Paul had never risen from his little bed. He lay there, listening to
the noises in the street, quite tranquilly; not caring much how the time
went, but watching it and watching everything about him with observing
eyes.

When the sunbeams struck into his room through the rustling blinds, and
quivered on the opposite wall like golden water, he knew that evening
was coming on, and that the sky was red and beautiful. As the reflection
died away, and a gloom went creeping up the wall, he watched it deepen,
deepen, deepen, into night. Then he thought how the long streets were
dotted with lamps, and how the peaceful stars were shining overhead. His
fancy had a strange tendency to wander to the river, which he knew was
flowing through the great city; and now he thought how black it was,
and how deep it would look, reflecting the hosts of stars--and more than
all, how steadily it rolled away to meet the sea.

As it grew later in the night, and footsteps in the street became so
rare that he could hear them coming, count them as they passed, and lose
them in the hollow distance, he would lie and watch the many-coloured
ring about the candle, and wait patiently for day. His only trouble was,
the swift and rapid river. He felt forced, sometimes, to try to stop
it--to stem it with his childish hands--or choke its way with sand--and
when he saw it coming on, resistless, he cried out! But a word from
Florence, who was always at his side, restored him to himself; and
leaning his poor head upon her breast, he told Floy of his dream, and
smiled.

When day began to dawn again, he watched for the sun; and when
its cheerful light began to sparkle in the room, he pictured to
himself--pictured! he saw--the high church towers rising up into the
morning sky, the town reviving, waking, starting into life once more,
the river glistening as it rolled (but rolling fast as ever), and the
country bright with dew. Familiar sounds and cries came by degrees into
the street below; the servants in the house were roused and busy; faces
looked in at the door, and voices asked his attendants softly how he
was. Paul always answered for himself, 'I am better. I am a great deal
better, thank you! Tell Papa so!'

By little and little, he got tired of the bustle of the day, the noise
of carriages and carts, and people passing and repassing; and would fall
asleep, or be troubled with a restless and uneasy sense again--the
child could hardly tell whether this were in his sleeping or his waking
moments--of that rushing river. 'Why, will it never stop, Floy?' he
would sometimes ask her. 'It is bearing me away, I think!'

But Floy could always soothe and reassure him; and it was his daily
delight to make her lay her head down on his pillow, and take some rest.

'You are always watching me, Floy, let me watch you, now!' They would
prop him up with cushions in a corner of his bed, and there he would
recline the while she lay beside him: bending forward oftentimes to kiss
her, and whispering to those who were near that she was tired, and how
she had sat up so many nights beside him.

Thus, the flush of the day, in its heat and light, would gradually
decline; and again the golden water would be dancing on the wall.

He was visited by as many as three grave doctors--they used to assemble
downstairs, and come up together--and the room was so quiet, and Paul
was so observant of them (though he never asked of anybody what they
said), that he even knew the difference in the sound of their watches.
But his interest centred in Sir Parker Peps, who always took his seat
on the side of the bed. For Paul had heard them say long ago, that that
gentleman had been with his Mama when she clasped Florence in her arms,
and died. And he could not forget it, now. He liked him for it. He was
not afraid.

The people round him changed as unaccountably as on that first night at
Doctor Blimber's--except Florence; Florence never changed--and what had
been Sir Parker Peps, was now his father, sitting with his head upon
his hand. Old Mrs Pipchin dozing in an easy chair, often changed to Miss
Tox, or his aunt; and Paul was quite content to shut his eyes again, and
see what happened next, without emotion. But this figure with its head
upon its hand returned so often, and remained so long, and sat so still
and solemn, never speaking, never being spoken to, and rarely lifting up
its face, that Paul began to wonder languidly, if it were real; and in
the night-time saw it sitting there, with fear.

'Floy!' he said. 'What is that?'

'Where, dearest?'

'There! at the bottom of the bed.'

'There's nothing there, except Papa!'

The figure lifted up its head, and rose, and coming to the bedside,
said: 'My own boy! Don't you know me?'

Paul looked it in the face, and thought, was this his father? But the
face so altered to his thinking, thrilled while he gazed, as if it were
in pain; and before he could reach out both his hands to take it between
them, and draw it towards him, the figure turned away quickly from the
little bed, and went out at the door.

Paul looked at Florence with a fluttering heart, but he knew what she
was going to say, and stopped her with his face against her lips. The
next time he observed the figure sitting at the bottom of the bed, he
called to it.

'Don't be sorry for me, dear Papa! Indeed I am quite happy!'

His father coming and bending down to him--which he did quickly, and
without first pausing by the bedside--Paul held him round the neck, and
repeated those words to him several times, and very earnestly; and Paul
never saw him in his room again at any time, whether it were day or
night, but he called out, 'Don't be sorry for me! Indeed I am quite
happy!' This was the beginning of his always saying in the morning that
he was a great deal better, and that they were to tell his father so.

How many times the golden water danced upon the wall; how many nights
the dark, dark river rolled towards the sea in spite of him; Paul never
counted, never sought to know. If their kindness, or his sense of it,
could have increased, they were more kind, and he more grateful every
day; but whether they were many days or few, appeared of little moment
now, to the gentle boy.

One night he had been thinking of his mother, and her picture in the
drawing-room downstairs, and thought she must have loved sweet Florence
better than his father did, to have held her in her arms when she felt
that she was dying--for even he, her brother, who had such dear love
for her, could have no greater wish than that. The train of thought
suggested to him to inquire if he had ever seen his mother? for he could
not remember whether they had told him, yes or no, the river running
very fast, and confusing his mind.

'Floy, did I ever see Mama?'

'No, darling, why?'

'Did I ever see any kind face, like Mama's, looking at me when I was a
baby, Floy?'

He asked, incredulously, as if he had some vision of a face before him.

'Oh yes, dear!'

'Whose, Floy?'

'Your old nurse's. Often.'

'And where is my old nurse?' said Paul. 'Is she dead too? Floy, are we
all dead, except you?'

There was a hurry in the room, for an instant--longer, perhaps; but it
seemed no more--then all was still again; and Florence, with her face
quite colourless, but smiling, held his head upon her arm. Her arm
trembled very much.

'Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please!'

'She is not here, darling. She shall come to-morrow.'

'Thank you, Floy!'

Paul closed his eyes with those words, and fell asleep. When he awoke,
the sun was high, and the broad day was clear and warm. He lay a little,
looking at the windows, which were open, and the curtains rustling in
the air, and waving to and fro: then he said, 'Floy, is it tomorrow? Is
she come?'

Someone seemed to go in quest of her. Perhaps it was Susan. Paul thought
he heard her telling him when he had closed his eyes again, that she
would soon be back; but he did not open them to see. She kept her
word--perhaps she had never been away--but the next thing that happened
was a noise of footsteps on the stairs, and then Paul woke--woke mind
and body--and sat upright in his bed. He saw them now about him. There
was no grey mist before them, as there had been sometimes in the night.
He knew them every one, and called them by their names.

'And who is this? Is this my old nurse?' said the child, regarding with
a radiant smile, a figure coming in.

Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those tears at sight of
him, and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her own poor blighted
child. No other woman would have stooped down by his bed, and taken up
his wasted hand, and put it to her lips and breast, as one who had some
right to fondle it. No other woman would have so forgotten everybody
there but him and Floy, and been so full of tenderness and pity.

'Floy! this is a kind good face!' said Paul. 'I am glad to see it again.
Don't go away, old nurse! Stay here.'

His senses were all quickened, and he heard a name he knew.

'Who was that, who said "Walter"?' he asked, looking round. 'Someone
said Walter. Is he here? I should like to see him very much.'

Nobody replied directly; but his father soon said to Susan, 'Call him
back, then: let him come up!' Alter a short pause of expectation, during
which he looked with smiling interest and wonder, on his nurse, and saw
that she had not forgotten Floy, Walter was brought into the room.
His open face and manner, and his cheerful eyes, had always made him a
favourite with Paul; and when Paul saw him' he stretched Out his hand,
and said 'Good-bye!'

'Good-bye, my child!' said Mrs Pipchin, hurrying to his bed's head. 'Not
good-bye?'

For an instant, Paul looked at her with the wistful face with which he
had so often gazed upon her in his corner by the fire. 'Yes,' he said
placidly, 'good-bye! Walter dear, good-bye!'--turning his head to where
he stood, and putting out his hand again. 'Where is Papa?'

He felt his father's breath upon his cheek, before the words had parted
from his lips.

'Remember Walter, dear Papa,' he whispered, looking in his face.
'Remember Walter. I was fond of Walter!' The feeble hand waved in the
air, as if it cried 'good-bye!' to Walter once again.

'Now lay me down,' he said, 'and, Floy, come close to me, and let me see
you!'

Sister and brother wound their arms around each other, and the golden
light came streaming in, and fell upon them, locked together.

'How fast the river runs, between its green banks and the rushes, Floy!
But it's very near the sea. I hear the waves! They always said so!'

Presently he told her the motion of the boat upon the stream was lulling
him to rest. How green the banks were now, how bright the flowers
growing on them, and how tall the rushes! Now the boat was out at sea,
but gliding smoothly on. And now there was a shore before him. Who stood
on the bank?--

He put his hands together, as he had been used to do at his prayers. He
did not remove his arms to do it; but they saw him fold them so, behind
her neck.

