Take this. Try to do well. It is very little, but for one day it may keep you from harm.


Are you married?


No. I live here with my brother. We have not much to spare, or I would give you more.


Will you let me kiss you?


Who’s that?


One who brings you news,


News? Where from?


From abroad.


From beyond seas?


Ay, from beyond seas.


It’s not my gal!


Where’s my Alice? Where’s my handsome daughter? They’ve been the death of her!


Have you seen my gal, then?


Has she wrote to me?


She said you couldn’t read,


No more I can!


What did she say?


Look,


Alice said look again, mother;


It’s my gal! It’s my Alice! It’s my handsome daughter, living and come back!


Yes, mother. I am here, at last. Let go, mother; let go. Get up, and sit in your chair. What good does this do?


She’s come back harder than she went!


She don’t care for me! after all these years, and all the wretched life I’ve led!


Why, mother! there are two sides to that. There have been years for me as well as you, and there has been wretchedness for me as well as you. Get up, get up!


Did you expect to see me return as youthful as I went away, mother? Did you think a foreign life, like mine, was good for good looks? One would believe so, to hear you!


It ain’t that!


What is it then? It had best be something that don’t last, mother, or my way out is easier than my way in.


Hear that!


After all these years she threatens to desert me in the moment of her coming back again!


I tell you, mother, for the second time, there have been years for me as well as you. Come back harder? Of course I have come back harder. What else did you expect?


Harder to me! To her own dear mother!


I don’t know who began to harden me, if my own dear mother didn’t. Listen, mother, to a word or two. If we understand each other now, we shall not fall out any more, perhaps. I went away a girl, and have come back a woman. I went away undutiful enough, and have come back no better, you may swear. But have you been very dutiful to me?


I!


To my gal! A mother dutiful to her own child!


It sounds unnatural, don’t it? but I have thought of it sometimes, in the course of my lone years, till I have got used to it. I have heard some talk about duty first and last; but it has always been of my duty to other people. I have wondered now and then—to pass away the time—whether no one ever owed any duty to me. There was a child called Alice Marwood, born, among poverty and neglect, and nursed in it. Nobody taught her, nobody stepped forward to help her, nobody cared for her.


Nobody!


The only care she knew, was to be beaten, and stinted, and abused sometimes; and she might have done better without that. She lived in homes like this, and in the streets, with a crowd of little wretches like herself; and yet she brought good looks out of this childhood. So much the worse for her. She had better have been hunted and worried to death for ugliness.


Go on! go on!


I am going on. There was a girl called Alice Marwood. She was handsome. She was taught too late, and taught all wrong. She was too well cared for, too well trained, too well helped on, too much looked after. You were very fond of her—you were better off then. What came to that girl comes to thousands every year. It was only ruin, and she was born to it.


After all these years!


My gal begins with this.


She’ll soon have ended,


So Alice Marwood was transported, mother, and was sent to learn her duty, where there was twenty times less duty, and more wickedness, and wrong, and infamy, than here. And Alice Marwood is come back a woman. Such a woman as she ought to be, after all this. In good time, there will be more solemnity, and more fine talk, and more strong arm, most likely, and there will be an end of her; but the gentlemen needn’t be afraid of being thrown out of work. There’s crowds of little wretches, boy and girl, growing up in any of the streets they live in, that’ll keep them to it till they’ve made their fortunes. There! I have done, mother,


You are very poor, mother, I see,


Bitter poor, my deary,


How have you lived?


By begging, my deary.


And pilfering, mother?


Sometimes, Ally—in a very small way. I am old and timid. I have taken trifles from children now and then, my deary, but not often. I have tramped about the country, pet, and I know what I know. I have watched.


Watched?


I have hung about a family, my deary,


What family?


Years ago, my deary,” she pursued, glancing timidly at the attentive and stern face opposed to her, “I came across his little child, by chance.


Whose child?


Not his, Alice deary; don’t look at me like that; not his. How could it be his? You know he has none.


Whose then?


Hush, Ally; you frighten me, deary. Mr Dombey’s—only Mr Dombey’s. Since then, darling, I have seen them often. I have seen him.


face to face. I spoke to him, and he spoke to me. I sat and watched him as he went away down a long grove of trees: and at every step he took, I cursed him soul and body.


He will thrive in spite of that,


Ay, he is thriving,


Is he married?


No, deary,


Going to be?


Not that I know of, deary. But his master and friend is married. Oh, we may give him joy! We may give ’em all joy! But you are wet and tired; hungry and thirsty, and there’s little here, and little—little here. Have you any money, Alice, deary? Is that all?


I have no more. I should not have this, but for charity.


But for charity, eh, deary?


What joy is to come to us of this marriage, mother?


The joy of confusion and strife among ’em, proud as they are, and of danger—danger, Alice!


What danger?


I have seen what I have seen. I know what I know!


Know!


I know of his brother, Alice, who might have been where you have been—for stealing money—and who lives with his sister, over yonder, by the north road out of London.


Where?


By the north road out of London, deary. You shall see the house if you like. It ain’t much to boast of, genteel as his own is. No, no, no,


Stop! The sister is a fair-faced Devil, with brown hair? I see the shadow of him in her face! It’s a red house standing by itself. Before the door there is a small green porch. Give me back the money. Alice! Deary! Give me back the money, or you’ll be hurt.


This is a fit place for me!


Alice, my deary,


What now, mother?


Don’t give the money back, my darling; please don’t. We can’t afford it. We want supper, deary. Money is money, whoever gives it. Say what you will, but keep the money.


See there! That is the house I mean. Is that it? I want your sister. The woman who gave me money today. Oh! You are here! Do you remember me?


Yes,


That I could speak with you, and not know you! That I could come near you, and not feel what blood was running in your veins, by the tingling of my own! Done! You have sat me by your fire; you have given me food and money; you have bestowed your compassion on me! You! whose name I spit upon! If I dropped a tear upon your hand, may it wither it up! If I spoke a gentle word in your hearing, may it deafen you! If I touched you with my lips, may the touch be poison to you! A curse upon this roof that gave me shelter! Sorrow and shame upon your head! Ruin upon all belonging to you! I tread it in the dust: I wouldn’t take it if it paved my way to Heaven! I would the bleeding foot that brought me here today, had rotted off, before it led me to your house! It was well that I should be pitied and forgiven by you, or anyone of your name, in the first hour of my return! It was well that you should act the kind good lady to me! I’ll thank you when I die; I’ll pray for you, and all your race, you may be sure!


Only second to the wedding morning, in the interest and expectation it engenders among the household, is this evening of the coming home.


Here they are!


Ah, it’s a strange world, it is indeed! but Miss Florence can’t well be the worse for any change, Tom.


Oh, can’t she though!


My sweetest Edith! My dearest Dombey!


How do you do, Florence?


You will not be long dressing, Mrs Dombey, I presume?


I shall be ready immediately.


Let them send up dinner in a quarter of an hour.


And how, my dearest Dombey, did you find that delightfullest of cities, Paris?


It was cold,


Gay as ever,


Not particularly. I thought it dull,


Fie, my dearest Dombey! dull!


It made that impression upon me, Madam. I believe Mrs Dombey found it dull too. She mentioned once or twice that she thought it so.


Why, you naughty girl! what dreadfully heretical things have you been saying about Paris? My dear Dombey, how charmingly these people have carried out every idea that we hinted. They have made a perfect palace of the house, positively.


It is handsome. I directed that no expense should be spared; and all that money could do, has been done, I believe.


And what can it not do, dear Dombey?


It is powerful, Madam. I hope, Mrs Dombey, that these alterations meet with your approval?


They are as handsome as they can be. They should be so, of course. And I suppose they are.


I beg your pardon. Shall I go away, Papa?


No, you can come and go here, Florence, as you please. This is not my private room.


Florence, dear. I have been looking for you everywhere.


Softly, dear Mama. Papa is asleep.


I scarcely thought you could be here, Florence. I left here early, purposely to sit upstairs and talk with you. But, going to your room, I found my bird was flown, and I have been waiting there ever since, expecting its return. Come, dear!


Papa will not expect to find me, I suppose, when he wakes,


Do you think he will, Florence?


Oh, Mama! I have had a great sorrow since that day.


You a great sorrow, Florence!


Yes. Poor Walter is drowned.


But tell me, dear. Who was Walter? What was he to you?


He was my brother, Mama. After dear Paul died, we said we would be brother and sister. I had known him a long time—from a little child. He knew Paul, who liked him very much; Paul said, almost at the last,


Take care of Walter, dear Papa! I was fond of him!


Walter had been brought in to see him, and was there then—in this room.


And did he take care of Walter?


Papa? He appointed him to go abroad. He was drowned in shipwreck on his voyage,


Does he know that he is dead?


I cannot tell, Mama. I have no means of knowing. Dear Mama! I know that you have seen—


Stay! Stop, Florence. Tell me all about Walter first; let me understand this history all through. What is it that you know I have seen, Florence?


That I am not, that I am not a favourite child, Mama. I never have been. I have never known how to be. I have missed the way, and had no one to show it to me. Oh, let me learn from you how to become dearer to Papa Teach me! you, who can so well!


Florence, you do not know me! Heaven forbid that you should learn from me!


Not learn from you?


That I should teach you how to love, or be loved, Heaven forbid! If you could teach me, that were better; but it is too late. You are dear to me, Florence. I did not think that anything could ever be so dear to me, as you are in this little time. I will be your true friend always. I will cherish you, as much, if not as well as anyone in this world could. You may trust in me—I know it and I say it, dear,—with the whole confidence even of your pure heart. There are hosts of women whom he might have married, better and truer in all other respects than I am, Florence; but there is not one who could come here, his wife, whose heart could beat with greater truth to you than mine does.


I know it, dear Mama! From that first most happy day I have known it.


Most happy day! Though the merit is not mine, for I thought little of you until I saw you, let the undeserved reward be mine in your trust and love. And in this—in this, Florence; on the first night of my taking up my abode here; I am led on as it is best I should be, to say it for the first and last time. Never seek to find in me, what is not here. Never if you can help it, Florence, fall off from me because it is not here. Little by little you will know me better, and the time will come when you will know me, as I know myself. Then, be as lenient to me as you can, and do not turn to bitterness the only sweet remembrance I shall have. I have seen what you say, and know how true it is. But believe me—you will soon, if you cannot now—there is no one on this earth less qualified to set it right or help you, Florence, than I. Never ask me why, or speak to me about it or of my husband, more. There should be, so far, a division, and a silence between us two, like the grave itself.


