After the lapse of some minutes, which appeared an immense time to
little Paul Dombey on the table, Doctor Blimber came back. The Doctor's
walk was stately, and calculated to impress the juvenile mind with
solemn feelings. It was a sort of march; but when the Doctor put out his
right foot, he gravely turned upon his axis, with a semi-circular sweep
towards the left; and when he put out his left foot, he turned in the
same manner towards the right. So that he seemed, at every stride he
took, to look about him as though he were saying, 'Can anybody have
the goodness to indicate any subject, in any direction, on which I am
uninformed? I rather think not.'

Mrs Blimber and Miss Blimber came back in the Doctor's company; and the
Doctor, lifting his new pupil off the table, delivered him over to Miss
Blimber.

'Cornelia,' said the Doctor, 'Dombey will be your charge at first. Bring
him on, Cornelia, bring him on.'

Miss Blimber received her young ward from the Doctor's hands; and Paul,
feeling that the spectacles were surveying him, cast down his eyes.

'How old are you, Dombey?' said Miss Blimber.

'Six,' answered Paul, wondering, as he stole a glance at the young lady,
why her hair didn't grow long like Florence's, and why she was like a
boy.

'How much do you know of your Latin Grammar, Dombey?' said Miss Blimber.

'None of it,' answered Paul. Feeling that the answer was a shock to Miss
Blimber's sensibility, he looked up at the three faces that were looking
down at him, and said:

'I haven't been well. I have been a weak child. I couldn't learn a
Latin Grammar when I was out, every day, with old Glubb. I wish you'd
tell old Glubb to come and see me, if you please.'

'What a dreadfully low name' said Mrs Blimber. 'Unclassical to a degree!
Who is the monster, child?'

'What monster?' inquired Paul.

'Glubb,' said Mrs Blimber, with a great disrelish.

'He's no more a monster than you are,' returned Paul.

'What!' cried the Doctor, in a terrible voice. 'Ay, ay, ay? Aha! What's
that?'

Paul was dreadfully frightened; but still he made a stand for the absent
Glubb, though he did it trembling.

'He's a very nice old man, Ma'am,' he said. 'He used to draw my couch.
He knows all about the deep sea, and the fish that are in it, and the
great monsters that come and lie on rocks in the sun, and dive into the
water again when they're startled, blowing and splashing so, that they
can be heard for miles. There are some creatures, said Paul, warming
with his subject, 'I don't know how many yards long, and I forget their
names, but Florence knows, that pretend to be in distress; and when a
man goes near them, out of compassion, they open their great jaws, and
attack him. But all he has got to do,' said Paul, boldly tendering this
information to the very Doctor himself, 'is to keep on turning as he
runs away, and then, as they turn slowly, because they are so long, and
can't bend, he's sure to beat them. And though old Glubb don't know why
the sea should make me think of my Mama that's dead, or what it is that
it is always saying--always saying! he knows a great deal about it. And
I wish,' the child concluded, with a sudden falling of his countenance,
and failing in his animation, as he looked like one forlorn, upon the
three strange faces, 'that you'd let old Glubb come here to see me, for
I know him very well, and he knows me.'

'Ha!' said the Doctor, shaking his head; 'this is bad, but study will do
much.'

Mrs Blimber opined, with something like a shiver, that he was an
unaccountable child; and, allowing for the difference of visage, looked
at him pretty much as Mrs Pipchin had been used to do.

'Take him round the house, Cornelia,' said the Doctor, 'and familiarise
him with his new sphere. Go with that young lady, Dombey.'

Dombey obeyed; giving his hand to the abstruse Cornelia, and looking at
her sideways, with timid curiosity, as they went away together. For
her spectacles, by reason of the glistening of the glasses, made her
so mysterious, that he didn't know where she was looking, and was not
indeed quite sure that she had any eyes at all behind them.

Cornelia took him first to the schoolroom, which was situated at the
back of the hall, and was approached through two baize doors, which
deadened and muffled the young gentlemen's voices. Here, there were
eight young gentlemen in various stages of mental prostration, all very
hard at work, and very grave indeed. Toots, as an old hand, had a desk
to himself in one corner: and a magnificent man, of immense age, he
looked, in Paul's young eyes, behind it.

Mr Feeder, B.A., who sat at another little desk, had his Virgil stop
on, and was slowly grinding that tune to four young gentlemen. Of the
remaining four, two, who grasped their foreheads convulsively, were
engaged in solving mathematical problems; one with his face like a
dirty window, from much crying, was endeavouring to flounder through a
hopeless number of lines before dinner; and one sat looking at his
task in stony stupefaction and despair--which it seemed had been his
condition ever since breakfast time.

The appearance of a new boy did not create the sensation that might have
been expected. Mr Feeder, B.A. (who was in the habit of shaving his head
for coolness, and had nothing but little bristles on it), gave him a
bony hand, and told him he was glad to see him--which Paul would have
been very glad to have told him, if he could have done so with the least
sincerity. Then Paul, instructed by Cornelia, shook hands with the four
young gentlemen at Mr Feeder's desk; then with the two young gentlemen
at work on the problems, who were very feverish; then with the young
gentleman at work against time, who was very inky; and lastly with the
young gentleman in a state of stupefaction, who was flabby and quite
cold.

Paul having been already introduced to Toots, that pupil merely chuckled
and breathed hard, as his custom was, and pursued the occupation in
which he was engaged. It was not a severe one; for on account of his
having 'gone through' so much (in more senses than one), and also of his
having, as before hinted, left off blowing in his prime, Toots now had
licence to pursue his own course of study: which was chiefly to write
long letters to himself from persons of distinction, adds 'P. Toots,
Esquire, Brighton, Sussex,' and to preserve them in his desk with great
care.

These ceremonies passed, Cornelia led Paul upstairs to the top of the
house; which was rather a slow journey, on account of Paul being obliged
to land both feet on every stair, before he mounted another. But they
reached their journey's end at last; and there, in a front room, looking
over the wild sea, Cornelia showed him a nice little bed with white
hangings, close to the window, on which there was already beautifully
written on a card in round text--down strokes very thick, and up strokes
very fine--DOMBEY; while two other little bedsteads in the same room
were announced, through like means, as respectively appertaining unto
BRIGGS and TOZER.

Just as they got downstairs again into the hall, Paul saw the weak-eyed
young man who had given that mortal offence to Mrs Pipchin, suddenly
seize a very large drumstick, and fly at a gong that was hanging up, as
if he had gone mad, or wanted vengeance. Instead of receiving warning,
however, or being instantly taken into custody, the young man left off
unchecked, after having made a dreadful noise. Then Cornelia Blimber
said to Dombey that dinner would be ready in a quarter of an hour, and
perhaps he had better go into the schoolroom among his 'friends.'

So Dombey, deferentially passing the great clock which was still as
anxious as ever to know how he found himself, opened the schoolroom door
a very little way, and strayed in like a lost boy: shutting it after
him with some difficulty. His friends were all dispersed about the
room except the stony friend, who remained immoveable. Mr Feeder was
stretching himself in his grey gown, as if, regardless of expense, he
were resolved to pull the sleeves off.

'Heigh ho hum!' cried Mr Feeder, shaking himself like a cart-horse. 'Oh
dear me, dear me! Ya-a-a-ah!'

Paul was quite alarmed by Mr Feeder's yawning; it was done on such a
great scale, and he was so terribly in earnest. All the boys too (Toots
excepted) seemed knocked up, and were getting ready for dinner--some
newly tying their neckcloths, which were very stiff indeed; and
others washing their hands or brushing their hair, in an adjoining
ante-chamber--as if they didn't think they should enjoy it at all.

Young Toots who was ready beforehand, and had therefore nothing to do,
and had leisure to bestow upon Paul, said, with heavy good nature:

'Sit down, Dombey.'

