The wooden Midshipman at the Instrument-maker's door, like the
hard-hearted little Midshipman he was, remained supremely indifferent to
Walter's going away, even when the very last day of his sojourn in the
back parlour was on the decline. With his quadrant at his round black
knob of an eye, and his figure in its old attitude of indomitable
alacrity, the Midshipman displayed his elfin small-clothes to the best
advantage, and, absorbed in scientific pursuits, had no sympathy with
worldly concerns. He was so far the creature of circumstances, that a
dry day covered him with dust, and a misty day peppered him with little
bits of soot, and a wet day brightened up his tarnished uniform for
the moment, and a very hot day blistered him; but otherwise he was a
callous, obdurate, conceited Midshipman, intent on his own discoveries,
and caring as little for what went on about him, terrestrially, as
Archimedes at the taking of Syracuse.

Such a Midshipman he seemed to be, at least, in the then position of
domestic affairs. Walter eyed him kindly many a time in passing in and
out; and poor old Sol, when Walter was not there, would come and lean
against the doorpost, resting his weary wig as near the shoe-buckles
of the guardian genius of his trade and shop as he could. But no fierce
idol with a mouth from ear to ear, and a murderous visage made of
parrot's feathers, was ever more indifferent to the appeals of its
savage votaries, than was the Midshipman to these marks of attachment.

Walter's heart felt heavy as he looked round his old bedroom, up among
the parapets and chimney-pots, and thought that one more night already
darkening would close his acquaintance with it, perhaps for ever.
Dismantled of his little stock of books and pictures, it looked
coldly and reproachfully on him for his desertion, and had already a
foreshadowing upon it of its coming strangeness. 'A few hours more,'
thought Walter, 'and no dream I ever had here when I was a schoolboy
will be so little mine as this old room. The dream may come back in my
sleep, and I may return waking to this place, it may be: but the dream
at least will serve no other master, and the room may have a score, and
every one of them may change, neglect, misuse it.'

But his Uncle was not to be left alone in the little back parlour, where
he was then sitting by himself; for Captain Cuttle, considerate in his
roughness, stayed away against his will, purposely that they should have
some talk together unobserved: so Walter, newly returned home from his
last day's bustle, descended briskly, to bear him company.

'Uncle,' he said gaily, laying his hand upon the old man's shoulder,
'what shall I send you home from Barbados?'

'Hope, my dear Wally. Hope that we shall meet again, on this side of the
grave. Send me as much of that as you can.'

'So I will, Uncle: I have enough and to spare, and I'll not be chary of
it! And as to lively turtles, and limes for Captain Cuttle's punch, and
preserves for you on Sundays, and all that sort of thing, why I'll send
you ship-loads, Uncle: when I'm rich enough.'

Old Sol wiped his spectacles, and faintly smiled.

'That's right, Uncle!' cried Walter, merrily, and clapping him half a
dozen times more upon the shoulder. 'You cheer up me! I'll cheer up
you! We'll be as gay as larks to-morrow morning, Uncle, and we'll fly as
high! As to my anticipations, they are singing out of sight now.'

'Wally, my dear boy,' returned the old man, 'I'll do my best, I'll do my
best.'

'And your best, Uncle,' said Walter, with his pleasant laugh, 'is the
best best that I know. You'll not forget what you're to send me, Uncle?'

'No, Wally, no,' replied the old man; 'everything I hear about Miss
Dombey, now that she is left alone, poor lamb, I'll write. I fear it
won't be much though, Wally.'

'Why, I'll tell you what, Uncle,' said Walter, after a moment's
hesitation, 'I have just been up there.'

'Ay, ay, ay?' murmured the old man, raising his eyebrows, and his
spectacles with them.

'Not to see her,' said Walter, 'though I could have seen her, I daresay,
if I had asked, Mr Dombey being out of town: but to say a parting word
to Susan. I thought I might venture to do that, you know, under the
circumstances, and remembering when I saw Miss Dombey last.'

'Yes, my boy, yes,' replied his Uncle, rousing himself from a temporary
abstraction.

'So I saw her,' pursued Walter, 'Susan, I mean: and I told her I was
off and away to-morrow. And I said, Uncle, that you had always had an
interest in Miss Dombey since that night when she was here, and always
wished her well and happy, and always would be proud and glad to serve
her in the least: I thought I might say that, you know, under the
circumstances. Don't you think so?'

'Yes, my boy, yes,' replied his Uncle, in the tone as before.

'And I added,' pursued Walter, 'that if she--Susan, I mean--could ever
let you know, either through herself, or Mrs Richards, or anybody else
who might be coming this way, that Miss Dombey was well and happy, you
would take it very kindly, and would write so much to me, and I should
take it very kindly too. There! Upon my word, Uncle,' said Walter, 'I
scarcely slept all last night through thinking of doing this; and could
not make up my mind when I was out, whether to do it or not; and yet I
am sure it is the true feeling of my heart, and I should have been quite
miserable afterwards if I had not relieved it.'

His honest voice and manner corroborated what he said, and quite
established its ingenuousness.

'So, if you ever see her, Uncle,' said Walter, 'I mean Miss Dombey
now--and perhaps you may, who knows!--tell her how much I felt for her;
how much I used to think of her when I was here; how I spoke of her,
with the tears in my eyes, Uncle, on this last night before I went away.
Tell her that I said I never could forget her gentle manner, or her
beautiful face, or her sweet kind disposition that was better than all.
And as I didn't take them from a woman's feet, or a young lady's: only
a little innocent child's,' said Walter: 'tell her, if you don't mind,
Uncle, that I kept those shoes--she'll remember how often they fell off,
that night--and took them away with me as a remembrance!'

They were at that very moment going out at the door in one of Walter's
trunks. A porter carrying off his baggage on a truck for shipment at the
docks on board the Son and Heir, had got possession of them; and wheeled
them away under the very eye of the insensible Midshipman before their
owner had well finished speaking.

But that ancient mariner might have been excused his insensibility to
the treasure as it rolled away. For, under his eye at the same moment,
accurately within his range of observation, coming full into the sphere
of his startled and intensely wide-awake look-out, were Florence and
Susan Nipper: Florence looking up into his face half timidly, and
receiving the whole shock of his wooden ogling!

More than this, they passed into the shop, and passed in at the parlour
door before they were observed by anybody but the Midshipman. And
Walter, having his back to the door, would have known nothing of their
apparition even then, but for seeing his Uncle spring out of his own
chair, and nearly tumble over another.

'Why, Uncle!' exclaimed Walter. 'What's the matter?'

Old Solomon replied, 'Miss Dombey!'

'Is it possible?' cried Walter, looking round and starting up in his
turn. 'Here!'

Why, It was so possible and so actual, that, while the words were on his
lips, Florence hurried past him; took Uncle Sol's snuff-coloured lapels,
one in each hand; kissed him on the cheek; and turning, gave her hand to
Walter with a simple truth and earnestness that was her own, and no one
else's in the world!

'Going away, Walter?' said Florence.

'Yes, Miss Dombey,' he replied, but not so hopefully as he endeavoured:
'I have a voyage before me.'

'And your Uncle,' said Florence, looking back at Solomon. 'He is sorry
you are going, I am sure. Ah! I see he is! Dear Walter, I am very sorry
too.'

'Goodness knows,' exclaimed Miss Nipper, 'there's a many we could spare
instead, if numbers is a object, Mrs Pipchin as a overseer would come
cheap at her weight in gold, and if a knowledge of black slavery should
be required, them Blimbers is the very people for the sitiwation.'

With that Miss Nipper untied her bonnet strings, and after looking
vacantly for some moments into a little black teapot that was set forth
with the usual homely service on the table, shook her head and a tin
canister, and began unasked to make the tea.

In the meantime Florence had turned again to the Instrument-maker, who
was as full of admiration as surprise. 'So grown!' said old Sol. 'So
improved! And yet not altered! Just the same!'

'Indeed!' said Florence.

'Ye--yes,' returned old Sol, rubbing his hands slowly, and considering
the matter half aloud, as something pensive in the bright eyes looking
at him arrested his attention. 'Yes, that expression was in the younger
face, too!'

'You remember me,' said Florence with a smile, 'and what a little
creature I was then?'

'My dear young lady,' returned the Instrument-maker, 'how could I forget
you, often as I have thought of you and heard of you since! At the very
moment, indeed, when you came in, Wally was talking about you to me, and
leaving messages for you, and--'

'Was he?' said Florence. 'Thank you, Walter! Oh thank you, Walter! I was
afraid you might be going away and hardly thinking of me;' and again she
gave him her little hand so freely and so faithfully that Walter held it
for some moments in his own, and could not bear to let it go.

Yet Walter did not hold it as he might have held it once, nor did its
touch awaken those old day-dreams of his boyhood that had floated past
him sometimes even lately, and confused him with their indistinct and
broken shapes. The purity and innocence of her endearing manner, and
its perfect trustfulness, and the undisguised regard for him that lay
so deeply seated in her constant eyes, and glowed upon her fair face
through the smile that shaded--for alas! it was a smile too sad to
brighten--it, were not of their romantic race. They brought back to his
thoughts the early death-bed he had seen her tending, and the love the
child had borne her; and on the wings of such remembrances she seemed to
rise up, far above his idle fancies, into clearer and serener air.

'I--I am afraid I must call you Walter's Uncle, Sir,' said Florence to
the old man, 'if you'll let me.'

'My dear young lady,' cried old Sol. 'Let you! Good gracious!'

'We always knew you by that name, and talked of you,' said Florence,
glancing round, and sighing gently. 'The nice old parlour! Just the
same! How well I recollect it!'

Old Sol looked first at her, then at his nephew, and then rubbed his
hands, and rubbed his spectacles, and said below his breath, 'Ah! time,
time, time!'

There was a short silence; during which Susan Nipper skilfully impounded
two extra cups and saucers from the cupboard, and awaited the drawing of
the tea with a thoughtful air.