It is running on, Floy! It has never stopped! You are moving with it!


Florence, dear Florence, it is nothing but a dream!


little place Ladies, it was not for a man who lived in his quiet way to take upon himself to invite—but if Mrs Skewton and her daughter, Mrs Dombey, should ever find themselves in that direction, and would do him the honour to look at a little bit of a shrubbery they would find there, and a poor little flower-bed or so, and a humble apology for a pinery, and two or three little attempts of that sort without any pretension, they would distinguish him very much. he couldn’t afford it.


Why, upon my life, there’s nothing in it; it really is not worth repeating: in point of fact, it’s merely an anecdote of Jack Adams. I dare say my friend Dombey; may remember Jack Adams, Jack Adams, not Joe; that was his brother. Jack—little Jack—man with a cast in his eye, and slight impediment in his speech—man who sat for somebody’s borough. We used to call him in my parliamentary time W. P. Adams, in consequence of his being Warming Pan for a young fellow who was in his minority. Perhaps my friend Dombey may have known the man?


always wore Hessian boots!


Exactly. That was Jack. Joe wore—


Tops!


Of course, you were intimate with em?


I knew them both,


Devilish good fellow, Jack!


Excellent. One of the best fellows I ever knew.


No doubt you have heard the story?


I shall know, when I have heard your Ludship tell it.


In point of fact, it’s nothing of a story in itself, and not worth a word of preface. But it’s illustrative of the neatness of Jack’s humour. The fact is, that Jack was invited down to a marriage—which I think took place in Berkshire?


Shropshire,


Was it? Well! In point of fact it might have been in any shire. So my friend being invited down to this marriage in Anyshire, goes. Just as some of us, having had the honour of being invited to the marriage of my lovely and accomplished relative with my friend Dombey, didn’t require to be asked twice, and were devilish glad to be present on so interesting an occasion.—Goes—Jack goes. Now, this marriage was, in point of fact, the marriage of an uncommonly fine girl with a man for whom she didn’t care a button, but whom she accepted on account of his property, which was immense. When Jack returned to town, after the nuptials, a man he knew, meeting him in the lobby of the House of Commons, says, ‘Well, Jack, how are the ill-matched couple?’ ‘Ill-matched,’ says Jack ‘Not at all. It’s a perfectly and equal transaction. She is regularly bought, and you may take your oath he is as regularly sold!’


Very good.


But I am made, of no more account than Florence! Who takes the smallest notice of me? No one!


No one, my dear,


Does it at all appear as if I was wanted here?


No, my dear, I don’t think it does,


Paul’s mad! Unless you are a monster, which I sometimes think you are, don’t sit there humming tunes. How anyone with the most distant feelings of a man, can see that mother-in-law of Paul’s, dressed as she is, going on like that, with Major Bagstock, for whom, among other precious things, we are indebted to your Lucretia Tox.


My Lucretia Tox, my dear!


Yes, your Lucretia Tox—I say how anybody can see that mother-in-law of Paul’s, and that haughty wife of Paul’s, and these indecent old frights with their backs and shoulders, and in short this at home generally, and hum— is, I thank Heaven, a mystery to me! But I hope I know what is due to myself, though Paul has forgotten what is due to me. I am not going to sit here, a member of this family, to be taken no notice of. I am not the dirt under Mrs Dombey’s feet, yet—not quite yet. And I shall go. I will not say (whatever I may think) that this affair has been got up solely to degrade and insult me. I shall merely go. I shall not be missed!


I trust, that the fatigues of this delightful evening will not inconvenience Mrs Dombey to-morrow.


Mrs Dombey, has sufficiently spared herself fatigue, to relieve you from any anxiety of that kind. I regret to say, Mrs Dombey, that I could have wished you had fatigued yourself a little more on this occasion. I am sorry, Madam, that you should not have thought it your duty— Your duty, Madam, to have received my friends with a little more deference. Some of those whom you have been pleased to slight tonight in a very marked manner, Mrs Dombey, confer a distinction upon you, I must tell you, in any visit they pay you.


Do you know that there is someone here?


No! Carker! I beg that you do not. I insist that you do not. Mr Carker, Madam, as you know, possesses my confidence. He is as well acquainted as myself with the subject on which I speak. I beg to tell you, for your information, Mrs Dombey, that I consider these wealthy and important persons confer a distinction upon me:


I ask you, do you know that there is someone here, Sir?


I must entreat. I must beg, I must demand, to be released. Slight and unimportant as this difference is—


My sweetest Edith, and my dearest Dombey; our excellent friend Mr Carker, for so I am sure I ought to mention him—


Too much honour.


—has used the very words that were in my mind, and that I have been dying, these ages, for an opportunity of introducing. Slight and unimportant! My sweetest Edith, and my dearest Dombey, do we not know that any difference between you two—No, Flowers; not now. That any difference between you two,


I think I am a little nervous this morning, Flowers. My hand quite shakes.


You were the life of the party last night, Ma'am, you know, and you suffer for it today, you see.


My darling child, you are not nervous? Don’t tell me, my dear Edith, that you, so enviably self-possessed, are beginning to be a martyr too, like your unfortunately constituted mother! Withers, someone at the door.


Card, Ma'am,


I am going out,


My dear love, how very odd to send that message without seeing the name! Bring it here, Withers. Dear me, my love; Mr Carker, too! That very sensible person!


Mrs Dombey is going out. Get along with you,


If you please, Ma'am, Mr Carker sends his respectful compliments, and begs you would spare him one minute, if you could—for business, Ma'am, if you please.


Really, my love, if you would allow me to offer a word, I should recommend—


Show him this way. As he comes at your recommendation, let him come to your room.


May I—shall I go away?


I have presumed, to solicit an interview, and I have ventured to describe it as being one of business, because—


Perhaps you are charged by Mr Dombey with some message of reproof. You possess Mr Dombey’s confidence in such an unusual degree, Sir, that you would scarcely surprise me if that were your business.


I have no message to the lady who sheds a lustre upon his name. But I entreat that lady, on my own behalf, to be just to a very humble claimant for justice at her hands—a mere dependant of Mr Dombey’s—which is a position of humility; and to reflect upon my perfect helplessness last night, and the impossibility of my avoiding the share that was forced upon me in a very painful occasion.


My dearest Edith, really very charming of Mr What’s-his-name. And full of heart!


For I do. I do venture to call it a painful occasion, though merely because it was so to me, who had the misfortune to be present. So slight a difference, as between the principals—between those who love each other with disinterested devotion, and would make any sacrifice of self in such a cause—is nothing. As Mrs Skewton herself expressed, with so much truth and feeling last night, it is nothing.


And your business, Sir—


Edith, my pet, all this time Mr Carker is standing! My dear Mr Carker, take a seat, I beg.


May I be allowed, Madam, a lady of your excellent sense and quick feeling will give me credit, for good reason, I am sure—to address what I have to say, to Mrs Dombey, and to leave her to impart it to you who are her best and dearest friend—next to Mr Dombey? Miss Florence—the young lady who has just left the room— Miss Florence’s position, has been an unfortunate one. I have a difficulty in alluding to it to you, whose attachment to her father is naturally watchful and jealous of every word that applies to him. But, as one who is devoted to Mr Dombey in his different way, and whose life is passed in admiration of Mr Dombey’s character, may I say, without offence to your tenderness as a wife, that Miss Florence has unhappily been neglected—by her father. May I say by her father?


I know it.


You know it! It removes a mountain from my breast. May I hope you know how the neglect originated; in what an amiable phase of Mr Dombey’s pride—character I mean?


You may pass that by, Sir, and come the sooner to the end of what you have to say.


Indeed, I am sensible, Madam, trust me, I am deeply sensible, that Mr Dombey can require no justification in anything to you. But, kindly judge of my breast by your own, and you will forgive my interest in him, if in its excess, it goes at all astray. Miss Florence, left to the care—if one may call it care—of servants and mercenary people, in every way her inferiors, necessarily wanted some guide and compass in her younger days, and, naturally, for want of them, has been indiscreet, and has in some degree forgotten her station. There was some folly about one Walter, a common lad, who is fortunately dead now: and some very undesirable association, I regret to say, with certain coasting sailors, of anything but good repute, and a runaway old bankrupt.


I have heard the circumstances, Sir, and I know that you pervert them. You may not know it. I hope so.


Pardon me. I believe that nobody knows them so well as I. Your generous and ardent nature, Madam—the same nature which is so nobly imperative in vindication of your beloved and honoured husband, and which has blessed him as even his merits deserve—I must respect, defer to, bow before. But, as regards the circumstances, which is indeed the business I presumed to solicit your attention to, I can have no doubt, since, in the execution of my trust as Mr Dombey’s confidential—I presume to say—friend, I have fully ascertained them. In my execution of that trust; in my deep concern, which you can so well understand, for everything relating to him, intensified, if you will (for I fear I labour under your displeasure), by the lower motive of desire to prove my diligence, and make myself the more acceptable; I have long pursued these circumstances by myself and trustworthy instruments, and have innumerable and most minute proofs. Pardon me, Madam, if in my perplexity, I presume to take counsel with you, and to consult your pleasure. I think I have observed that you are greatly interested in Miss Florence? This interest, Madam—so touching an evidence of everything associated with Mr Dombey being dear to you—induces me to pause before I make him acquainted with these circumstances, which, as yet, he does not know. It so shakes me, if I may make the confession, in my allegiance, that on the intimation of the least desire to that effect from you, I would suppress them. You say that as I describe them, they are perverted. I fear not—I fear not: but let us assume that they are. The uneasiness I have for some time felt on the subject, arises in this: that the mere circumstance of such association often repeated, on the part of Miss Florence, however innocently and confidingly, would be conclusive with Mr Dombey, already predisposed against her, and would lead him to take some step (I know he has occasionally contemplated it) of separation and alienation of her from his home. Madam, bear with me, and remember my intercourse with Mr Dombey, and my knowledge of him, and my reverence for him, almost from childhood, when I say that if he has a fault, it is a lofty stubbornness, rooted in that noble pride and sense of power which belong to him, and which we must all defer to; which is not assailable like the obstinacy of other characters; and which grows upon itself from day to day, and year to year. Even so slight an incident as last night’s, if I might refer to it once more, would serve to illustrate my meaning, better than a greater one. Dombey and Son know neither time, nor place, nor season, but bear them all down. But I rejoice in its occurrence, for it has opened the way for me to approach Mrs Dombey with this subject today, even if it has entailed upon me the penalty of her temporary displeasure. Madam, in the midst of my uneasiness and apprehension on this subject, I was summoned by Mr Dombey to Leamington. There I saw you. There I could not help knowing what relation you would shortly occupy towards him—to his enduring happiness and yours. There I resolved to await the time of your establishment at home here, and to do as I have now done. I have, at heart, no fear that I shall be wanting in my duty to Mr Dombey, if I bury what I know in your breast; for where there is but one heart and mind between two persons—as in such a marriage—one almost represents the other. I can acquit my conscience therefore, almost equally, by confidence, on such a theme, in you or him. For the reasons I have mentioned I would select you. May I aspire to the distinction of believing that my confidence is accepted, and that I am relieved from my responsibility?