'Thank you, Sir,' said Paul.

His endeavouring to hoist himself on to a very high window-seat, and his
slipping down again, appeared to prepare Toots's mind for the reception
of a discovery.

'You're a very small chap;' said Mr Toots.

'Yes, Sir, I'm small,' returned Paul. 'Thank you, Sir.'

For Toots had lifted him into the seat, and done it kindly too.

'Who's your tailor?' inquired Toots, after looking at him for some
moments.

'It's a woman that has made my clothes as yet,' said Paul. 'My sister's
dressmaker.'

'My tailor's Burgess and Co.,' said Toots. 'Fash'nable. But very dear.'

Paul had wit enough to shake his head, as if he would have said it was
easy to see that; and indeed he thought so.

'Your father's regularly rich, ain't he?' inquired Mr Toots.

'Yes, Sir,' said Paul. 'He's Dombey and Son.'

'And which?' demanded Toots.

'And Son, Sir,' replied Paul.

Mr Toots made one or two attempts, in a low voice, to fix the Firm in
his mind; but not quite succeeding, said he would get Paul to mention
the name again to-morrow morning, as it was rather important. And indeed
he purposed nothing less than writing himself a private and confidential
letter from Dombey and Son immediately.

By this time the other pupils (always excepting the stony boy) gathered
round. They were polite, but pale; and spoke low; and they were so
depressed in their spirits, that in comparison with the general tone of
that company, Master Bitherstone was a perfect Miller, or complete Jest
Book.' And yet he had a sense of injury upon him, too, had Bitherstone.

'You sleep in my room, don't you?' asked a solemn young gentleman, whose
shirt-collar curled up the lobes of his ears.

'Master Briggs?' inquired Paul.

'Tozer,' said the young gentleman.

Paul answered yes; and Tozer pointing out the stony pupil, said that was
Briggs. Paul had already felt certain that it must be either Briggs or
Tozer, though he didn't know why.

'Is yours a strong constitution?' inquired Tozer.

Paul said he thought not. Tozer replied that he thought not also,
judging from Paul's looks, and that it was a pity, for it need be. He
then asked Paul if he were going to begin with Cornelia; and on Paul
saying 'yes,' all the young gentlemen (Briggs excepted) gave a low
groan.

It was drowned in the tintinnabulation of the gong, which sounding again
with great fury, there was a general move towards the dining-room; still
excepting Briggs the stony boy, who remained where he was, and as he
was; and on its way to whom Paul presently encountered a round of bread,
genteelly served on a plate and napkin, and with a silver fork lying
crosswise on the top of it. Doctor Blimber was already in his place in
the dining-room, at the top of the table, with Miss Blimber and Mrs
Blimber on either side of him.  Mr Feeder in a black coat was at the
bottom. Paul's chair was next to Miss Blimber; but it being found, when
he sat in it, that his eyebrows were not much above the level of the
table-cloth, some books were brought in from the Doctor's study, on
which he was elevated, and on which he always sat from that time--
carrying them in and out himself on after occasions, like a little
elephant and castle.

Grace having been said by the Doctor, dinner began. There was some nice
soup; also roast meat, boiled meat, vegetables, pie, and cheese. Every
young gentleman had a massive silver fork, and a napkin; and all the
arrangements were stately and handsome. In particular, there was a
butler in a blue coat and bright buttons, who gave quite a winey flavour
to the table beer; he poured it out so superbly.

Nobody spoke, unless spoken to, except Doctor Blimber, Mrs Blimber, and
Miss Blimber, who conversed occasionally. Whenever a young gentleman was
not actually engaged with his knife and fork or spoon, his eye, with an
irresistible attraction, sought the eye of Doctor Blimber, Mrs Blimber,
or Miss Blimber, and modestly rested there. Toots appeared to be the
only exception to this rule. He sat next Mr Feeder on Paul's side of the
table, and frequently looked behind and before the intervening boys to
catch a glimpse of Paul.

Only once during dinner was there any conversation that included the
young gentlemen. It happened at the epoch of the cheese, when the
Doctor, having taken a glass of port wine, and hemmed twice or thrice,
said:

'It is remarkable, Mr Feeder, that the Romans--'

At the mention of this terrible people, their implacable enemies, every
young gentleman fastened his gaze upon the Doctor, with an assumption of
the deepest interest. One of the number who happened to be drinking,
and who caught the Doctor's eye glaring at him through the side of his
tumbler, left off so hastily that he was convulsed for some moments, and
in the sequel ruined Doctor Blimber's point.

'It is remarkable, Mr Feeder,' said the Doctor, beginning again slowly,
'that the Romans, in those gorgeous and profuse entertainments of which
we read in the days of the Emperors, when luxury had attained a height
unknown before or since, and when whole provinces were ravaged to supply
the splendid means of one Imperial Banquet--'

Here the offender, who had been swelling and straining, and waiting in
vain for a full stop, broke out violently.

'Johnson,' said Mr Feeder, in a low reproachful voice, 'take some
water.'

The Doctor, looking very stern, made a pause until the water was
brought, and then resumed:

'And when, Mr Feeder--'

But Mr Feeder, who saw that Johnson must break out again, and who knew
that the Doctor would never come to a period before the young gentlemen
until he had finished all he meant to say, couldn't keep his eye off
Johnson; and thus was caught in the fact of not looking at the Doctor,
who consequently stopped.

'I beg your pardon, Sir,' said Mr Feeder, reddening. 'I beg your pardon,
Doctor Blimber.'

'And when,' said the Doctor, raising his voice, 'when, Sir, as we
read, and have no reason to doubt--incredible as it may appear to the
vulgar--of our time--the brother of Vitellius prepared for him a feast,
in which were served, of fish, two thousand dishes--'

'Take some water, Johnson--dishes, Sir,' said Mr Feeder.

'Of various sorts of fowl, five thousand dishes.'

'Or try a crust of bread,' said Mr Feeder.

'And one dish,' pursued Doctor Blimber, raising his voice still higher
as he looked all round the table, 'called, from its enormous dimensions,
the Shield of Minerva, and made, among other costly ingredients, of the
brains of pheasants--'

'Ow, ow, ow!' (from Johnson.)

'Woodcocks--'

'Ow, ow, ow!'

'The sounds of the fish called scari--'

'You'll burst some vessel in your head,' said Mr Feeder. 'You had better
let it come.'

'And the spawn of the lamprey, brought from the Carpathian Sea,'
pursued the Doctor, in his severest voice; 'when we read of costly
entertainments such as these, and still remember, that we have a
Titus--'

'What would be your mother's feelings if you died of apoplexy!' said Mr
Feeder.

'A Domitian--'

'And you're blue, you know,' said Mr Feeder.

'A Nero, a Tiberius, a Caligula, a Heliogabalus, and many more, pursued
the Doctor; 'it is, Mr Feeder--if you are doing me the honour to
attend--remarkable; VERY remarkable, Sir--'

But Johnson, unable to suppress it any longer, burst at that moment into
such an overwhelming fit of coughing, that although both his immediate
neighbours thumped him on the back, and Mr Feeder himself held a glass
of water to his lips, and the butler walked him up and down several
times between his own chair and the sideboard, like a sentry, it was a
full five minutes before he was moderately composed. Then there was a
profound silence.

'Gentlemen,' said Doctor Blimber, 'rise for Grace! Cornelia, lift Dombey
down'--nothing of whom but his scalp was accordingly seen above
the tablecloth. 'Johnson will repeat to me tomorrow morning before
breakfast, without book, and from the Greek Testament, the first chapter
of the Epistle of Saint Paul to the Ephesians. We will resume our
studies, Mr Feeder, in half-an-hour.'