'I want to tell Walter's Uncle,' said Florence, laying her hand timidly
upon the old man's as it rested on the table, to bespeak his attention,
'something that I am anxious about. He is going to be left alone, and
if he will allow me--not to take Walter's place, for that I couldn't
do, but to be his true friend and help him if I ever can while Walter
is away, I shall be very much obliged to him indeed. Will you? May I,
Walter's Uncle?'

The Instrument-maker, without speaking, put her hand to his lips,
and Susan Nipper, leaning back with her arms crossed, in the chair of
presidency into which she had voted herself, bit one end of her bonnet
strings, and heaved a gentle sigh as she looked up at the skylight.

'You will let me come to see you,' said Florence, 'when I can; and you
will tell me everything about yourself and Walter; and you will have no
secrets from Susan when she comes and I do not, but will confide in us,
and trust us, and rely upon us. And you'll try to let us be a comfort to
you? Will you, Walter's Uncle?'

The sweet face looking into his, the gentle pleading eyes, the soft
voice, and the light touch on his arm made the more winning by a child's
respect and honour for his age, that gave to all an air of graceful
doubt and modest hesitation--these, and her natural earnestness, so
overcame the poor old Instrument-maker, that he only answered:

'Wally! say a word for me, my dear. I'm very grateful.'

'No, Walter,' returned Florence with her quiet smile. 'Say nothing for
him, if you please. I understand him very well, and we must learn to
talk together without you, dear Walter.'

The regretful tone in which she said these latter words, touched Walter
more than all the rest.

'Miss Florence,' he replied, with an effort to recover the cheerful
manner he had preserved while talking with his Uncle, 'I know no more
than my Uncle, what to say in acknowledgment of such kindness, I am
sure. But what could I say, after all, if I had the power of talking for
an hour, except that it is like you?'

Susan Nipper began upon a new part of her bonnet string, and nodded at
the skylight, in approval of the sentiment expressed.

'Oh! but, Walter,' said Florence, 'there is something that I wish to say
to you before you go away, and you must call me Florence, if you please,
and not speak like a stranger.'

'Like a stranger!' returned Walter, 'No. I couldn't speak so. I am sure,
at least, I couldn't feel like one.'

'Ay, but that is not enough, and is not what I mean. For, Walter,' added
Florence, bursting into tears, 'he liked you very much, and said before
he died that he was fond of you, and said "Remember Walter!" and if
you'll be a brother to me, Walter, now that he is gone and I have none
on earth, I'll be your sister all my life, and think of you like one
wherever we may be! This is what I wished to say, dear Walter, but I
cannot say it as I would, because my heart is full.'

And in its fulness and its sweet simplicity, she held out both her hands
to him. Walter taking them, stooped down and touched the tearful face
that neither shrunk nor turned away, nor reddened as he did so, but
looked up at him with confidence and truth. In that one moment, every
shadow of doubt or agitation passed away from Walter's soul. It seemed
to him that he responded to her innocent appeal, beside the dead child's
bed: and, in the solemn presence he had seen there, pledged himself to
cherish and protect her very image, in his banishment, with brotherly
regard; to garner up her simple faith, inviolate; and hold himself
degraded if he breathed upon it any thought that was not in her own
breast when she gave it to him.

Susan Nipper, who had bitten both her bonnet strings at once, and
imparted a great deal of private emotion to the skylight, during this
transaction, now changed the subject by inquiring who took milk and who
took sugar; and being enlightened on these points, poured out the tea.
They all four gathered socially about the little table, and took tea
under that young lady's active superintendence; and the presence of
Florence in the back parlour, brightened the Tartar frigate on the wall.

Half an hour ago Walter, for his life, would have hardly called her by
her name. But he could do so now when she entreated him. He could think
of her being there, without a lurking misgiving that it would have been
better if she had not come. He could calmly think how beautiful she was,
how full of promise, what a home some happy man would find in such a
heart one day. He could reflect upon his own place in that heart, with
pride; and with a brave determination, if not to deserve it--he still
thought that far above him--never to deserve it less.

Some fairy influence must surely have hovered round the hands of Susan
Nipper when she made the tea, engendering the tranquil air that reigned
in the back parlour during its discussion. Some counter-influence must
surely have hovered round the hands of Uncle Sol's chronometer, and
moved them faster than the Tartar frigate ever went before the wind. Be
this as it may, the visitors had a coach in waiting at a quiet corner
not far off; and the chronometer, on being incidentally referred to,
gave such a positive opinion that it had been waiting a long time, that
it was impossible to doubt the fact, especially when stated on such
unimpeachable authority. If Uncle Sol had been going to be hanged by his
own time, he never would have allowed that the chronometer was too fast,
by the least fraction of a second.

Florence at parting recapitulated to the old man all that she had said
before, and bound him to their compact. Uncle Sol attended her lovingly
to the legs of the wooden Midshipman, and there resigned her to Walter,
who was ready to escort her and Susan Nipper to the coach.

'Walter,' said Florence by the way, 'I have been afraid to ask before
your Uncle. Do you think you will be absent very long?'

'Indeed,' said Walter, 'I don't know. I fear so. Mr Dombey signified as
much, I thought, when he appointed me.'

'Is it a favour, Walter?' inquired Florence, after a moment's
hesitation, and looking anxiously in his face.

'The appointment?' returned Walter.

'Yes.'

Walter would have given anything to have answered in the affirmative,
but his face answered before his lips could, and Florence was too
attentive to it not to understand its reply.

'I am afraid you have scarcely been a favourite with Papa,' she said,
timidly.

'There is no reason,' replied Walter, smiling, 'why I should be.'

'No reason, Walter!'

'There was no reason,' said Walter, understanding what she meant. 'There
are many people employed in the House. Between Mr Dombey and a young man
like me, there's a wide space of separation. If I do my duty, I do what
I ought, and do no more than all the rest.'

Had Florence any misgiving of which she was hardly conscious: any
misgiving that had sprung into an indistinct and undefined existence
since that recent night when she had gone down to her father's room:
that Walter's accidental interest in her, and early knowledge of her,
might have involved him in that powerful displeasure and dislike? Had
Walter any such idea, or any sudden thought that it was in her mind at
that moment? Neither of them hinted at it. Neither of them spoke at all,
for some short time. Susan, walking on the other side of Walter, eyed
them both sharply; and certainly Miss Nipper's thoughts travelled in
that direction, and very confidently too.

'You may come back very soon,' said Florence, 'perhaps, Walter.'

'I may come back,' said Walter, 'an old man, and find you an old lady.
But I hope for better things.'

'Papa,' said Florence, after a moment, 'will--will recover from his
grief, and--speak more freely to me one day, perhaps; and if he should,
I will tell him how much I wish to see you back again, and ask him to
recall you for my sake.'

There was a touching modulation in these words about her father, that
Walter understood too well.

The coach being close at hand, he would have left her without speaking,
for now he felt what parting was; but Florence held his hand when she
was seated, and then he found there was a little packet in her own.

'Walter,' she said, looking full upon him with her affectionate eyes,
'like you, I hope for better things. I will pray for them, and believe
that they will arrive. I made this little gift for Paul. Pray take it
with my love, and do not look at it until you are gone away. And now,
God bless you, Walter! never forget me. You are my brother, dear!'

He was glad that Susan Nipper came between them, or he might have left
her with a sorrowful remembrance of him. He was glad too that she
did not look out of the coach again, but waved the little hand to him
instead, as long as he could see it.

In spite of her request, he could not help opening the packet that night
when he went to bed. It was a little purse: and there was was money in
it.

Bright rose the sun next morning, from his absence in strange countries
and up rose Walter with it to receive the Captain, who was already at
the door: having turned out earlier than was necessary, in order to
get under weigh while Mrs MacStinger was still slumbering. The Captain
pretended to be in tip-top spirits, and brought a very smoky tongue in
one of the pockets of the broad blue coat for breakfast.

'And, Wal'r,' said the Captain, when they took their seats at table, if
your Uncle's the man I think him, he'll bring out the last bottle of the
Madeira on the present occasion.'

'No, no, Ned,' returned the old man. 'No! That shall be opened when
Walter comes home again.'

'Well said!' cried the Captain. 'Hear him!'

'There it lies,' said Sol Gills, 'down in the little cellar, covered
with dirt and cobwebs. There may be dirt and cobwebs over you and me
perhaps, Ned, before it sees the light.'

'Hear him!' cried the Captain. 'Good morality! Wal'r, my lad. Train up
a fig-tree in the way it should go, and when you are old sit under the
shade on it. Overhaul the--Well,' said the Captain on second thoughts,
'I ain't quite certain where that's to be found, but when found, make a
note of. Sol Gills, heave ahead again!'

'But there or somewhere, it shall lie, Ned, until Wally comes back to
claim it,' said the old man. 'That's all I meant to say.'

'And well said too,' returned the Captain; 'and if we three don't crack
that bottle in company, I'll give you two leave to.'

Notwithstanding the Captain's excessive joviality, he made but a poor
hand at the smoky tongue, though he tried very hard, when anybody looked
at him, to appear as if he were eating with a vast appetite. He was
terribly afraid, likewise, of being left alone with either Uncle or
nephew; appearing to consider that his only chance of safety as to
keeping up appearances, was in there being always three together.
This terror on the part of the Captain, reduced him to such ingenious
evasions as running to the door, when Solomon went to put his coat on,
under pretence of having seen an extraordinary hackney-coach pass: and
darting out into the road when Walter went upstairs to take leave of the
lodgers, on a feint of smelling fire in a neighbouring chimney. These
artifices Captain Cuttle deemed inscrutable by any uninspired observer.

Walter was coming down from his parting expedition upstairs, and was
crossing the shop to go back to the little parlour, when he saw a faded
face he knew, looking in at the door, and darted towards it.

'Mr Carker!' cried Walter, pressing the hand of John Carker the Junior.
'Pray come in! This is kind of you, to be here so early to say good-bye
to me. You knew how glad it would make me to shake hands with you, once,
before going away. I cannot say how glad I am to have this opportunity.
Pray come in.'

'It is not likely that we may ever meet again, Walter,' returned
the other, gently resisting his invitation, 'and I am glad of this
opportunity too. I may venture to speak to you, and to take you by the
hand, on the eve of separation. I shall not have to resist your frank
approaches, Walter, any more.'

