.


Oh, it’s of no consequence. Good morning.


Won’t you wait and see Lady Skettles?


Oh no, thank you, it’s of no consequence at all.


We are losing, today, Toots, the light of our house, I assure you


Oh, it’s of no conseq—I mean yes, to be sure. Good morning!


May I beg of you, my dear Miss Dombey, to present my best compliments to your dear Papa?


I shall be glad to see it again, I don’t deny, Miss. There ain’t much in it to boast of, but I wouldn’t have it burnt or pulled down, neither!


You’ll be glad to go through the old rooms, won’t you, Susan?


Well, Miss. I won’t deny but what I shall, though I shall hate ’em again, to-morrow, very likely.


Why, Gracious me! where’s our house!


Our house!


There is nothing the matter?


Oh no, Miss.


There are great alterations going on.


Yes, Miss, great alterations,


At home! and wishing to speak to me!


Florence,


how do you do? What dog is that?


It is a dog, Papa—from Brighton.


Well!


He is very good-tempered. He is only glad to see me. Pray forgive him.


Mrs Skewton, this is my daughter Florence.


Charming, I am sure. So natural! My darling Florence, you must kiss me, if you please.


Edith, this is my daughter Florence. Florence, this lady will soon be your Mama.


Oh, Papa, may you be happy! may you be very, very happy all your life!


Shall we go on through the rooms, and see how our workmen are doing? Pray allow me, my dear madam. Let us ask Edith. Dear me, where is she?


Edith, my dear! where are you? Looking for Mr Dombey somewhere, I know. We are here, my love.


Florence. You will not begin by hating me?


By hating you, Mama?


Hush! Begin by thinking well of me. Begin by believing that I will try to make you happy, and that I am prepared to love you, Florence. Good-bye. We shall meet again soon. Good-bye! Don’t stay here, now.


How is my sweetest friend!


Lucretia, thank you, I am pretty well. I hope you are the same. Hem!


You call very early, and how kind that is, my dear! Now, have you breakfasted?


Thank you, Lucretia. I have. I took an early breakfast with my brother, who has come home.


He is better, I trust, my love,


He is greatly better, thank you. Hem!


My dear Louisa must be careful of that cough


It’s nothing. It’s merely change of weather. We must expect change.


Of weather?


Of everything. Of course we must. It’s a world of change. Anyone would surprise me very much, Lucretia, and would greatly alter my opinion of their understanding, if they attempted to contradict or evade what is so perfectly evident. Change! Why, my gracious me, what is there that does not change! even the silkworm, who I am sure might be supposed not to trouble itself about such subjects, changes into all sorts of unexpected things continually.


My Louisa, is ever happy in her illustrations.


You are so kind, Lucretia, as to say so, and to think so, I believe. I hope neither of us may ever have any cause to lessen our opinion of the other, Lucretia.


I am sure of it,


Pardon me, my dear Louisa, but have I caught sight of the manly form of Mr Chick in the carriage? He is there, but pray leave him there. He has his newspaper, and would be quite contented for the next two hours. Go on with your flowers, Lucretia, and allow me to sit here and rest.


My Louisa knows, that between friends like ourselves, any approach to ceremony would be out of the question. Therefore—


Florence has returned home also, and really Florence is a great deal too old now, to continue to lead that solitary life to which she has been accustomed. Of course she is. There can be no doubt about it. I should have very little respect, indeed, for anybody who could advocate a different opinion. Whatever my wishes might be, I could not respect them. We cannot command our feelings to such an extent as that. If she’s a strange girl, and if my brother Paul cannot feel perfectly comfortable in her society, after all the sad things that have happened, and all the terrible disappointments that have been undergone, then, what is the reply? That he must make an effort. That he is bound to make an effort. We have always been a family remarkable for effort. Paul is at the head of the family; almost the only representative of it left—for what am I—I am of no consequence—


My dearest love,


And consequently he is more than ever bound to make an effort. And though his having done so, comes upon me with a sort of shock—for mine is a very weak and foolish nature; which is anything but a blessing I am sure; I often wish my heart was a marble slab, or a paving-stone—


My sweet Louisa,


Still, it is a triumph to me to know that he is so true to himself, and to his name of Dombey; although, of course, I always knew he would be. I only hope, that she may be worthy of the name too.


My dear Louisa, will it be the least satisfaction to you, if I venture to observe in reference to that remark, that I, as a humble individual, think your sweet niece in every way most promising?


What do you mean, Lucretia? To what remark of mine, my dear, do you refer?


Her being worthy of her name, my love,


If. I have not expressed myself with clearness, Lucretia, the fault of course is mine. There is, perhaps, no reason why I should express myself at all, except the intimacy that has subsisted between us, and which I very much hope, Lucretia—confidently hope—nothing will occur to disturb. Because, why should I do anything else? There is no reason; it would be absurd. But I wish to express myself clearly, Lucretia; and therefore to go back to that remark, I must beg to say that it was not intended to relate to Florence, in any way.


Indeed!


No,


Pardon me, my dear, but I cannot have understood it. I fear I am dull.