The young gentlemen bowed and withdrew. Mr Feeder did likewise.
During the half-hour, the young gentlemen, broken into pairs, loitered
arm-in-arm up and down a small piece of ground behind the house, or
endeavoured to kindle a spark of animation in the breast of Briggs. But
nothing happened so vulgar as play. Punctually at the appointed time,
the gong was sounded, and the studies, under the joint auspices of
Doctor Blimber and Mr Feeder, were resumed.

As the Olympic game of lounging up and down had been cut shorter than
usual that day, on Johnson's account, they all went out for a walk
before tea. Even Briggs (though he hadn't begun yet) partook of this
dissipation; in the enjoyment of which he looked over the cliff two or
three times darkly. Doctor Blimber accompanied them; and Paul had the
honour of being taken in tow by the Doctor himself: a distinguished
state of things, in which he looked very little and feeble.

Tea was served in a style no less polite than the dinner; and after tea,
the young gentlemen rising and bowing as before, withdrew to fetch up
the unfinished tasks of that day, or to get up the already looming tasks
of to-morrow. In the meantime Mr Feeder withdrew to his own room; and
Paul sat in a corner wondering whether Florence was thinking of him, and
what they were all about at Mrs Pipchin's.

Mr Toots, who had been detained by an important letter from the Duke of
Wellington, found Paul out after a time; and having looked at him for a
long while, as before, inquired if he was fond of waistcoats.

Paul said 'Yes, Sir.'

'So am I,' said Toots.

No word more spoke Toots that night; but he stood looking at Paul as
if he liked him; and as there was company in that, and Paul was not
inclined to talk, it answered his purpose better than conversation.

At eight o'clock or so, the gong sounded again for prayers in the
dining-room, where the butler afterwards presided over a side-table, on
which bread and cheese and beer were spread for such young gentlemen as
desired to partake of those refreshments. The ceremonies concluded by
the Doctor's saying, 'Gentlemen, we will resume our studies at seven
to-morrow;' and then, for the first time, Paul saw Cornelia Blimber's
eye, and saw that it was upon him. When the Doctor had said these words,
'Gentlemen, we will resume our studies at seven tomorrow,' the pupils
bowed again, and went to bed.

In the confidence of their own room upstairs, Briggs said his head ached
ready to split, and that he should wish himself dead if it wasn't for
his mother, and a blackbird he had at home. Tozer didn't say much, but he
sighed a good deal, and told Paul to look out, for his turn would come
to-morrow. After uttering those prophetic words, he undressed himself
moodily, and got into bed. Briggs was in his bed too, and Paul in
his bed too, before the weak-eyed young man appeared to take away the
candle, when he wished them good-night and pleasant dreams. But
his benevolent wishes were in vain, as far as Briggs and Tozer were
concerned; for Paul, who lay awake for a long while, and often woke
afterwards, found that Briggs was ridden by his lesson as a nightmare:
and that Tozer, whose mind was affected in his sleep by similar causes,
in a minor degree talked unknown tongues, or scraps of Greek and
Latin--it was all one to Paul--which, in the silence of night, had an
inexpressibly wicked and guilty effect.

Paul had sunk into a sweet sleep, and dreamed that he was walking hand
in hand with Florence through beautiful gardens, when they came to a
large sunflower which suddenly expanded itself into a gong, and began
to sound. Opening his eyes, he found that it was a dark, windy morning,
with a drizzling rain: and that the real gong was giving dreadful note
of preparation, down in the hall.

So he got up directly, and found Briggs with hardly any eyes, for
nightmare and grief had made his face puffy, putting his boots on: while
Tozer stood shivering and rubbing his shoulders in a very bad humour.
Poor Paul couldn't dress himself easily, not being used to it, and asked
them if they would have the goodness to tie some strings for him; but as
Briggs merely said 'Bother!' and Tozer, 'Oh yes!' he went down when he
was otherwise ready, to the next storey, where he saw a pretty young
woman in leather gloves, cleaning a stove. The young woman seemed
surprised at his appearance, and asked him where his mother was. When
Paul told her she was dead, she took her gloves off, and did what he
wanted; and furthermore rubbed his hands to warm them; and gave him a
kiss; and told him whenever he wanted anything of that sort--meaning in
the dressing way--to ask for 'Melia; which Paul, thanking her very
much, said he certainly would. He then proceeded softly on his journey
downstairs, towards the room in which the young gentlemen resumed their
studies, when, passing by a door that stood ajar, a voice from within
cried, 'Is that Dombey?' On Paul replying, 'Yes, Ma'am:' for he knew the
voice to be Miss Blimber's: Miss Blimber said, 'Come in, Dombey.' And in
he went.

Miss Blimber presented exactly the appearance she had presented
yesterday, except that she wore a shawl. Her little light curls were as
crisp as ever, and she had already her spectacles on, which made
Paul wonder whether she went to bed in them. She had a cool little
sitting-room of her own up there, with some books in it, and no fire But
Miss Blimber was never cold, and never sleepy.

Now, Dombey,' said Miss Blimber, 'I am going out for a constitutional.'

Paul wondered what that was, and why she didn't send the footman out to
get it in such unfavourable weather. But he made no observation on the
subject: his attention being devoted to a little pile of new books, on
which Miss Blimber appeared to have been recently engaged.

'These are yours, Dombey,' said Miss Blimber.

'All of 'em, Ma'am?' said Paul.

'Yes,' returned Miss Blimber; 'and Mr Feeder will look you out some more
very soon, if you are as studious as I expect you will be, Dombey.'

'Thank you, Ma'am,' said Paul.

'I am going out for a constitutional,' resumed Miss Blimber; 'and while
I am gone, that is to say in the interval between this and breakfast,
Dombey, I wish you to read over what I have marked in these books, and
to tell me if you quite understand what you have got to learn. Don't
lose time, Dombey, for you have none to spare, but take them downstairs,
and begin directly.'

'Yes, Ma'am,' answered Paul.

There were so many of them, that although Paul put one hand under the
bottom book and his other hand and his chin on the top book, and hugged
them all closely, the middle book slipped out before he reached the
door, and then they all tumbled down on the floor. Miss Blimber said,
'Oh, Dombey, Dombey, this is really very careless!' and piled them up
afresh for him; and this time, by dint of balancing them with great
nicety, Paul got out of the room, and down a few stairs before two of
them escaped again. But he held the rest so tight, that he only left one
more on the first floor, and one in the passage; and when he had got the
main body down into the schoolroom, he set off upstairs again to collect
the stragglers. Having at last amassed the whole library, and climbed
into his place, he fell to work, encouraged by a remark from Tozer to
the effect that he 'was in for it now;' which was the only interruption
he received till breakfast time. At that meal, for which he had no
appetite, everything was quite as solemn and genteel as at the others;
and when it was finished, he followed Miss Blimber upstairs.

'Now, Dombey,' said Miss Blimber. 'How have you got on with those
books?'

They comprised a little English, and a deal of Latin--names of things,
declensions of articles and substantives, exercises thereon, and
preliminary rules--a trifle of orthography, a glance at ancient history,
a wink or two at modern ditto, a few tables, two or three weights and
measures, and a little general information. When poor Paul had spelt
out number two, he found he had no idea of number one; fragments whereof
afterwards obtruded themselves into number three, which slided into
number four, which grafted itself on to number two. So that whether
twenty Romuluses made a Remus, or hic haec hoc was troy weight, or
a verb always agreed with an ancient Briton, or three times four was
Taurus a bull, were open questions with him.

'Oh, Dombey, Dombey!' said Miss Blimber, 'this is very shocking.'

'If you please,' said Paul, 'I think if I might sometimes talk a little
to old Glubb, I should be able to do better.'