There was a melancholy in his smile as he said it, that showed he had
found some company and friendship for his thoughts even in that.

'Ah, Mr Carker!' returned Walter. 'Why did you resist them? You could
have done me nothing but good, I am very sure.'

He shook his head. 'If there were any good,' he said, 'I could do on
this earth, I would do it, Walter, for you. The sight of you from day to
day, has been at once happiness and remorse to me. But the pleasure has
outweighed the pain. I know that, now, by knowing what I lose.'

'Come in, Mr Carker, and make acquaintance with my good old Uncle,'
urged Walter. 'I have often talked to him about you, and he will be glad
to tell you all he hears from me. I have not,' said Walter, noticing his
hesitation, and speaking with embarrassment himself: 'I have not told
him anything about our last conversation, Mr Carker; not even him,
believe me.

The grey Junior pressed his hand, and tears rose in his eyes.

'If I ever make acquaintance with him, Walter,' he returned, 'it will be
that I may hear tidings of you. Rely on my not wronging your forbearance
and consideration. It would be to wrong it, not to tell him all the
truth, before I sought a word of confidence from him. But I have no
friend or acquaintance except you: and even for your sake, am little
likely to make any.'

'I wish,' said Walter, 'you had suffered me to be your friend indeed. I
always wished it, Mr Carker, as you know; but never half so much as now,
when we are going to part.'

'It is enough replied the other, 'that you have been the friend of my
own breast, and that when I have avoided you most, my heart inclined the
most towards you, and was fullest of you. Walter, good-bye!'

'Good-bye, Mr Carker. Heaven be with you, Sir!' cried Walter with
emotion.

'If,' said the other, retaining his hand while he spoke; 'if when you
come back, you miss me from my old corner, and should hear from anyone
where I am lying, come and look upon my grave. Think that I might have
been as honest and as happy as you! And let me think, when I know time
is coming on, that some one like my former self may stand there, for a
moment, and remember me with pity and forgiveness! Walter, good-bye!'

His figure crept like a shadow down the bright, sun-lighted street, so
cheerful yet so solemn in the early summer morning; and slowly passed
away.

The relentless chronometer at last announced that Walter must turn his
back upon the wooden Midshipman: and away they went, himself, his Uncle,
and the Captain, in a hackney-coach to a wharf, where they were to take
steam-boat for some Reach down the river, the name of which, as the
Captain gave it out, was a hopeless mystery to the ears of landsmen.
Arrived at this Reach (whither the ship had repaired by last night's
tide), they were boarded by various excited watermen, and among others
by a dirty Cyclops of the Captain's acquaintance, who, with his one
eye, had made the Captain out some mile and a half off, and had been
exchanging unintelligible roars with him ever since. Becoming the lawful
prize of this personage, who was frightfully hoarse and constitutionally
in want of shaving, they were all three put aboard the Son and Heir. And
the Son and Heir was in a pretty state of confusion, with sails lying
all bedraggled on the wet decks, loose ropes tripping people up, men in
red shirts running barefoot to and fro, casks blockading every foot of
space, and, in the thickest of the fray, a black cook in a black caboose
up to his eyes in vegetables and blinded with smoke.

The Captain immediately drew Walter into a corner, and with a great
effort, that made his face very red, pulled up the silver watch, which
was so big, and so tight in his pocket, that it came out like a bung.

'Wal'r,' said the Captain, handing it over, and shaking him heartily
by the hand, 'a parting gift, my lad. Put it back half an hour every
morning, and about another quarter towards the arternoon, and it's a
watch that'll do you credit.'

'Captain Cuttle! I couldn't think of it!' cried Walter, detaining him,
for he was running away. 'Pray take it back. I have one already.'

'Then, Wal'r,' said the Captain, suddenly diving into one of his pockets
and bringing up the two teaspoons and the sugar-tongs, with which he
had armed himself to meet such an objection, 'take this here trifle of
plate, instead.'

'No, no, I couldn't indeed!' cried Walter, 'a thousand thanks! Don't
throw them away, Captain Cuttle!' for the Captain was about to jerk them
overboard. 'They'll be of much more use to you than me. Give me your
stick. I have often thought I should like to have it. There! Good-bye,
Captain Cuttle! Take care of my Uncle! Uncle Sol, God bless you!'

They were over the side in the confusion, before Walter caught another
glimpse of either; and when he ran up to the stern, and looked after
them, he saw his Uncle hanging down his head in the boat, and Captain
Cuttle rapping him on the back with the great silver watch (it must have
been very painful), and gesticulating hopefully with the teaspoons
and sugar-tongs. Catching sight of Walter, Captain Cuttle dropped the
property into the bottom of the boat with perfect unconcern, being
evidently oblivious of its existence, and pulling off the glazed hat
hailed him lustily. The glazed hat made quite a show in the sun with its
glistening, and the Captain continued to wave it until he could be
seen no longer. Then the confusion on board, which had been rapidly
increasing, reached its height; two or three other boats went away with
a cheer; the sails shone bright and full above, as Walter watched
them spread their surface to the favourable breeze; the water flew in
sparkles from the prow; and off upon her voyage went the Son and Heir,
as hopefully and trippingly as many another son and heir, gone down, had
started on his way before her.

Day after day, old Sol and Captain Cuttle kept her reckoning in the
little hack parlour and worked out her course, with the chart spread
before them on the round table. At night, when old Sol climbed upstairs,
so lonely, to the attic where it sometimes blew great guns, he looked
up at the stars and listened to the wind, and kept a longer watch than
would have fallen to his lot on board the ship. The last bottle of the
old Madeira, which had had its cruising days, and known its dangers of
the deep, lay silently beneath its dust and cobwebs, in the meanwhile,
undisturbed.

Before Walter leaves, he speaks with Susan Nipper and asks her to keep his uncle informed about Florence's well being. Just as Walter is about to leave, though, Florence and Susan Nipper unexpectedly appear at the shop. Florence wishes Walter well and asks if she can occasionally visit Sol to keep him company. She also pledges to think of Walter like a brother. She is able to discern, however, that the new job is not a favorable opportunity, and expresses her hope that she will someday be able to persuade her father to summon him home. The next morning, John Carker also comes to bid Walter goodbye. Walter sails off for the West Indies, leaving his uncle and Captain Cuttle to hopefully await his return


'Mr Dombey, Sir,' said Major Bagstock, 'Joey' B. is not in general a man
of sentiment, for Joseph is tough. But Joe has his feelings, Sir, and
when they are awakened--Damme, Mr Dombey,' cried the Major with sudden
ferocity, 'this is weakness, and I won't submit to it!'

Major Bagstock delivered himself of these expressions on receiving
Mr Dombey as his guest at the head of his own staircase in Princess's
Place. Mr Dombey had come to breakfast with the Major, previous to their
setting forth on their trip; and the ill-starved Native had already
undergone a world of misery arising out of the muffins, while, in
connexion with the general question of boiled eggs, life was a burden to
him.

'It is not for an old soldier of the Bagstock breed,' observed the
Major, relapsing into a mild state, 'to deliver himself up, a prey to
his own emotions; but--damme, Sir,' cried the Major, in another spasm of
ferocity, 'I condole with you!'

The Major's purple visage deepened in its hue, and the Major's lobster
eyes stood out in bolder relief, as he shook Mr Dombey by the hand,
imparting to that peaceful action as defiant a character as if it had
been the prelude to his immediately boxing Mr Dombey for a thousand
pounds a side and the championship of England. With a rotatory motion
of his head, and a wheeze very like the cough of a horse, the Major
then conducted his visitor to the sitting-room, and there welcomed him
(having now composed his feelings) with the freedom and frankness of a
travelling companion.

'Dombey,' said the Major, 'I'm glad to see you. I'm proud to see you.
There are not many men in Europe to whom J. Bagstock would say that--for
Josh is blunt. Sir: it's his nature--but Joey B. is proud to see you,
Dombey.'

'Major,' returned Mr Dombey, 'you are very obliging.'

'No, Sir,' said the Major, 'Devil a bit! That's not my character.
If that had been Joe's character, Joe might have been, by this time,
Lieutenant-General Sir Joseph Bagstock, K.C.B., and might have received
you in very different quarters. You don't know old Joe yet, I find. But
this occasion, being special, is a source of pride to me. By the Lord,
Sir,' said the Major resolutely, 'it's an honour to me!'

Mr Dombey, in his estimation of himself and his money, felt that
this was very true, and therefore did not dispute the point. But the
instinctive recognition of such a truth by the Major, and his plain
avowal of it, were very able. It was a confirmation to Mr Dombey, if
he had required any, of his not being mistaken in the Major. It was
an assurance to him that his power extended beyond his own immediate
sphere; and that the Major, as an officer and a gentleman, had a no less
becoming sense of it, than the beadle of the Royal Exchange.

And if it were ever consolatory to know this, or the like of this, it
was consolatory then, when the impotence of his will, the instability
of his hopes, the feebleness of wealth, had been so direfully impressed
upon him. What could it do, his boy had asked him. Sometimes, thinking
of the baby question, he could hardly forbear inquiring, himself, what
could it do indeed: what had it done?

But these were lonely thoughts, bred late at night in the sullen
despondency and gloom of his retirement, and pride easily found its
reassurance in many testimonies to the truth, as unimpeachable and
precious as the Major's. Mr Dombey, in his friendlessness, inclined to
the Major. It cannot be said that he warmed towards him, but he thawed
a little, The Major had had some part--and not too much--in the days by
the seaside. He was a man of the world, and knew some great people. He
talked much, and told stories; and Mr Dombey was disposed to regard him
as a choice spirit who shone in society, and who had not that poisonous
ingredient of poverty with which choice spirits in general are too much
adulterated. His station was undeniable. Altogether the Major was a
creditable companion, well accustomed to a life of leisure, and to
such places as that they were about to visit, and having an air of
gentlemanly ease about him that mixed well enough with his own City
character, and did not compete with it at all. If Mr Dombey had any
lingering idea that the Major, as a man accustomed, in the way of his
calling, to make light of the ruthless hand that had lately crushed his
hopes, might unconsciously impart some useful philosophy to him, and
scare away his weak regrets, he hid it from himself, and left it lying
at the bottom of his pride, unexamined.