'Mama is like you, Floy. I know her by the face! But tell them that the
print upon the stairs at school is not divine enough. The light about
the head is shining on me as I go!'

The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred
in the room. The old, old fashion! The fashion that came in with our
first garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run its
course, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, old
fashion--Death!

Oh thank GOD, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of
Immortality! And look upon us, angels of young children, with regards
not quite estranged, when the swift river bears us to the ocean!

'Dear me, dear me! To think,' said Miss Tox, bursting out afresh that
night, as if her heart were broken, 'that Dombey and Son should be a
Daughter after all!'

Paul says his farewells to Walter and Richards, and then dies in the arms of his sister


Captain Cuttle, in the exercise of that surprising talent for deep-laid
and unfathomable scheming, with which (as is not unusual in men of
transparent simplicity) he sincerely believed himself to be endowed by
nature, had gone to Mr Dombey's house on the eventful Sunday, winking
all the way as a vent for his superfluous sagacity, and had presented
himself in the full lustre of the ankle-jacks before the eyes of
Towlinson. Hearing from that individual, to his great concern, of the
impending calamity, Captain Cuttle, in his delicacy, sheered off
again confounded; merely handing in the nosegay as a small mark of his
solicitude, and leaving his respectful compliments for the family in
general, which he accompanied with an expression of his hope that they
would lay their heads well to the wind under existing circumstances, and
a friendly intimation that he would 'look up again' to-morrow.

The Captain's compliments were never heard of any more. The Captain's
nosegay, after lying in the hall all night, was swept into the dust-bin
next morning; and the Captain's sly arrangement, involved in one
catastrophe with greater hopes and loftier designs, was crushed to
pieces. So, when an avalanche bears down a mountain-forest, twigs and
bushes suffer with the trees, and all perish together.

When Walter returned home on the Sunday evening from his long walk, and
its memorable close, he was too much occupied at first by the tidings he
had to give them, and by the emotions naturally awakened in his breast
by the scene through which he had passed, to observe either that his
Uncle was evidently unacquainted with the intelligence the Captain had
undertaken to impart, or that the Captain made signals with his hook,
warning him to avoid the subject. Not that the Captain's signals were
calculated to have proved very comprehensible, however attentively
observed; for, like those Chinese sages who are said in their
conferences to write certain learned words in the air that are wholly
impossible of pronunciation, the Captain made such waves and flourishes
as nobody without a previous knowledge of his mystery, would have been
at all likely to understand.

Captain Cuttle, however, becoming cognisant of what had happened,
relinquished these attempts, as he perceived the slender chance that now
existed of his being able to obtain a little easy chat with Mr Dombey
before the period of Walter's departure. But in admitting to himself,
with a disappointed and crestfallen countenance, that Sol Gills must
be told, and that Walter must go--taking the case for the present as he
found it, and not having it enlightened or improved beforehand by the
knowing management of a friend--the Captain still felt an unabated
confidence that he, Ned Cuttle, was the man for Mr Dombey; and that, to
set Walter's fortunes quite square, nothing was wanted but that they two
should come together. For the Captain never could forget how well he and
Mr Dombey had got on at Brighton; with what nicety each of them had put
in a word when it was wanted; how exactly they had taken one another's
measure; nor how Ned Cuttle had pointed out that resources in the first
extremity, and had brought the interview to the desired termination. On
all these grounds the Captain soothed himself with thinking that though
Ned Cuttle was forced by the pressure of events to 'stand by' almost
useless for the present, Ned would fetch up with a wet sail in good
time, and carry all before him.

Under the influence of this good-natured delusion, Captain Cuttle even
went so far as to revolve in his own bosom, while he sat looking at
Walter and listening with a tear on his shirt-collar to what he related,
whether it might not be at once genteel and politic to give Mr Dombey a
verbal invitation, whenever they should meet, to come and cut his mutton
in Brig Place on some day of his own naming, and enter on the question
of his young friend's prospects over a social glass. But the uncertain
temper of Mrs MacStinger, and the possibility of her setting up her rest
in the passage during such an entertainment, and there delivering
some homily of an uncomplimentary nature, operated as a check on the
Captain's hospitable thoughts, and rendered him timid of giving them
encouragement.

One fact was quite clear to the Captain, as Walter, sitting thoughtfully
over his untasted dinner, dwelt on all that had happened; namely, that
however Walter's modesty might stand in the way of his perceiving it
himself, he was, as one might say, a member of Mr Dombey's family.
He had been, in his own person, connected with the incident he so
pathetically described; he had been by name remembered and commended
in close association with it; and his fortunes must have a particular
interest in his employer's eyes. If the Captain had any lurking doubt
whatever of his own conclusions, he had not the least doubt that they
were good conclusions for the peace of mind of the Instrument-maker.
Therefore he availed himself of so favourable a moment for breaking
the West Indian intelligence to his friend, as a piece of extraordinary
preferment; declaring that for his part he would freely give a hundred
thousand pounds (if he had it) for Walter's gain in the long-run, and
that he had no doubt such an investment would yield a handsome premium.

Solomon Gills was at first stunned by the communication, which fell
upon the little back-parlour like a thunderbolt, and tore up the hearth
savagely. But the Captain flashed such golden prospects before his dim
sight: hinted so mysteriously at Whittingtonian consequences; laid such
emphasis on what Walter had just now told them: and appealed to it so
confidently as a corroboration of his predictions, and a great advance
towards the realisation of the romantic legend of Lovely Peg: that he
bewildered the old man. Walter, for his part, feigned to be so full of
hope and ardour, and so sure of coming home again soon, and backed up
the Captain with such expressive shakings of his head and rubbings of
his hands, that Solomon, looking first at him then at Captain Cuttle,
began to think he ought to be transported with joy.

'But I'm behind the time, you understand,' he observed in apology,
passing his hand nervously down the whole row of bright buttons on his
coat, and then up again, as if they were beads and he were telling
them twice over: 'and I would rather have my dear boy here. It's
an old-fashioned notion, I daresay. He was always fond of the sea
He's'--and he looked wistfully at Walter--'he's glad to go.'

'Uncle Sol!' cried Walter, quickly, 'if you say that, I won't go. No,
Captain Cuttle, I won't. If my Uncle thinks I could be glad to leave
him, though I was going to be made Governor of all the Islands in the
West Indies, that's enough. I'm a fixture.'

'Wal'r, my lad,' said the Captain. 'Steady! Sol Gills, take an
observation of your nevy.'

Following with his eyes the majestic action of the Captain's hook, the
old man looked at Walter.

'Here is a certain craft,' said the Captain, with a magnificent sense of
the allegory into which he was soaring, 'a-going to put out on a certain
voyage. What name is wrote upon that craft indelibly? Is it The Gay?
or,' said the Captain, raising his voice as much as to say, observe the
point of this, 'is it The Gills?'

'Ned,' said the old man, drawing Walter to his side, and taking his
arm tenderly through his, 'I know. I know. Of course I know that Wally
considers me more than himself always. That's in my mind. When I say
he is glad to go, I mean I hope he is. Eh? look you, Ned and you too,
Wally, my dear, this is new and unexpected to me; and I'm afraid my
being behind the time, and poor, is at the bottom of it. Is it really
good fortune for him, do you tell me, now?' said the old man, looking
anxiously from one to the other. 'Really and truly? Is it? I can
reconcile myself to almost anything that advances Wally, but I won't
have Wally putting himself at any disadvantage for me, or keeping
anything from me. You, Ned Cuttle!' said the old man, fastening on the
Captain, to the manifest confusion of that diplomatist; 'are you dealing
plainly by your old friend? Speak out, Ned Cuttle. Is there anything
behind? Ought he to go? How do you know it first, and why?'

As it was a contest of affection and self-denial, Walter struck in
with infinite effect, to the Captain's relief; and between them they
tolerably reconciled old Sol Gills, by continued talking, to the
project; or rather so confused him, that nothing, not even the pain of
separation, was distinctly clear to his mind.

He had not much time to balance the matter; for on the very next day,
Walter received from Mr Carker the Manager, the necessary credentials
for his passage and outfit, together with the information that the Son
and Heir would sail in a fortnight, or within a day or two afterwards at
latest. In the hurry of preparation: which Walter purposely enhanced as
much as possible: the old man lost what little self-possession he ever
had; and so the time of departure drew on rapidly.

The Captain, who did not fail to make himself acquainted with all that
passed, through inquiries of Walter from day to day, found the time
still tending on towards his going away, without any occasion offering
itself, or seeming likely to offer itself, for a better understanding
of his position. It was after much consideration of this fact, and much
pondering over such an unfortunate combination of circumstances, that
a bright idea occurred to the Captain. Suppose he made a call on Mr
Carker, and tried to find out from him how the land really lay!

Captain Cuttle liked this idea very much. It came upon him in a moment
of inspiration, as he was smoking an early pipe in Brig Place after
breakfast; and it was worthy of the tobacco. It would quiet his
conscience, which was an honest one, and was made a little uneasy by
what Walter had confided to him, and what Sol Gills had said; and it
would be a deep, shrewd act of friendship. He would sound Mr Carker
carefully, and say much or little, just as he read that gentleman's
character, and discovered that they got on well together or the reverse.