'Nonsense, Dombey,' said Miss Blimber. 'I couldn't hear of it. This is
not the place for Glubbs of any kind. You must take the books down,
I suppose, Dombey, one by one, and perfect yourself in the day's
instalment of subject A, before you turn at all to subject B. I am
sorry to say, Dombey, that your education appears to have been very much
neglected.'

'So Papa says,' returned Paul; 'but I told you--I have been a weak
child. Florence knows I have. So does Wickam.'

'Who is Wickam?' asked Miss Blimber.

'She has been my nurse,' Paul answered.

'I must beg you not to mention Wickam to me, then,' said Miss Blimber. 'I
couldn't allow it'.

'You asked me who she was,' said Paul.

'Very well,' returned Miss Blimber; 'but this is all very different
indeed from anything of that sort, Dombey, and I couldn't think of
permitting it. As to having been weak, you must begin to be strong. And
now take away the top book, if you please, Dombey, and return when you
are master of the theme.'

Miss Blimber expressed her opinions on the subject of Paul's
uninstructed state with a gloomy delight, as if she had expected
this result, and were glad to find that they must be in constant
communication. Paul withdrew with the top task, as he was told, and
laboured away at it, down below: sometimes remembering every word of it,
and sometimes forgetting it all, and everything else besides: until at
last he ventured upstairs again to repeat the lesson, when it was nearly
all driven out of his head before he began, by Miss Blimber's shutting
up the book, and saying, 'Go on, Dombey!' a proceeding so suggestive of
the knowledge inside of her, that Paul looked upon the young lady with
consternation, as a kind of learned Guy Fawkes, or artificial Bogle,
stuffed full of scholastic straw.

He acquitted himself very well, nevertheless; and Miss Blimber,
commending him as giving promise of getting on fast, immediately
provided him with subject B; from which he passed to C, and even D
before dinner. It was hard work, resuming his studies, soon after
dinner; and he felt giddy and confused and drowsy and dull. But all the
other young gentlemen had similar sensations, and were obliged to resume
their studies too, if there were any comfort in that. It was a wonder
that the great clock in the hall, instead of being constant to its first
inquiry, never said, 'Gentlemen, we will now resume our studies,' for
that phrase was often enough repeated in its neighbourhood. The studies
went round like a mighty wheel, and the young gentlemen were always
stretched upon it.

After tea there were exercises again, and preparations for next day
by candlelight. And in due course there was bed; where, but for that
resumption of the studies which took place in dreams, were rest and
sweet forgetfulness.

Oh Saturdays! Oh happy Saturdays, when Florence always came at noon, and
never would, in any weather, stay away, though Mrs Pipchin snarled and
growled, and worried her bitterly. Those Saturdays were Sabbaths for at
least two little Christians among all the Jews, and did the holy Sabbath
work of strengthening and knitting up a brother's and a sister's love.

Not even Sunday nights--the heavy Sunday nights, whose shadow darkened
the first waking burst of light on Sunday mornings--could mar those
precious Saturdays. Whether it was the great sea-shore, where they sat,
and strolled together; or whether it was only Mrs Pipchin's dull back
room, in which she sang to him so softly, with his drowsy head upon her
arm; Paul never cared. It was Florence. That was all he thought of. So,
on Sunday nights, when the Doctor's dark door stood agape to swallow him
up for another week, the time was come for taking leave of Florence; no
one else.

Mrs Wickam had been drafted home to the house in town, and Miss Nipper,
now a smart young woman, had come down. To many a single combat with
Mrs Pipchin, did Miss Nipper gallantly devote herself, and if ever Mrs
Pipchin in all her life had found her match, she had found it now.
Miss Nipper threw away the scabbard the first morning she arose in Mrs
Pipchin's house. She asked and gave no quarter. She said it must be war,
and war it was; and Mrs Pipchin lived from that time in the midst of
surprises, harassings, and defiances, and skirmishing attacks that came
bouncing in upon her from the passage, even in unguarded moments of
chops, and carried desolation to her very toast.

Miss Nipper had returned one Sunday night with Florence, from walking
back with Paul to the Doctor's, when Florence took from her bosom a
little piece of paper, on which she had pencilled down some words.

'See here, Susan,' she said. 'These are the names of the little books
that Paul brings home to do those long exercises with, when he is so
tired. I copied them last night while he was writing.'

'Don't show 'em to me, Miss Floy, if you please,' returned Nipper, 'I'd
as soon see Mrs Pipchin.'

'I want you to buy them for me, Susan, if you will, tomorrow morning. I
have money enough,' said Florence.

'Why, goodness gracious me, Miss Floy,' returned Miss Nipper, 'how
can you talk like that, when you have books upon books already, and
masterses and mississes a teaching of you everything continual, though
my belief is that your Pa, Miss Dombey, never would have learnt you
nothing, never would have thought of it, unless you'd asked him--when he
couldn't well refuse; but giving consent when asked, and offering when
unasked, Miss, is quite two things; I may not have my objections to a
young man's keeping company with me, and when he puts the question, may
say "yes," but that's not saying "would you be so kind as like me."'

'But you can buy me the books, Susan; and you will, when you know why I
want them.'

'Well, Miss, and why do you want 'em?' replied Nipper; adding, in
a lower voice, 'If it was to fling at Mrs Pipchin's head, I'd buy a
cart-load.'

'Paul has a great deal too much to do, Susan,' said Florence, 'I am sure
of it.'

'And well you may be, Miss,' returned her maid, 'and make your mind
quite easy that the willing dear is worked and worked away. If those is
Latin legs,' exclaimed Miss Nipper, with strong feeling--in allusion to
Paul's; 'give me English ones.'

'I am afraid he feels lonely and lost at Doctor Blimber's, Susan,'
pursued Florence, turning away her face.

'Ah,' said Miss Nipper, with great sharpness, 'Oh, them "Blimbers"'

'Don't blame anyone,' said Florence. 'It's a mistake.'

'I say nothing about blame, Miss,' cried Miss Nipper, 'for I know that
you object, but I may wish, Miss, that the family was set to work
to make new roads, and that Miss Blimber went in front and had the
pickaxe.'

After this speech, Miss Nipper, who was perfectly serious, wiped her
eyes.

'I think I could perhaps give Paul some help, Susan, if I had these
books,' said Florence, 'and make the coming week a little easier to
him. At least I want to try. So buy them for me, dear, and I will never
forget how kind it was of you to do it!'

It must have been a harder heart than Susan Nipper's that could have
rejected the little purse Florence held out with these words, or the
gentle look of entreaty with which she seconded her petition. Susan put
the purse in her pocket without reply, and trotted out at once upon her
errand.

The books were not easy to procure; and the answer at several shops was,
either that they were just out of them, or that they never kept them, or
that they had had a great many last month, or that they expected a great
many next week But Susan was not easily baffled in such an enterprise;
and having entrapped a white-haired youth, in a black calico apron, from
a library where she was known, to accompany her in her quest, she led
him such a life in going up and down, that he exerted himself to the
utmost, if it were only to get rid of her; and finally enabled her to
return home in triumph.

With these treasures then, after her own daily lessons were over,
Florence sat down at night to track Paul's footsteps through the thorny
ways of learning; and being possessed of a naturally quick and sound
capacity, and taught by that most wonderful of masters, love, it was not
long before she gained upon Paul's heels, and caught and passed him.

Not a word of this was breathed to Mrs Pipchin: but many a night when
they were all in bed, and when Miss Nipper, with her hair in papers and
herself asleep in some uncomfortable attitude, reposed unconscious by
her side; and when the chinking ashes in the grate were cold and grey;
and when the candles were burnt down and guttering out;--Florence tried
so hard to be a substitute for one small Dombey, that her fortitude and
perseverance might have almost won her a free right to bear the name
herself.