When I speak, Lucretia, of her being worthy of the name, I speak of my brother Paul’s second wife. I believe I have already said, in effect, if not in the very words I now use, that it is his intention to marry a second wife. Whether she will be fully sensible of the distinction conferred upon her, is quite another question. I hope she may be. We are bound to think well of one another in this world, and I hope she may be. I have not been advised with myself. If I had been advised with, I have no doubt my advice would have been cavalierly received, and therefore it is infinitely better as it is. I much prefer it as it is. If my brother Paul had consulted with me, which he sometimes does—or rather, sometimes used to do; for he will naturally do that no more now, and this is a circumstance which I regard as a relief from responsibility, for I thank Heaven I am not jealous— if my brother Paul had come to me, and had said, ‘Louisa, what kind of qualities would you advise me to look out for, in a wife?’ I should certainly have answered, ‘Paul, you must have family, you must have beauty, you must have dignity, you must have connexion.’ Those are the words I should have used. You might have led me to the block immediately afterwards, but I should have used them. I should have said, ‘Paul! You to marry a second time without family! You to marry without beauty! You to marry without dignity! You to marry without connexion! There is nobody in the world, not mad, who could dream of daring to entertain such a preposterous idea!’ I should have adopted this course of argument, because I trust I am not a fool. I make no claim to be considered a person of superior intellect—though I believe some people have been extraordinary enough to consider me so; one so little humoured as I am, would very soon be disabused of any such notion; but I trust I am not a downright fool. And to tell ME, that my brother Paul Dombey could ever contemplate the possibility of uniting himself to anybody—I don’t care who not possessing these requisites, would be to insult what understanding I have got, as much as if I was to be told that I was born and bred an elephant, which I may be told next. It wouldn’t surprise me at all. I expect it. Therefore, of course my brother Paul has done what was to be expected of him, and what anybody might have foreseen he would do, if he entered the marriage state again. I confess it takes me rather by surprise, however gratifying; because when Paul went out of town I had no idea at all that he would form any attachment out of town, and he certainly had no attachment when he left here. However, it seems to be extremely desirable in every point of view. I have no doubt the mother is a most genteel and elegant creature, and I have no right whatever to dispute the policy of her living with them: which is Paul’s affair, not mine—and as to Paul’s choice, herself, I have only seen her picture yet, but that is beautiful indeed. Her name is beautiful too. Edith is at once uncommon, as it strikes me, and distinguished. Consequently, Lucretia, I have no doubt you will be happy to hear that the marriage is to take place immediately—of course, you will: and that you are delighted with this change in the condition of my brother, who has shown you a great deal of pleasant attention at various times.


Lucretia! I will not attempt to disguise what I feel. My eyes are opened, all at once. I wouldn’t have believed this, if a Saint had told it to me.


I am foolish to give way to faintness. I shall be better presently.


You will be better presently, Lucretia! Do you suppose I am blind? Do you imagine I am in my second childhood? No, Lucretia! I am obliged to you! If anyone had told me this yesterday, or even half-an-hour ago, I should have been tempted, I almost believe, to strike them to the earth. Lucretia Tox, my eyes are opened to you all at once. The scales: have fallen from my sight. The blindness of my confidence is past, Lucretia. It has been abused and played, upon, and evasion is quite out of the question now, I assure you.


Oh! to what do you allude so cruelly, my love?


Lucretia, ask your own heart. I must entreat you not to address me by any such familiar term as you have just used, if you please. I have some self-respect left, though you may think otherwise.


Oh, Louisa! How can you speak to me like that?


How can I speak to you like that? Like that! You may well say like that, indeed!


The idea!


of your having basked at my brother’s fireside, like a serpent, and wound yourself, through me, almost into his confidence, Lucretia, that you might, in secret, entertain designs upon him, and dare to aspire to contemplate the possibility of his uniting himself to you! Why, it is an idea, the absurdity of which almost relieves its treachery.


Pray, Louisa, do not say such dreadful things.


Dreadful things! Dreadful things! Is it not a fact, Lucretia, that you have just now been unable to command your feelings even before me, whose eyes you had so completely closed?


I have made no complaint. I have said nothing. If I have been a little overpowered by your news, Louisa, and have ever had any lingering thought that Mr Dombey was inclined to be particular towards me, surely you will not condemn me.


She is going to say. She is going to say—I know it—that I have encouraged her!


I don’t wish to exchange reproaches, dear Louisa. Nor do I wish to complain. But, in my own defence—


Yes, that’s what she’s going to say. I knew it. You had better say it. Say it openly! Be open, Lucretia Tox, whatever you are.


In my own defence, and only in my own defence against your unkind words, my dear Louisa, I would merely ask you if you haven’t often favoured such a fancy, and even said it might happen, for anything we could tell?


There is a point, beyond which endurance becomes ridiculous, if not culpable. I can bear much; but not too much. What spell was on me when I came into this house this day, I don’t know; but I had a presentiment—a dark presentiment, that something was going to happen. Well may I have had that foreboding, Lucretia, when my confidence of many years is destroyed in an instant, when my eyes are opened all at once, and when I find you revealed in your true colours. Lucretia, I have been mistaken in you. It is better for us both that this subject should end here. I wish you well, and I shall ever wish you well. But, as an individual who desires to be true to herself in her own poor position, whatever that position may be, or may not be—and as the sister of my brother—and as the sister-in-law of my brother’s wife—and as a connexion by marriage of my brother’s wife’s mother—may I be permitted to add, as a Dombey?—I can wish you nothing else but good morning.


Oh the extent to which her eyes had been opened that day!


To which your eyes have been opened, my dear!


Oh, don’t talk to me! if you can bear to see me in this state, and not ask me what the matter is, you had better hold your tongue for ever.


What is the matter, my dear?


To think, that she should ever have conceived the base idea of connecting herself with our family by a marriage with Paul! To think that when she was playing at horses with that dear child who is now in his grave—I never liked it at the time—she should have been hiding such a double-faced design! I wonder she was never afraid that something would happen to her. She is fortunate if nothing does.


I really thought, my dear, that you had gone on the same tack yourself, all along, until this morning; and had thought it would be a convenient thing enough, if it could have been brought about.


But with Lucretia Tox I have done. I can bear to resign Paul’s confidence in favour of one who, I hope and trust, may be deserving of it, and with whom he has a perfect right to replace poor Fanny if he chooses; I can bear to be informed, in Paul’s cool manner, of such a change in his plans, and never to be consulted until all is settled and determined; but deceit I can not bear, and with Lucretia Tox I have done. It is better as it is, much better. It would have been a long time before I could have accommodated myself comfortably with her, after this; and I really don’t know, as Paul is going to be very grand, and these are people of condition, that she would have been quite presentable, and might not have compromised myself. There’s a providence in everything; everything works for the best; I have been tried today but on the whole I do not regret it.


Mama! Come again!


Not Mama yet,


But very soon to be,


Very soon now, Florence: very soon. Have you been alone, Florence, since I was here last?


Oh yes! I—I—am used to be alone. I don’t mind it at all. Di and I pass whole days together, sometimes.


Is Di your maid, love?


My dog, Mama. Susan is my maid.