I accept it, Sir You will please to consider this matter at an end, and that it goes no farther.


Oh Florence, Florence!


If you please, Ma'am, I beg your pardon, but I can’t do nothing with Missis!


What do you mean?


Well, Ma'am. I hardly know. She’s making faces!


Rose-coloured curtains. Rose-coloured curtains for doctors.


Where is Mrs Dombey?


Gone out, Ma’am.


Gone out! Does she go out to shun her Mama, Flowers?


La bless you, no, Ma’am. Mrs Dombey has only gone out for a ride with Miss Florence.


Miss Florence. Who’s Miss Florence? Don’t tell me about Miss Florence. What’s Miss Florence to her, compared to me? Well, I am sure, Edith!


What is the matter, mother?


Matter! I really don’t know what is the matter. The world is coming to such an artificial and ungrateful state, that I begin to think there’s no Heart—or anything of that sort—left in it, positively. Withers is more a child to me than you are. He attends to me much more than my own daughter. I almost wish I didn’t look so young—and all that kind of thing—and then perhaps I should be more considered.


What would you have, mother?


Oh, a great deal, Edith,


Is there anything you want that you have not? It is your own fault if there be.


My own fault! The parent I have been to you, Edith: making you a companion from your cradle! And when you neglect me, and have no more natural affection for me than if I was a stranger—not a twentieth part of the affection that you have for Florence—but I am only your mother, and should corrupt her in a day!—you reproach me with its being my own fault.


Mother, mother, I reproach you with nothing. Why will you always dwell on this?


Isn’t it natural that I should dwell on this, when I am all affection and sensitiveness, and am wounded in the cruellest way, whenever you look at me?


I do not mean to wound you, mother. Have you no remembrance of what has been said between us? Let the Past rest.


Yes, rest! And let gratitude to me rest; and let affection for me rest; and let me rest in my out-of-the-way room, with no society and no attention, while you find new relations to make much of, who have no earthly claim upon you! Good gracious, Edith, do you know what an elegant establishment you are at the head of?


Yes. Hush!


And that gentlemanly creature, Dombey? Do you know that you are married to him, Edith, and that you have a settlement and a position, and a carriage, and I don’t know what?


Indeed, I know it, mother; well.


As you would have had with that delightful good soul—what did they call him?—Granger—if he hadn’t died. And who have you to thank for all this, Edith?


You, mother; you.


Then put your arms round my neck, and kiss me; and show me, Edith, that you know there never was a better Mama than I have been to you. And don’t let me become a perfect fright with teasing and wearing myself at your ingratitude, or when I’m out again in society no soul will know me, not even that hateful animal, the Major.


Polly, my gal, you ain’t seen our Biler lately, have you?


No, but he’s almost certain to look in tonight. It’s his right evening, and he’s very regular.


I suppose, as our Biler is a doin’ now about as well as a boy can do, eh, Polly?


Oh! he’s a doing beautiful!


He ain’t got to be at all secret-like—has he, Polly?


No!


I’m glad he ain’t got to be at all secret-like, Polly, because that don’t look well; do it, Polly?


Why, of course it don’t, father. How can you ask!


You see, my boys and gals, wotever you’re up to in a honest way, it’s my opinion as you can’t do better than be open. If you find yourselves in cuttings or in tunnels, don’t you play no secret games. Keep your whistles going, and let’s know where you are.


But what makes you say this along of Rob, father?


Polly, old “ooman,” I don’t know as I said it partickler along o’ Rob, I’m sure. I starts light with Rob only; I comes to a branch; I takes on what I finds there; and a whole train of ideas gets coupled on to him, afore I knows where I am, or where they comes from. What a Junction a man’s thoughts is, to-be-sure!


Well, mother! how are you, mother?


There’s my boy! Secret! Bless you, father, not he!


What! father’s been a saying something more again me, has he? Oh, what a hard thing it is that when a cove has once gone a little wrong, a cove’s own father should be always a throwing it in his face behind his back! It’s enough, to make a cove go and do something, out of spite!


My poor boy! father didn’t mean anything.


If father didn’t mean anything, why did he go and say anything, mother? Nobody thinks half so bad of me as my own father does. What a unnatural thing! I wish somebody’d take and chop my head off. Father wouldn’t mind doing it, I believe, and I’d much rather he did that than t’other.


Will you do as I do, Biler, my boy?


No, thank’ee, father. Master and I had tea together.


And how is master, Rob?


Well, I don’t know, mother; not much to boast on. There ain’t no bis’ness done, you see. He don’t know anything about it—the Cap’en don’t. There was a man come into the shop this very day, and says, ‘I want a so-and-so,’ he says—some hard name or another. ‘A which?’ says the Cap’en. ‘A so-and-so,’ says the man. ‘Brother,’ says the Cap’en, ‘will you take a observation round the shop.’ ‘Well,’ says the man, ‘I’ve done.’ ‘Do you see wot you want?’ says the Cap’en ‘No, I don’t,’ says the man. ‘Do you know it wen you do see it?’ says the Cap’en. ‘No, I don’t,’ says the man. ‘Why, then I tell you wot, my lad,’ says the Cap’en, ‘you’d better go back and ask wot it’s like, outside, for no more don’t I!’


That ain’t the way to make money, though, is it?


Money, mother! He’ll never make money. He has such ways as I never see. He ain’t a bad master though, I’ll say that for him. But that ain’t much to me, for I don’t think I shall stop with him long.


Not stop in your place, Rob!


Not in that place, p’raps. I shouldn’t wonder—friends at court you know—but never you mind, mother, just now; I’m all right, that’s all.


How do you do, Mrs Richards? I have come to see you. May I come in?


You have almost forgotten me, Sir, I daresay,


No, Ma’am, no. But we’ve all on us got a little older since then.


And how do you find yourself, Sir?


Hearty, Ma’am, thank’ee. How do you find yourself, Ma’am? Do the rheumaticks keep off pretty well, Ma’am? We must all expect to grow into ’em, as we gets on.


Thank you. I have not felt any inconvenience from that disorder yet.


You’re wery fortunate, Ma’am. Many people at your time of life, Ma’am, is martyrs to it. There was my mother—


You never mean to say, Mrs Richards, that that is your—


Eldest, Ma’am. Yes, indeed, it is. That’s the little fellow, Ma’am, that was the innocent cause of so much.


This here, Ma’am, is him with the short legs—and they was, unusual short for leathers—as Mr Dombey made a Grinder on.


And now, Mrs Richards, and you too, Sir. I’ll tell you, plainly and truly, what I have come here for. You may be aware, Mrs Richards—and, possibly, you may be aware too, Sir—that a little distance has interposed itself between me and some of my friends, and that where I used to visit a good deal, I do not visit now. Of course, how our little coolness has arisen is of no moment, and does not require to be discussed. It is sufficient for me to say, that I have the greatest possible respect for, and interest in, Mr Dombey; and everything that relates to him.


heerd it said, and, for his own part, he did think, as Mr Dombey was a difficult subject.


Pray don’t say so, Sir, if you please. Let me entreat you not to say so, Sir, either now, or at any future time. Such observations cannot but be very painful to me; and to a gentleman, whose mind is constituted as, I am quite sure, yours is, can afford no permanent satisfaction. All that I wish to say, Mrs Richards, and I address myself to you too, Sir, is this. That any intelligence of the proceedings of the family, of the welfare of the family, of the health of the family, that reaches you, will be always most acceptable to me. That I shall be always very glad to chat with Mrs Richards about the family, and about old time. And as Mrs Richards and I never had the least difference (though I could wish now that we had been better acquainted, but I have no one but myself to blame for that), I hope she will not object to our being very good friends now, and to my coming backwards and forwards here, when I like, without being a stranger. Now, I really hope, Mrs Richards, that you will take this, as I mean it, like a good-humoured creature, as you always were. You see, Mrs Richards, and I hope you see too, Sir—there are many little ways in which I can be slightly useful to you, if you will make no stranger of me; and in which I shall be delighted to be so. For instance, I can teach your children something. I shall bring a few little books, if you’ll allow me, and some work, and of an evening now and then, they’ll learn—dear me, they’ll learn a great deal, I trust, and be a credit to their teacher. Then, not being a stranger, I shall be in nobody’s way, and everything will go on just as if I were not here. Mrs Richards will do her mending, or her ironing, or her nursing, whatever it is, without minding me: and you’ll smoke your pipe, too, if you’re so disposed, Sir, won’t you?


Thank’ee, Mum. Yes; I’ll take my bit of backer.


Very good of you to say so, Sir, and I really do assure you now, unfeignedly, that it will be a great comfort to me, and that whatever good I may be fortunate enough to do the children, you will more than pay back to me, if you’ll enter into this little bargain comfortably, and easily, and good-naturedly, without another word about it.


I am quite glad, to know you. I hope you’ll consider me your friend, and that you’ll come and see me as often as you like. Do you keep a money-box?


Yes, Ma’am. I’m saving up, against I’ve got enough to put in the Bank, Ma’am.


Very laudable indeed. I’m glad to hear it. Put this half-crown into it, if you please.


Oh thank you, Ma’am, but really I couldn’t think of depriving you.


I commend your independent spirit, but it’s no deprivation, I assure you. I shall be offended if you don’t take it, as a mark of my good-will. Good-night, Robin.


Good-night, Ma’am, and thank you!


Captain Gills, do you think you could think favourably of that proposition of mine, and give me the pleasure of your acquaintance?


Why, I tell you what it is, my lad. I’ve been turning that there, over.


Captain Gills, it’s very kind of you. I’m much obliged to you. Upon my word and honour, Captain Gills, it would be a charity to give me the pleasure of your acquaintance. It really would.


You see, brother. I don’t know you.


But you never can know me, Captain Gills, if you don’t give me the pleasure of your acquaintance.