'Where is my scoundrel?' said the Major, looking wrathfully round the
room.

The Native, who had no particular name, but answered to any vituperative
epithet, presented himself instantly at the door and ventured to come no
nearer.

'You villain!' said the choleric Major, 'where's the breakfast?'

The dark servant disappeared in search of it, and was quickly heard
reascending the stairs in such a tremulous state, that the plates and
dishes on the tray he carried, trembling sympathetically as he came,
rattled again, all the way up.

'Dombey,' said the Major, glancing at the Native as he arranged the
table, and encouraging him with an awful shake of his fist when he upset
a spoon, 'here is a devilled grill, a savoury pie, a dish of kidneys,
and so forth. Pray sit down. Old Joe can give you nothing but camp fare,
you see.'

'Very excellent fare, Major,' replied his guest; and not in mere
politeness either; for the Major always took the best possible care of
himself, and indeed ate rather more of rich meats than was good for him,
insomuch that his Imperial complexion was mainly referred by the faculty
to that circumstance.

'You have been looking over the way, Sir,' observed the Major. 'Have you
seen our friend?'

'You mean Miss Tox,' retorted Mr Dombey. 'No.'

'Charming woman, Sir,' said the Major, with a fat laugh rising in his
short throat, and nearly suffocating him.

'Miss Tox is a very good sort of person, I believe,' replied Mr Dombey.

The haughty coldness of the reply seemed to afford Major Bagstock
infinite delight. He swelled and swelled, exceedingly: and even laid
down his knife and fork for a moment, to rub his hands.

'Old Joe, Sir,' said the Major, 'was a bit of a favourite in
that quarter once. But Joe has had his day. J. Bagstock is
extinguished--outrivalled--floored, Sir.'

'I should have supposed,' Mr Dombey replied, 'that the lady's day for
favourites was over: but perhaps you are jesting, Major.'

'Perhaps you are jesting, Dombey?' was the Major's rejoinder.

There never was a more unlikely possibility. It was so clearly expressed
in Mr Dombey's face, that the Major apologised.

'I beg your pardon,' he said. 'I see you are in earnest. I tell you
what, Dombey.' The Major paused in his eating, and looked mysteriously
indignant. 'That's a de-vilish ambitious woman, Sir.'

Mr Dombey said 'Indeed?' with frigid indifference: mingled perhaps with
some contemptuous incredulity as to Miss Tox having the presumption to
harbour such a superior quality.

'That woman, Sir,' said the Major, 'is, in her way, a Lucifer. Joey
B. has had his day, Sir, but he keeps his eyes. He sees, does Joe. His
Royal Highness the late Duke of York observed of Joey, at a levee, that
he saw.'

The Major accompanied this with such a look, and, between eating,
drinking, hot tea, devilled grill, muffins, and meaning, was altogether
so swollen and inflamed about the head, that even Mr Dombey showed some
anxiety for him.

'That ridiculous old spectacle, Sir,' pursued the Major, 'aspires. She
aspires sky-high, Sir. Matrimonially, Dombey.'

'I am sorry for her,' said Mr Dombey.

'Don't say that, Dombey,' returned the Major in a warning voice.

'Why should I not, Major?' said Mr Dombey.

The Major gave no answer but the horse's cough, and went on eating
vigorously.

'She has taken an interest in your household,' said the Major, stopping
short again, 'and has been a frequent visitor at your house for some
time now.'

'Yes,' replied Mr Dombey with great stateliness, 'Miss Tox was
originally received there, at the time of Mrs Dombey's death, as a
friend of my sister's; and being a well-behaved person, and showing a
liking for the poor infant, she was permitted--may I say encouraged--to
repeat her visits with my sister, and gradually to occupy a kind of
footing of familiarity in the family. I have,' said Mr Dombey, in the
tone of a man who was making a great and valuable concession, 'I have a
respect for Miss Tox. She his been so obliging as to render many little
services in my house: trifling and insignificant services perhaps,
Major, but not to be disparaged on that account: and I hope I have had
the good fortune to be enabled to acknowledge them by such attention and
notice as it has been in my power to bestow. I hold myself indebted to
Miss Tox, Major,' added Mr Dombey, with a slight wave of his hand, 'for
the pleasure of your acquaintance.'

'Dombey,' said the Major, warmly: 'no! No, Sir! Joseph Bagstock can
never permit that assertion to pass uncontradicted. Your knowledge of
old Joe, Sir, such as he is, and old Joe's knowledge of you, Sir, had
its origin in a noble fellow, Sir--in a great creature, Sir. Dombey!'
said the Major, with a struggle which it was not very difficult to
parade, his whole life being a struggle against all kinds of apoplectic
symptoms, 'we knew each other through your boy.'

Mr Dombey seemed touched, as it is not improbable the Major designed he
should be, by this allusion. He looked down and sighed: and the Major,
rousing himself fiercely, again said, in reference to the state of mind
into which he felt himself in danger of falling, that this was weakness,
and nothing should induce him to submit to it.

'Our friend had a remote connexion with that event,' said the Major,
'and all the credit that belongs to her, J. B. is willing to give her,
Sir. Notwithstanding which, Ma'am,' he added, raising his eyes from his
plate, and casting them across Princess's Place, to where Miss Tox was
at that moment visible at her window watering her flowers, 'you're
a scheming jade, Ma'am, and your ambition is a piece of monstrous
impudence. If it only made yourself ridiculous, Ma'am,' said the Major,
rolling his head at the unconscious Miss Tox, while his starting eyes
appeared to make a leap towards her, 'you might do that to your heart's
content, Ma'am, without any objection, I assure you, on the part of
Bagstock.' Here the Major laughed frightfully up in the tips of his ears
and in the veins of his head. 'But when, Ma'am,' said the Major, 'you
compromise other people, and generous, unsuspicious people too, as a
repayment for their condescension, you stir the blood of old Joe in his
body.'

'Major,' said Mr Dombey, reddening, 'I hope you do not hint at anything
so absurd on the part of Miss Tox as--'

'Dombey,' returned the Major, 'I hint at nothing. But Joey B. has lived
in the world, Sir: lived in the world with his eyes open, Sir, and his
ears cocked: and Joe tells you, Dombey, that there's a devilish artful
and ambitious woman over the way.'

Mr Dombey involuntarily glanced over the way; and an angry glance he
sent in that direction, too.

'That's all on such a subject that shall pass the lips of Joseph
Bagstock,' said the Major firmly. 'Joe is not a tale-bearer, but there
are times when he must speak, when he will speak!--confound your arts,
Ma'am,' cried the Major, again apostrophising his fair neighbour,
with great ire,--'when the provocation is too strong to admit of his
remaining silent.'

The emotion of this outbreak threw the Major into a paroxysm of horse's
coughs, which held him for a long time. On recovering he added:

'And now, Dombey, as you have invited Joe--old Joe, who has no other
merit, Sir, but that he is tough and hearty--to be your guest and guide
at Leamington, command him in any way you please, and he is wholly
yours. I don't know, Sir,' said the Major, wagging his double chin with
a jocose air, 'what it is you people see in Joe to make you hold him in
such great request, all of you; but this I know, Sir, that if he wasn't
pretty tough, and obstinate in his refusals, you'd kill him among you
with your invitations and so forth, in double-quick time.'

Mr Dombey, in a few words, expressed his sense of the preference he
received over those other distinguished members of society who were
clamouring for the possession of Major Bagstock. But the Major cut him
short by giving him to understand that he followed his own inclinations,
and that they had risen up in a body and said with one accord, 'J. B.,
Dombey is the man for you to choose as a friend.'

The Major being by this time in a state of repletion, with essence of
savoury pie oozing out at the corners of his eyes, and devilled grill
and kidneys tightening his cravat: and the time moreover approaching for
the departure of the railway train to Birmingham, by which they were
to leave town: the Native got him into his great-coat with immense
difficulty, and buttoned him up until his face looked staring and
gasping, over the top of that garment, as if he were in a barrel. The
Native then handed him separately, and with a decent interval between
each supply, his washleather gloves, his thick stick, and his hat; which
latter article the Major wore with a rakish air on one side of his head,
by way of toning down his remarkable visage. The Native had previously
packed, in all possible and impossible parts of Mr Dombey's chariot,
which was in waiting, an unusual quantity of carpet-bags and small
portmanteaus, no less apoplectic in appearance than the Major himself:
and having filled his own pockets with Seltzer water, East India sherry,
sandwiches, shawls, telescopes, maps, and newspapers, any or all of
which light baggage the Major might require at any instant of the
journey, he announced that everything was ready. To complete the
equipment of this unfortunate foreigner (currently believed to be a
prince in his own country), when he took his seat in the rumble by the
side of Mr Towlinson, a pile of the Major's cloaks and great-coats was
hurled upon him by the landlord, who aimed at him from the pavement
with those great missiles like a Titan, and so covered him up, that he
proceeded, in a living tomb, to the railroad station.

But before the carriage moved away, and while the Native was in the
act of sepulture, Miss Tox appearing at her window, waved a lilywhite
handkerchief. Mr Dombey received this parting salutation very
coldly--very coldly even for him--and honouring her with the slightest
possible inclination of his head, leaned back in the carriage with a
very discontented look. His marked behaviour seemed to afford the
Major (who was all politeness in his recognition of Miss Tox) unbounded
satisfaction; and he sat for a long time afterwards, leering, and
choking, like an over-fed Mephistopheles.

During the bustle of preparation at the railway, Mr Dombey and the Major
walked up and down the platform side by side; the former taciturn and
gloomy, and the latter entertaining him, or entertaining himself, with
a variety of anecdotes and reminiscences, in most of which Joe Bagstock
was the principal performer. Neither of the two observed that in the
course of these walks, they attracted the attention of a working man who
was standing near the engine, and who touched his hat every time they
passed; for Mr Dombey habitually looked over the vulgar herd, not at
them; and the Major was looking, at the time, into the core of one of
his stories. At length, however, this man stepped before them as they
turned round, and pulling his hat off, and keeping it off, ducked his
head to Mr Dombey.