Accordingly, without the fear of Walter before his eyes (who he knew
was at home packing), Captain Cuttle again assumed his ankle-jacks
and mourning brooch, and issued forth on this second expedition. He
purchased no propitiatory nosegay on the present occasion, as he was
going to a place of business; but he put a small sunflower in his
button-hole to give himself an agreeable relish of the country; and
with this, and the knobby stick, and the glazed hat, bore down upon the
offices of Dombey and Son.

After taking a glass of warm rum-and-water at a tavern close by, to
collect his thoughts, the Captain made a rush down the court, lest its
good effects should evaporate, and appeared suddenly to Mr Perch.

'Matey,' said the Captain, in persuasive accents. 'One of your Governors
is named Carker.'

Mr Perch admitted it; but gave him to understand, as in official duty
bound, that all his Governors were engaged, and never expected to be
disengaged any more.

'Look'ee here, mate,' said the Captain in his ear; 'my name's Cap'en
Cuttle.'

The Captain would have hooked Perch gently to him, but Mr Perch eluded
the attempt; not so much in design, as in starting at the sudden thought
that such a weapon unexpectedly exhibited to Mrs Perch might, in her
then condition, be destructive to that lady's hopes.

'If you'll be so good as just report Cap'en Cuttle here, when you get a
chance,' said the Captain, 'I'll wait.'

Saying which, the Captain took his seat on Mr Perch's bracket, and
drawing out his handkerchief from the crown of the glazed hat which he
jammed between his knees (without injury to its shape, for nothing human
could bend it), rubbed his head well all over, and appeared refreshed.
He subsequently arranged his hair with his hook, and sat looking round
the office, contemplating the clerks with a serene respect.

The Captain's equanimity was so impenetrable, and he was altogether so
mysterious a being, that Perch the messenger was daunted.

'What name was it you said?' asked Mr Perch, bending down over him as he
sat on the bracket.

'Cap'en,' in a deep hoarse whisper.

'Yes,' said Mr Perch, keeping time with his head.

'Cuttle.'

'Oh!' said Mr Perch, in the same tone, for he caught it, and couldn't
help it; the Captain, in his diplomacy, was so impressive. 'I'll see if
he's disengaged now. I don't know. Perhaps he may be for a minute.'

'Ay, ay, my lad, I won't detain him longer than a minute,' said the
Captain, nodding with all the weighty importance that he felt within
him. Perch, soon returning, said, 'Will Captain Cuttle walk this way?'

Mr Carker the Manager, standing on the hearth-rug before the empty
fireplace, which was ornamented with a castellated sheet of brown paper,
looked at the Captain as he came in, with no very special encouragement.

'Mr Carker?' said Captain Cuttle.

'I believe so,' said Mr Carker, showing all his teeth.

The Captain liked his answering with a smile; it looked pleasant. 'You
see,' began the Captain, rolling his eyes slowly round the little
room, and taking in as much of it as his shirt-collar permitted; 'I'm a
seafaring man myself, Mr Carker, and Wal'r, as is on your books here, is
almost a son of mine.'

'Walter Gay?' said Mr Carker, showing all his teeth again.

'Wal'r Gay it is,' replied the Captain, 'right!' The Captain's manner
expressed a warm approval of Mr Carker's quickness of perception. 'I'm a
intimate friend of his and his Uncle's. Perhaps,' said the Captain, 'you
may have heard your head Governor mention my name?--Captain Cuttle.'

'No!' said Mr Carker, with a still wider demonstration than before.

'Well,' resumed the Captain, 'I've the pleasure of his acquaintance.
I waited upon him down on the Sussex coast there, with my young friend
Wal'r, when--in short, when there was a little accommodation wanted.'
The Captain nodded his head in a manner that was at once comfortable,
easy, and expressive. 'You remember, I daresay?'

'I think,' said Mr Carker, 'I had the honour of arranging the business.'

'To be sure!' returned the Captain. 'Right again! you had. Now I've took
the liberty of coming here--

'Won't you sit down?' said Mr Carker, smiling.

'Thank'ee,' returned the Captain, availing himself of the offer. 'A man
does get more way upon himself, perhaps, in his conversation, when he
sits down. Won't you take a cheer yourself?'

'No thank you,' said the Manager, standing, perhaps from the force of
winter habit, with his back against the chimney-piece, and looking down
upon the Captain with an eye in every tooth and gum. 'You have taken the
liberty, you were going to say--though it's none--'

'Thank'ee kindly, my lad,' returned the Captain: 'of coming here, on
account of my friend Wal'r. Sol Gills, his Uncle, is a man of science,
and in science he may be considered a clipper; but he ain't what I
should altogether call a able seaman--not man of practice. Wal'r is as
trim a lad as ever stepped; but he's a little down by the head in one
respect, and that is, modesty. Now what I should wish to put to
you,' said the Captain, lowering his voice, and speaking in a kind of
confidential growl, 'in a friendly way, entirely between you and me, and
for my own private reckoning, 'till your head Governor has wore round a
bit, and I can come alongside of him, is this.--Is everything right and
comfortable here, and is Wal'r out'ard bound with a pretty fair wind?'

'What do you think now, Captain Cuttle?' returned Carker, gathering up
his skirts and settling himself in his position. 'You are a practical
man; what do you think?'

The acuteness and the significance of the Captain's eye as he cocked
it in reply, no words short of those unutterable Chinese words before
referred to could describe.

'Come!' said the Captain, unspeakably encouraged, 'what do you say? Am I
right or wrong?'

So much had the Captain expressed in his eye, emboldened and incited
by Mr Carker's smiling urbanity, that he felt himself in as fair a
condition to put the question, as if he had expressed his sentiments
with the utmost elaboration.

'Right,' said Mr Carker, 'I have no doubt.'

'Out'ard bound with fair weather, then, I say,' cried Captain Cuttle.

Mr Carker smiled assent.

'Wind right astarn, and plenty of it,' pursued the Captain.

Mr Carker smiled assent again.

'Ay, ay!' said Captain Cuttle, greatly relieved and pleased. 'I know'd
how she headed, well enough; I told Wal'r so. Thank'ee, thank'ee.'

'Gay has brilliant prospects,' observed Mr Carker, stretching his mouth
wider yet: 'all the world before him.'

'All the world and his wife too, as the saying is,' returned the
delighted Captain.

At the word 'wife' (which he had uttered without design), the Captain
stopped, cocked his eye again, and putting the glazed hat on the top
of the knobby stick, gave it a twirl, and looked sideways at his always
smiling friend.

'I'd bet a gill of old Jamaica,' said the Captain, eyeing him
attentively, 'that I know what you're a smiling at.'

Mr Carker took his cue, and smiled the more.

'It goes no farther?' said the Captain, making a poke at the door with
the knobby stick to assure himself that it was shut.

'Not an inch,' said Mr Carker.

'You're thinking of a capital F perhaps?' said the Captain.

Mr Carker didn't deny it.

'Anything about a L,' said the Captain, 'or a O?'

Mr Carker still smiled.

'Am I right, again?' inquired the Captain in a whisper, with the scarlet
circle on his forehead swelling in his triumphant joy.

Mr Carker, in reply, still smiling, and now nodding assent, Captain
Cuttle rose and squeezed him by the hand, assuring him, warmly, that
they were on the same tack, and that as for him (Cuttle) he had laid his
course that way all along. 'He know'd her first,' said the Captain, with
all the secrecy and gravity that the subject demanded, 'in an uncommon
manner--you remember his finding her in the street when she was a'most
a babby--he has liked her ever since, and she him, as much as two
youngsters can. We've always said, Sol Gills and me, that they was cut
out for each other.'

A cat, or a monkey, or a hyena, or a death's-head, could not have shown
the Captain more teeth at one time, than Mr Carker showed him at this
period of their interview.

'There's a general indraught that way,' observed the happy Captain.
'Wind and water sets in that direction, you see. Look at his being
present t'other day!'

'Most favourable to his hopes,' said Mr Carker.

'Look at his being towed along in the wake of that day!' pursued the
Captain. 'Why what can cut him adrift now?'

'Nothing,' replied Mr Carker.

'You're right again,' returned the Captain, giving his hand another
squeeze. 'Nothing it is. So! steady! There's a son gone: pretty little
creetur. Ain't there?'

'Yes, there's a son gone,' said the acquiescent Carker.

'Pass the word, and there's another ready for you,' quoth the Captain.
'Nevy of a scientific Uncle! Nevy of Sol Gills! Wal'r! Wal'r, as is
already in your business! And'--said the Captain, rising gradually to
a quotation he was preparing for a final burst, 'who--comes from Sol
Gills's daily, to your business, and your buzzums.'

The Captain's complacency as he gently jogged Mr Carker with his elbow,
on concluding each of the foregoing short sentences, could be surpassed
by nothing but the exultation with which he fell back and eyed him when
he had finished this brilliant display of eloquence and sagacity; his
great blue waistcoat heaving with the throes of such a masterpiece, and
his nose in a state of violent inflammation from the same cause.