Well said, my lad, and true. Now look’ee here: You’ve made some observations to me, which gives me to understand as you admire a certain sweet creetur. Hey?


Captain Gills. Admiration is not the word. Upon my honour, you have no conception what my feelings are. If I could be dyed black, and made Miss Dombey’s slave, I should consider it a compliment. If, at the sacrifice of all my property, I could get transmigrated into Miss Dombey’s dog—I—I really think I should never leave off wagging my tail. I should be so perfectly happy, Captain Gills!


My lad, if you’re in arnest—


Captain Gills. I’m in such a state of mind, and am so dreadfully in earnest, that if I could swear to it upon a hot piece of iron, or a live coal, or melted lead, or burning sealing-wax, Or anything of that sort, I should be glad to hurt myself, as a relief to my feelings.


If you’re in arnest, you see, my lad,


Well, you’ll excuse me, Captain Gills, if I don’t quite follow you sometimes. But upon my word I—I—it’s a hard thing, Captain Gills, not to be able to mention Miss Dombey. I really have got such a dreadful load here! that I feel night and day, exactly as if somebody was sitting upon me.


Them is the terms I offer. If they’re hard upon you, brother, as mayhap they are, give ’em a wide berth, sheer off, and part company cheerily!


Captain Gills, I hardly know how it is, but after what you told me when I came here, for the first time, I—I feel that I’d rather think about Miss Dombey in your society than talk about her in almost anybody else’s. Therefore, Captain Gills, if you’ll give me the pleasure of your acquaintance, I shall be very happy to accept it on your own conditions. I wish to be honourable, Captain Gills, and therefore I am obliged to say that I can not help thinking about Miss Dombey. It’s impossible for me to make a promise not to think about her.


My lad, a man’s thoughts is like the winds, and nobody can’t answer for ’em for certain, any length of time together. Is it a treaty as to words?


As to words, Captain Gills, I think I can bind myself.


Oh! I beg your pardon, Captain, but you mayn’t be in want of any pigeons, may you, Sir?


No, my lad,


Because I was wishing to dispose of mine, Captain. I’m going, Captain, if you please,


Going? Where are you going?


What? didn’t you know that I was going to leave you, Captain? Oh yes, Captain, I am going to give you warning. I thought you’d have known that beforehand, perhaps. If you could be so good as provide yourself soon, Captain, it would be a great convenience to me. You couldn’t provide yourself by to-morrow morning, I am afraid, Captain: could you, do you think?


And you’re a going to desert your colours, are you, my lad?


Oh, it’s very hard upon a cove, Captain, that he can’t give lawful warning, without being frowned at in that way, and called a deserter. You haven’t any right to call a poor cove names, Captain. It ain’t because I’m a servant and you’re a master, that you’re to go and libel me. What wrong have I done? Come, Captain, let me know what my crime is, will you? Come, Captain, give my crime a name! What have I been and done? Have I stolen any of the property? have I set the house a-fire? If I have, why don’t you give me in charge, and try it? But to take away the character of a lad that’s been a good servant to you, because he can’t afford to stand in his own light for your good, what a injury it is, and what a bad return for faithful service! This is the way young coves is spiled and drove wrong. I wonder at you, Captain, I do.


Look ye here, my boy, Don’t you pay out no more of them words.


Well, then, don’t you pay in no more of your words, Captain. I’d sooner you took my blood than my character.


Because you have heerd, may be, of such a thing as a rope’s end.


Oh, have I though, Captain? No I haven’t. I never heerd of any such a article!


Well, it’s my belief as you’ll know more about it pretty soon, if you don’t keep a bright look-out. I can read your signals, my lad. You may go.


Oh! I may go at once, may I, Captain? But mind! I never asked to go at once, Captain. You are not to take away my character again, because you send me off of your own accord. And you’re not to stop any of my wages, Captain!


Good-night, Captain. I leave you without malice!


Bunsby, what cheer, my lad, what cheer?


Shipmet, hearty, hearty.


Bunsby! here you are! a man as can give an opinion as is brighter than di’monds—and give me the lad with the tarry trousers as shines to me like di’monds bright, for which you’ll overhaul the Stanfell’s Budget, and when found make a note. Here you are, a man as gave an opinion in this here very place, that has come true, every letter on it,


Ay, ay?


Every letter,


For why? Which way? If so, why not? Therefore.


My dear Ned Cuttle. When I left home for the West Indies in forlorn search of intelligence of my dear boy, I knew that if you were acquainted with my design, you would thwart it, or accompany me; and therefore I kept it secret. If you ever read this letter, Ned, I am likely to be dead. You will easily forgive an old friend’s folly then, and will feel for the restlessness and uncertainty in which he wandered away on such a wild voyage. So no more of that. I have little hope that my poor boy will ever read these words, or gladden your eyes with the sight of his frank face any more. No, no; no more,


In the Bays of Biscay, O!


Well, well! Affliction sore, long time he bore, and let us overhaul the wollume, and there find it. Ay, ay, to be sure, what’s the good o’ them in two or three hundred fathoms o’ water! But if he should be by, when it is opened;' or should know of it at any other time;' my blessing on him! In case the accompanying paper is not legally written, it matters very little, for there is no one interested but you and he, and my plain wish is, that if he is living he should have what little there may be, and if (as I fear) otherwise, that you should have it, Ned. You will respect my wish, I know. God bless you for it, and for all your friendliness besides, to Solomon Gills.' Bunsby! what do you make of this? There you sit, a man as has had his head broke from infancy up’ards, and has got a new opinion into it at every seam as has been opened. Now, what do you make o’ this?


If so be, as he’s dead, my opinion is he won’t come back no more. If so be as he’s alive, my opinion is he will. Do I say he will? No. Why not? Because the bearings of this obserwation lays in the application on it.


Bunsby! Bunsby, you carry a weight of mind easy, as would swamp one of my tonnage soon. But in regard o’ this here will, I don’t mean to take no steps towards the property—Lord forbid!—except to keep it for a more rightful owner; and I hope yet as the rightful owner, Sol Gills, is living and’ll come back, strange as it is that he ain’t forwarded no dispatches. Now, what is your opinion, Bunsby, as to stowing of these here papers away again, and marking outside as they was opened, such a day, in the presence of John Bunsby and Ed’ard Cuttle?


Oh, Cap’en Cuttle, Cap’en Cuttle! Oh, Cap’en Cuttle, Cap’en Cuttle, do you dare to look me in the face, and not be struck down in the berth!


Stand by!


Oh I was a weak and trusting Fool when I took you under my roof, Cap’en Cuttle, I was! To think of the benefits I’ve showered on that man, and the way in which I brought my children up to love and honour him as if he was a father to ’em, when there ain’t a housekeeper, no nor a lodger in our street, don’t know that I lost money by that man, and by his guzzlings and his muzzlings and when they cried out one and all, shame upon him for putting upon an industrious woman, up early and late for the good of her young family, and keeping her poor place so clean that a individual might have ate his dinner, yes, and his tea too, if he was so disposed, off any one of the floors or stairs, in spite of all his guzzlings and his muzzlings, such was the care and pains bestowed upon him! And he runs awa-a-a-y! and keeps away a twelve-month! From a woman! Such is his conscience! He hasn’t the courage to meet her hi-i-igh; but steals away, like a fellon. Why, if that baby of mine, was to offer to go and steal away, I’d do my duty as a mother by him, till he was covered with wales! A pretty sort of a man is Cap’en Cuttle, to take on for—and to lose sleep for—and to faint along of—and to think dead forsooth—and to go up and down the blessed town like a madwoman, asking questions after! Oh, a pretty sort of a man! Ha ha ha ha! He’s worth all that trouble and distress of mind, and much more. That’s nothing, bless you! Ha ha ha ha! Cap’en Cuttle. I wish to know if you’re a-coming home. Cap’en Cuttle. I wish to know if you’re a-coming home, Sir.


not making so much noise about it.


Ay, ay, ay. Awast, my lass, awast!


And who may you be, if you please! Did you ever lodge at Number Nine, Brig Place, Sir? My memory may be bad, but not with me, I think. There was a Mrs Jollson lived at Number Nine before me, and perhaps you’re mistaking me for her. That is my only ways of accounting for your familiarity, Sir.


Come, come, my lass, awast, awast!


Cuttle, I’m a-going to act as convoy home; Cuttle,


are these here your traps? Done pretty taut and trim, hey, shipmet?


Mrs Dombey. I must beg leave to have a few words with you.


To-morrow,


There is no time like the present, Madam. You mistake your position. I am used to choose my own times; not to have them chosen for me. I think you scarcely understand who and what I am, Mrs Dombey.


I think, that I understand you very well.


Mrs Dombey, it is very necessary that there should be some understanding arrived at between us. Your conduct does not please me, Madam. I repeat, Mrs Dombey, does not please me. I have already taken occasion to request that it may be corrected. I now insist upon it.


You chose a fitting occasion for your first remonstrance, Sir, and you adopt a fitting manner, and a fitting word for your second. You insist! To me!


Madam. I have made you my wife. You bear my name. You are associated with my position and my reputation. I will not say that the world in general may be disposed to think you honoured by that association; but I will say that I am accustomed to ‘insist,’ to my connexions and dependents.


Which may you be pleased to consider me?


Possibly I may think that my wife should partake—or does partake, and cannot help herself—of both characters, Mrs Dombey. You are too expensive, Madam. You are extravagant. You waste a great deal of money—or what would be a great deal in the pockets of most gentlemen—in cultivating a kind of society that is useless to me, and, indeed, that upon the whole is disagreeable to me. I have to insist upon a total change in all these respects. I know that in the novelty of possessing a tithe of such means as Fortune has placed at your disposal, ladies are apt to run into a sudden extreme. There has been more than enough of that extreme. I beg that Mrs Granger’s very different experiences may now come to the instruction of Mrs Dombey.