'Beg your pardon, Sir,' said the man, 'but I hope you're a doin' pretty
well, Sir.'

He was dressed in a canvas suit abundantly besmeared with coal-dust and
oil, and had cinders in his whiskers, and a smell of half-slaked ashes
all over him. He was not a bad-looking fellow, nor even what could be
fairly called a dirty-looking fellow, in spite of this; and, in short,
he was Mr Toodle, professionally clothed.

'I shall have the honour of stokin' of you down, Sir,' said Mr Toodle.
'Beg your pardon, Sir.--I hope you find yourself a coming round?'

Mr Dombey looked at him, in return for his tone of interest, as if a man
like that would make his very eyesight dirty.

''Scuse the liberty, Sir,' said Toodle, seeing he was not clearly
remembered, 'but my wife Polly, as was called Richards in your family--'

A change in Mr Dombey's face, which seemed to express recollection of
him, and so it did, but it expressed in a much stronger degree an angry
sense of humiliation, stopped Mr Toodle short.

'Your wife wants money, I suppose,' said Mr Dombey, putting his hand in
his pocket, and speaking (but that he always did) haughtily.

'No thank'ee, Sir,' returned Toodle, 'I can't say she does. I don't.'

Mr Dombey was stopped short now in his turn: and awkwardly: with his
hand in his pocket.

'No, Sir,' said Toodle, turning his oilskin cap round and round; 'we're
a doin' pretty well, Sir; we haven't no cause to complain in the worldly
way, Sir. We've had four more since then, Sir, but we rubs on.'

Mr Dombey would have rubbed on to his own carriage, though in so doing
he had rubbed the stoker underneath the wheels; but his attention was
arrested by something in connexion with the cap still going slowly round
and round in the man's hand.

'We lost one babby,' observed Toodle, 'there's no denyin'.'

'Lately,' added Mr Dombey, looking at the cap.

'No, Sir, up'ard of three years ago, but all the rest is hearty. And in
the matter o readin', Sir,' said Toodle, ducking again, as if to remind
Mr Dombey of what had passed between them on that subject long ago,
'them boys o' mine, they learned me, among 'em, arter all. They've made
a wery tolerable scholar of me, Sir, them boys.'

'Come, Major!' said Mr Dombey.

'Beg your pardon, Sir,' resumed Toodle, taking a step before them and
deferentially stopping them again, still cap in hand: 'I wouldn't have
troubled you with such a pint except as a way of gettin' in the name
of my son Biler--christened Robin--him as you was so good as to make a
Charitable Grinder on.'

'Well, man,' said Mr Dombey in his severest manner. 'What about him?'

'Why, Sir,' returned Toodle, shaking his head with a face of great
anxiety and distress, 'I'm forced to say, Sir, that he's gone wrong.'

'He has gone wrong, has he?' said Mr Dombey, with a hard kind of
satisfaction.

'He has fell into bad company, you see, genelmen,' pursued the father,
looking wistfully at both, and evidently taking the Major into the
conversation with the hope of having his sympathy. 'He has got into bad
ways. God send he may come to again, genelmen, but he's on the wrong
track now! You could hardly be off hearing of it somehow, Sir,' said
Toodle, again addressing Mr Dombey individually; 'and it's better I
should out and say my boy's gone rather wrong. Polly's dreadful down
about it, genelmen,' said Toodle with the same dejected look, and
another appeal to the Major.

'A son of this man's whom I caused to be educated, Major,' said Mr
Dombey, giving him his arm. 'The usual return!'

'Take advice from plain old Joe, and never educate that sort of people,
Sir,' returned the Major. 'Damme, Sir, it never does! It always fails!'

The simple father was beginning to submit that he hoped his son, the
quondam Grinder, huffed and cuffed, and flogged and badged, and taught,
as parrots are, by a brute jobbed into his place of schoolmaster with as
much fitness for it as a hound, might not have been educated on quite
a right plan in some undiscovered respect, when Mr Dombey angrily
repeating 'The usual return!' led the Major away. And the Major being
heavy to hoist into Mr Dombey's carriage, elevated in mid-air, and
having to stop and swear that he would flay the Native alive, and break
every bone in his skin, and visit other physical torments upon him,
every time he couldn't get his foot on the step, and fell back on that
dark exile, had barely time before they started to repeat hoarsely that
it would never do: that it always failed: and that if he were to educate
'his own vagabond,' he would certainly be hanged.

Mr Dombey assented bitterly; but there was something more in his
bitterness, and in his moody way of falling back in the carriage, and
looking with knitted brows at the changing objects without, than the
failure of that noble educational system administered by the Grinders'
Company. He had seen upon the man's rough cap a piece of new crape, and
he had assured himself, from his manner and his answers, that he wore it
for his son.

Sol from high to low, at home or abroad, from Florence in his great
house to the coarse churl who was feeding the fire then smoking before
them, everyone set up some claim or other to a share in his dead boy,
and was a bidder against him! Could he ever forget how that woman had
wept over his pillow, and called him her own child! or how he, waking
from his sleep, had asked for her, and had raised himself in his bed and
brightened when she came in!

To think of this presumptuous raker among coals and ashes going on
before there, with his sign of mourning! To think that he dared
to enter, even by a common show like that, into the trial and
disappointment of a proud gentleman's secret heart! To think that
this lost child, who was to have divided with him his riches, and his
projects, and his power, and allied with whom he was to have shut out
all the world as with a double door of gold, should have let in such a
herd to insult him with their knowledge of his defeated hopes, and their
boasts of claiming community of feeling with himself, so far removed:
if not of having crept into the place wherein he would have lorded it,
alone!

He found no pleasure or relief in the journey. Tortured by these
thoughts he carried monotony with him, through the rushing landscape,
and hurried headlong, not through a rich and varied country, but a
wilderness of blighted plans and gnawing jealousies. The very speed at
which the train was whirled along, mocked the swift course of the young
life that had been borne away so steadily and so inexorably to its
foredoomed end. The power that forced itself upon its iron way--its
own--defiant of all paths and roads, piercing through the heart of
every obstacle, and dragging living creatures of all classes, ages, and
degrees behind it, was a type of the triumphant monster, Death.

Away, with a shriek, and a roar, and a rattle, from the town, burrowing
among the dwellings of men and making the streets hum, flashing out into
the meadows for a moment, mining in through the damp earth, booming
on in darkness and heavy air, bursting out again into the sunny day so
bright and wide; away, with a shriek, and a roar, and a rattle, through
the fields, through the woods, through the corn, through the hay,
through the chalk, through the mould, through the clay, through the
rock, among objects close at hand and almost in the grasp, ever flying
from the traveller, and a deceitful distance ever moving slowly within
him: like as in the track of the remorseless monster, Death!

Through the hollow, on the height, by the heath, by the orchard, by the
park, by the garden, over the canal, across the river, where the sheep
are feeding, where the mill is going, where the barge is floating, where
the dead are lying, where the factory is smoking, where the stream is
running, where the village clusters, where the great cathedral rises,
where the bleak moor lies, and the wild breeze smooths or ruffles it at
its inconstant will; away, with a shriek, and a roar, and a rattle, and
no trace to leave behind but dust and vapour: like as in the track of
the remorseless monster, Death!

Breasting the wind and light, the shower and sunshine, away, and still
away, it rolls and roars, fierce and rapid, smooth and certain, and
great works and massive bridges crossing up above, fall like a beam of
shadow an inch broad, upon the eye, and then are lost. Away, and still
away, onward and onward ever: glimpses of cottage-homes, of houses,
mansions, rich estates, of husbandry and handicraft, of people, of old
roads and paths that look deserted, small, and insignificant as they are
left behind: and so they do, and what else is there but such glimpses,
in the track of the indomitable monster, Death!

Away, with a shriek, and a roar, and a rattle, plunging down into the
earth again, and working on in such a storm of energy and perseverance,
that amidst the darkness and whirlwind the motion seems reversed, and
to tend furiously backward, until a ray of light upon the wet wall shows
its surface flying past like a fierce stream. Away once more into the
day, and through the day, with a shrill yell of exultation, roaring,
rattling, tearing on, spurning everything with its dark breath,
sometimes pausing for a minute where a crowd of faces are, that in a
minute more are not; sometimes lapping water greedily, and before the
spout at which it drinks has ceased to drip upon the ground, shrieking,
roaring, rattling through the purple distance!

Louder and louder yet, it shrieks and cries as it comes tearing on
resistless to the goal: and now its way, still like the way of Death,
is strewn with ashes thickly. Everything around is blackened. There are
dark pools of water, muddy lanes, and miserable habitations far below.
There are jagged walls and falling houses close at hand, and through the
battered roofs and broken windows, wretched rooms are seen, where want
and fever hide themselves in many wretched shapes, while smoke and
crowded gables, and distorted chimneys, and deformity of brick and
mortar penning up deformity of mind and body, choke the murky distance.
As Mr Dombey looks out of his carriage window, it is never in his
thoughts that the monster who has brought him there has let the light
of day in on these things: not made or caused them. It was the journey's
fitting end, and might have been the end of everything; it was so
ruinous and dreary.

So, pursuing the one course of thought, he had the one relentless
monster still before him. All things looked black, and cold, and
deadly upon him, and he on them. He found a likeness to his misfortune
everywhere. There was a remorseless triumph going on about him, and it
galled and stung him in his pride and jealousy, whatever form it took:
though most of all when it divided with him the love and memory of his
lost boy.

There was a face--he had looked upon it, on the previous night, and it
on him with eyes that read his soul, though they were dim with tears,
and hidden soon behind two quivering hands--that often had attended
him in fancy, on this ride. He had seen it, with the expression of last
night, timidly pleading to him. It was not reproachful, but there was
something of doubt, almost of hopeful incredulity in it, which, as he
once more saw that fade away into a desolate certainty of his dislike,
was like reproach. It was a trouble to him to think of this face of
Florence.