And high was her reward, when one Saturday evening, as little Paul was
sitting down as usual to 'resume his studies,' she sat down by his side,
and showed him all that was so rough, made smooth, and all that was so
dark, made clear and plain, before him. It was nothing but a startled
look in Paul's wan face--a flush--a smile--and then a close embrace--but
God knows how her heart leapt up at this rich payment for her trouble.

'Oh, Floy!' cried her brother, 'how I love you! How I love you, Floy!'

'And I you, dear!'

'Oh! I am sure of that, Floy.'

He said no more about it, but all that evening sat close by her, very
quiet; and in the night he called out from his little room within hers,
three or four times, that he loved her.

Regularly, after that, Florence was prepared to sit down with Paul on
Saturday night, and patiently assist him through so much as they could
anticipate together of his next week's work. The cheering thought that
he was labouring on where Florence had just toiled before him, would, of
itself, have been a stimulant to Paul in the perpetual resumption of his
studies; but coupled with the actual lightening of his load, consequent
on this assistance, it saved him, possibly, from sinking underneath the
burden which the fair Cornelia Blimber piled upon his back.

It was not that Miss Blimber meant to be too hard upon him, or that
Doctor Blimber meant to bear too heavily on the young gentlemen in
general. Cornelia merely held the faith in which she had been bred; and
the Doctor, in some partial confusion of his ideas, regarded the young
gentlemen as if they were all Doctors, and were born grown up. Comforted
by the applause of the young gentlemen's nearest relations, and urged
on by their blind vanity and ill-considered haste, it would have been
strange if Doctor Blimber had discovered his mistake, or trimmed his
swelling sails to any other tack.

Thus in the case of Paul. When Doctor Blimber said he made great
progress and was naturally clever, Mr Dombey was more bent than ever on
his being forced and crammed. In the case of Briggs, when Doctor Blimber
reported that he did not make great progress yet, and was not naturally
clever, Briggs senior was inexorable in the same purpose. In short,
however high and false the temperature at which the Doctor kept his
hothouse, the owners of the plants were always ready to lend a helping
hand at the bellows, and to stir the fire.

Such spirits as he had in the outset, Paul soon lost of course. But he
retained all that was strange, and old, and thoughtful in his character:
and under circumstances so favourable to the development of those
tendencies, became even more strange, and old, and thoughtful, than
before.

The only difference was, that he kept his character to himself. He grew
more thoughtful and reserved, every day; and had no such curiosity
in any living member of the Doctor's household, as he had had in Mrs
Pipchin. He loved to be alone; and in those short intervals when he was
not occupied with his books, liked nothing so well as wandering about
the house by himself, or sitting on the stairs, listening to the great
clock in the hall. He was intimate with all the paperhanging in the
house; saw things that no one else saw in the patterns; found out
miniature tigers and lions running up the bedroom walls, and squinting
faces leering in the squares and diamonds of the floor-cloth.

The solitary child lived on, surrounded by this arabesque work of his
musing fancy, and no one understood him. Mrs Blimber thought him 'odd,'
and sometimes the servants said among themselves that little Dombey
'moped;' but that was all.

Unless young Toots had some idea on the subject, to the expression of
which he was wholly unequal. Ideas, like ghosts (according to the common
notion of ghosts), must be spoken to a little before they will explain
themselves; and Toots had long left off asking any questions of his own
mind. Some mist there may have been, issuing from that leaden casket,
his cranium, which, if it could have taken shape and form, would have
become a genie; but it could not; and it only so far followed the
example of the smoke in the Arabian story, as to roll out in a thick
cloud, and there hang and hover. But it left a little figure visible
upon a lonely shore, and Toots was always staring at it.

'How are you?' he would say to Paul, fifty times a day. 'Quite well,
Sir, thank you,' Paul would answer. 'Shake hands,' would be Toots's next
advance.

Which Paul, of course, would immediately do. Mr Toots generally said
again, after a long interval of staring and hard breathing, 'How are
you?' To which Paul again replied, 'Quite well, Sir, thank you.'

One evening Mr Toots was sitting at his desk, oppressed by
correspondence, when a great purpose seemed to flash upon him. He laid
down his pen, and went off to seek Paul, whom he found at last, after a
long search, looking through the window of his little bedroom.

'I say!' cried Toots, speaking the moment he entered the room, lest he
should forget it; 'what do you think about?'

'Oh! I think about a great many things,' replied Paul.

'Do you, though?' said Toots, appearing to consider that fact in itself
surprising. 'If you had to die,' said Paul, looking up into his face--Mr
Toots started, and seemed much disturbed.

'Don't you think you would rather die on a moonlight night, when the sky
was quite clear, and the wind blowing, as it did last night?'

Mr Toots said, looking doubtfully at Paul, and shaking his head, that he
didn't know about that.

'Not blowing, at least,' said Paul, 'but sounding in the air like the
sea sounds in the shells. It was a beautiful night. When I had listened
to the water for a long time, I got up and looked out. There was a boat
over there, in the full light of the moon; a boat with a sail.'

The child looked at him so steadfastly, and spoke so earnestly, that
Mr Toots, feeling himself called upon to say something about this boat,
said, 'Smugglers.' But with an impartial remembrance of there being two
sides to every question, he added, 'or Preventive.'

'A boat with a sail,' repeated Paul, 'in the full light of the moon. The
sail like an arm, all silver. It went away into the distance, and what
do you think it seemed to do as it moved with the waves?'

'Pitch,' said Mr Toots.

'It seemed to beckon,' said the child, 'to beckon me to come!--There she
is! There she is!'

Toots was almost beside himself with dismay at this sudden exclamation,
after what had gone before, and cried 'Who?'

'My sister Florence!' cried Paul, 'looking up here, and waving her hand.
She sees me--she sees me! Good-night, dear, good-night, good-night.'

His quick transition to a state of unbounded pleasure, as he stood at
his window, kissing and clapping his hands: and the way in which the
light retreated from his features as she passed out of his view, and
left a patient melancholy on the little face: were too remarkable wholly
to escape even Toots's notice. Their interview being interrupted at this
moment by a visit from Mrs Pipchin, who usually brought her black skirts
to bear upon Paul just before dusk, once or twice a week, Toots had
no opportunity of improving the occasion: but it left so marked an
impression on his mind that he twice returned, after having exchanged
the usual salutations, to ask Mrs Pipchin how she did. This the
irascible old lady conceived to be a deeply devised and long-meditated
insult, originating in the diabolical invention of the weak-eyed young
man downstairs, against whom she accordingly lodged a formal complaint
with Doctor Blimber that very night; who mentioned to the young man that
if he ever did it again, he should be obliged to part with him.

The evenings being longer now, Paul stole up to his window every evening
to look out for Florence. She always passed and repassed at a certain
time, until she saw him; and their mutual recognition was a gleam of
sunshine in Paul's daily life. Often after dark, one other figure walked
alone before the Doctor's house. He rarely joined them on the Saturdays
now. He could not bear it. He would rather come unrecognised, and look
up at the windows where his son was qualifying for a man; and wait, and
watch, and plan, and hope.

Oh! could he but have seen, or seen as others did, the slight spare boy
above, watching the waves and clouds at twilight, with his earnest eyes,
and breasting the window of his solitary cage when birds flew by, as if
he would have emulated them, and soared away!

Paul is uneasy at the school, which is very strict and rigorous, but exhausts students rather than helping them to become better scholars. A boy at the school named Toots shows some kindness to Paul, and Paul also looks forward to his weekly visits with Florence. Florence is still living at Mrs. Pipchin's, but now with Nipper instead of Mrs. Wickam. She follows along with the lessons Paul is being taught in order to be able to help him


Mr Dombey's offices were in a court where there was an old-established
stall of choice fruit at the corner: where perambulating merchants, of
both sexes, offered for sale at any time between the hours of ten and
five, slippers, pocket-books, sponges, dogs' collars, and Windsor soap;
and sometimes a pointer or an oil-painting.