And these are your rooms. I was not shown these rooms the other day. We must have them improved, Florence. They shall be made the prettiest in the house.


If I might change them, Mama, there is one upstairs I should like much better.


Is this not high enough, dear girl?


The other was my brother’s room, and I am very fond of it. I would have spoken to Papa about it when I came home, and found the workmen here, and everything changing; but— but I was afraid it might distress him; and as you said you would be here again soon, Mama, and are the mistress of everything, I determined to take courage and ask you.


We have come to London now, my mother and I, and you shall stay with us until I am married. I wish that we should know and trust each other, Florence.


You are very kind to me, dear Mama. How much I thank you!


Let me say now, for it may be the best opportunity, that when I am married, and have gone away for some weeks, I shall be easier at heart if you will come home here. No matter who invites you to stay elsewhere. Come home here. It is better to be alone than—what I would say is, that I know well you are best at home, dear Florence.


I will come home on the very day, Mama


Do so. I rely on that promise. Now, prepare to come with me, dear girl. You will find me downstairs when you are ready.


And how, is my charming Florence? You must come and kiss me, Florence, if you please, my love. Edith, my dear, positively, I—stand a little more in the light, my sweetest Florence, for a moment. You don’t remember, dearest Edith, what you were when you were about the same age as our exceedingly precious Florence, or a few years younger?


I have long forgotten, mother.


For positively, my dear. I do think that I see a decided resemblance to what you were then, in our extremely fascinating young friend. And it shows, what cultivation will do.


It does, indeed,


My charming Florence, you must come and kiss me once more, if you please, my love. And you have heard, no doubt, my darling pet, that your Papa, whom we all perfectly adore and dote upon, is to be married to my dearest Edith this day week.


I knew it would be very soon, but not exactly when.


My darling Edith, is it possible you have not told Florence?


Why should I tell Florence?


I hear him now! He is coming!


My dear Dombey, come here and tell me how your pretty Florence is.


Florence is very well,


At home?


At home,


My dear Dombey, now are you sure you are not deceiving me? I don’t know what my dearest Edith will say to me when I make such a declaration, but upon my honour I am afraid you are the falsest of men, my dear Dombey.


Now, confess, my dear Dombey, that you never were more surprised and pleased in your life.


I never was more surprised,


Nor pleased, my dearest Dombey?


I—yes, I am exceedingly glad to meet Florence here. Yes, I really am very glad indeed to meet Florence here.


You wonder how she comes here? don’t you?


Edith, perhaps—


Ah! wicked guesser! Ah! cunning, cunning man! One shouldn’t tell these things; your sex, my dear Dombey, are so vain, and so apt to abuse our weakness; but you know my open soul—very well; immediately. But Edith, my dear Dombey, when she cannot have you near her—and as I tell her, she cannot expect that always—will at least have near her something or somebody belonging to you. Well, how extremely natural that is! And in this spirit, nothing would keep her from riding off today to fetch our darling Florence. Well, how excessively charming that is!


Eminently so.


Bless you, my dear Dombey, for that proof of heart! But I am growing too serious! Take me downstairs, like an angel, and let us see what these people intend to give us for dinner. Bless you, dear Dombey!


And so your preparations are nearly finished at last, my dear Dombey?


Even the lawyers” preparations!


Yes, madam, the deed of settlement, the professional gentlemen inform me, is now ready, and as I was mentioning to you, Edith has only to do us the favour to suggest her own time for its execution.


My dearest love, do you hear what Mr Dombey says? Ah, my dear Dombey! how her absence, as the time approaches, reminds me of the days, when that most agreeable of creatures, her Papa, was in your situation!


I have nothing to suggest. It shall be when you please,


To-morrow?


If you please.


Or would next day, suit your engagements better?


I have no engagements. I am always at your disposal. Let it be when you like.


No engagements, my dear Edith! when you are in a most terrible state of flurry all day long, and have a thousand and one appointments with all sorts of trades-people!


They are of your making. You and Mr Dombey can arrange between you.


Very true indeed, my love, and most considerate of you! My darling Florence, you must really come and kiss me once more, if you please, my dear!


My dear Dombey, you will leave me Florence to-morrow, when you deprive me of my sweetest Edith.


with pleasure.


To have her about me, here, while you are both at Paris, and to think at her age, I am assisting in the formation of her mind, my dear Dombey, will be a perfect balm to me in the extremely shattered state to which I shall be reduced.


Mr Dombey would be delighted to leave Florence in such admirable guardianship.


My dear Dombey, a thousand thanks for your good opinion. I feared you were going, with malice aforethought, as the dreadful lawyers say—those horrid prosers!—to condemn me to utter solitude.


Why do me so great an injustice, my dear madam?


Because my charming Florence tells me so positively she must go home tomorrow, returned Cleopatra, that I began to be afraid, my dearest Dombey, you were quite a Bashaw.


I assure you, madam! I have laid no commands on Florence; and if I had, there are no commands like your wish.


My dear Dombey, what a courtier you are! Though I’ll not say so, either; for courtiers have no heart, and yours pervades your farming life and character. And are you really going so early, my dear Dombey! Is this a fact, or is it all a dream! Can I believe, my dearest Dombey, that you are coming back tomorrow morning to deprive me of my sweet companion; my own Edith! The pang, of consigning a child, even to you, my dear Dombey, is one of the most excruciating imaginable, and combined with a naturally delicate constitution, and the extreme stupidity of the pastry-cook who has undertaken the breakfast, is almost too much for my poor strength. But I shall rally, my dear Dombey, in the morning; do not fear for me, or be uneasy on my account. Heaven bless you! My dearest Edith! Somebody is going, pet.


Tomorrow morning I shall have the happiness of claiming this hand as Mrs Dombey’s,


I am tired to death. You can’t be trusted for a moment. You are worse than a child. Child! No child would be half so obstinate and undutiful.


Listen to me, mother. You must remain alone here until I return.


Must remain alone here, Edith, until you return!


Or in that name upon which I shall call to-morrow to witness what I do, so falsely: and so shamefully, I swear I will refuse the hand of this man in the church. If I do not, may I fall dead upon the pavement! It is enough, that we are what we are. I will have no youth and truth dragged down to my level. I will have no guileless nature undermined, corrupted, and perverted, to amuse the leisure of a world of mothers. You know my meaning. Florence must go home.