You will further please, Madam, to understand distinctly, that I am to be deferred to and obeyed. That I must have a positive show and confession of deference before the world, Madam. I am used to this. I require it as my right. In short I will have it. I consider it no unreasonable return for the worldly advancement that has befallen you; and I believe nobody will be surprised, either at its being required from you, or at your making it.—To Me—To Me! I have learnt from your mother, Mrs Dombey, what no doubt you know, namely, that Brighton is recommended for her health. Mr Carker has been so good. Mr Carker has been so good as to go down and secure a house there, for a time. On the return of the establishment to London, I shall take such steps for its better management as I consider necessary. One of these, will be the engagement at Brighton (if it is to be effected), of a very respectable reduced person there, a Mrs Pipchin, formerly employed in a situation of trust in my family, to act as housekeeper. An establishment like this, presided over but nominally, Mrs Dombey, requires a competent head. I observed, and this concludes what I deem it necessary to say to you at present, Mrs Dombey—I observed a moment ago, Madam, that my allusion to Mr Carker was received in a peculiar manner. On the occasion of my happening to point out to you, before that confidential agent, the objection I had to your mode of receiving my visitors, you were pleased to object to his presence. You will have to get the better of that objection, Madam, and to accustom yourself to it very probably on many similar occasions; unless you adopt the remedy which is in your own hands, of giving me no cause of complaint. Mr Carker. Mr Carker being in my confidence, Mrs Dombey, may very well be in yours to such an extent. I hope, Mrs Dombey. I may not find it necessary ever to entrust Mr Carker with any message of objection or remonstrance to you; but as it would be derogatory to my position and reputation to be frequently holding trivial disputes with a lady upon whom I have conferred the highest distinction that it is in my power to bestow, I shall not scruple to avail myself of his services if I see occasion.


Wait! For God’s sake! I must speak to you. Did I ever tempt you to seek my hand? Did I ever use any art to win you? Was I ever more conciliating to you when you pursued me, than I have been since our marriage? Was I ever other to you than I am?


It is wholly unnecessary, Madam, to enter upon such discussions.


Did you think I loved you? Did you know I did not? Did you ever care, Man! for my heart, or propose to yourself to win the worthless thing? Was there any poor pretence of any in our bargain? Upon your side, or on mine?


These questions, are all wide of the purpose, Madam.


You answer each of them. You answer me before I speak, I see. How can you help it; you who know the miserable truth as well as I? Now, tell me. If I loved you to devotion, could I do more than render up my whole will and being to you, as you have just demanded? If my heart were pure and all untried, and you its idol, could you ask more; could you have more?


Possibly not, Madam,


You know how different I am. You see me looking on you now, and you can read the warmth of passion for you that is breathing in my face. You know my general history. You have spoken of my mother. Do you think you can degrade, or bend or break, me to submission and obedience? If there is anything unusual here, as I know there are unusual feelings here, consider that there is no common meaning in the appeal I am going to make you. Yes, for I am going; to appeal to you. If you can believe that I am of such a nature now, as would make what I now say almost incredible to myself, said to any man who had become my husband, but, above all, said to you, you may, perhaps, attach the greater weight to it. In the dark end to which we are tending, and may come, we shall not involve ourselves alone (that might not be much) but others. I speak to you for the sake of others. Also your own sake; and for mine. Since our marriage, you have been arrogant to me; and I have repaid you in kind. You have shown to me and everyone around us, every day and hour, that you think I am graced and distinguished by your alliance. I do not think so, and have shown that too. It seems you do not understand, or (so far as your power can go) intend that each of us shall take a separate course; and you expect from me instead, a homage you will never have.


Never


I feel no tenderness towards you; that you know. You would care nothing for it, if I did or could. I know as well that you feel none towards me. But we are linked together; and in the knot that ties us, as I have said, others are bound up. We must both die; we are both connected with the dead already, each by a little child. Let us forbear. There is no wealth, that could buy these words of me, and the meaning that belongs to them. Once cast away as idle breath, no wealth or power can bring them back. I mean them; I have weighed them; and I will be true to what I undertake. If you will promise to forbear on your part, I will promise to forbear on mine. We are a most unhappy pair, in whom, from different causes, every sentiment that blesses marriage, or justifies it, is rooted out; but in the course of time, some friendship, or some fitness for each other, may arise between us. I will try to hope so, if you will make the endeavour too; and I will look forward to a better and a happier use of age than I have made of youth or prime.


Madam. I cannot entertain any proposal of this extraordinary nature. I cannot, consent to temporise or treat with you, Mrs Dombey, upon a subject as to which you are in possession of my opinions and expectations. I have stated my ultimatum, Madam, and have only to request your very serious attention to it.


Go, Sir! Our first and last confidence is at an end. Nothing can make us stranger to each other than we are henceforth.


I shall take my rightful course, Madam, undeterred, you may be sure, by any general declamation. I place my reliance on your improved sense of duty, and more correct feeling, and better reflection, Madam,


Now, my dearest Grangeby, you must posively prom, come down very soon.


I said just now, Madam, that I am coming in a day or two.


Bless you, Domber!


Begad, Ma’am, you don’t ask old Joe to come!


Sterious wretch, who’s he? Oh! You mean yourself, you naughty creature!


Devilish queer, Sir. Bad case. Never did wrap up enough; Why who should J. B. mean by Joe, but old Joe Bagstock—Joseph—your slave—Joe, Ma’am? Here! Here’s the man! Here are the Bagstock bellows, Ma’am!


My dearest Edith—Grangeby—it’s most trordinry thing, that Major—


Bagstock! J. B.!


Well, it don’t matter. Edith, my love, you know I never could remember names—what was it? oh!—most trordinry thing that so many people want to come down to see me. I’m not going for long. I’m coming back. Surely they can wait, till I come back! I won’t have visitors—really don’t want visitors, little repose—and all that sort of thing—is what I quire. No odious brutes must proach me till I’ve shaken off this numbness;


And is Joseph absolutely banished? Damme, Ma’am, is Cleopatra so hard-hearted as to forbid her faithful Antony Bagstock to approach the presence?


Go along! I can’t bear you. You shall see me when I come back, if you are very good.


Tell Joseph, he may live in hope, Ma’am, or he’ll die in despair.


Edith, my dear. Tell him—


What?


Such dreadful words. He uses such dreadful words!


I’ll tell you what, Sir, a fair friend of ours has removed to Queer Street.


What do you mean, Major?


I mean to say, Dombey, that you’ll soon be an orphan-in-law. Damme, Sir, there is no use in disguising a fact. Joe is blunt, Sir. That’s his nature. If you take old Josh at all, you take him as you find him; and a devilish rusty, old rasper, of a close-toothed, J. B. file, you do find him. Dombey, your wife’s mother is on the move, Sir.


I fear, that Mrs Skewton is shaken.


Shaken, Dombey! Smashed!


Change, however, and attention, may do much yet.


Don’t believe it, Sir. Damme, Sir, she never wrapped up enough. If a man don’t wrap up, he has nothing to fall back upon. But some people will die. They will do it. Damme, they will. They’re obstinate. I tell you what, Dombey, it may not be ornamental; it may not be refined; it may be rough and tough; but a little of the genuine old English Bagstock stamina, Sir, would do all the good in the world to the human breed.


What is it that you have to sell?


Only this. I sold myself long ago.


My Lady, don’t believe her, don’t believe what she says. She loves to talk like that. She’s my handsome and undutiful daughter. She gives me nothing but reproaches, my Lady, for all I have done for her. Look at her now, my Lady, how she turns upon her poor old mother with her looks.


I have seen you, before.


Yes, my Lady. Down in Warwickshire. The morning among the trees. When you wouldn’t give me nothing. But the gentleman, he give me something! Oh, bless him, bless him!


It’s of no use attempting to stay me, Edith! You know nothing about it. I won’t be dissuaded. I am sure this is an excellent woman, and a good mother.


Yes, my Lady, yes. Thankee, my Lady. Lord bless you, my Lady. Sixpence more, my pretty Lady, as a good mother yourself.


And treated undutifully enough, too, my good old creature, sometimes, I assure you. There! Shake hands with me. You’re a very good old creature—full of what’s-his-name—and all that. You’re all affection and et cetera, ain’t you?


Oh, yes, my Lady!


Yes, I’m sure you are; and so’s that gentlemanly creature Grangeby. I must really shake hands with you again. And now you can go, you know; and I hope, that you’ll show more gratitude, and natural what’s-its-name, and all the rest of it—but I never remember names—for there never was a better mother than the good old creature’s been to you. Come, Edith!


You’re a handsome woman, but good looks won’t save us. And you’re a proud woman; but pride won’t save us. We had need to know each other when we meet again!


And you’ve brought Diogenes, too, Miss Dombey!


Down, Di, down. Don’t you remember who first made us friends, Di? For shame!


Diogenes is quite in his native air, isn’t he, Miss Dombey? Miss Dombey, beg your pardon, but if you would like to walk to Blimber’s, I—I’m going there.


Toots. I am very glad to see you, Toots. Also to see you, Toots, in such good company. You will like, to step among our young friends, Miss Dombey, no doubt. All fellow-students of yours, Toots, once. I think we have no new disciples in our little portico, my dear, since Mr Toots left us.


Except Bitherstone,


Ay, truly. Bitherstone is new to Mr Toots.


old Blimber


How are you, Feeder?


Gentlemen, we will now resume our studies,


at that there Toots. But really though, now—ain’t she like her brother, only prettier?


Miss Dombey, I beg your pardon, but if you would allow me to—to— If you would allow me to—if you would not consider it a liberty, Miss Dombey, if I was to—without any encouragement at all, if I was to hope, you know. Miss Dombey. I really am in that state of adoration of you that I don’t know what to do with myself. I am the most deplorable wretch. If it wasn’t at the corner of the Square at present, I should go down on my knees, and beg and entreat of you, without any encouragement at all, just to let me hope that I may—may think it possible that you—


Oh, if you please, don’t! Oh, pray don’t, Mr Toots. Stop, if you please. Don’t say any more. As a kindness and a favour to me, don’t. You have been so good to me. I am so grateful to you, I have such reason to like you for being a kind friend to me, and I do like you so much; that I am sure you are only going to say good-bye!


Certainly, Miss Dombey. I—I—that’s exactly what I mean. It’s of no consequence.


Good-bye!


Good-bye, Miss Dombey! I hope you won’t think anything about it. It’s—it’s of no consequence, thank you. It’s not of the least consequence in the world.


When it is to come off?


that there are certain subjects


Feeder, you have no idea of the sentiments with which I propose that toast.


Oh, yes, I have, my dear Toots; and greatly they redound to your honour, old boy. if ever Toots wants a brother, he knows where to find him, either by post or parcel. I would recommend Mr Toots to learn the guitar, or, at least the flute; for women like music, when you are paying your addresses to ’em, and he has found the advantage of it himself. Cornelia Blimber. I don’t object to spectacles, and that if the Doctor were to do the handsome thing and give up the business, why, there they are—provided for. it’s his opinion that when a man has made a handsome sum by his business, he is bound to give it up; and that Cornelia would be an assistance in it which any man might be proud of.