The pointer always came that way, with a view to the Stock Exchange,
where a sporting taste (originating generally in bets of new hats)
is much in vogue. The other commodities were addressed to the general
public; but they were never offered by the vendors to Mr Dombey. When
he appeared, the dealers in those wares fell off respectfully. The
principal slipper and dogs' collar man--who considered himself a public
character, and whose portrait was screwed on to an artist's door in
Cheapside--threw up his forefinger to the brim of his hat as Mr Dombey
went by. The ticket-porter, if he were not absent on a job, always ran
officiously before, to open Mr Dombey's office door as wide as possible,
and hold it open, with his hat off, while he entered.

The clerks within were not a whit behind-hand in their demonstrations of
respect. A solemn hush prevailed, as Mr Dombey passed through the outer
office. The wit of the Counting-House became in a moment as mute as the
row of leathern fire-buckets hanging up behind him. Such vapid and flat
daylight as filtered through the ground-glass windows and skylights,
leaving a black sediment upon the panes, showed the books and papers,
and the figures bending over them, enveloped in a studious gloom, and as
much abstracted in appearance, from the world without, as if they were
assembled at the bottom of the sea; while a mouldy little strong room in
the obscure perspective, where a shaded lamp was always burning, might
have represented the cavern of some ocean monster, looking on with a red
eye at these mysteries of the deep.

When Perch the messenger, whose place was on a little bracket, like a
timepiece, saw Mr Dombey come in--or rather when he felt that he was
coming, for he had usually an instinctive sense of his approach--he
hurried into Mr Dombey's room, stirred the fire, carried fresh coals
from the bowels of the coal-box, hung the newspaper to air upon the
fender, put the chair ready, and the screen in its place, and was
round upon his heel on the instant of Mr Dombey's entrance, to take his
great-coat and hat, and hang them up. Then Perch took the newspaper,
and gave it a turn or two in his hands before the fire, and laid it,
deferentially, at Mr Dombey's elbow. And so little objection had Perch
to being deferential in the last degree, that if he might have laid
himself at Mr Dombey's feet, or might have called him by some such title
as used to be bestowed upon the Caliph Haroun Alraschid, he would have
been all the better pleased.

As this honour would have been an innovation and an experiment, Perch
was fain to content himself by expressing as well as he could, in his
manner, You are the light of my Eyes. You are the Breath of my Soul. You
are the commander of the Faithful Perch! With this imperfect happiness
to cheer him, he would shut the door softly, walk away on tiptoe, and
leave his great chief to be stared at, through a dome-shaped window in
the leads, by ugly chimney-pots and backs of houses, and especially by
the bold window of a hair-cutting saloon on a first floor, where a waxen
effigy, bald as a Mussulman in the morning, and covered, after eleven
o'clock in the day, with luxuriant hair and whiskers in the latest
Christian fashion, showed him the wrong side of its head for ever.

Between Mr Dombey and the common world, as it was accessible through
the medium of the outer office--to which Mr Dombey's presence in his own
room may be said to have struck like damp, or cold air--there were two
degrees of descent. Mr Carker in his own office was the first step;
Mr Morfin, in his own office, was the second. Each of these gentlemen
occupied a little chamber like a bath-room, opening from the passage
outside Mr Dombey's door. Mr Carker, as Grand Vizier, inhabited the room
that was nearest to the Sultan. Mr Morfin, as an officer of inferior
state, inhabited the room that was nearest to the clerks.

The gentleman last mentioned was a cheerful-looking, hazel-eyed elderly
bachelor: gravely attired, as to his upper man, in black; and as to his
legs, in pepper-and-salt colour. His dark hair was just touched here and
there with specks of gray, as though the tread of Time had splashed
it; and his whiskers were already white. He had a mighty respect for Mr
Dombey, and rendered him due homage; but as he was of a genial temper
himself, and never wholly at his ease in that stately presence, he was
disquieted by no jealousy of the many conferences enjoyed by Mr Carker,
and felt a secret satisfaction in having duties to discharge, which
rarely exposed him to be singled out for such distinction. He was a
great musical amateur in his way--after business; and had a paternal
affection for his violoncello, which was once in every week transported
from Islington, his place of abode, to a certain club-room hard by the
Bank, where quartettes of the most tormenting and excruciating nature
were executed every Wednesday evening by a private party.

Mr Carker was a gentleman thirty-eight or forty years old, of a florid
complexion, and with two unbroken rows of glistening teeth, whose
regularity and whiteness were quite distressing. It was impossible to
escape the observation of them, for he showed them whenever he spoke;
and bore so wide a smile upon his countenance (a smile, however, very
rarely, indeed, extending beyond his mouth), that there was something in
it like the snarl of a cat. He affected a stiff white cravat, after the
example of his principal, and was always closely buttoned up and tightly
dressed. His manner towards Mr Dombey was deeply conceived and perfectly
expressed. He was familiar with him, in the very extremity of his sense
of the distance between them. 'Mr Dombey, to a man in your position
from a man in mine, there is no show of subservience compatible with the
transaction of business between us, that I should think sufficient. I
frankly tell you, Sir, I give it up altogether. I feel that I could
not satisfy my own mind; and Heaven knows, Mr Dombey, you can afford to
dispense with the endeavour.' If he had carried these words about with
him printed on a placard, and had constantly offered it to Mr Dombey's
perusal on the breast of his coat, he could not have been more explicit
than he was.

This was Carker the Manager. Mr Carker the Junior, Walter's friend, was
his brother; two or three years older than he, but widely removed in
station. The younger brother's post was on the top of the official
ladder; the elder brother's at the bottom. The elder brother never
gained a stave, or raised his foot to mount one. Young men passed above
his head, and rose and rose; but he was always at the bottom. He was
quite resigned to occupy that low condition: never complained of it: and
certainly never hoped to escape from it.

'How do you do this morning?' said Mr Carker the Manager, entering Mr
Dombey's room soon after his arrival one day: with a bundle of papers in
his hand.

'How do you do, Carker?' said Mr Dombey.

'Coolish!' observed Carker, stirring the fire.

'Rather,' said Mr Dombey.

'Any news of the young gentleman who is so important to us all?' asked
Carker, with his whole regiment of teeth on parade.

'Yes--not direct news--I hear he's very well,' said Mr Dombey. Who had
come from Brighton over-night. But no one knew It.

'Very well, and becoming a great scholar, no doubt?' observed the
Manager.

'I hope so,' returned Mr Dombey.

'Egad!' said Mr Carker, shaking his head, 'Time flies!'

'I think so, sometimes,' returned Mr Dombey, glancing at his newspaper.

'Oh! You! You have no reason to think so,' observed Carker. 'One who
sits on such an elevation as yours, and can sit there, unmoved, in all
seasons--hasn't much reason to know anything about the flight of
time. It's men like myself, who are low down and are not superior in
circumstances, and who inherit new masters in the course of Time, that
have cause to look about us. I shall have a rising sun to worship,
soon.'

'Time enough, time enough, Carker!' said Mr Dombey, rising from his
chair, and standing with his back to the fire. 'Have you anything there
for me?'

'I don't know that I need trouble you,' returned Carker, turning over
the papers in his hand. 'You have a committee today at three, you know.'

'And one at three, three-quarters,' added Mr Dombey.

'Catch you forgetting anything!' exclaimed Carker, still turning over
his papers. 'If Mr Paul inherits your memory, he'll be a troublesome
customer in the House. One of you is enough.'

'You have an accurate memory of your own,' said Mr Dombey.

'Oh! I!' returned the manager. 'It's the only capital of a man like me.'