You are an idiot, Edith. Do you expect there can ever be peace for you in that house, till she is married, and away?


Ask me, or ask yourself, if I ever expect peace in that house, and you know the answer.


And am I to be told tonight, after all my pains and labour, and when you are going, through me, to be rendered independent, that there is corruption and contagion in me, and that I am not fit company for a girl! What are you, pray? What are you?


I have put the question to myself, more than once when I have been sitting there, and something in the faded likeness of my sex has wandered past outside; and God knows I have met with my reply. Oh mother, mother, if you had but left me to my natural heart when I too was a girl—a younger girl than Florence—how different I might have been!


If one is to go on living through continual scenes like this, I am sure it would be much better for me to think of some means of putting an end to my existence. Oh! The idea of your being my daughter, Edith, and addressing me in such a strain!


Between us, mother, the time for mutual reproaches is past.


Then why do you revive it? You know that you are lacerating me in the cruellest manner. You know how sensitive I am to unkindness. At such a moment, too, when I have so much to think of, and am naturally anxious to appear to the best advantage! I wonder at you, Edith. To make your mother a fright upon your wedding-day!


I have said that Florence must go home.


Let her go! I am sure I am willing she should go. What is the girl to me?


She is so much to me, that rather than communicate, or suffer to be communicated to her, one grain of the evil that is in my breast, mother, I would renounce you, as I would (if you gave me cause) renounce him in the church to-morrow. Leave her alone. She shall not, while I can interpose, be tampered with and tainted by the lessons I have learned. This is no hard condition on this bitter night.


If you had proposed it in a filial manner, Edith, perhaps not; very likely not. But such extremely cutting words—


They are past and at an end between us now. Take your own way, mother; share as you please in what you have gained; spend, enjoy, make much of it; and be as happy as you will. The object of our lives is won. Henceforth let us wear it silently. My lips are closed upon the past from this hour. I forgive you your part in to-morrow’s wickedness. May God forgive my own!


Now, Chicken, I will not deceive you any longer; the friend I have sometimes mentioned to you is myself; Miss Dombey is the object of my passion; what are your opinions, Chicken, in this state of things, and what, on the spot, do you advise?


put about, overhaul that “ere article again,


Dombey! Major,


Dombey! how are you?


Major, how are You?


By Jove, Sir, Joey B. is in such case this morning, Sir. In such case this morning, Sir, that, damme, Dombey, he has half a mind to make a double marriage of it, Sir, and take the mother.


As to Edith Granger, Sir, there is not a woman in all Europe but might—and would, Sir, you will allow Bagstock to add—and would—give her ears, and her earrings, too, to be in Edith Granger’s place.


You are good enough to say so, Major,


Dombey, you know it. Let us have no false delicacy. You know it. Do you know it, or do you not, Dombey?


Oh, really, Major—


Damme, Sir, do you know that fact, or do you not? Dombey! Is old Joe your friend? Are we on that footing of unreserved intimacy, Dombey, that may justify a man—a blunt old Joseph B., Sir—in speaking out; or am I to take open order, Dombey, and to keep my distance, and to stand on forms?


My dear Major Bagstock, you are quite warm.


By Gad, Sir, I am warm. Joseph B. does not deny it, Dombey. He is warm. This is an occasion, Sir, that calls forth all the honest sympathies remaining in an old, infernal, battered, used-up, invalided, J. B. carcase. And I tell you what, Dombey—at such a time a man must blurt out what he feels, or put a muzzle on; and Joseph Bagstock tells you to your face, Dombey, as he tells his club behind your back, that he never will be muzzled when Paul Dombey is in question. Now, damme, Sir, what do you make of that? Major,


I assure you that I am really obliged to you. I had no idea of checking your too partial friendship.


Not too partial, Sir! Dombey, I deny it.


Your friendship I will say then, on any account. Nor can I forget, Major, on such an occasion as the present, how much I am indebted to it.


Dombey, that is the hand of Joseph Bagstock: of plain old Joey B., Sir, if you like that better! That is the hand, of which His Royal Highness the late Duke of York, did me the honour to observe, Sir, to His Royal Highness the late Duke of Kent, that it was the hand of Josh: a rough and tough, and possibly an up-to-snuff, old vagabond. Dombey, may the present moment be the least unhappy of our lives. God bless you!


The very day is auspicious. The brightest and most genial weather! I hope I am not a moment late?


Punctual to your time, Sir,


I am rejoiced, I am sure. I was afraid I might be a few seconds after the appointed time, for I was delayed by a procession of waggons; and I took the liberty of riding round to Brook Street to leave a few poor rarities of flowers for Mrs Dombey. A man in my position, and so distinguished as to be invited here, is proud to offer some homage in acknowledgment of his vassalage: and as I have no doubt Mrs Dombey is overwhelmed with what is costly and magnificent; I hope the very poverty of my offering, may find favour for it.


Mrs Dombey, that is to be, will be very sensible of your attention, Carker, I am sure.


And if she is to be Mrs Dombey this morning, Sir, it’s high time we were off!


My dear Dombey. I fear I must relinquish darling Florence after all, and suffer her to go home, as she herself proposed. After my loss of today, my dear Dombey, I feel I shall not have spirits, even for her society.


Had she not better stay with you?


I think not, my dear Dombey. No, I think not. I shall be better alone. Besides, my dearest Edith will be her natural and constant guardian when you return, and I had better not encroach upon her trust, perhaps. She might be jealous. Eh, dear Edith? To be serious, my dear Dombey. I will relinquish our dear child, and not inflict my gloom upon her. We have settled that, just now. She fully understands, dear Dombey. Edith, my dear,—she fully understands.


Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?


Confound it, when we do get a rich City fellow into the family, let us show him some attention; let us do something for him. I give this woman to be married to this man,


There ain’t a many ladies come here, writes their names like this good lady!


If wishes, are not superfluous, applied to such a union.