Miss Dombey’s praises, that sometimes he thinks he should like to blow his brains out.


that it would be a rash attempt,


Edith, what is that stone arm raised to strike me? Don’t you see it?


There is nothing, mother, but your fancy.


But my fancy! Everything is my fancy. Look! Is it possible that you don’t see it?


Indeed, mother, there is nothing. Should I sit unmoved, if there were any such thing there?


Unmoved? it’s gone now—and why are you so unmoved? That is not my fancy, Edith. It turns me cold to see you sitting at my side.


I am sorry, mother.


Sorry! You seem always sorry. But it is not for me!


Edith! we are going home soon; going back. You mean that I shall go home again?


Yes, mother, yes.


And what he said—what’s-his-name, I never could remember names—Major—that dreadful word, when we came away—it’s not true? Edith! it’s not that that is the matter with me.


For I nursed you!


Mother, can you hear me? Can you recollect the night before I married? I told you then that I forgave your part in it, and prayed God to forgive my own. I told you that time past was at an end between us. I say so now, again. Kiss me, mother.


Dombey, upon my soul, I am very much shocked to see you on such a melancholy occasion. My poor aunt! She was a devilish lively woman.


Very much so.


And made up, really young, you know, considering. I am sure, on the day of your marriage, I thought she was good for another twenty years. In point of fact, I said so to a man at Brooks’s—little Billy Joper—you know him, no doubt—man with a glass in his eye?


In reference to the obsequies, whether there is any suggestion—


Well, upon my life, I really don’t know. There’s a Mausoleum down at my place, in the park, but I’m afraid it’s in bad repair, and, in point of fact, in a devil of a state. But for being a little out at elbows, I should have had it put to rights; but I believe the people come and make pic-nic parties there inside the iron railings. There’s an uncommon good church in the village, pure specimen of the Anglo-Norman style, and admirably well sketched too by Lady Jane Finchbury—woman with tight stays—but they’ve spoilt it with whitewash, I understand, and it’s a long journey.


Perhaps Brighton itself,


Upon my honour, Dombey, I don’t think we could do better. It’s on the spot, you see, and a very cheerful place.


And when. And when, would it be convenient?


I shall make a point, of pledging myself for any day you think best. I shall have great pleasure (melancholy pleasure, of course) in following my poor aunt to the confines of the—in point of fact, to the grave,


Would Monday do for leaving town?


Monday would suit me to perfection. I’m really excessively sorry, Dombey, that you should have so much trouble about it;


Not at all.


Tom Johnson. Man with cork leg, from White’s. What, are you here, Tommy? Foley on a blood mare. The Smalder girls


What, scapegrace! Have you left your situation and come to me?


Oh if you please, Sir, you said, you know, when I come here last—


I said. I said, what did I say?


If you please, Sir, you didn’t say nothing at all, Sir,


You’ll come to an evil end, my vagabond friend, I foresee. There’s ruin in store for you.


Oh if you please, don’t, Sir! I’m sure, Sir, I only want to work for you, Sir, and to wait upon you, Sir, and to do faithful whatever I’m bid, Sir.


You had better do faithfully whatever you are bid, if you have anything to do with me.


Yes, I know that, Sir. I’m sure of that, Sir. If you’ll only be so good as try me, Sir! And if ever you find me out, Sir, doing anything against your wishes, I give you leave to kill me.


You dog! That’s nothing to what I’d do to you, if you tried to deceive me.


Yes, Sir. I’m sure you would be down upon me dreadful, Sir. I wouldn’t attempt for to go and do it, Sir, not if I was bribed with golden guineas.


So you have left your old service, and come here to ask me to take you into mine, eh?


Yes, if you please, Sir,


Well! You know me, boy?


Please, Sir, yes, Sir,


Take care, then! Halloa! You have been—shut that door. You have been used to eaves-dropping. Do you know what that means?


Listening, Sir?


And watching, and so forth.


I wouldn’t do such a thing here, Sir, upon my word and honour, I wouldn’t, Sir, I wish I may die if I would, Sir, for anything that could be promised to me. I should consider it is as much as all the world was worth, to offer to do such a thing, unless I was ordered, Sir.


You had better not You have been used, too, to babbling and tattling, Beware of that here, or you’re a lost rascal,


I never thought, to see you here, I’m sure. This is an extraordinary day in my calendar. No occasion is very special to a man like you, who may do anything; but to a man like me, the case is widely different.


You have a tasteful place here, Carker,


You can afford to say so. Thank you.


Indeed. Indeed, anyone might say so. As far as it goes, it is a very commodious and well-arranged place—quite elegant.


As far as it goes, truly. It wants that qualification. Well! we have said enough about it; and though you can afford to praise it, I thank you nonetheless. Will you walk in? But perhaps to you, who are so far removed, it really does look better than it is. Just as monarchs imagine attractions in the lives of beggars. Just as monarchs imagine attractions in the lives of beggars.


Allow me, to ask how Mrs Dombey is?


Mrs Dombey is quite well. You remind me, Carker, of some conversation that I wish to have with you.


Robin, you can leave us. You don’t remember that boy, of course?


No,


Not likely that a man like you would. Hardly possible. But he is one of that family from whom you took a nurse. Perhaps you may remember having generously charged yourself with his education?


Is it that boy? He does little credit to his education, I believe.


Why, he is a young rip, I am afraid. He bears that character. But the truth is, I took him into my service because, being able to get no other employment, he conceived (had been taught at home, I daresay) that he had some sort of claim upon you, and was constantly trying to dog your heels with his petition. And although my defined and recognised connexion with your affairs is merely of a business character, still I have that spontaneous interest in everything belonging to you, that—


Carker. I am sensible that you do not limit your—


Service,


No; I prefer to say your regard, to our mere business relations. Your consideration for my feelings, hopes, and disappointments, in the little instance you have just now mentioned, is an example in point. I am obliged to you, Carker. Your allusion to it is opportune, for it prepares the way to what I was beginning to say to you, and reminds me that that involves no absolutely new relations between us, although it may involve more personal confidence on my part than I have hitherto—


Distinguished me with. Distinguished me with, I will not say to you how honoured I am; for a man like you well knows how much honour he has in his power to bestow at pleasure.


Mrs Dombey and myself, are not quite agreed upon some points. We do not appear to understand each other yet. Mrs Dombey has something to learn.


Mrs Dombey is distinguished by many rare attractions; and has been accustomed, no doubt, to receive much adulation. But where there is affection, duty, and respect, any little mistakes engendered by such causes are soon set right.


Mrs Dombey and myself, had some discussion, before Mrs Skewton’s death, upon the causes of my dissatisfaction; of which you will have formed a general understanding from having been a witness of what passed between Mrs Dombey and myself on the evening when you were at our—at my house.


When I so much regretted being present. Proud as a man in my position necessarily must be of your familiar notice—though I give you no credit for it; you may do anything you please without losing caste—and honoured as I was by an early presentation to Mrs Dombey, before she was made eminent by bearing your name, I almost regretted that night, I assure you, that I had been the object of such especial good fortune.


Indeed! And why, Carker?


I fear, that Mrs Dombey, never very much disposed to regard me with favourable interest—one in my position could not expect that, from a lady naturally proud, and whose pride becomes her so well—may not easily forgive my innocent part in that conversation. Your displeasure is no light matter, you must remember; and to be visited with it before a third party—


Carker. I presume that I am the first consideration?


Oh! Can there be a doubt about it?


Mrs Dombey becomes a secondary consideration, when we are both in question, I imagine. Is that so?


Is it so? Do you know better than anyone, that you have no need to ask?


Then I hope, Carker, that your regret in the acquisition of Mrs Dombey’s displeasure, may be almost counterbalanced by your satisfaction in retaining my confidence and good opinion.


I have the misfortune, I find, to have incurred that displeasure. Mrs Dombey has expressed it to you?


Mrs Dombey has expressed various opinions, in which I do not participate, and which I am not inclined to discuss, or to recall. I made Mrs Dombey acquainted, some time since, as I have already told you, with certain points of domestic deference and submission on which I felt it necessary to insist. I failed to convince Mrs Dombey of the expediency of her immediately altering her conduct in those respects, with a view to her own peace and welfare, and my dignity; and I informed Mrs Dombey that if I should find it necessary to object or remonstrate again, I should express my opinion to her through yourself, my confidential agent. Now, Carker. I do not hesitate to say to you that I will carry my point. I am not to be trifled with. Mrs Dombey must understand that my will is law, and that I cannot allow of one exception to the whole rule of my life. You will have the goodness to undertake this charge, which, coming from me, is not unacceptable to you, I hope, whatever regret you may politely profess—for which I am obliged to you on behalf of Mrs Dombey; and you will have the goodness, I am persuaded, to discharge it as exactly as any other commission.


You know, that you have only to command me.


I know, that I have only to command you. It is necessary that I should proceed in this. Mrs Dombey is a lady undoubtedly highly qualified, in many respects, to—


To do credit even to your choice,


Yes; if you please to adopt that form of words, and at present I do not conceive that Mrs Dombey does that credit to it, to which it is entitled. There is a principle of opposition in Mrs Dombey that must be eradicated; that must be overcome: Mrs Dombey does not appear to understand, that the idea of opposition to Me is monstrous and absurd.


We, in the City, know you better,


You know me better. I hope so. Though, indeed, I am bound to do Mrs Dombey the justice of saying, however inconsistent it may seem with her subsequent conduct (which remains unchanged), that on my expressing my disapprobation and determination to her, with some severity, on the occasion to which I have referred, my admonition appeared to produce a very powerful effect. I wish you to have the goodness, then, to inform Mrs Dombey, Carker, from me, that I must recall our former conversation to her remembrance, in some surprise that it has not yet had its effect. That I must insist upon her regulating her conduct by the injunctions laid upon her in that conversation. That I am not satisfied with her conduct. That I am greatly dissatisfied with it. And that I shall be under the very disagreeable necessity of making you the bearer of yet more unwelcome and explicit communications, if she has not the good sense and the proper feeling to adapt herself to my wishes, as the first Mrs Dombey did, and, I believe I may add, as any other lady in her place would.


The first Mrs Dombey lived very happily,


The first Mrs Dombey had great good sense, and very correct feeling.


Is Miss Dombey like her mother, do you think? I have approached a painful subject. Pray forgive me. I forget these chains of association in the interest I have. Pray forgive me.