Mr Dombey did not look less pompous or at all displeased, as he stood
leaning against the chimney-piece, surveying his (of course unconscious)
clerk, from head to foot. The stiffness and nicety of Mr Carker's dress,
and a certain arrogance of manner, either natural to him or imitated
from a pattern not far off, gave great additional effect to his
humility. He seemed a man who would contend against the power that
vanquished him, if he could, but who was utterly borne down by the
greatness and superiority of Mr Dombey.

'Is Morfin here?' asked Mr Dombey after a short pause, during which Mr
Carker had been fluttering his papers, and muttering little abstracts of
their contents to himself.

'Morfin's here,' he answered, looking up with his widest and almost
sudden smile; 'humming musical recollections--of his last night's
quartette party, I suppose--through the walls between us, and driving
me half mad. I wish he'd make a bonfire of his violoncello, and burn his
music-books in it.'

'You respect nobody, Carker, I think,' said Mr Dombey.

'No?' inquired Carker, with another wide and most feline show of his
teeth. 'Well! Not many people, I believe. I wouldn't answer perhaps,' he
murmured, as if he were only thinking it, 'for more than one.'

A dangerous quality, if real; and a not less dangerous one, if feigned.
But Mr Dombey hardly seemed to think so, as he still stood with his back
to the fire, drawn up to his full height, and looking at his head-clerk
with a dignified composure, in which there seemed to lurk a stronger
latent sense of power than usual.

'Talking of Morfin,' resumed Mr Carker, taking out one paper from the
rest, 'he reports a junior dead in the agency at Barbados, and proposes
to reserve a passage in the Son and Heir--she'll sail in a month or
so--for the successor. You don't care who goes, I suppose? We have
nobody of that sort here.'

Mr Dombey shook his head with supreme indifference.

'It's no very precious appointment,' observed Mr Carker, taking up a
pen, with which to endorse a memorandum on the back of the paper. 'I
hope he may bestow it on some orphan nephew of a musical friend. It may
perhaps stop his fiddle-playing, if he has a gift that way. Who's that?
Come in!'

'I beg your pardon, Mr Carker. I didn't know you were here, Sir,'
answered Walter; appearing with some letters in his hand, unopened, and
newly arrived. 'Mr Carker the junior, Sir--'

At the mention of this name, Mr Carker the Manager was or affected to
be, touched to the quick with shame and humiliation. He cast his eyes
full on Mr Dombey with an altered and apologetic look, abased them on
the ground, and remained for a moment without speaking.

'I thought, Sir,' he said suddenly and angrily, turning on Walter, 'that
you had been before requested not to drag Mr Carker the Junior into your
conversation.'

'I beg your pardon,' returned Walter. 'I was only going to say that Mr
Carker the Junior had told me he believed you were gone out, or I should
not have knocked at the door when you were engaged with Mr Dombey. These
are letters for Mr Dombey, Sir.'

'Very well, Sir,' returned Mr Carker the Manager, plucking them sharply
from his hand. 'Go about your business.'

But in taking them with so little ceremony, Mr Carker dropped one on the
floor, and did not see what he had done; neither did Mr Dombey observe
the letter lying near his feet. Walter hesitated for a moment, thinking
that one or other of them would notice it; but finding that neither did,
he stopped, came back, picked it up, and laid it himself on Mr Dombey's
desk. The letters were post-letters; and it happened that the one in
question was Mrs Pipchin's regular report, directed as usual--for Mrs
Pipchin was but an indifferent penwoman--by Florence. Mr Dombey, having
his attention silently called to this letter by Walter, started, and
looked fiercely at him, as if he believed that he had purposely selected
it from all the rest.

'You can leave the room, Sir!' said Mr Dombey, haughtily.

He crushed the letter in his hand; and having watched Walter out at the
door, put it in his pocket without breaking the seal.

'These continual references to Mr Carker the Junior,' Mr Carker
the Manager began, as soon as they were alone, 'are, to a man in my
position, uttered before one in yours, so unspeakably distressing--'

'Nonsense, Carker,' Mr Dombey interrupted. 'You are too sensitive.'

'I am sensitive,' he returned. 'If one in your position could by any
possibility imagine yourself in my place: which you cannot: you would be
so too.'

As Mr Dombey's thoughts were evidently pursuing some other subject, his
discreet ally broke off here, and stood with his teeth ready to present
to him, when he should look up.

'You want somebody to send to the West Indies, you were saying,'
observed Mr Dombey, hurriedly.

'Yes,' replied Carker.

'Send young Gay.'

'Good, very good indeed. Nothing easier,' said Mr Carker, without any
show of surprise, and taking up the pen to re-endorse the letter, as
coolly as he had done before. '"Send young Gay."'

'Call him back,' said Mr Dombey.

Mr Carker was quick to do so, and Walter was quick to return.

'Gay,' said Mr Dombey, turning a little to look at him over his
shoulder. 'Here is a--'

'An opening,' said Mr Carker, with his mouth stretched to the utmost.

'In the West Indies. At Barbados. I am going to send you,' said
Mr Dombey, scorning to embellish the bare truth, 'to fill a junior
situation in the counting-house at Barbados. Let your Uncle know from
me, that I have chosen you to go to the West Indies.'

Walter's breath was so completely taken away by his astonishment,
that he could hardly find enough for the repetition of the words 'West
Indies.'

'Somebody must go,' said Mr Dombey, 'and you are young and healthy, and
your Uncle's circumstances are not good. Tell your Uncle that you are
appointed. You will not go yet. There will be an interval of a month--or
two perhaps.'

'Shall I remain there, Sir?' inquired Walter.

'Will you remain there, Sir!' repeated Mr Dombey, turning a little more
round towards him. 'What do you mean? What does he mean, Carker?'

'Live there, Sir,' faltered Walter.

'Certainly,' returned Mr Dombey.

Walter bowed.

'That's all,' said Mr Dombey, resuming his letters. 'You will explain to
him in good time about the usual outfit and so forth, Carker, of course.
He needn't wait, Carker.'

'You needn't wait, Gay,' observed Mr Carker: bare to the gums.

'Unless,' said Mr Dombey, stopping in his reading without looking off
the letter, and seeming to listen. 'Unless he has anything to say.'

'No, Sir,' returned Walter, agitated and confused, and almost stunned,
as an infinite variety of pictures presented themselves to his
mind; among which Captain Cuttle, in his glazed hat, transfixed with
astonishment at Mrs MacStinger's, and his uncle bemoaning his loss in
the little back parlour, held prominent places. 'I hardly know--I--I am
much obliged, Sir.'

'He needn't wait, Carker,' said Mr Dombey.

And as Mr Carker again echoed the words, and also collected his papers
as if he were going away too, Walter felt that his lingering any longer
would be an unpardonable intrusion--especially as he had nothing to
say--and therefore walked out quite confounded.

Going along the passage, with the mingled consciousness and helplessness
of a dream, he heard Mr Dombey's door shut again, as Mr Carker came out:
and immediately afterwards that gentleman called to him.

'Bring your friend Mr Carker the Junior to my room, Sir, if you please.'

Walter went to the outer office and apprised Mr Carker the Junior of his
errand, who accordingly came out from behind a partition where he sat
alone in one corner, and returned with him to the room of Mr Carker the
Manager.

That gentleman was standing with his back to the fire, and his hands
under his coat-tails, looking over his white cravat, as unpromisingly as
Mr Dombey himself could have looked. He received them without any change
in his attitude or softening of his harsh and black expression: merely
signing to Walter to close the door.