Because he felt any new compunction towards it? No. Because the feeling
it awakened in him--of which he had had some old foreshadowing in older
times--was full-formed now, and spoke out plainly, moving him too much,
and threatening to grow too strong for his composure. Because the face
was abroad, in the expression of defeat and persecution that seemed to
encircle him like the air. Because it barbed the arrow of that cruel and
remorseless enemy on which his thoughts so ran, and put into its grasp a
double-handed sword. Because he knew full well, in his own breast, as he
stood there, tinging the scene of transition before him with the morbid
colours of his own mind, and making it a ruin and a picture of decay,
instead of hopeful change, and promise of better things, that life had
quite as much to do with his complainings as death. One child was gone,
and one child left. Why was the object of his hope removed instead of
her?

The sweet, calm, gentle presence in his fancy, moved him to no
reflection but that. She had been unwelcome to him from the first; she
was an aggravation of his bitterness now. If his son had been his only
child, and the same blow had fallen on him, it would have been heavy to
bear; but infinitely lighter than now, when it might have fallen on her
(whom he could have lost, or he believed it, without a pang), and had
not. Her loving and innocent face rising before him, had no softening
or winning influence. He rejected the angel, and took up with the
tormenting spirit crouching in his bosom. Her patience, goodness, youth,
devotion, love, were as so many atoms in the ashes upon which he set his
heel. He saw her image in the blight and blackness all around him, not
irradiating but deepening the gloom. More than once upon this journey,
and now again as he stood pondering at this journey's end, tracing
figures in the dust with his stick, the thought came into his mind, what
was there he could interpose between himself and it?

The Major, who had been blowing and panting all the way down, like
another engine, and whose eye had often wandered from his newspaper to
leer at the prospect, as if there were a procession of discomfited Miss
Toxes pouring out in the smoke of the train, and flying away over the
fields to hide themselves in any place of refuge, aroused his friends
by informing him that the post-horses were harnessed and the carriage
ready.

'Dombey,' said the Major, rapping him on the arm with his cane, 'don't
be thoughtful. It's a bad habit, Old Joe, Sir, wouldn't be as tough
as you see him, if he had ever encouraged it. You are too great a man,
Dombey, to be thoughtful. In your position, Sir, you're far above that
kind of thing.'

The Major even in his friendly remonstrances, thus consulting the
dignity and honour of Mr Dombey, and showing a lively sense of their
importance, Mr Dombey felt more than ever disposed to defer to a
gentleman possessing so much good sense and such a well-regulated mind;
accordingly he made an effort to listen to the Major's stories, as they
trotted along the turnpike road; and the Major, finding both the pace
and the road a great deal better adapted to his conversational powers
than the mode of travelling they had just relinquished, came out of his
entertainment.

But still the Major, blunt and tough as he was, and as he so very often
said he was, administered some palatable catering to his companion's
appetite. He related, or rather suffered it to escape him, accidentally,
and as one might say, grudgingly and against his will, how there was
great curiosity and excitement at the club, in regard of his friend
Dombey. How he was suffocated with questions, Sir. How old Joe Bagstock
was a greater man than ever, there, on the strength of Dombey. How they
said, 'Bagstock, your friend Dombey now, what is the view he takes of
such and such a question? Though, by the Rood, Sir,' said the Major,
with a broad stare, 'how they discovered that J. B. ever came to know
you, is a mystery!'

In this flow of spirits and conversation, only interrupted by his usual
plethoric symptoms, and by intervals of lunch, and from time to time by
some violent assault upon the Native, who wore a pair of ear-rings
in his dark-brown ears, and on whom his European clothes sat with an
outlandish impossibility of adjustment--being, of their own accord, and
without any reference to the tailor's art, long where they ought to be
short, short where they ought to be long, tight where they ought to be
loose, and loose where they ought to be tight--and to which he imparted
a new grace, whenever the Major attacked him, by shrinking into them
like a shrivelled nut, or a cold monkey--in this flow of spirits and
conversation, the Major continued all day: so that when evening came
on, and found them trotting through the green and leafy road near
Leamington, the Major's voice, what with talking and eating and
chuckling and choking, appeared to be in the box under the rumble, or in
some neighbouring hay-stack. Nor did the Major improve it at the
Royal Hotel, where rooms and dinner had been ordered, and where he so
oppressed his organs of speech by eating and drinking, that when he
retired to bed he had no voice at all, except to cough with, and could
only make himself intelligible to the dark servant by gasping at him.

He not only rose next morning, however, like a giant refreshed, but
conducted himself, at breakfast like a giant refreshing. At this
meal they arranged their daily habits. The Major was to take the
responsibility of ordering everything to eat and drink; and they were to
have a late breakfast together every morning, and a late dinner together
every day. Mr Dombey would prefer remaining in his own room, or walking
in the country by himself, on that first day of their sojourn at
Leamington; but next morning he would be happy to accompany the Major to
the Pump-room, and about the town. So they parted until dinner-time.
Mr Dombey retired to nurse his wholesome thoughts in his own way. The
Major, attended by the Native carrying a camp-stool, a great-coat,
and an umbrella, swaggered up and down through all the public places:
looking into subscription books to find out who was there, looking up
old ladies by whom he was much admired, reporting J. B. tougher than
ever, and puffing his rich friend Dombey wherever he went. There never
was a man who stood by a friend more staunchly than the Major, when in
puffing him, he puffed himself.

It was surprising how much new conversation the Major had to let off at
dinner-time, and what occasion he gave Mr Dombey to admire his social
qualities. At breakfast next morning, he knew the contents of the latest
newspapers received; and mentioned several subjects in connexion with
them, on which his opinion had recently been sought by persons of such
power and might, that they were only to be obscurely hinted at. Mr
Dombey, who had been so long shut up within himself, and who had
rarely, at any time, overstepped the enchanted circle within which the
operations of Dombey and Son were conducted, began to think this an
improvement on his solitary life; and in place of excusing himself for
another day, as he had thought of doing when alone, walked out with the
Major arm-in-arm.

Major Bagstock will accompany Mr. Dombey on his travels. Before they leave, Major Bagstock hints that Miss Tox is ambitious and hopes to make an advantageous marriage. While Dombey and Bagstock wait to board the train, they meet Mr. Toodle, who tries to offer his condolences about Paul. Mr. Toodle explains that the family is doing well, except that his eldest son Biler has fallen into bad company. Dombey is irritated that his efforts to educate the boy have amounted to nothing. He and Major Bagstock travel to Leamington

This section reveals how the status and wealth of the Dombey family makes it hard for them to cultivate genuine relationships with others, or to know whom to trust. When Bagstock implies that Miss Tox has been aspiring to marry Dombey, Dombey is dismissive of this idea. While it will turn out that Tox is actually a faithful and benevolent character, this does make it clear that she has had her own motivations for cultivating a relationship with the Dombey family. Bagstock of course is scheming and being disingenuous in revealing this information, in that he has own reasons for wanting to ensure that Tox and Dombey never marry. Bagstock also plays an active role in introducing Dombey to Mrs. Skewton and Edith Granger, two characters that quickly assess him as a potential match and start calculating how to ensure that he wants to marry Edith. At the same time as Dombey finds himself at the center of a web of schemes, Florence is also attracting attention. While Carker's precise plans are not yet clear, he is clearly interested in her connection to Sol and Walter. His recruitment of Rob Toodle as a spy introduces the theme of surveillance into the novel. Carker will both observe the Dombey house himself and make sure that he knows the whereabouts of Florence. Furthering the idea of Florence's intuitive wisdom, she is immediately uncomfortable with Carker. Because, unlike her father, she is not blinded by pride and vanity, she can see Carker for what he truly is. As Florence gets older, she also becomes the subject of interest as a marriage prospect, especially now that she is the sole heiress to the Dombey fortune. While relatively kind and benign, the Skettles family is clearly aspiring to a match between Florence and their young son. Carker is also very interested in whether or not Florence might have hopes of marrying Walter. Because of her position, Florence is rarely taken on her own terms: she represents a kind of asset to be used in mergers and acquisitions.


The MAJOR, more blue-faced and staring--more over-ripe, as it were, than
ever--and giving vent, every now and then, to one of the horse's coughs,
not so much of necessity as in a spontaneous explosion of importance,
walked arm-in-arm with Mr Dombey up the sunny side of the way, with his
cheeks swelling over his tight stock, his legs majestically wide
apart, and his great head wagging from side to side, as if he were
remonstrating within himself for being such a captivating object. They
had not walked many yards, before the Major encountered somebody he
knew, nor many yards farther before the Major encountered somebody else
he knew, but he merely shook his fingers at them as he passed, and led
Mr Dombey on: pointing out the localities as they went, and enlivening
the walk with any current scandal suggested by them.

In this manner the Major and Mr Dombey were walking arm-in-arm, much
to their own satisfaction, when they beheld advancing towards them,
a wheeled chair, in which a lady was seated, indolently steering her
carriage by a kind of rudder in front, while it was propelled by some
unseen power in the rear. Although the lady was not young, she was
very blooming in the face--quite rosy--and her dress and attitude were
perfectly juvenile. Walking by the side of the chair, and carrying her
gossamer parasol with a proud and weary air, as if so great an effort
must be soon abandoned and the parasol dropped, sauntered a much younger
lady, very handsome, very haughty, very wilful, who tossed her head and
drooped her eyelids, as though, if there were anything in all the world
worth looking into, save a mirror, it certainly was not the earth or
sky.

'Why, what the devil have we here, Sir!' cried the Major, stopping as
this little cavalcade drew near.

'My dearest Edith!' drawled the lady in the chair, 'Major Bagstock!'

The Major no sooner heard the voice, than he relinquished Mr Dombey's
arm, darted forward, took the hand of the lady in the chair and pressed
it to his lips. With no less gallantry, the Major folded both his gloves
upon his heart, and bowed low to the other lady. And now, the chair
having stopped, the motive power became visible in the shape of a
flushed page pushing behind, who seemed to have in part outgrown and in
part out-pushed his strength, for when he stood upright he was tall, and
wan, and thin, and his plight appeared the more forlorn from his having
injured the shape of his hat, by butting at the carriage with his
head to urge it forward, as is sometimes done by elephants in Oriental
countries.