Carker, there is no occasion for apology. You mistake. The association is with the matter in hand, and not with any recollection, as you suppose. I do not approve of Mrs Dombey’s behaviour towards my daughter.


Pardon me. I don’t quite understand.


Understand then, that you may make that—that you will make that, if you please—matter of direct objection from me to Mrs Dombey. You will please to tell her that her show of devotion for my daughter is disagreeable to me. It is likely to be noticed. It is likely to induce people to contrast Mrs Dombey in her relation towards my daughter, with Mrs Dombey in her relation towards myself. You will have the goodness to let Mrs Dombey know, plainly, that I object to it; and that I expect her to defer, immediately, to my objection. Mrs Dombey may be in earnest, or she may be pursuing a whim, or she may be opposing me; but I object to it in any case, and in every case. If Mrs Dombey is in earnest, so much the less reluctant should she be to desist; for she will not serve my daughter by any such display. If my wife has any superfluous gentleness, and duty over and above her proper submission to me, she may bestow them where she pleases, perhaps; but I will have submission first!—Carker, you will have the goodness not to omit or slur this point, but to consider it a very important part of your instructions.


I beg your pardon, but let me understand. Mrs Dombey is aware of the probability of your making me the organ of your displeasure?


Yes. I have said so.


Yes, but why?


Why! Because I told her.


Ay. But why did you tell her? You see, if I perfectly understand what is in your mind, I am so much more likely to be useful, and to have the happiness of being effectually employed. I think I do understand. I have not the honour of Mrs Dombey’s good opinion. In my position, I have no reason to expect it; but I take the fact to be, that I have not got it?


Possibly not,


Consequently, your making the communications to Mrs Dombey through me, is sure to be particularly unpalatable to that lady?


It appears to me, that Mrs Dombey’s views upon the subject form no part of it as it presents itself to you and me, Carker. But it may be so.


And—pardon me—do I misconceive you, when I think you descry in this, a likely means of humbling Mrs Dombey’s pride—I use the word as expressive of a quality which, kept within due bounds, adorns and graces a lady so distinguished for her beauty and accomplishments—and, not to say of punishing her, but of reducing her to the submission you so naturally and justly require?


I am not accustomed, Carker, as you know, to give such close reasons for any course of conduct I think proper to adopt, but I will gainsay nothing of this. If you have any objection to found upon it, that is indeed another thing, and the mere statement that you have one will be sufficient. But I have not supposed, I confess, that any confidence I could entrust to you, would be likely to degrade you—


Oh! I degraded! In your service!


—or to place you, in a false position.


I in a false position! I shall be proud—delighted—to execute your trust. I could have wished, I own, to have given the lady at whose feet I would lay my humble duty and devotion—for is she not your wife!—no new cause of dislike; but a wish from you is, of course, paramount to every other consideration on earth. Besides, when Mrs Dombey is converted from these little errors of judgment, incidental, I would presume to say, to the novelty of her situation, I shall hope that she will perceive in the slight part I take, only a grain—my removed and different sphere gives room for little more—of the respect for you, and sacrifice of all considerations to you, of which it will be her pleasure and privilege to garner up a great store every day.


Certainly, no doubt.


There is nothing more,


Nothing,


but this. You will be good enough to observe, Carker, that no message to Mrs Dombey with which you are or may be charged, admits of reply. You will be good enough to bring me no reply. Mrs Dombey is informed that it does not become me to temporise or treat upon any matter that is at issue between us, and that what I say is final.


I have given good cause of offence to Mrs Dombey now, if she knew it!


Mrs Dombey’s hour for receiving visitors,


He had never thought Edith half so beautiful before. Much as he admired the graces of her face and form, and freshly as they dwelt within his sensual remembrance, he had never thought her half so beautiful. He was very sorry, he was deeply grieved; he couldn’t say with what unwillingness he came to prepare her for the intelligence of a very slight accident. He entreated Mrs Dombey to compose herself. Upon his sacred word of honour, there was no cause of alarm. But Mr Dombey—


Mama, if I might venture to go!


I am directed to request, that the new housekeeper—Mrs Pipchin, I think, is the name— —may be informed that Mr Dombey wishes to have his bed prepared in his own apartments downstairs, as he prefers those rooms to any other. I shall return to Mr Dombey almost immediately. That every possible attention has been paid to his comfort, and that he is the object of every possible solicitude, I need not assure you, Madam. Let me again say, there is no cause for the least alarm. Even you may be quite at ease, believe me.


And nice company he is, Miss Floy. Oh, he’s a precious piece of goods! If ever he wants a character don’t let him come to me whatever he does, that’s all I tell him.


Dear Susan, don’t!


Oh, it’s very well to say ‘don’t’ Miss Floy, but raly begging your pardon we’re coming to such passes that it turns all the blood in a person’s body into pins and needles, with their pints all ways. Don’t mistake me, Miss Floy, I don’t mean nothing again your ma-in-law who has always treated me as a lady should though she is rather high I must say not that I have any right to object to that particular, but when we come to Mrs Pipchinses and having them put over us and keeping guard at your Pa’s door like crocodiles (only make us thankful that they lay no eggs!) we are a growing too outrageous!


Papa thinks well of Mrs Pipchin, Susan, and has a right to choose his housekeeper, you know. Pray don’t!


Well Miss Floy, when you say don’t, I never do I hope but Mrs Pipchin acts like early gooseberries upon me Miss, and nothing less.


Susan, it is very late. I shall want nothing more tonight.


Ah, Miss Floy! I’m sure I often wish for them old times when I sat up with you hours later than this and fell asleep through being tired out when you was as broad awake as spectacles, but you’ve ma’s-in-law to come and sit with you now Miss Floy and I’m thankful for it I’m sure. I’ve not a word to say against ’em.


I shall not forget who was my old companion when I had none, Susan, never!


Now my dear Miss Floy, let me go downstairs again and see how your Pa is, I know you’re wretched about him, do let me go downstairs again and knock at his door my own self.


No, go to bed. We shall hear more in the morning. I will inquire myself in the morning. Mama has been down, I daresay; or is there now, perhaps. Good-night!


Mama! what is the matter? Mama! Dear Mama! what is the matter?


I have not been well. I have had bad dreams, my love.


And not yet been to bed, Mama?


No. Half-waking dreams. But what does my bird do here? What does my bird do here?


I have been uneasy, Mama, in not seeing you tonight, and in not knowing how Papa was; and I—


Is it late?


Very late. Near day.


Near day!


Dear Mama, what have you done to your hand?


Nothing, nothing. A blow. My Florence!


Mama! Oh Mama, what can I do, what should I do, to make us happier? Is there anything?


Nothing,


Are you sure of that? Can it never be? If I speak now of what is in my thoughts, in spite of what we have agreed, you will not blame me, will you?


It is useless, useless. I have told you, dear, that I have had bad dreams. Nothing can change them, or prevent them coming back.


I do not understand,


I have dreamed of a pride that is all powerless for good, all powerful for evil; of a pride that has been galled and goaded, through many shameful years, and has never recoiled except upon itself; a pride that has debased its owner with the consciousness of deep humiliation, and never helped its owner boldly to resent it or avoid it, or to say, ‘This shall not be!’ a pride that, rightly guided, might have led perhaps to better things, but which, misdirected and perverted, like all else belonging to the same possessor, has been self-contempt, mere hardihood and ruin. I have dreamed, of such indifference and callousness, arising from this self-contempt; this wretched, inefficient, miserable pride; that it has gone on with listless steps even to the altar, yielding to the old, familiar, beckoning finger,—oh mother, oh mother!—while it spurned it; and willing to be hateful to itself for once and for all, rather than to be stung daily in some new form. Mean, poor thing! And I have dreamed, that in a first late effort to achieve a purpose, it has been trodden on, and trodden down by a base foot, but turns and looks upon him. I have dreamed that it is wounded, hunted, set upon by dogs, but that it stands at bay, and will not yield; no, that it cannot if it would; but that it is urged on to hate. Oh Florence! I think I have been nearly mad tonight! Don't leave me! be near me! I have no hope but in you! For you are weary, dearest, and unhappy, and should rest.


I am indeed unhappy, dear Mama, tonight. But you are weary and unhappy, too.


Not when you lie asleep so near me, sweet.


Be near me, Florence. I have no hope but in you!


I have often said I would, and now I will!


Come in! What do you want?


If you please, Sir, I wish to speak to you. I have been in your service, Sir, now twelve “year a waiting on Miss Floy my own young lady who couldn’t speak plain when I first come here and I was old in this house when Mrs Richards was new, I may not be Meethosalem, but I am not a child in arms. There never was a dearer or a blesseder young lady than is my young lady, Sir, and I ought to know a great deal better than some for I have seen her in her grief and I have seen her in her joy (there’s not been much of it) and I have seen her with her brother and I have seen her in her loneliness and some have never seen her, and I say to some and all—I do! that she’s the blessedest and dearest angel is Miss Floy that ever drew the breath of life, the more that I was torn to pieces Sir the more I’d say it though I may not be a Fox’s Martyr. No one could be anything but true and faithful to Miss Floy, Sir, and I take no merit for my service of twelve year, for I love her—yes, I say to some and all I do! but true and faithful service gives me right to speak I hope, and speak I must and will now, right or wrong.


What do you mean, woman? How do you dare?


What I mean, Sir, is to speak respectful and without offence, but out, and how I dare I know not but I do! Oh! you don’t know my young lady Sir you don’t indeed, you’d never know so little of her, if you did.


Woman, leave the room.


Begging your pardon, not even if I am to leave the situation, Sir, in which I have been so many years and seen so much—although I hope you’d never have the heart to send me from Miss Floy for such a cause—will I go now till I have said the rest, I may not be a Indian widow Sir and I am not and I would not so become but if I once made up my mind to burn myself alive, I’d do it! And I’ve made my mind up to go on. There ain’t a person in your service, Sir, that has always stood more in awe of you than me and you may think how true it is when I make so bold as say that I have hundreds and hundreds of times thought of speaking to you and never been able to make my mind up to it till last night, but last night decided of me. I have seen. Miss Floy strive and strive when nothing but a child so sweet and patient that the best of women might have copied from her, I’ve seen her sitting nights together half the night through to help her delicate brother with his learning, I’ve seen her helping him and watching him at other times—some well know when—I’ve seen her, with no encouragement and no help, grow up to be a lady, thank God! that is the grace and pride of every company she goes in, and I’ve always seen her cruelly neglected and keenly feeling of it—I say to some and all, I have!—and never said one word, but ordering one’s self lowly and reverently towards one’s betters, is not to be a worshipper of graven images, and I will and must speak!