'Am I right?' said the Captain.

'Captain Cuttle,' said Mr Carker, bending down at the knees, for a
moment, in an odd manner, as if he were falling together to hug the
whole of himself at once, 'your views in reference to Walter Gay are
thoroughly and accurately right. I understand that we speak together in
confidence.

'Honour!' interposed the Captain. 'Not a word.'

'To him or anyone?' pursued the Manager.

Captain Cuttle frowned and shook his head.

'But merely for your own satisfaction and guidance--and guidance, of
course,' repeated Mr Carker, 'with a view to your future proceedings.'

'Thank'ee kindly, I am sure,' said the Captain, listening with great
attention.

'I have no hesitation in saying, that's the fact. You have hit the
probabilities exactly.'

'And with regard to your head Governor,' said the Captain, 'why an
interview had better come about nat'ral between us. There's time
enough.'

Mr Carker, with his mouth from ear to ear, repeated, 'Time enough.' Not
articulating the words, but bowing his head affably, and forming them
with his tongue and lips.

'And as I know--it's what I always said--that Wal'r's in a way to make
his fortune,' said the Captain.

'To make his fortune,' Mr Carker repeated, in the same dumb manner.

'And as Wal'r's going on this little voyage is, as I may say, in his
day's work, and a part of his general expectations here,' said the
Captain.

'Of his general expectations here,' assented Mr Carker, dumbly as
before.

'Why, so long as I know that,' pursued the Captain, 'there's no hurry,
and my mind's at ease.

Mr Carker still blandly assenting in the same voiceless manner, Captain
Cuttle was strongly confirmed in his opinion that he was one of the most
agreeable men he had ever met, and that even Mr Dombey might improve
himself on such a model. With great heartiness, therefore, the Captain
once again extended his enormous hand (not unlike an old block in
colour), and gave him a grip that left upon his smoother flesh a proof
impression of the chinks and crevices with which the Captain's palm was
liberally tattooed.

'Farewell!' said the Captain. 'I ain't a man of many words, but I take
it very kind of you to be so friendly, and above-board. You'll excuse me
if I've been at all intruding, will you?' said the Captain.

'Not at all,' returned the other.

'Thank'ee. My berth ain't very roomy,' said the Captain, turning back
again, 'but it's tolerably snug; and if you was to find yourself near
Brig Place, number nine, at any time--will you make a note of it?--and
would come upstairs, without minding what was said by the person at the
door, I should be proud to see you.

With that hospitable invitation, the Captain said 'Good day!' and walked
out and shut the door; leaving Mr Carker still reclining against the
chimney-piece. In whose sly look and watchful manner; in whose false
mouth, stretched but not laughing; in whose spotless cravat and very
whiskers; even in whose silent passing of his soft hand over his white
linen and his smooth face; there was something desperately cat-like.

The unconscious Captain walked out in a state of self-glorification that
imparted quite a new cut to the broad blue suit. 'Stand by, Ned!'
said the Captain to himself. 'You've done a little business for the
youngsters today, my lad!'

In his exultation, and in his familiarity, present and prospective,
with the House, the Captain, when he reached the outer office, could
not refrain from rallying Mr Perch a little, and asking him whether he
thought everybody was still engaged. But not to be bitter on a man who
had done his duty, the Captain whispered in his ear, that if he felt
disposed for a glass of rum-and-water, and would follow, he would be
happy to bestow the same upon him.

Before leaving the premises, the Captain, somewhat to the astonishment
of the clerks, looked round from a central point of view, and took a
general survey of the officers part and parcel of a project in which his
young friend was nearly interested. The strong-room excited his especial
admiration; but, that he might not appear too particular, he limited
himself to an approving glance, and, with a graceful recognition of the
clerks as a body, that was full of politeness and patronage, passed
out into the court. Being promptly joined by Mr Perch, he conveyed that
gentleman to the tavern, and fulfilled his pledge--hastily, for Perch's
time was precious.

'I'll give you for a toast,' said the Captain, 'Wal'r!'

'Who?' submitted Mr Perch.

'Wal'r!' repeated the Captain, in a voice of thunder.

Mr Perch, who seemed to remember having heard in infancy that there was
once a poet of that name, made no objection; but he was much astonished
at the Captain's coming into the City to propose a poet; indeed, if
he had proposed to put a poet's statue up--say Shakespeare's for
example--in a civic thoroughfare, he could hardly have done a greater
outrage to Mr Perch's experience. On the whole, he was such a mysterious
and incomprehensible character, that Mr Perch decided not to mention
him to Mrs Perch at all, in case of giving rise to any disagreeable
consequences.

Mysterious and incomprehensible, the Captain, with that lively sense
upon him of having done a little business for the youngsters, remained
all day, even to his most intimate friends; and but that Walter
attributed his winks and grins, and other such pantomimic reliefs of
himself, to his satisfaction in the success of their innocent deception
upon old Sol Gills, he would assuredly have betrayed himself before
night. As it was, however, he kept his own secret; and went home late
from the Instrument-maker's house, wearing the glazed hat so much on
one side, and carrying such a beaming expression in his eyes, that Mrs
MacStinger (who might have been brought up at Doctor Blimber's, she was
such a Roman matron) fortified herself, at the first glimpse of
him, behind the open street door, and refused to come out to the
contemplation of her blessed infants, until he was securely lodged in
his own room.

Captain Cuttle has delayed telling Sol the news about Walter's new job because he had hoped he could persuade Mr. Dombey to change his mind. However, Paul's death makes that possibility unlikely, so he tells Solomon, making it sound like a good opportunity for Walter. Sol is shocked, but reconciles himself to the idea. Captain Cuttle continues to feel uneasy so he decides to go and speak to Carker. Carker seems to reassure him that Walter has bright prospects in the firm, and Cuttle is too trusting and optimistic to be suspicious. He expresses his hopes of there someday being a marriage between Florence and Walter

In this section, major sources of conflict and trauma are introduced into the novel. While up until this point it may have seemed that Dombey would be the villain of the novel, the introduction of Carker establishes a truly dangerous figure. While Dombey can be proud and cruel, his motives and behaviors are always readily apparent. Carker, on the other hand, clearly plots, schemes, and conceals his true intentions. The tone towards him is sinister from the very beginning. The reveal of Carker's family history and his relationship with his brother John furthers the way in which the novel is critical of family relationships. Carker is capable of completely cutting off his brother and sister if they seem likely to interfere with his plan of advancement. His own pride runs deeper than family sentiment. Similarly, Dombey's resentment and discomfort around the daughter, who acts as an uncomfortable reminder of his failure as a father, is so strong that it prompts him to lash out against Walter by assigning him to the post in the West Indies. In the Victorian era, with travel limited to sea vessels and communication limited to handwritten letters that could take months or years to arrive, this assignment ensured Walter would have virtually no contact with his friends or family. Both the sea voyage and life in the Caribbean, where tropical disease was a common killer, are dangerous. Dombey effectively throws away the life of someone's child because of his own pride and stubbornness. Walter's departure is shown to be deeply traumatic for the individuals who have come to care about him, such as Sol, Cuttle, and Florence. He demonstrates his advancing maturity and a more pragmatic view of the world in the deception he orchestrates. Both he and Florence can sense that Dombey was not acting out of benevolent sentiment in giving him this position; this shows the clarity and intelligence of the youthful figures. Sol and especially Cuttle seem paradoxically more naive in their willingness to hope that this voyage will turn out to be a good opportunity for Walter. Misplaced trust is a theme throughout the novel. Florence tolerates what is effectively emotional abuse from her father because she cannot accept that he is a cruel man at heart. Cuttle, because his innate tendency is to see goodness in people, is too willing to trust Carker and Dombey, a weakness that Carker does not hesitate to exploit. Walter's departure, with all of the uncertainty surrounding whether and when he will see his friends again, mirrors another tragic loss in this section. Paul's death, while heavily foreshadowed, represents a central trauma that will animate much of the rest of the action. It suggests the fragility of life and the insignificance of much of what other characters value. The death, however, is anti-climactic: it seems like it could serve as an epiphany for Dombey, but in fact it just deepens his negative character traits. Rather than leading him to value his only surviving child more, it deepens the gulf between him and Florence. It also makes him even more possessive and jealous of Paul's memory. Rather than realizing that others are also grieving for the child and taking solace in this, he becomes even more bitter and resentful.


There is a hush through Mr Dombey's house. Servants gliding up and
down stairs rustle, but make no sound of footsteps. They talk together
constantly, and sit long at meals, making much of their meat and drink,
and enjoying themselves after a grim unholy fashion. Mrs Wickam, with
her eyes suffused with tears, relates melancholy anecdotes; and tells
them how she always said at Mrs Pipchin's that it would be so, and takes
more table-ale than usual, and is very sorry but sociable. Cook's state
of mind is similar. She promises a little fry for supper, and struggles
about equally against her feelings and the onions. Towlinson begins to
think there's a fate in it, and wants to know if anybody can tell him
of any good that ever came of living in a corner house. It seems to all
of them as having happened a long time ago; though yet the child lies,
calm and beautiful, upon his little bed.