I thank you, Sir,


I am proud to see. I am proud to see that my humble offering is graced by Mrs Dombey’s hand, and permitted to hold so favoured a place in so joyful an occasion. that my humble offering is graced by Mrs Dombey’s hand, and permitted to hold so favoured a place in so joyful an occasion.


Upon my honour, although it’s an unusual sort of thing in a private gentleman’s house, I must beg leave to call upon you to drink what is usually called a—in fact a toast. A—in fact it’s not a—


Hear, hear!


It is, an occasion in fact, when the general usages of life may be a little departed from, without impropriety; and although I never was an orator in my life, and when I was in the House of Commons, and had the honour of seconding the address, was—in fact, was laid up for a fortnight with the consciousness of failure— And in point of fact, when I was devilish ill—still, you know, I feel that a duty devolves upon me. And when a duty devolves upon an Englishman, he is bound to get out of it, in my opinion, in the best way he can. Well! our family has had the gratification, today, of connecting itself, in the person of my lovely and accomplished relative, whom I now see—in point of fact, present— Present, with one who—that is to say, with a man, at whom the finger of scorn can never—in fact, with my honourable friend Dombey, if he will allow me to call him so. I have not, enjoyed those opportunities which I could have desired, of cultivating the acquaintance of my friend Dombey, and studying those qualities which do equal honour to his head, and, in point of fact, to his heart; for it has been my misfortune to be, as we used to say in my time in the House of Commons, when it was not the custom to allude to the Lords, and when the order of parliamentary proceedings was perhaps better observed than it is now—to be in—in point of fact, in another place! But I know sufficient of my friend Dombey, to know that he is, in point of fact, what may be emphatically called a—a merchant—a British merchant—and a—and a man. And although I have been resident abroad, for some years (it would give me great pleasure to receive my friend Dombey, and everybody here, at Baden-Baden, and to have an opportunity of making ’em known to the Grand Duke), still I know enough, I flatter myself, of my lovely and accomplished relative, to know that she possesses every requisite to make a man happy, and that her marriage with my friend Dombey is one of inclination and affection on both sides. Therefore. I congratulate the family of which I am a member, on the acquisition of my friend Dombey. I congratulate my friend Dombey on his union with my lovely and accomplished relative who possesses every requisite to make a man happy; and I take the liberty of calling on you all, in point of fact, to congratulate both my friend Dombey and my lovely and accomplished relative, on the present occasion.


the happy pair;


to which the silver-headed butler has responded neatly, and with emotion;


it is impossible to settle down after this, and why not go, in a party, to the play?


marriages to be made in Heaven Lord forbid, at any rate, that she should ever marry him.


Mr Towlinson, whom to know is to esteem, and to esteem is to wish well settled in life with the object of his choice, wherever


they may find favour, sometimes, with weak and inconstant intellects that can be led away by hair, but all he hopes, is, he may never hear of no foreigner never boning nothing out of no travelling chariot.


To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do them part.


Now, my lad, stand by! If ever I’m took—


Took, Captain!


Ah! if ever I goes away, meaning to come back to supper, and don’t come within hail again, twenty-four hours arter my loss, go you to Brig Place and whistle that “ere tune near my old moorings—not as if you was a meaning of it, you understand, but as if you’d drifted there, promiscuous. If I answer in that tune, you sheer off, my lad, and come back four-and-twenty hours arterwards; if I answer in another tune, do you stand off and on, and wait till I throw out further signals. Do you understand them orders, now?


What am I to stand off and on of, Captain? The horse-road?


Here’s a smart lad for you! as don’t know his own native alphabet! Go away a bit and come back again alternate—d’ye understand that?


Yes, Captain,


Very good my lad, then. Do it!


What’s that?


Somebody’s knuckles, Captain,


A job for Burgess and Co. at any rate. Oh, how-de-do, Mr Gills?


Thankee. I’m very well indeed, myself, I’m much obliged to you. My name is Toots,—Mister Toots.


I say! I should like to speak a word to you, Mr Gills, if you please. I say! Miss D.O.M. you know! Oh! I beg your pardon though, you don’t happen to know the Chicken at all; do you, Mr Gills?


The Chicken?


The Game Chicken. Because he’s outside: that’s all. But it’s of no consequence; he won’t get very wet, perhaps.


I can pass the word for him in a moment,


Well, if you would have the goodness to let him sit in the shop with your young man. I should be glad; because, you know, he’s easily offended, and the damp’s rather bad for his stamina. I’ll call him in, Mr Gills. Sit down, Chicken,


There ain’t no drain of nothing short handy, is there? This here sluicing night is hard lines to a man as lives on his condition. Towards us!


Mr Gills—


Awast! My name’s Cuttle. Cap’en Cuttle is my name, and England is my nation, this here is my dwelling-place, and blessed be creation—Job,


Oh! I couldn’t see Mr Gills, could I? because—


If you could see Sol Gills, young gen’l’m’n, old Sol, mind you—with your own eyes—as you sit there—you’d be welcomer to me, than a wind astern, to a ship becalmed. But you can’t see Sol Gills. And why can’t you see Sol Gills? Because he’s inwisible.


Lor bless me!


That there man. That there man has left me in charge here by a piece of writing, but though he was a’most as good as my sworn brother, I know no more where he’s gone, or why he’s gone; if so be to seek his nevy, or if so be along of being not quite settled in his mind; than you do. One morning at daybreak, he went over the side, without a splash, without a ripple I have looked for that man high and low, and never set eyes, nor ears, nor nothing else, upon him from that hour.


But, good Gracious, Miss Dombey don’t know—


Why, I ask you, as a feeling heart, why should she know? why should she be made to know, until such time as there wam’t any help for it? She took to old Sol Gills, did that sweet creetur, with a kindness, with a affability, with a—what’s the good of saying so? you know her.


I should hope so,


And you come here from her?


I should think so,


Then all I need observe, is, that you know a angel, and are chartered a angel.


Upon my word and honour. I should be very much obliged to you if you’d improve my acquaintance. I should like to know you, Captain, very much. I really am in want of a friend, I am. Little Dombey was my friend at old Blimber’s, and would have been now, if he’d have lived. The Chicken, is very well—admirable in his way—the sharpest man perhaps in the world; there’s not a move he isn’t up to, everybody says so—but I don’t know—he’s not everything. So she is an angel, Captain. If there is an angel anywhere, it’s Miss Dombey. That’s what I’ve always said. Really though, you know. I should be very much obliged to you if you’d cultivate my acquaintance.