Is there anybody there? where are the men? where are the women? Is there no one there?


I left my dear young lady out of bed late last night, and I knew why, for you was ill Sir and she didn’t know how ill and that was enough to make her wretched as I saw it did. I may not be a Peacock; but I have my eyes—and I sat up a little in my own room thinking she might be lonesome and might want me, and I saw her steal downstairs and come to this door as if it was a guilty thing to look at her own Pa, and then steal back again and go into them lonely drawing-rooms, a-crying so, that I could hardly bear to hear it. I can not bear to hear it. It’s not the first time I have heard it, not by many and many a time you don’t know your own daughter, Sir, you don’t know what you’re doing, Sir, I say to some and all, that it’s a sinful shame!


Why, hoity toity! What’s this, indeed?


What’s this? What’s this, Madam? You who are at the head of this household, and bound to keep it in order, have reason to inquire. Do you know this woman?


I know very little good of her, Sir. How dare you come here, you hussy? Go along with you!


Do you call it managing this establishment, Madam, to leave a person like this at liberty to come and talk to me! A gentleman—in his own house—in his own room—assailed with the impertinences of women-servants!


Well, Sir. I exceedingly deplore it; nothing can be more irregular; nothing can be more out of all bounds and reason; but I regret to say, Sir, that this young woman is quite beyond control. She has been spoiled by Miss Dombey, and is amenable to nobody. You know you’re not. For shame, you hussy! Go along with you!


If you find people in my service who are not to be controlled, Mrs Pipchin, you know what to do with them, I presume. You know what you are here for? Take her away!


Sir, I know what to do, and of course shall do it. Susan Nipper, a month’s warning from this hour.


Oh indeed!


Yes, and don’t smile at me, you minx, or I’ll know the reason why! Go along with you this minute!


I intend to go this minute, you may rely upon it. I have been in this house waiting on my young lady a dozen year and I won’t stop in it one hour under notice from a person owning to the name of Pipchin trust me, Mrs P.


A good riddance of bad rubbish! Get along with you, or I’ll have you carried out!


My comfort is, that I have told a piece of truth this day which ought to have been told long before and can’t be told too often or too plain and that no amount of Pipchinses—I hope the number of ’em mayn’t be great


Go along with you!


can unsay what I have said, though they gave a whole year full of warnings beginning at ten o’clock in the forenoon and never leaving off till twelve at night and died of the exhaustion which would be a Jubilee!


Does that bold-faced slut, intend to take her warning, or does she not?


the person described did not inhabit that part of the house, but that her name was Pipchin, and she was to be found in the housekeeper’s room.


You saucy baggage! Go along with you this minute. Pack up your things directly! How dare you talk in this way to a gentle-woman who has seen better days?


she pitied the better days that had seen Mrs Pipchin; and that for her part she considered the worst days in the year to be about that lady’s mark, except that they were much too good for her. But you needn’t trouble yourself to make a noise at my door, nor to contaminate the key-hole with your eye, I’m packing up and going you may take your affidavit.


Susan! Going to leave me! You!


Oh for goodness gracious sake, Miss Floy, don’t speak a word to me or I shall demean myself before them Pi-i-pchinses, and I wouldn’t have ’em see me cry Miss Floy for worlds!


Susan! My dear girl, my old friend! What shall I do without you! Can you bear to go away so?


No-n-o-o, my darling dear Miss Floy, I can’t indeed. But it can’t be helped, I’ve done my duty, Miss, I have indeed. It’s no fault of mine. I am quite resigned. I couldn’t stay my month or I could never leave you then my darling and I must at last as well as at first, don’t speak to me Miss Floy, for though I’m pretty firm I’m not a marble doorpost, my own dear.


What is it? Why is it? Won’t you tell me?


No-n-no, my darling. Don’t ask me, for I mustn’t, and whatever you do don’t put in a word for me to stop, for it couldn’t be and you’d only wrong yourself, and so God bless you my own precious and forgive me any harm I have done, or any temper I have showed in all these many years! My darling there’s a many that may come to serve you and be glad to serve you and who’ll serve you well and true, but there can’t be one who’ll serve you so affectionate as me or love you half as dearly, that’s my comfort. Go-ood-bye, sweet Miss Floy!


Where will you go, Susan?


I’ve got a brother down in the country Miss—a farmer in Essex, that keeps ever so many co-o-ows and pigs and I shall go down there by the coach and sto-op with him, and don’t mind me, for I’ve got money in the Savings Banks my dear, and needn’t take another service just yet, which I couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t do, my heart’s own mistress!


Now, here’s the cab, and here’s the boxes, get along with you, do! I beg your pardon, Ma’am, but Mr Dombey’s orders are imperative. There’s your money, and the sooner this house sees your back the better.


I beg your pardon, Miss, I’m sure, but Mr Toots is in the drawing-room, and sends his compliments, and begs to know how Diogenes and Master is.


Oh, how de do, Miss Dombey. God bless my soul!


Dear Mr Toots, you are so friendly to me, and so honest, that I am sure I may ask a favour of you.


Miss Dombey, if you’ll only name one, you’ll—you’ll give me an appetite. To which. To which. I have long been a stranger.


Susan, who is an old friend of mine, the oldest friend I have, is about to leave here suddenly, and quite alone, poor girl. She is going home, a little way into the country. Might I ask you to take care of her until she is in the coach?


Miss Dombey, you really do me an honour and a kindness. This proof of your confidence, after the manner in which I was Beast enough to conduct myself at Brighton—


Yes, no—don’t think of that. Then would you have the kindness to—to go? and to be ready to meet her when she comes out? Thank you a thousand times! You ease my mind so much. She doesn’t seem so desolate. You cannot think how grateful I feel to you, or what a good friend I am sure you are!


Upon my soul and body! I feel for you. Upon my word and honour I think you can hardly know your own feelings better than I imagine them. I can conceive nothing more dreadful than to have to leave Miss Dombey. I say, now, don’t! at least I mean now do, you know!


Do what, Mr Toots!


Why, come home to my place, and have some dinner before you start. My cook’s a most respectable woman—one of the most motherly people I ever saw—and she’ll be delighted to make you comfortable. Her son, was educated in the Bluecoat School, and blown up in a powder-mill.


I say, Susan! Miss Dombey, you know—


Yes, Sir.


Do you think she could—you know—eh?


I beg your pardon, Mr Toots, but I don’t hear you.


Do you think she could be brought, you know—not exactly at once, but in time—in a long time—to—to love me, you know? There!


Oh dear no! I should say, never. Never!


Thank’ee! It’s of no consequence. Good-night. It’s of no consequence, thank’ee!


How is your patient, Sir?


He is better. He is doing very well. I have left him for the night. Madam! May I beg the favour of a minute’s audience?


It is an unseasonable time, Sir, and I am fatigued. Is your business urgent?


It is very urgent. As I am so fortunate as to have met you, let me press my petition.


Where is Miss Dombey?


In the morning room, Ma’am.


Show the way there!


I beg your pardon! Madam! Mrs Dombey! May I be permitted to entreat that Miss Dombey is not present? I would spare Miss Dombey, the knowledge of what I have to say. At least, Madam, I would leave it to you to decide whether she shall know of it or not. I owe that to you. It is my bounden duty to you. After our former interview, it would be monstrous in me if I did otherwise.


Some other room. Before I hear you, Sir. I wish you to hear me.


To be addressed by Mrs Dombey, even in accents of unmerited reproach, is an honour I so greatly esteem, that although I were not her servant in all things, I should defer to such a wish, most readily.


If you are charged by the man whom you have just now left, Sir; with any message to me, do not attempt to deliver it, for I will not receive it. I need scarcely ask you if you are come on such an errand. I have expected you some time.


It is my misfortune, to be here, wholly against my will, for such a purpose. Allow me to say that I am here for two purposes. That is one.


That one, Sir, is ended. Or, if you return to it—


Can Mrs Dombey believe, that I would return to it in the face of her prohibition? Is it possible that Mrs Dombey, having no regard to my unfortunate position, is so determined to consider me inseparable from my instructor as to do me great and wilful injustice?


Sir. Why do you present yourself to me, as you have done, and speak to me of love and duty to my husband, and pretend to think that I am happily married, and that I honour him? How dare you venture so to affront me, when you know—I do not know better, Sir: I have seen it in your every glance, and heard it in your every word—that in place of affection between us there is aversion and contempt, and that I despise him hardly less than I despise myself for being his! Injustice! If I had done justice to the torment you have made me feel, and to my sense of the insult you have put upon me, I should have slain you!


Madam. I know, and knew before today, that I have found no favour with you; and I knew why. Yes. I knew why. You have spoken so openly to me; I am so relieved by the possession of your confidence—


Confidence!


—that I will make no pretence of concealment. I did see from the first, that there was no affection on your part for Mr Dombey—how could it possibly exist between such different subjects? And I have seen, since, that stronger feelings than indifference have been engendered in your breast—how could that possibly be otherwise, either, circumstanced as you have been? But was it for me to presume to avow this knowledge to you in so many words?


Was it for you, Sir, to feign that other belief, and audaciously to thrust it on me day by day?


Madam, it was. If I had done less, if I had done anything but that, I should not be speaking to you thus; and I foresaw—who could better foresee, for who has had greater experience of Mr Dombey than myself?—that unless your character should prove to be as yielding and obedient as that of his first submissive lady, which I did not believe— I say, which I did not believe,—the time was likely to come, when such an understanding as we have now arrived at, would be serviceable.


Serviceable to whom, Sir?


To you. I will not add to myself, as warning me to refrain even from that limited commendation of Mr Dombey, in which I can honestly indulge, in order that I may not have the misfortune of saying anything distasteful to one whose aversion and contempt, are so keen.


Is it honest in you, Sir, to confess to your ‘limited commendation,’ and to speak in that tone of disparagement, even of him: being his chief counsellor and flatterer!


Counsellor,—yes. Flatterer,—no. A little reservation I fear I must confess to. But our interest and convenience commonly oblige many of us to make professions that we cannot feel. We have partnerships of interest and convenience, friendships of interest and convenience, dealings of interest and convenience, marriages of interest and convenience, every day. Madam, why should I hesitate now, being altogether devoted to your service, to speak plainly? It was natural that a lady, endowed as you are, should think it feasible to change her husband’s character in some respects, and mould him to a better form.


It was not natural to me, Sir. I had never any expectation or intention of that kind.