After dark there come some visitors--noiseless visitors, with shoes of
felt--who have been there before; and with them comes that bed of
rest which is so strange a one for infant sleepers. All this time, the
bereaved father has not been seen even by his attendant; for he sits
in an inner corner of his own dark room when anyone is there, and never
seems to move at other times, except to pace it to and fro. But in the
morning it is whispered among the household that he was heard to go
upstairs in the dead night, and that he stayed there--in the room--until
the sun was shining.

At the offices in the City, the ground-glass windows are made more
dim by shutters; and while the lighted lamps upon the desks are half
extinguished by the day that wanders in, the day is half extinguished
by the lamps, and an unusual gloom prevails. There is not much business
done. The clerks are indisposed to work; and they make assignations to
eat chops in the afternoon, and go up the river. Perch, the messenger,
stays long upon his errands; and finds himself in bars of public-houses,
invited thither by friends, and holding forth on the uncertainty of
human affairs. He goes home to Ball's Pond earlier in the evening than
usual, and treats Mrs Perch to a veal cutlet and Scotch ale. Mr Carker
the Manager treats no one; neither is he treated; but alone in his
own room he shows his teeth all day; and it would seem that there is
something gone from Mr Carker's path--some obstacle removed--which
clears his way before him.

Now the rosy children living opposite to Mr Dombey's house, peep from
their nursery windows down into the street; for there are four black
horses at his door, with feathers on their heads; and feathers tremble
on the carriage that they draw; and these, and an array of men with
scarves and staves, attract a crowd. The juggler who was going to twirl
the basin, puts his loose coat on again over his fine dress; and his
trudging wife, one-sided with her heavy baby in her arms, loiters to
see the company come out. But closer to her dingy breast she presses her
baby, when the burden that is so easily carried is borne forth; and
the youngest of the rosy children at the high window opposite, needs
no restraining hand to check her in her glee, when, pointing with her
dimpled finger, she looks into her nurse's face, and asks 'What's that?'

And now, among the knot of servants dressed in mourning, and the weeping
women, Mr Dombey passes through the hall to the other carriage that is
waiting to receive him. He is not 'brought down,' these observers think,
by sorrow and distress of mind. His walk is as erect, his bearing is as
stiff as ever it has been. He hides his face behind no handkerchief, and
looks before him. But that his face is something sunk and rigid, and is
pale, it bears the same expression as of old. He takes his place within
the carriage, and three other gentlemen follow. Then the grand funeral
moves slowly down the street. The feathers are yet nodding in the
distance, when the juggler has the basin spinning on a cane, and has the
same crowd to admire it. But the juggler's wife is less alert than
usual with the money-box, for a child's burial has set her thinking that
perhaps the baby underneath her shabby shawl may not grow up to be a
man, and wear a sky-blue fillet round his head, and salmon-coloured
worsted drawers, and tumble in the mud.

The feathers wind their gloomy way along the streets, and come within
the sound of a church bell. In this same church, the pretty boy received
all that will soon be left of him on earth--a name. All of him that is
dead, they lay there, near the perishable substance of his mother. It
is well. Their ashes lie where Florence in her walks--oh lonely, lonely
walks!--may pass them any day.

The service over, and the clergyman withdrawn, Mr Dombey looks round,
demanding in a low voice, whether the person who has been requested to
attend to receive instructions for the tablet, is there?

Someone comes forward, and says 'Yes.'

Mr Dombey intimates where he would have it placed; and shows him, with
his hand upon the wall, the shape and size; and how it is to follow
the memorial to the mother. Then, with his pencil, he writes out the
inscription, and gives it to him: adding, 'I wish to have it done at
once.

'It shall be done immediately, Sir.'

'There is really nothing to inscribe but name and age, you see.'

The man bows, glancing at the paper, but appears to hesitate. Mr Dombey
not observing his hesitation, turns away, and leads towards the porch.

'I beg your pardon, Sir;' a touch falls gently on his mourning cloak;
'but as you wish it done immediately, and it may be put in hand when I
get back--'

'Well?'

'Will you be so good as read it over again? I think there's a mistake.'

'Where?'

The statuary gives him back the paper, and points out, with his pocket
rule, the words, 'beloved and only child.'

'It should be, "son," I think, Sir?'

'You are right. Of course. Make the correction.'

The father, with a hastier step, pursues his way to the coach. When the
other three, who follow closely, take their seats, his face is hidden
for the first time--shaded by his cloak. Nor do they see it any more
that day. He alights first, and passes immediately into his own room.
The other mourners (who are only Mr Chick, and two of the medical
attendants) proceed upstairs to the drawing-room, to be received by
Mrs Chick and Miss Tox. And what the face is, in the shut-up chamber
underneath: or what the thoughts are: what the heart is, what the
contest or the suffering: no one knows.

The chief thing that they know, below stairs, in the kitchen, is that
'it seems like Sunday.' They can hardly persuade themselves but that
there is something unbecoming, if not wicked, in the conduct of the
people out of doors, who pursue their ordinary occupations, and wear
their everyday attire. It is quite a novelty to have the blinds up, and
the shutters open; and they make themselves dismally comfortable over
bottles of wine, which are freely broached as on a festival. They are
much inclined to moralise. Mr Towlinson proposes with a sigh, 'Amendment
to us all!' for which, as Cook says with another sigh, 'There's room
enough, God knows.' In the evening, Mrs Chick and Miss Tox take to
needlework again. In the evening also, Mr Towlinson goes out to take the
air, accompanied by the housemaid, who has not yet tried her mourning
bonnet. They are very tender to each other at dusky street-corners, and
Towlinson has visions of leading an altered and blameless existence as a
serious greengrocer in Oxford Market.

There is sounder sleep and deeper rest in Mr Dombey's house tonight,
than there has been for many nights. The morning sun awakens the old
household, settled down once more in their old ways. The rosy children
opposite run past with hoops. There is a splendid wedding in the church.
The juggler's wife is active with the money-box in another quarter of
the town. The mason sings and whistles as he chips out P-A-U-L in the
marble slab before him.

And can it be that in a world so full and busy, the loss of one weak
creature makes a void in any heart, so wide and deep that nothing but
the width and depth of vast eternity can fill it up! Florence, in her
innocent affliction, might have answered, 'Oh my brother, oh my dearly
loved and loving brother! Only friend and companion of my slighted
childhood! Could any less idea shed the light already dawning on your
early grave, or give birth to the softened sorrow that is springing into
life beneath this rain of tears!'

'My dear child,' said Mrs Chick, who held it as a duty incumbent on her,
to improve the occasion, 'when you are as old as I am--'

'Which will be the prime of life,' observed Miss Tox.

'You will then,' pursued Mrs Chick, gently squeezing Miss Tox's hand
in acknowledgment of her friendly remark, 'you will then know that all
grief is unavailing, and that it is our duty to submit.'

'I will try, dear aunt I do try,' answered Florence, sobbing.

'I am glad to hear it,' said Mrs Chick, 'because; my love, as our dear
Miss Tox--of whose sound sense and excellent judgment, there cannot
possibly be two opinions--'

'My dear Louisa, I shall really be proud, soon,' said Miss Tox.

'--will tell you, and confirm by her experience,' pursued Mrs Chick,
'we are called upon on all occasions to make an effort It is required of
us. If any--my dear,' turning to Miss Tox, 'I want a word. Mis--Mis-'

'Demeanour?' suggested Miss Tox.

'No, no, no,' said Mrs Chic 'How can you! Goodness me, it's on, the end
of my tongue. Mis-'

'Placed affection?' suggested Miss Tox, timidly.

'Good gracious, Lucretia!' returned Mrs Chick 'How very monstrous!
Misanthrope, is the word I want. The idea! Misplaced affection! I say,
if any misanthrope were to put, in my presence, the question "Why were
we born?" I should reply, "To make an effort".'

'Very good indeed,' said Miss Tox, much impressed by the originality of
the sentiment 'Very good.'

'Unhappily,' pursued Mrs Chick, 'we have a warning under our own eyes.
We have but too much reason to suppose, my dear child, that if an effort
had been made in time, in this family, a train of the most trying and
distressing circumstances might have been avoided. Nothing shall ever
persuade me,' observed the good matron, with a resolute air, 'but that
if that effort had been made by poor dear Fanny, the poor dear darling
child would at least have had a stronger constitution.'

Mrs Chick abandoned herself to her feelings for half a moment; but, as a
practical illustration of her doctrine, brought herself up short, in the
middle of a sob, and went on again.

'Therefore, Florence, pray let us see that you have some strength of
mind, and do not selfishly aggravate the distress in which your poor
Papa is plunged.'

'Dear aunt!' said Florence, kneeling quickly down before her, that she
might the better and more earnestly look into her face. 'Tell me more
about Papa. Pray tell me about him! Is he quite heartbroken?'