Ay, ay, my lad. We shall see, we shall see;


Why the fact is, that it’s the young woman I come from. Not Miss Dombey—Susan, you know. And I’ll tell you how it happens. You know, I go and call sometimes, on Miss Dombey. I don’t go there on purpose, you know, but I happen to be in the neighbourhood very often; and when I find myself there, why—why I call.


Nat’rally,


Yes. I called this afternoon. Upon my word and honour, I don’t think it’s possible to form an idea of the angel Miss Dombey was this afternoon. As I was coming out, the young woman, in the most unexpected manner, took me into the pantry. Where she brought out, this newspaper. She told me that she had kept it from Miss Dombey all day, on account of something that was in it, about somebody that she and Dombey used to know; and then she read the passage to me. Very well. Then she said—wait a minute; what was it she said, though! Oh! Oh, ah! Yes! She said that she hoped there was a bare possibility that it mightn’t be true; and that as she couldn’t very well come out herself, without surprising Miss Dombey, would I go down to Mr Solomon Gills the Instrument-maker’s in this street, who was the party’s Uncle, and ask whether he believed it was true, or had heard anything else in the City. She said, if he couldn’t speak to me, no doubt Captain Cuttle could. By the bye! you, you know! Well. Well, the reason why I’m rather late is, because I went up as far as Finchley first, to get some uncommonly fine chickweed that grows there, for Miss Dombey’s bird. But I came on here, directly afterwards. You’ve seen the paper, I suppose? Shall I read the passage to you? Southampton. The barque Defiance, Henry James, Commander, arrived in this port today, with a cargo of sugar, coffee, and rum, reports that being becalmed on the sixth day of her passage home from Jamaica, in in such and such a latitude, you know,


Ay! Heave ahead, my lad!


—latitude, latitude, and longitude so-and-so,—‘the look-out observed, half an hour before sunset, some fragments of a wreck, drifting at about the distance of a mile. The weather being clear, and the barque making no way, a boat was hoisted out, with orders to inspect the same, when they were found to consist of sundry large spars, and a part of the main rigging of an English brig, of about five hundred tons burden, together with a portion of the stem on which the words and letters “Son and H-” were yet plainly legible. No vestige of any dead body was to be seen upon the floating fragments. Log of the Defiance states, that a breeze springing up in the night, the wreck was seen no more. There can be no doubt that all surmises as to the fate of the missing vessel, the Son and Heir, port of London, bound for Barbados, are now set at rest for ever; that she broke up in the last hurricane; and that every soul on board perished. Oh upon my word and honour, this is a most wretched sort of affair this world is! Somebody’s always dying, or going and doing something uncomfortable in it. I’m sure I never should have looked forward so much, to coming into my property, if I had known this. I never saw such a world. It’s a great deal worse than Blimber’s.


Wal”r, my dear lad, farewell! Wal”r my child, my boy, and man, I loved you! He warn’t my flesh and blood. I ain’t got none—but something of what a father feels when he loses a son, I feel in losing Wal”r. For why? For why? Because it ain’t one loss, but a round dozen. Where’s that there young school-boy with the rosy face and curly hair, that used to be as merry in this here parlour, come round every week, as a piece of music? Gone down with Wal”r. Where’s that there fresh lad, that nothing couldn’t tire nor put out, and that sparkled up and blushed so, when we joked him about Heart’s Delight, that he was beautiful to look at? Where’s that there man’s spirit, all afire, that wouldn’t see the old man hove down for a minute, and cared nothing for itself? It ain’t one Wal”r. There was a dozen Wal”rs that I know’d and loved, all holding round his neck when he went down, and they’re a-holding round mine now! And Sol Gills, poor nevyless old Sol, where are you got to! you was left in charge of me; his last words was, ‘Take care of my Uncle!’ What came over you, Sol, when you went and gave the go-bye to Ned Cuttle; and what am I to put in my accounts that he’s a looking down upon, respecting you! Sol Gills, Sol Gills! catch sight of that there newspaper, away from home, with no one as know’d Wal”r by, to say a word; and broadside to you broach, and down you pitch, head foremost! My lad, you must tell the young woman honestly that this here fatal news is too correct. They don’t romance, you see, on such pints. It’s entered on the ship’s log, and that’s the truest book as a man can write. To-morrow morning. I’ll step out and make inquiries; but they’ll lead to no good. They can’t do it. If you’ll give me a look-in in the forenoon, you shall know what I have heerd; but tell the young woman from Cap’en Cuttle, that it’s over. Over!


Oh! I assure you, really I am dreadfully sorry. Upon my word I am, though I wasn’t acquainted with the party. Do you think Miss Dombey will be very much affected, Captain Gills—I mean Mr Cuttle?


Why, Lord love you. When she warn’t no higher than that, they were as fond of one another as two young doves.


Were they though!


They were made for one another, but what signifies that now!


Upon my word and honour. I’m even more sorry than I was before. You know, Captain Gills, I—I positively adore Miss Dombey;—I—I am perfectly sore with loving her; but what would be the good of my regarding her in this manner, if I wasn’t truly sorry for her feeling pain, whatever was the cause of it. Mine ain’t a selfish affection, you know. It’s the sort of thing with me, Captain Gills, that if I could be run over—or—or trampled upon—or—or thrown off a very high place-or anything of that sort—for Miss Dombey’s sake, it would be the most delightful thing that could happen to me. Thankee, Captain Gills, it’s kind of you, in the midst of your own troubles, to say so. I’m very much obliged to you. As I said before, I really want a friend, and should be glad to have your acquaintance. Although I am very well off, you can’t think what a miserable Beast I am. The hollow crowd, you know, when they see me with the Chicken, and characters of distinction like that, suppose me to be happy; but I’m wretched. I suffer for Miss Dombey, Captain Gills. I can’t get through my meals; I have no pleasure in my tailor; I often cry when I’m alone. I assure you it’ll be a satisfaction to me to come back to-morrow, or to come back fifty times.