'Joe Bagstock,' said the Major to both ladies, 'is a proud and happy man
for the rest of his life.'

'You false creature!' said the old lady in the chair, insipidly. 'Where
do you come from? I can't bear you.'

'Then suffer old Joe to present a friend, Ma'am,' said the Major,
promptly, 'as a reason for being tolerated. Mr Dombey, Mrs Skewton.' The
lady in the chair was gracious. 'Mr Dombey, Mrs Granger.' The lady with
the parasol was faintly conscious of Mr Dombey's taking off his hat,
and bowing low. 'I am delighted, Sir,' said the Major, 'to have this
opportunity.'

The Major seemed in earnest, for he looked at all the three, and leered
in his ugliest manner.

'Mrs Skewton, Dombey,' said the Major, 'makes havoc in the heart of old
Josh.'

Mr Dombey signified that he didn't wonder at it.

'You perfidious goblin,' said the lady in the chair, 'have done! How
long have you been here, bad man?'

'One day,' replied the Major.

'And can you be a day, or even a minute,' returned the lady, slightly
settling her false curls and false eyebrows with her fan, and showing
her false teeth, set off by her false complexion, 'in the garden of
what's-its-name.'

'Eden, I suppose, Mama,' interrupted the younger lady, scornfully.

'My dear Edith,' said the other, 'I cannot help it. I never can remember
those frightful names--without having your whole Soul and Being inspired
by the sight of Nature; by the perfume,' said Mrs Skewton, rustling a
handkerchief that was faint and sickly with essences, 'of her artless
breath, you creature!'

The discrepancy between Mrs Skewton's fresh enthusiasm of words, and
forlornly faded manner, was hardly less observable than that between
her age, which was about seventy, and her dress, which would have been
youthful for twenty-seven. Her attitude in the wheeled chair (which she
never varied) was one in which she had been taken in a barouche, some
fifty years before, by a then fashionable artist who had appended to his
published sketch the name of Cleopatra: in consequence of a discovery
made by the critics of the time, that it bore an exact resemblance to
that Princess as she reclined on board her galley. Mrs Skewton was a
beauty then, and bucks threw wine-glasses over their heads by dozens in
her honour. The beauty and the barouche had both passed away, but she
still preserved the attitude, and for this reason expressly, maintained
the wheeled chair and the butting page: there being nothing whatever,
except the attitude, to prevent her from walking.

'Mr Dombey is devoted to Nature, I trust?' said Mrs Skewton, settling
her diamond brooch. And by the way, she chiefly lived upon the
reputation of some diamonds, and her family connexions.

'My friend Dombey, Ma'am,' returned the Major, 'may be devoted to her
in secret, but a man who is paramount in the greatest city in the
universe--'

'No one can be a stranger,' said Mrs Skewton, 'to Mr Dombey's immense
influence.'

As Mr Dombey acknowledged the compliment with a bend of his head, the
younger lady glancing at him, met his eyes.

'You reside here, Madam?' said Mr Dombey, addressing her.

'No, we have been to a great many places. To Harrogate and Scarborough,
and into Devonshire. We have been visiting, and resting here and there.
Mama likes change.'

'Edith of course does not,' said Mrs Skewton, with a ghastly archness.

'I have not found that there is any change in such places,' was the
answer, delivered with supreme indifference.

'They libel me. There is only one change, Mr Dombey,' observed Mrs
Skewton, with a mincing sigh, 'for which I really care, and that I
fear I shall never be permitted to enjoy. People cannot spare one. But
seclusion and contemplation are my what-his-name--'

'If you mean Paradise, Mama, you had better say so, to render yourself
intelligible,' said the younger lady.

'My dearest Edith,' returned Mrs Skewton, 'you know that I am wholly
dependent upon you for those odious names. I assure you, Mr Dombey,
Nature intended me for an Arcadian. I am thrown away in society. Cows
are my passion. What I have ever sighed for, has been to retreat to a
Swiss farm, and live entirely surrounded by cows--and china.'

This curious association of objects, suggesting a remembrance of the
celebrated bull who got by mistake into a crockery shop, was received
with perfect gravity by Mr Dombey, who intimated his opinion that Nature
was, no doubt, a very respectable institution.

'What I want,' drawled Mrs Skewton, pinching her shrivelled throat, 'is
heart.' It was frightfully true in one sense, if not in that in which
she used the phrase. 'What I want, is frankness, confidence, less
conventionality, and freer play of soul. We are so dreadfully
artificial.'

We were, indeed.

'In short,' said Mrs Skewton, 'I want Nature everywhere. It would be so
extremely charming.'

'Nature is inviting us away now, Mama, if you are ready,' said the
younger lady, curling her handsome lip. At this hint, the wan page, who
had been surveying the party over the top of the chair, vanished behind
it, as if the ground had swallowed him up.

'Stop a moment, Withers!' said Mrs Skewton, as the chair began to move;
calling to the page with all the languid dignity with which she had
called in days of yore to a coachman with a wig, cauliflower nosegay,
and silk stockings. 'Where are you staying, abomination?'

The Major was staying at the Royal Hotel, with his friend Dombey.

'You may come and see us any evening when you are good,' lisped Mrs
Skewton. 'If Mr Dombey will honour us, we shall be happy. Withers, go
on!'

The Major again pressed to his blue lips the tips of the fingers
that were disposed on the ledge of the wheeled chair with careful
carelessness, after the Cleopatra model: and Mr Dombey bowed. The elder
lady honoured them both with a very gracious smile and a girlish wave
of her hand; the younger lady with the very slightest inclination of her
head that common courtesy allowed.

The last glimpse of the wrinkled face of the mother, with that patched
colour on it which the sun made infinitely more haggard and dismal
than any want of colour could have been, and of the proud beauty of the
daughter with her graceful figure and erect deportment, engendered such
an involuntary disposition on the part of both the Major and Mr Dombey
to look after them, that they both turned at the same moment. The Page,
nearly as much aslant as his own shadow, was toiling after the chair,
uphill, like a slow battering-ram; the top of Cleopatra's bonnet was
fluttering in exactly the same corner to the inch as before; and the
Beauty, loitering by herself a little in advance, expressed in all
her elegant form, from head to foot, the same supreme disregard of
everything and everybody.

'I tell you what, Sir,' said the Major, as they resumed their walk
again. 'If Joe Bagstock were a younger man, there's not a woman in the
world whom he'd prefer for Mrs Bagstock to that woman. By George, Sir!'
said the Major, 'she's superb!'

'Do you mean the daughter?' inquired Mr Dombey.

'Is Joey B. a turnip, Dombey,' said the Major, 'that he should mean the
mother?'

'You were complimentary to the mother,' returned Mr Dombey.

'An ancient flame, Sir,' chuckled Major Bagstock. 'Devilish ancient. I
humour her.'

'She impresses me as being perfectly genteel,' said Mr Dombey.

'Genteel, Sir,' said the Major, stopping short, and staring in his
companion's face. 'The Honourable Mrs Skewton, Sir, is sister to the
late Lord Feenix, and aunt to the present Lord. The family are not
wealthy--they're poor, indeed--and she lives upon a small jointure; but
if you come to blood, Sir!' The Major gave a flourish with his stick and
walked on again, in despair of being able to say what you came to, if
you came to that.

'You addressed the daughter, I observed,' said Mr Dombey, after a short
pause, 'as Mrs Granger.'

'Edith Skewton, Sir,' returned the Major, stopping short again, and
punching a mark in the ground with his cane, to represent her, 'married
(at eighteen) Granger of Ours;' whom the Major indicated by another
punch. 'Granger, Sir,' said the Major, tapping the last ideal portrait,
and rolling his head emphatically, 'was Colonel of Ours; a de-vilish
handsome fellow, Sir, of forty-one. He died, Sir, in the second year of
his marriage.' The Major ran the representative of the deceased Granger
through and through the body with his walking-stick, and went on again,
carrying his stick over his shoulder.

'How long is this ago?' asked Mr Dombey, making another halt.

'Edith Granger, Sir,' replied the Major, shutting one eye, putting his
head on one side, passing his cane into his left hand, and smoothing his
shirt-frill with his right, 'is, at this present time, not quite thirty.
And damme, Sir,' said the Major, shouldering his stick once more, and
walking on again, 'she's a peerless woman!'

'Was there any family?' asked Mr Dombey presently.

'Yes, Sir,' said the Major. 'There was a boy.'

Mr Dombey's eyes sought the ground, and a shade came over his face.

'Who was drowned, Sir,' pursued the Major. 'When a child of four or five
years old.'

'Indeed?' said Mr Dombey, raising his head.

'By the upsetting of a boat in which his nurse had no business to have
put him,' said the Major. 'That's his history. Edith Granger is Edith
Granger still; but if tough old Joey B., Sir, were a little younger and
a little richer, the name of that immortal paragon should be Bagstock.'

The Major heaved his shoulders, and his cheeks, and laughed more like an
over-fed Mephistopheles than ever, as he said the words.

'Provided the lady made no objection, I suppose?' said Mr Dombey coldly.

'By Gad, Sir,' said the Major, 'the Bagstock breed are not accustomed
to that sort of obstacle. Though it's true enough that Edith might have
married twenty times, but for being proud, Sir, proud.'

Mr Dombey seemed, by his face, to think no worse of her for that.

'It's a great quality after all,' said the Major. 'By the Lord, it's a
high quality! Dombey! You are proud yourself, and your friend, Old Joe,
respects you for it, Sir.'

With this tribute to the character of his ally, which seemed to be wrung
from him by the force of circumstances and the irresistible tendency
of their conversation, the Major closed the subject, and glided into a
general exposition of the extent to which he had been beloved and doted
on by splendid women and brilliant creatures.