Miss Tox was of a tender nature, and there was something in this appeal
that moved her very much. Whether she saw it in a succession, on the
part of the neglected child, to the affectionate concern so often
expressed by her dead brother--or a love that sought to twine itself
about the heart that had loved him, and that could not bear to be shut
out from sympathy with such a sorrow, in such sad community of love and
grief--or whether she only recognised the earnest and devoted spirit
which, although discarded and repulsed, was wrung with tenderness long
unreturned, and in the waste and solitude of this bereavement cried
to him to seek a comfort in it, and to give some, by some small
response--whatever may have been her understanding of it, it moved Miss
Tox. For the moment she forgot the majesty of Mrs Chick, and, patting
Florence hastily on the cheek, turned aside and suffered the tears to
gush from her eyes, without waiting for a lead from that wise matron.

Mrs Chick herself lost, for a moment, the presence of mind on which
she so much prided herself; and remained mute, looking on the beautiful
young face that had so long, so steadily, and patiently, been turned
towards the little bed. But recovering her voice--which was synonymous
with her presence of mind, indeed they were one and the same thing--she
replied with dignity:

'Florence, my dear child, your poor Papa is peculiar at times; and to
question me about him, is to question me upon a subject which I really
do not pretend to understand. I believe I have as much influence with
your Papa as anybody has. Still, all I can say is, that he has said very
little to me; and that I have only seen him once or twice for a minute
at a time, and indeed have hardly seen him then, for his room has been
dark. I have said to your Papa, "Paul!"--that is the exact expression
I used--"Paul! why do you not take something stimulating?" Your Papa's
reply has always been, "Louisa, have the goodness to leave me. I
want nothing. I am better by myself." If I was to be put upon my oath
to-morrow, Lucretia, before a magistrate,' said Mrs Chick, 'I have no
doubt I could venture to swear to those identical words.'

Miss Tox expressed her admiration by saying, 'My Louisa is ever
methodical!'

'In short, Florence,' resumed her aunt, 'literally nothing has passed
between your poor Papa and myself, until to-day; when I mentioned to
your Papa that Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles had written exceedingly kind
notes--our sweet boy! Lady Skettles loved him like a--where's my pocket
handkerchief?'

Miss Tox produced one.

'Exceedingly kind notes, proposing that you should visit them for change
of scene. Mentioning to your Papa that I thought Miss Tox and myself
might now go home (in which he quite agreed), I inquired if he had any
objection to your accepting this invitation. He said, "No, Louisa, not
the least!"'

Florence raised her tearful eye.

'At the same time, if you would prefer staying here, Florence, to paying
this visit at present, or to going home with me--'

'I should much prefer it, aunt,' was the faint rejoinder.

'Why then, child,' said Mrs Chick, 'you can. It's a strange choice, I
must say. But you always were strange. Anybody else at your time of
life, and after what has passed--my dear Miss Tox, I have lost my pocket
handkerchief again--would be glad to leave here, one would suppose.'

'I should not like to feel,' said Florence, 'as if the house was
avoided. I should not like to think that the--his--the rooms upstairs
were quite empty and dreary, aunt. I would rather stay here, for the
present. Oh my brother! oh my brother!'

It was a natural emotion, not to be suppressed; and it would make way
even between the fingers of the hands with which she covered up her
face. The overcharged and heavy-laden breast must some times have that
vent, or the poor wounded solitary heart within it would have fluttered
like a bird with broken wings, and sunk down in the dust.

'Well, child!' said Mrs Chick, after a pause 'I wouldn't on any account
say anything unkind to you, and that I'm sure you know. You will remain
here, then, and do exactly as you like. No one will interfere with you,
Florence, or wish to interfere with you, I'm sure.'

Florence shook her head in sad assent.

'I had no sooner begun to advise your poor Papa that he really ought to
seek some distraction and restoration in a temporary change,' said Mrs
Chick, 'than he told me he had already formed the intention of going
into the country for a short time. I'm sure I hope he'll go very
soon. He can't go too soon. But I suppose there are some arrangements
connected with his private papers and so forth, consequent on the
affliction that has tried us all so much--I can't think what's become of
mine: Lucretia, lend me yours, my dear--that may occupy him for one or
two evenings in his own room. Your Papa's a Dombey, child, if ever there
was one,' said Mrs Chick, drying both her eyes at once with great care
on opposite corners of Miss Tox's handkerchief 'He'll make an effort.
There's no fear of him.'

'Is there nothing, aunt,' said Florence, trembling, 'I might do to--'

'Lord, my dear child,' interposed Mrs Chick, hastily, 'what are you
talking about? If your Papa said to Me--I have given you his exact
words, "Louisa, I want nothing; I am better by myself"--what do you
think he'd say to you? You mustn't show yourself to him, child. Don't
dream of such a thing.'

'Aunt,' said Florence, 'I will go and lie down on my bed.'

Mrs Chick approved of this resolution, and dismissed her with a
kiss. But Miss Tox, on a faint pretence of looking for the mislaid
handkerchief, went upstairs after her; and tried in a few stolen minutes
to comfort her, in spite of great discouragement from Susan Nipper. For
Miss Nipper, in her burning zeal, disparaged Miss Tox as a crocodile;
yet her sympathy seemed genuine, and had at least the vantage-ground of
disinterestedness--there was little favour to be won by it.

And was there no one nearer and dearer than Susan, to uphold the
striving heart in its anguish? Was there no other neck to clasp; no
other face to turn to? no one else to say a soothing word to such deep
sorrow? Was Florence so alone in the bleak world that nothing else
remained to her? Nothing. Stricken motherless and brotherless at
once--for in the loss of little Paul, that first and greatest loss fell
heavily upon her--this was the only help she had. Oh, who can tell how
much she needed help at first!

At first, when the house subsided into its accustomed course, and they
had all gone away, except the servants, and her father shut up in his
own rooms, Florence could do nothing but weep, and wander up and down,
and sometimes, in a sudden pang of desolate remembrance, fly to her
own chamber, wring her hands, lay her face down on her bed, and know
no consolation: nothing but the bitterness and cruelty of grief.
This commonly ensued upon the recognition of some spot or object very
tenderly associated with him; and it made the miserable house, at first,
a place of agony.

But it is not in the nature of pure love to burn so fiercely and
unkindly long. The flame that in its grosser composition has the taint
of earth may prey upon the breast that gives it shelter; but the fire
from heaven is as gentle in the heart, as when it rested on the heads
of the assembled twelve, and showed each man his brother, brightened and
unhurt. The image conjured up, there soon returned the placid face, the
softened voice, the loving looks, the quiet trustfulness and peace; and
Florence, though she wept still, wept more tranquilly, and courted the
remembrance.

It was not very long before the golden water, dancing on the wall, in
the old place, at the old serene time, had her calm eye fixed upon it
as it ebbed away. It was not very long before that room again knew
her, often; sitting there alone, as patient and as mild as when she had
watched beside the little bed. When any sharp sense of its being empty
smote upon her, she could kneel beside it, and pray GOD--it was the
pouring out of her full heart--to let one angel love her and remember
her.

It was not very long before, in the midst of the dismal house so
wide and dreary, her low voice in the twilight, slowly and stopping
sometimes, touched the old air to which he had so often listened, with
his drooping head upon her arm. And after that, and when it was quite
dark, a little strain of music trembled in the room: so softly played
and sung, that it was more like the mournful recollection of what she
had done at his request on that last night, than the reality repeated.
But it was repeated, often--very often, in the shadowy solitude; and
broken murmurs of the strain still trembled on the keys, when the sweet
voice was hushed in tears.

Thus she gained heart to look upon the work with which her fingers had
been busy by his side on the sea-shore; and thus it was not very long
before she took to it again--with something of a human love for it, as
if it had been sentient and had known him; and, sitting in a window,
near her mother's picture, in the unused room so long deserted, wore
away the thoughtful hours.

Why did the dark eyes turn so often from this work to where the rosy
children lived? They were not immediately suggestive of her loss; for
they were all girls: four little sisters. But they were motherless like
her--and had a father.

It was easy to know when he had gone out and was expected home, for the
elder child was always dressed and waiting for him at the drawing-room
window, or on the balcony; and when he appeared, her expectant face
lighted up with joy, while the others at the high window, and always on
the watch too, clapped their hands, and drummed them on the sill, and
called to him. The elder child would come down to the hall, and put
her hand in his, and lead him up the stairs; and Florence would see her
afterwards sitting by his side, or on his knee, or hanging coaxingly
about his neck and talking to him: and though they were always gay
together, he would often watch her face as if he thought her like her
mother that was dead. Florence would sometimes look no more at this,
and bursting into tears would hide behind the curtain as if she were
frightened, or would hurry from the window. Yet she could not help
returning; and her work would soon fall unheeded from her hands again.

It was the house that had been empty, years ago. It had remained so for
a long time. At last, and while she had been away from home, this family
had taken it; and it was repaired and newly painted; and there were
birds and flowers about it; and it looked very different from its old
self. But she never thought of the house. The children and their father
were all in all.

When he had dined, she could see them, through the open windows, go down
with their governess or nurse, and cluster round the table; and in
the still summer weather, the sound of their childish voices and clear
laughter would come ringing across the street, into the drooping air of
the room in which she sat. Then they would climb and clamber upstairs
with him, and romp about him on the sofa, or group themselves at his
knee, a very nosegay of little faces, while he seemed to tell them
some story. Or they would come running out into the balcony; and then
Florence would hide herself quickly, lest it should check them in their
joy, to see her in her black dress, sitting there alone.