Well, Captain Cuttle, this is a bad business.


You have received the news as was in print yesterday, Sir?


Yes, we have received it! It was accurately stated. The underwriters suffer a considerable loss. We are very sorry. No help! Such is life! I excessively regret poor Gay, and the crew. I understand there were some of our very best men among ’em. It always happens so. Many men with families too. A comfort to reflect that poor Gay had no family, Captain Cuttle! Is there anything I can do for you, Captain Cuttle?


I wish you could set my mind at rest, Sir, on something it’s uneasy about,


Ay! what’s that? Come, Captain Cuttle, I must trouble you to be quick, if you please. I am much engaged.


Lookee here, Sir. Afore my friend Wal”r went on this here disastrous voyage—


Come, come, Captain Cuttle, don’t talk about disastrous voyages in that way. We have nothing to do with disastrous voyages here, my good fellow. You must have begun very early on your day’s allowance, Captain, if you don’t remember that there are hazards in all voyages, whether by sea or land. You are not made uneasy by the supposition that young what’s-his-name was lost in bad weather that was got up against him in these offices—are you? Fie, Captain! Sleep, and soda-water, are the best cures for such uneasiness as that.


My lad, you are a’most a lad to me, and so I don’t ask your pardon for that slip of a word,—if you find any pleasure in this here sport, you ain’t the gentleman I took you for. And if you ain’t the gentleman I took you for, may be my mind has call to be uneasy. Now this is what it is, Mr Carker.—Afore that poor lad went away, according to orders, he told me that he warn’t a going away for his own good, or for promotion, he know’d. It was my belief that he was wrong, and I told him so, and I come here, your head governor being absent, to ask a question or two of you in a civil way, for my own satisfaction. Them questions you answered—free. Now it’ll ease my mind to know, when all is over, as it is, and when what can’t be cured must be endoored—for which, as a scholar, you’ll overhaul the book it’s in, and thereof make a note—to know once more, in a word, that I warn’t mistaken; that I warn’t back’ard in my duty when I didn’t tell the old man what Wal”r told me; and that the wind was truly in his sail, when he highsted of it for Barbados Harbour. Mr Carker, when I was here last, we was very pleasant together. If I ain’t been altogether so pleasant myself this morning, on account of this poor lad, and if I have chafed again any observation of yours that I might have fended off, my name is Ed’ard Cuttle, and I ask your pardon.


Captain Cuttle. I must ask you to do me a favour.


And what is it, Sir?


To have the goodness to walk off, if you please, and to carry your jargon somewhere else. I tell you what, Captain Cuttle. I was much too lenient with you when you came here before. You belong to an artful and audacious set of people. In my desire to save young what’s-his-name from being kicked out of this place, neck and crop, my good Captain, I tolerated you; but for once, and only once. Now, go, my friend! Go, like a sensible fellow, and let us have no turning out, or any such violent measures. If Mr Dombey were here, Captain, you might be obliged to leave in a more ignominious manner, possibly. I merely say, Go! You are deep, Captain Cuttle, but you are not quite out of soundings, either—neither you nor your absent friend, Captain. What have you done with your absent friend, hey?


stand by!


You hatch nice little plots, and hold nice little councils, and make nice little appointments, and receive nice little visitors, too, Captain, hey? but it’s a bold measure to come here afterwards. Not like your discretion! You conspirators, and hiders, and runners-away, should know better than that. Will you oblige me by going?


My lad, there’s a many words I could wish to say to you, but I don’t rightly know where they’re stowed just at present. My young friend, Wal”r, was drownded only last night, according to my reckoning, and it puts me out, you see. But you and me will come alongside o’one another again, my lad, if we live.


It will be anything but shrewd in you, my good fellow, if we do, for you may rely, I give you fair warning, upon my detecting and exposing you. I don’t pretend to be a more moral man than my neighbours, my good Captain; but the confidence of this House, or of any member of this House, is not to be abused and undermined while I have eyes and ears. Good day!


I’m took aback, my lad, at present, and will only confirm that there ill news. Tell the young woman to break it gentle to the young lady, and for neither of ’em never to think of me no more—“special, mind you, that is—though I will think of them, when night comes on a hurricane and seas is mountains rowling, for which overhaul your Doctor Watts, brother, and when found make a note on.


A most extraordinary accidental likeness, certainly,


It is early, John. Why do you go so early?


Not many minutes earlier than usual, Harriet. If I have the time to spare, I should like, I think—it’s a fancy—to walk once by the house where I took leave of him.


I wish I had ever seen or known him, John.


It is better as it is, my dear, remembering his fate.


But I could not regret it more, though I had known him. Is not your sorrow mine? And if I had, perhaps you would feel that I was a better companion to you in speaking about him, than I may seem now.


My dearest sister! Is there anything within the range of rejoicing or regret, in which I am not sure of your companionship?


I hope you think not, John, for surely there is nothing!


How could you be better to me, or nearer to me then, than you are in this, or anything? I feel that you did know him, Harriet, and that you shared my feelings towards him.


No, not quite.


True, true! you think I might have done him no harm if I had allowed myself to know him better?


Think! I know it.


Designedly, Heaven knows I would not, but his reputation was too precious to be perilled by such association. Whether you share that knowledge, or do not, my dear—


I do not,


It is still the truth, Harriet, and my mind is lighter when I think of him for that which made it so much heavier then. Good-bye!


Good-bye, dear John! In the evening, at the old time and place, I shall meet you as usual on your way home. Good-bye.


You are come again, Sir!


I take that liberty. May I ask for five minutes of your leisure? Miss Harriet, you cannot be proud. You signified to me, when I called t’other morning, that you were. Pardon me if I say that I looked into your face while you spoke, and that it contradicted you. I look into it again, and it contradicts you more and more. It is the mirror of truth, and gentleness. Excuse my trusting to it, and returning. The disparity between our ages,


and the plainness of my purpose, empower me, I am glad to think, to speak my mind. That is my mind; and so you see me for the second time.


There is a kind of pride, Sir, or what may be supposed to be pride, which is mere duty. I hope I cherish no other.