On the next day but one, Mr Dombey and the Major encountered the
Honourable Mrs Skewton and her daughter in the Pump-room; on the day
after, they met them again very near the place where they had met them
first. After meeting them thus, three or four times in all, it became
a point of mere civility to old acquaintances that the Major should go
there one evening. Mr Dombey had not originally intended to pay visits,
but on the Major announcing this intention, he said he would have the
pleasure of accompanying him. So the Major told the Native to go round
before dinner, and say, with his and Mr Dombey's compliments, that they
would have the honour of visiting the ladies that same evening, if the
ladies were alone. In answer to which message, the Native brought back a
very small note with a very large quantity of scent about it, indited by
the Honourable Mrs Skewton to Major Bagstock, and briefly saying, 'You
are a shocking bear and I have a great mind not to forgive you, but
if you are very good indeed,' which was underlined, 'you may come.
Compliments (in which Edith unites) to Mr Dombey.'

The Honourable Mrs Skewton and her daughter, Mrs Granger, resided, while
at Leamington, in lodgings that were fashionable enough and dear enough,
but rather limited in point of space and conveniences; so that the
Honourable Mrs Skewton, being in bed, had her feet in the window and
her head in the fireplace, while the Honourable Mrs Skewton's maid was
quartered in a closet within the drawing-room, so extremely small, that,
to avoid developing the whole of its accommodations, she was obliged to
writhe in and out of the door like a beautiful serpent. Withers, the
wan page, slept out of the house immediately under the tiles at a
neighbouring milk-shop; and the wheeled chair, which was the stone of
that young Sisyphus, passed the night in a shed belonging to the same
dairy, where new-laid eggs were produced by the poultry connected with
the establishment, who roosted on a broken donkey-cart, persuaded, to
all appearance, that it grew there, and was a species of tree.

Mr Dombey and the Major found Mrs Skewton arranged, as Cleopatra,
among the cushions of a sofa: very airily dressed; and certainly not
resembling Shakespeare's Cleopatra, whom age could not wither. On their
way upstairs they had heard the sound of a harp, but it had ceased
on their being announced, and Edith now stood beside it handsomer and
haughtier than ever. It was a remarkable characteristic of this lady's
beauty that it appeared to vaunt and assert itself without her aid, and
against her will. She knew that she was beautiful: it was impossible
that it could be otherwise: but she seemed with her own pride to defy
her very self.

Whether she held cheap attractions that could only call forth admiration
that was worthless to her, or whether she designed to render them more
precious to admirers by this usage of them, those to whom they were
precious seldom paused to consider.

'I hope, Mrs Granger,' said Mr Dombey, advancing a step towards her, 'we
are not the cause of your ceasing to play?'

'You! oh no!'

'Why do you not go on then, my dearest Edith?' said Cleopatra.

'I left off as I began--of my own fancy.'

The exquisite indifference of her manner in saying this: an indifference
quite removed from dulness or insensibility, for it was pointed with
proud purpose: was well set off by the carelessness with which she drew
her hand across the strings, and came from that part of the room.

'Do you know, Mr Dombey,' said her languishing mother, playing with a
hand-screen, 'that occasionally my dearest Edith and myself actually
almost differ--'

'Not quite, sometimes, Mama?' said Edith.

'Oh never quite, my darling! Fie, fie, it would break my heart,'
returned her mother, making a faint attempt to pat her with the
screen, which Edith made no movement to meet, '--about these old
conventionalities of manner that are observed in little things? Why are
we not more natural? Dear me! With all those yearnings, and gushings,
and impulsive throbbings that we have implanted in our souls, and which
are so very charming, why are we not more natural?'

Mr Dombey said it was very true, very true.

'We could be more natural I suppose if we tried?' said Mrs Skewton.

Mr Dombey thought it possible.

'Devil a bit, Ma'am,' said the Major. 'We couldn't afford it. Unless the
world was peopled with J.B.'s--tough and blunt old Joes, Ma'am, plain
red herrings with hard roes, Sir--we couldn't afford it. It wouldn't
do.'

'You naughty Infidel,' said Mrs Skewton, 'be mute.'

'Cleopatra commands,' returned the Major, kissing his hand, 'and Antony
Bagstock obeys.'

'The man has no sensitiveness,' said Mrs Skewton, cruelly holding up the
hand-screen so as to shut the Major out. 'No sympathy. And what do we
live for but sympathy! What else is so extremely charming! Without that
gleam of sunshine on our cold cold earth,' said Mrs Skewton, arranging
her lace tucker, and complacently observing the effect of her bare lean
arm, looking upward from the wrist, 'how could we possibly bear it? In
short, obdurate man!' glancing at the Major, round the screen, 'I would
have my world all heart; and Faith is so excessively charming, that I
won't allow you to disturb it, do you hear?'

The Major replied that it was hard in Cleopatra to require the world to
be all heart, and yet to appropriate to herself the hearts of all
the world; which obliged Cleopatra to remind him that flattery was
insupportable to her, and that if he had the boldness to address her in
that strain any more, she would positively send him home.

Withers the Wan, at this period, handing round the tea, Mr Dombey again
addressed himself to Edith.

'There is not much company here, it would seem?' said Mr Dombey, in his
own portentous gentlemanly way.

'I believe not. We see none.'

'Why really,' observed Mrs Skewton from her couch, 'there are no people
here just now with whom we care to associate.'

'They have not enough heart,' said Edith, with a smile. The very
twilight of a smile: so singularly were its light and darkness blended.

'My dearest Edith rallies me, you see!' said her mother, shaking her
head: which shook a little of itself sometimes, as if the palsy twinkled
now and then in opposition to the diamonds. 'Wicked one!'

'You have been here before, if I am not mistaken?' said Mr Dombey. Still
to Edith.

'Oh, several times. I think we have been everywhere.'

'A beautiful country!'

'I suppose it is. Everybody says so.'

'Your cousin Feenix raves about it, Edith,' interposed her mother from
her couch.

The daughter slightly turned her graceful head, and raising her eyebrows
by a hair's-breadth, as if her cousin Feenix were of all the mortal
world the least to be regarded, turned her eyes again towards Mr Dombey.

'I hope, for the credit of my good taste, that I am tired of the
neighbourhood,' she said.

'You have almost reason to be, Madam,' he replied, glancing at a variety
of landscape drawings, of which he had already recognised several
as representing neighbouring points of view, and which were strewn
abundantly about the room, 'if these beautiful productions are from your
hand.'

She gave him no reply, but sat in a disdainful beauty, quite amazing.

'Have they that interest?' said Mr Dombey. 'Are they yours?'

'Yes.'

'And you play, I already know.'

'Yes.'

'And sing?'

'Yes.'

She answered all these questions with a strange reluctance; and with
that remarkable air of opposition to herself, already noticed as
belonging to her beauty. Yet she was not embarrassed, but wholly
self-possessed. Neither did she seem to wish to avoid the conversation,
for she addressed her face, and--so far as she could--her manner also,
to him; and continued to do so, when he was silent.

'You have many resources against weariness at least,' said Mr Dombey.

'Whatever their efficiency may be,' she returned, 'you know them all
now. I have no more.'

'May I hope to prove them all?' said Mr Dombey, with solemn gallantry,
laying down a drawing he had held, and motioning towards the harp.

'Oh certainly! If you desire it!'

She rose as she spoke, and crossing by her mother's couch, and directing
a stately look towards her, which was instantaneous in its duration, but
inclusive (if anyone had seen it) of a multitude of expressions, among
which that of the twilight smile, without the smile itself, overshadowed
all the rest, went out of the room.

The Major, who was quite forgiven by this time, had wheeled a little
table up to Cleopatra, and was sitting down to play picquet with her. Mr
Dombey, not knowing the game, sat down to watch them for his edification
until Edith should return.

'We are going to have some music, Mr Dombey, I hope?' said Cleopatra.

'Mrs Granger has been kind enough to promise so,' said Mr Dombey.

'Ah! That's very nice. Do you propose, Major?'

'No, Ma'am,' said the Major. 'Couldn't do it.'

'You're a barbarous being,' replied the lady, 'and my hand's destroyed.
You are fond of music, Mr Dombey?'

'Eminently so,' was Mr Dombey's answer.

'Yes. It's very nice,' said Cleopatra, looking at her cards. 'So
much heart in it--undeveloped recollections of a previous state of
existence--and all that--which is so truly charming. Do you know,'
simpered Cleopatra, reversing the knave of clubs, who had come into her
game with his heels uppermost, 'that if anything could tempt me to put
a period to my life, it would be curiosity to find out what it's all
about, and what it means; there are so many provoking mysteries, really,
that are hidden from us. Major, you to play!'

The Major played; and Mr Dombey, looking on for his instruction,
would soon have been in a state of dire confusion, but that he gave no
attention to the game whatever, and sat wondering instead when Edith
would come back.

She came at last, and sat down to her harp, and Mr Dombey rose and stood
beside her, listening. He had little taste for music, and no knowledge
of the strain she played, but he saw her bending over it, and perhaps
he heard among the sounding strings some distant music of his own, that
tamed the monster of the iron road, and made it less inexorable.

Cleopatra had a sharp eye, verily, at picquet. It glistened like a
bird's, and did not fix itself upon the game, but pierced the room from
end to end, and gleamed on harp, performer, listener, everything.

When the haughty beauty had concluded, she arose, and receiving Mr
Dombey's thanks and compliments in exactly the same manner as before,
went with scarcely any pause to the piano, and began there.

Edith Granger, any song but that! Edith Granger, you are very handsome,
and your touch upon the keys is brilliant, and your voice is deep and
rich; but not the air that his neglected daughter sang to his dead son!

Alas, he knows it not; and if he did, what air of hers would stir him,
rigid man! Sleep, lonely Florence, sleep! Peace in thy dreams, although
the night has turned dark, and the clouds are gathering, and threaten to
discharge themselves in hail!

Shortly after arriving, Bagstock and Dombey run into Mrs. Skewton, an acquaintance of Bagstock's, and her young widowed daughter Mrs. Edith Granger. Bagstock explains that Edith lost both her first husband, and a young son, and, while very beautiful, has rejected many offers of a second marriage. They are not wealthy, but come from a good family