The elder child remained with her father when the rest had gone away,
and made his tea for him--happy little house-keeper she was then!--and
sat conversing with him, sometimes at the window, sometimes in the room,
until the candles came. He made her his companion, though she was some
years younger than Florence; and she could be as staid and pleasantly
demure, with her little book or work-box, as a woman. When they had
candles, Florence from her own dark room was not afraid to look again.
But when the time came for the child to say 'Good-night, Papa,' and go
to bed, Florence would sob and tremble as she raised her face to him,
and could look no more.

Though still she would turn, again and again, before going to bed
herself from the simple air that had lulled him to rest so often, long
ago, and from the other low soft broken strain of music, back to that
house. But that she ever thought of it, or watched it, was a secret
which she kept within her own young breast.

And did that breast of Florence--Florence, so ingenuous and true--so
worthy of the love that he had borne her, and had whispered in his last
faint words--whose guileless heart was mirrored in the beauty of her
face, and breathed in every accent of her gentle voice--did that young
breast hold any other secret? Yes. One more.

When no one in the house was stirring, and the lights were all
extinguished, she would softly leave her own room, and with noiseless
feet descend the staircase, and approach her father's door. Against
it, scarcely breathing, she would rest her face and head, and press
her lips, in the yearning of her love. She crouched upon the cold stone
floor outside it, every night, to listen even for his breath; and in
her one absorbing wish to be allowed to show him some affection, to be a
consolation to him, to win him over to the endurance of some tenderness
from her, his solitary child, she would have knelt down at his feet, if
she had dared, in humble supplication.

No one knew it. No one thought of it. The door was ever closed, and he
shut up within. He went out once or twice, and it was said in the house
that he was very soon going on his country journey; but he lived in
those rooms, and lived alone, and never saw her, or inquired for her.
Perhaps he did not even know that she was in the house.

One day, about a week after the funeral, Florence was sitting at her
work, when Susan appeared, with a face half laughing and half crying, to
announce a visitor.

'A visitor! To me, Susan!' said Florence, looking up in astonishment.

'Well, it is a wonder, ain't it now, Miss Floy?' said Susan; 'but I wish
you had a many visitors, I do, indeed, for you'd be all the better for
it, and it's my opinion that the sooner you and me goes even to them old
Skettleses, Miss, the better for both, I may not wish to live in crowds,
Miss Floy, but still I'm not a oyster.'

To do Miss Nipper justice, she spoke more for her young mistress than
herself; and her face showed it.

'But the visitor, Susan,' said Florence.

Susan, with an hysterical explosion that was as much a laugh as a sob,
and as much a sob as a laugh, answered,

'Mr Toots!'

The smile that appeared on Florence's face passed from it in a moment,
and her eyes filled with tears. But at any rate it was a smile, and that
gave great satisfaction to Miss Nipper.

'My own feelings exactly, Miss Floy,' said Susan, putting her apron to
her eyes, and shaking her head. 'Immediately I see that Innocent in the
Hall, Miss Floy, I burst out laughing first, and then I choked.'

Susan Nipper involuntarily proceeded to do the like again on the
spot. In the meantime Mr Toots, who had come upstairs after her, all
unconscious of the effect he produced, announced himself with his
knuckles on the door, and walked in very briskly.

'How d'ye do, Miss Dombey?' said Mr Toots. 'I'm very well, I thank you;
how are you?'

Mr Toots--than whom there were few better fellows in the world, though
there may have been one or two brighter spirits--had laboriously
invented this long burst of discourse with the view of relieving the
feelings both of Florence and himself. But finding that he had
run through his property, as it were, in an injudicious manner, by
squandering the whole before taking a chair, or before Florence had
uttered a word, or before he had well got in at the door, he deemed it
advisable to begin again.

'How d'ye do, Miss Dombey?' said Mr Toots. 'I'm very well, I thank you;
how are you?'

Florence gave him her hand, and said she was very well.

'I'm very well indeed,' said Mr Toots, taking a chair. 'Very well
indeed, I am. I don't remember,' said Mr Toots, after reflecting a
little, 'that I was ever better, thank you.'

'It's very kind of you to come,' said Florence, taking up her work, 'I
am very glad to see you.'

Mr Toots responded with a chuckle. Thinking that might be too lively,
he corrected it with a sigh. Thinking that might be too melancholy, he
corrected it with a chuckle. Not thoroughly pleasing himself with either
mode of reply, he breathed hard.

'You were very kind to my dear brother,' said Florence, obeying her
own natural impulse to relieve him by saying so. 'He often talked to me
about you.'

'Oh it's of no consequence,' said Mr Toots hastily. 'Warm, ain't it?'

'It is beautiful weather,' replied Florence.

'It agrees with me!' said Mr Toots. 'I don't think I ever was so well as
I find myself at present, I'm obliged to you.

After stating this curious and unexpected fact, Mr Toots fell into a
deep well of silence.

'You have left Dr Blimber's, I think?' said Florence, trying to help him
out.

'I should hope so,' returned Mr Toots. And tumbled in again.

He remained at the bottom, apparently drowned, for at least ten minutes.
At the expiration of that period, he suddenly floated, and said,

'Well! Good morning, Miss Dombey.'

'Are you going?' asked Florence, rising.

'I don't know, though. No, not just at present,' said Mr Toots, sitting
down again, most unexpectedly. 'The fact is--I say, Miss Dombey!'

'Don't be afraid to speak to me,' said Florence, with a quiet smile, 'I
should be very glad if you would talk about my brother.'

'Would you, though?' retorted Mr Toots, with sympathy in every fibre
of his otherwise expressionless face. 'Poor Dombey! I'm sure I never
thought that Burgess and Co.--fashionable tailors (but very dear),
that we used to talk about--would make this suit of clothes for such a
purpose.' Mr Toots was dressed in mourning. 'Poor Dombey! I say! Miss
Dombey!' blubbered Toots.

'Yes,' said Florence.

'There's a friend he took to very much at last. I thought you'd lIke to
have him, perhaps, as a sort of keepsake. You remember his remembering
Diogenes?'

'Oh yes! oh yes' cried Florence.

'Poor Dombey! So do I,' said Mr Toots.

Mr Toots, seeing Florence in tears, had great difficulty in getting
beyond this point, and had nearly tumbled into the well again. But a
chuckle saved him on the brink.

'I say,' he proceeded, 'Miss Dombey! I could have had him stolen for ten
shillings, if they hadn't given him up: and I would: but they were glad
to get rid of him, I think. If you'd like to have him, he's at the door.
I brought him on purpose for you. He ain't a lady's dog, you know,' said
Mr Toots, 'but you won't mind that, will you?'

In fact, Diogenes was at that moment, as they presently ascertained from
looking down into the street, staring through the window of a hackney
cabriolet, into which, for conveyance to that spot, he had been
ensnared, on a false pretence of rats among the straw. Sooth to say, he
was as unlike a lady's dog as might be; and in his gruff anxiety to get
out, presented an appearance sufficiently unpromising, as he gave short
yelps out of one side of his mouth, and overbalancing himself by the
intensity of every one of those efforts, tumbled down into the straw,
and then sprung panting up again, putting out his tongue, as if he had
come express to a Dispensary to be examined for his health.

But though Diogenes was as ridiculous a dog as one would meet with on
a summer's day; a blundering, ill-favoured, clumsy, bullet-headed
dog, continually acting on a wrong idea that there was an enemy in the
neighbourhood, whom it was meritorious to bark at; and though he was far
from good-tempered, and certainly was not clever, and had hair all over
his eyes, and a comic nose, and an inconsistent tail, and a gruff voice;
he was dearer to Florence, in virtue of that parting remembrance of him,
and that request that he might be taken care of, than the most valuable
and beautiful of his kind. So dear, indeed, was this same ugly Diogenes,
and so welcome to her, that she took the jewelled hand of Mr Toots and
kissed it in her gratitude. And when Diogenes, released, came tearing
up the stairs and bouncing into the room (such a business as there was,
first, to get him out of the cabriolet!), dived under all the furniture,
and wound a long iron chain, that dangled from his neck, round legs
of chairs and tables, and then tugged at it until his eyes became
unnaturally visible, in consequence of their nearly starting out of his
head; and when he growled at Mr Toots, who affected familiarity; and
went pell-mell at Towlinson, morally convinced that he was the enemy
whom he had barked at round the corner all his life and had never seen
yet; Florence was as pleased with him as if he had been a miracle of
discretion.

Mr Toots was so overjoyed by the success of his present, and was so
delighted to see Florence bending down over Diogenes, smoothing his
coarse back with her little delicate hand--Diogenes graciously allowing
it from the first moment of their acquaintance--that he felt it
difficult to take leave, and would, no doubt, have been a much longer
time in making up his mind to do so, if he had not been assisted by
Diogenes himself, who suddenly took it into his head to bay Mr Toots,
and to make short runs at him with his mouth open. Not exactly seeing
his way to the end of these demonstrations, and sensible that they
placed the pantaloons constructed by the art of Burgess and Co. in
jeopardy, Mr Toots, with chuckles, lapsed out at the door: by which,
after looking in again two or three times, without any object at all,
and being on each occasion greeted with a fresh run from Diogenes, he
finally took himself off and got away.