For yourself,


For myself.


But—pardon me—


For your brother John?


Proud of his love, I am, and proud of him. Sir, you who strangely know the story of his life, and repeated it to me when you were here last—


Merely to make my way into your confidence,


For heaven’s sake, don’t suppose—


I am sure, you revived it, in my hearing, with a kind and good purpose. I am quite sure of it.


I thank you,


I am much obliged to you. You do me justice, I assure you. You were going to say, that I, who know the story of John Carker’s life—


May think it pride in me, when I say that I am proud of him! I am. You know the time was, when I was not—when I could not be—but that is past. The humility of many years, the uncomplaining expiation, the true repentance, the terrible regret, the pain I know he has even in my affection, which he thinks has cost me dear, though Heaven knows I am happy, but for his sorrow I—oh, Sir, after what I have seen, let me conjure you, if you are in any place of power, and are ever wronged, never, for any wrong, inflict a punishment that cannot be recalled; while there is a GOD above us to work changes in the hearts He made.


Your brother is an altered man,


I assure you I don’t doubt it.


He was an altered man when he did wrong. He is an altered man again, and is his true self now, believe me, Sir.


we go on in our clockwork routine, from day to day, and can’t make out, or follow, these changes. They—they’re a metaphysical sort of thing. We—we haven’t leisure for it. We—we haven’t courage. They’re not taught at schools or colleges, and we don’t know how to set about it. In short, we are so d——d business-like,


I am sure,


I have good reason to believe that a jog-trot life, the same from day to day, would reconcile one to anything. One don’t see anything, one don’t hear anything, one don’t know anything; that’s the fact. We go on taking everything for granted, and so we go on, until whatever we do, good, bad, or indifferent, we do from habit. Habit is all I shall have to report, when I am called upon to plead to my conscience, on my death-bed. ‘Habit,’ says I; ‘I was deaf, dumb, blind, and paralytic, to a million things, from habit.’ ‘Very business-like indeed, Mr What’s-your-name,’ says Conscience, ‘but it won’t do here!’


Miss Harriet,


I wish you would let me serve you. Look at me; I ought to look honest, for I know I am so, at present. Do I?


Yes,


I believe every word you have said,


I am full of self-reproach that I might have known this and seen this, and known you and seen you, any time these dozen years, and that I never have. I hardly know how I ever got here—creature that I am, not only of my own habit, but of other people’s! But having done so, let me do something. I ask it in all honour and respect. You inspire me with both, in the highest degree. Let me do something.


We are contented, Sir.


No, no, not quite,


I think not quite. There are some little comforts that might smooth your life, and his. And his!


I have been in the habit of thinking that there was nothing wanting to be done for him; that it was all settled and over; in short, of not thinking at all about it. I am different now. Let me do something for him. You too,


have need to watch your health closely, for his sake, and I fear it fails.


Whoever you may be, Sir. I am deeply grateful to you. I feel certain that in all you say, you have no object in the world but kindness to us. But years have passed since we began this life; and to take from my brother any part of what has so endeared him to me, and so proved his better resolution—any fragment of the merit of his unassisted, obscure, and forgotten reparation—would be to diminish the comfort it will be to him and me, when that time comes to each of us, of which you spoke just now. I thank you better with these tears than any words. Believe it, pray.


If the day should ever come,


when he is restored, in part, to the position he lost—


Restored!


How can that be hoped for? In whose hands does the power of any restoration lie? It is no mistake of mine, surely, to suppose that his having gained the priceless blessing of his life, is one cause of the animosity shown to him by his brother.


You touch upon a subject that is never breathed between us; not even between us,


I beg your forgiveness,


I should have known it. I entreat you to forget that I have done so, inadvertently. And now, as I dare urge no more—as I am not sure that I have a right to do so—though Heaven knows, even that doubt may be habit,


let me; though a stranger, yet no stranger; ask two favours.


What are they?


The first, that if you should see cause to change your resolution, you will suffer me to be as your right hand. My name shall then be at your service; it is useless now, and always insignificant.


Our choice of friends, is not so great, that I need any time for consideration. I can promise that.


The second, that you will allow me sometimes, say every Monday morning, at nine o’clock—habit again—I must be businesslike,


in walking past, to see you at the door or window. I don’t ask to come in, as your brother will be gone out at that hour. I don’t ask to speak to you. I merely ask to see, for the satisfaction of my own mind, that you are well, and without intrusion to remind you, by the sight of me, that you have a friend—an elderly friend, grey-haired already, and fast growing greyer—whom you may ever command.


The cordial face looked up in his; confided in it; and promised.


I understand, as before,


that you purpose not to mention my visit to John Carker, lest he should be at all distressed by my acquaintance with his history. I am glad of it, for it is out of the ordinary course of things, and—habit again!


as if there were no better course than the ordinary course!


Why do you rest in the rain?


Because I have no other resting-place,


But there are many places of shelter near here. This, is better than where you were. You are very welcome to rest here.


Why, what’s a torn foot to such as me? And what’s a torn foot in such as me, to such as you?


Come in and wash it, and let me give you something to bind it up.


I daresay you are thinking, that I used to be handsome, once. I believe I was—I know I was—Look here!


Are you a stranger in this place?


A stranger!


Yes. Ten or a dozen years a stranger. I have had no almanack where I have been. Ten or a dozen years. I don’t know this part. It’s much altered since I went away.


Have you been far?


Very far. Months upon months over the sea, and far away even then. I have been where convicts go,


I have been one myself.


Heaven help you and forgive you!


Ah! Heaven help me and forgive me!


If man would help some of us a little more, God would forgive us all the sooner perhaps.


We may be about the same age, you and me. If I am older, it is not above a year or two. Oh think of that!


There is nothing we may not hope to repair; it is never too late to amend. You are penitent?


No,


I am not! I can’t be. I am no such thing. Why should I be penitent, and all the world go free? They talk to me of my penitence. Who’s penitent for the wrongs that have been done to me?


Where are you going?


Yonder,


To London.


Have you any home to go to?


I think I have a mother. She’s as much a mother, as her dwelling is a home,