'Come, then, Di! Dear Di! Make friends with your new mistress. Let us
love each other, Di!' said Florence, fondling his shaggy head. And Di,
the rough and gruff, as if his hairy hide were pervious to the tear that
dropped upon it, and his dog's heart melted as it fell, put his nose up
to her face, and swore fidelity.

Diogenes the man did not speak plainer to Alexander the Great than
Diogenes the dog spoke to Florence. He subscribed to the offer of
his little mistress cheerfully, and devoted himself to her service. A
banquet was immediately provided for him in a corner; and when he had
eaten and drunk his fill, he went to the window where Florence was
sitting, looking on, rose up on his hind legs, with his awkward fore
paws on her shoulders, licked her face and hands, nestled his great
head against her heart, and wagged his tail till he was tired. Finally,
Diogenes coiled himself up at her feet and went to sleep.

Although Miss Nipper was nervous in regard of dogs, and felt it
necessary to come into the room with her skirts carefully collected
about her, as if she were crossing a brook on stepping-stones; also
to utter little screams and stand up on chairs when Diogenes stretched
himself, she was in her own manner affected by the kindness of Mr Toots,
and could not see Florence so alive to the attachment and society
of this rude friend of little Paul's, without some mental comments
thereupon that brought the water to her eyes. Mr Dombey, as a part of
her reflections, may have been, in the association of ideas, connected
with the dog; but, at any rate, after observing Diogenes and his
mistress all the evening, and after exerting herself with much good-will
to provide Diogenes a bed in an ante-chamber outside his mistress's
door, she said hurriedly to Florence, before leaving her for the night:

'Your Pa's a going off, Miss Floy, tomorrow morning.'

'To-morrow morning, Susan?'

'Yes, Miss; that's the orders. Early.'

'Do you know,' asked Florence, without looking at her, 'where Papa is
going, Susan?'

'Not exactly, Miss. He's going to meet that precious Major first, and
I must say if I was acquainted with any Major myself (which Heavens
forbid), it shouldn't be a blue one!'

'Hush, Susan!' urged Florence gently.

'Well, Miss Floy,' returned Miss Nipper, who was full of burning
indignation, and minded her stops even less than usual. 'I can't help
it, blue he is, and while I was a Christian, although humble, I would
have natural-coloured friends, or none.'

It appeared from what she added and had gleaned downstairs, that Mrs
Chick had proposed the Major for Mr Dombey's companion, and that Mr
Dombey, after some hesitation, had invited him.

'Talk of him being a change, indeed!' observed Miss Nipper to herself
with boundless contempt. 'If he's a change, give me a constancy.'

'Good-night, Susan,' said Florence.

'Good-night, my darling dear Miss Floy.'

Her tone of commiseration smote the chord so often roughly touched, but
never listened to while she or anyone looked on. Florence left alone,
laid her head upon her hand, and pressing the other over her swelling
heart, held free communication with her sorrows.

It was a wet night; and the melancholy rain fell pattering and dropping
with a weary sound. A sluggish wind was blowing, and went moaning round
the house, as if it were in pain or grief. A shrill noise quivered
through the trees. While she sat weeping, it grew late, and dreary
midnight tolled out from the steeples.

Florence was little more than a child in years--not yet fourteen--and the
loneliness and gloom of such an hour in the great house where Death
had lately made its own tremendous devastation, might have set an older
fancy brooding on vague terrors. But her innocent imagination was too
full of one theme to admit them. Nothing wandered in her thoughts but
love--a wandering love, indeed, and castaway--but turning always to her
father.

There was nothing in the dropping of the rain, the moaning of the wind,
the shuddering of the trees, the striking of the solemn clocks, that
shook this one thought, or diminished its interest. Her recollections of
the dear dead boy--and they were never absent--were itself, the same
thing. And oh, to be shut out: to be so lost: never to have looked into
her father's face or touched him, since that hour!

She could not go to bed, poor child, and never had gone yet, since then,
without making her nightly pilgrimage to his door. It would have been
a strange sad sight, to see her now, stealing lightly down the stairs
through the thick gloom, and stopping at it with a beating heart, and
blinded eyes, and hair that fell down loosely and unthought of; and
touching it outside with her wet cheek. But the night covered it, and no
one knew.

The moment that she touched the door on this night, Florence found
that it was open. For the first time it stood open, though by but a
hair's-breadth: and there was a light within. The first impulse of the
timid child--and she yielded to it--was to retire swiftly. Her next, to
go back, and to enter; and this second impulse held her in irresolution
on the staircase.

In its standing open, even by so much as that chink, there seemed to
be hope. There was encouragement in seeing a ray of light from within,
stealing through the dark stern doorway, and falling in a thread upon
the marble floor. She turned back, hardly knowing what she did, but
urged on by the love within her, and the trial they had undergone
together, but not shared: and with her hands a little raised and
trembling, glided in.

Her father sat at his old table in the middle room. He had been
arranging some papers, and destroying others, and the latter lay in
fragile ruins before him. The rain dripped heavily upon the glass panes
in the outer room, where he had so often watched poor Paul, a baby; and
the low complainings of the wind were heard without.

But not by him. He sat with his eyes fixed on the table, so immersed in
thought, that a far heavier tread than the light foot of his child could
make, might have failed to rouse him. His face was turned towards
her. By the waning lamp, and at that haggard hour, it looked worn and
dejected; and in the utter loneliness surrounding him, there was an
appeal to Florence that struck home.

'Papa! Papa! speak to me, dear Papa!'

He started at her voice, and leaped up from his seat. She was close
before him with extended arms, but he fell back.

'What is the matter?' he said, sternly. 'Why do you come here? What has
frightened you?'

If anything had frightened her, it was the face he turned upon her. The
glowing love within the breast of his young daughter froze before it,
and she stood and looked at him as if stricken into stone.

There was not one touch of tenderness or pity in it. There was not one
gleam of interest, parental recognition, or relenting in it. There was
a change in it, but not of that kind. The old indifference and cold
constraint had given place to something: what, she never thought and did
not dare to think, and yet she felt it in its force, and knew it well
without a name: that as it looked upon her, seemed to cast a shadow on
her head.

Did he see before him the successful rival of his son, in health and
life? Did he look upon his own successful rival in that son's affection?
Did a mad jealousy and withered pride, poison sweet remembrances that
should have endeared and made her precious to him? Could it be possible
that it was gall to him to look upon her in her beauty and her promise:
thinking of his infant boy!

Florence had no such thoughts. But love is quick to know when it is
spurned and hopeless: and hope died out of hers, as she stood looking in
her father's face.

'I ask you, Florence, are you frightened? Is there anything the matter,
that you come here?'

'I came, Papa--'

'Against my wishes. Why?'

She saw he knew why: it was written broadly on his face: and dropped her
head upon her hands with one prolonged low cry.

Let him remember it in that room, years to come. It has faded from
the air, before he breaks the silence. It may pass as quickly from his
brain, as he believes, but it is there. Let him remember it in that
room, years to come!

He took her by the arm. His hand was cold, and loose, and scarcely
closed upon her.

'You are tired, I daresay,' he said, taking up the light, and leading
her towards the door, 'and want rest. We all want rest. Go, Florence.
You have been dreaming.'

The dream she had had, was over then, God help her! and she felt that it
could never more come back.

'I will remain here to light you up the stairs. The whole house is
yours above there,' said her father, slowly. 'You are its mistress now.
Good-night!'

Still covering her face, she sobbed, and answered 'Good-night, dear
Papa,' and silently ascended. Once she looked back as if she would have
returned to him, but for fear. It was a momentary thought, too
hopeless to encourage; and her father stood there with the light--hard,
unresponsive, motionless--until the fluttering dress of his fair child
was lost in the darkness.

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

The last time he had watched her, from the same place, winding up those
stairs, she had had her brother in her arms. It did not move his heart
towards her now, it steeled it: but he went into his room, and locked
his door, and sat down in his chair, and cried for his lost boy.

Diogenes was broad awake upon his post, and waiting for his little
mistress.

'Oh, Di! Oh, dear Di! Love me for his sake!'

Diogenes already loved her for her own, and didn't care how much he
showed it. So he made himself vastly ridiculous by performing a variety
of uncouth bounces in the ante-chamber, and concluded, when poor
Florence was at last asleep, and dreaming of the rosy children opposite,
by scratching open her bedroom door: rolling up his bed into a pillow:
lying down on the boards, at the full length of his tether, with his
head towards her: and looking lazily at her, upside down, out of the
tops of his eyes, until from winking and winking he fell asleep himself,
and dreamed, with gruff barks, of his enemy.

Mr. Dombey is paralyzed by grief. Mrs. Chick tells Florence that Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles have invited her to stay with them. Florence says she would rather stay at home, even though she learns that her father is planning to go abroad. Mr. Toots also comes to visit her and brings her Diogenes, the dog that Paul had befriended at the Blimber School. Florence makes one overture to try to share her grief with her father and form a closer relationship with her father, but he behaves coldly towards her