'John Carker,' said the Manager, when this was done, turning suddenly
upon his brother, with his two rows of teeth bristling as if he would
have bitten him, 'what is the league between you and this young man, in
virtue of which I am haunted and hunted by the mention of your name? Is
it not enough for you, John Carker, that I am your near relation, and
can't detach myself from that--'

'Say disgrace, James,' interposed the other in a low voice, finding that
he stammered for a word. 'You mean it, and have reason, say disgrace.'

'From that disgrace,' assented his brother with keen emphasis, 'but is
the fact to be blurted out and trumpeted, and proclaimed continually
in the presence of the very House! In moments of confidence too? Do you
think your name is calculated to harmonise in this place with trust and
confidence, John Carker?'

'No,' returned the other. 'No, James. God knows I have no such thought.'

'What is your thought, then?' said his brother, 'and why do you thrust
yourself in my way? Haven't you injured me enough already?'

'I have never injured you, James, wilfully.'

'You are my brother,' said the Manager. 'That's injury enough.'

'I wish I could undo it, James.'

'I wish you could and would.'

During this conversation, Walter had looked from one brother to the
other, with pain and amazement. He who was the Senior in years, and
Junior in the House, stood, with his eyes cast upon the ground, and
his head bowed, humbly listening to the reproaches of the other. Though
these were rendered very bitter by the tone and look with which they
were accompanied, and by the presence of Walter whom they so much
surprised and shocked, he entered no other protest against them than by
slightly raising his right hand in a deprecatory manner, as if he would
have said, 'Spare me!' So, had they been blows, and he a brave man,
under strong constraint, and weakened by bodily suffering, he might have
stood before the executioner.

Generous and quick in all his emotions, and regarding himself as the
innocent occasion of these taunts, Walter now struck in, with all the
earnestness he felt.

'Mr Carker,' he said, addressing himself to the Manager. 'Indeed,
indeed, this is my fault solely. In a kind of heedlessness, for which I
cannot blame myself enough, I have, I have no doubt, mentioned Mr Carker
the Junior much oftener than was necessary; and have allowed his name
sometimes to slip through my lips, when it was against your expressed
wish. But it has been my own mistake, Sir. We have never exchanged one
word upon the subject--very few, indeed, on any subject. And it has not
been,' added Walter, after a moment's pause, 'all heedlessness on my
part, Sir; for I have felt an interest in Mr Carker ever since I have
been here, and have hardly been able to help speaking of him sometimes,
when I have thought of him so much!'

Walter said this from his soul, and with the very breath of honour. For
he looked upon the bowed head, and the downcast eyes, and upraised hand,
and thought, 'I have felt it; and why should I not avow it in behalf of
this unfriended, broken man!'

Mr Carker the Manager looked at him, as he spoke, and when he had
finished speaking, with a smile that seemed to divide his face into two
parts.

'You are an excitable youth, Gay,' he said; 'and should endeavour to
cool down a little now, for it would be unwise to encourage feverish
predispositions. Be as cool as you can, Gay. Be as cool as you can.
You might have asked Mr John Carker himself (if you have not done so)
whether he claims to be, or is, an object of such strong interest.'

'James, do me justice,' said his brother. 'I have claimed nothing; and I
claim nothing. Believe me, on my--'

'Honour?' said his brother, with another smile, as he warmed himself
before the fire.

'On my Me--on my fallen life!' returned the other, in the same low
voice, but with a deeper stress on his words than he had yet seemed
capable of giving them. 'Believe me, I have held myself aloof, and kept
alone. This has been unsought by me. I have avoided him and everyone.

'Indeed, you have avoided me, Mr Carker,' said Walter, with the tears
rising to his eyes; so true was his compassion. 'I know it, to my
disappointment and regret. When I first came here, and ever since, I
am sure I have tried to be as much your friend, as one of my age could
presume to be; but it has been of no use.

'And observe,' said the Manager, taking him up quickly, 'it will be of
still less use, Gay, if you persist in forcing Mr John Carker's name on
people's attention. That is not the way to befriend Mr John Carker. Ask
him if he thinks it is.'

'It is no service to me,' said the brother. 'It only leads to such a
conversation as the present, which I need not say I could have well
spared. No one can be a better friend to me:' he spoke here very
distinctly, as if he would impress it upon Walter: 'than in forgetting
me, and leaving me to go my way, unquestioned and unnoticed.'

'Your memory not being retentive, Gay, of what you are told by others,'
said Mr Carker the Manager, warming himself with great and increased
satisfaction, 'I thought it well that you should be told this from the
best authority,' nodding towards his brother. 'You are not likely to
forget it now, I hope. That's all, Gay. You can go.'

Walter passed out at the door, and was about to close it after him,
when, hearing the voices of the brothers again, and also the mention of
his own name, he stood irresolutely, with his hand upon the lock, and
the door ajar, uncertain whether to return or go away. In this position
he could not help overhearing what followed.

'Think of me more leniently, if you can, James,' said John Carker, 'when
I tell you I have had--how could I help having, with my history, written
here'--striking himself upon the breast--'my whole heart awakened by
my observation of that boy, Walter Gay. I saw in him when he first came
here, almost my other self.'

'Your other self!' repeated the Manager, disdainfully.

'Not as I am, but as I was when I first came here too; as sanguine,
giddy, youthful, inexperienced; flushed with the same restless and
adventurous fancies; and full of the same qualities, fraught with the
same capacity of leading on to good or evil.'

'I hope not,' said his brother, with some hidden and sarcastic meaning
in his tone.

'You strike me sharply; and your hand is steady, and your thrust is very
deep,' returned the other, speaking (or so Walter thought) as if some
cruel weapon actually stabbed him as he spoke. 'I imagined all this when
he was a boy. I believed it. It was a truth to me. I saw him lightly
walking on the edge of an unseen gulf where so many others walk with
equal gaiety, and from which--'

'The old excuse,' interrupted his brother, as he stirred the fire. 'So
many. Go on. Say, so many fall.'

'From which ONE traveller fell,' returned the other, 'who set forward,
on his way, a boy like him, and missed his footing more and more, and
slipped a little and a little lower; and went on stumbling still, until
he fell headlong and found himself below a shattered man. Think what I
suffered, when I watched that boy.'

'You have only yourself to thank for it,' returned the brother.

'Only myself,' he assented with a sigh. 'I don't seek to divide the
blame or shame.'

'You have divided the shame,' James Carker muttered through his teeth.
And, through so many and such close teeth, he could mutter well.

'Ah, James,' returned his brother, speaking for the first time in an
accent of reproach, and seeming, by the sound of his voice, to have
covered his face with his hands, 'I have been, since then, a useful foil
to you. You have trodden on me freely in your climbing up. Don't spurn
me with your heel!'

A silence ensued. After a time, Mr Carker the Manager was heard rustling
among his papers, as if he had resolved to bring the interview to a
conclusion. At the same time his brother withdrew nearer to the door.

'That's all,' he said. 'I watched him with such trembling and such fear,
as was some little punishment to me, until he passed the place where I
first fell; and then, though I had been his father, I believe I never
could have thanked God more devoutly. I didn't dare to warn him, and
advise him; but if I had seen direct cause, I would have shown him my
example. I was afraid to be seen speaking with him, lest it should be
thought I did him harm, and tempted him to evil, and corrupted him: or
lest I really should. There may be such contagion in me; I don't know.
Piece out my history, in connexion with young Walter Gay, and what he
has made me feel; and think of me more leniently, James, if you can.'

With these words he came out to where Walter was standing. He turned a
little paler when he saw him there, and paler yet when Walter caught him
by the hand, and said in a whisper:

'Mr Carker, pray let me thank you! Let me say how much I feel for you!
How sorry I am, to have been the unhappy cause of all this! How I almost
look upon you now as my protector and guardian! How very, very much,
I feel obliged to you and pity you!' said Walter, squeezing both his
hands, and hardly knowing, in his agitation, what he did or said.

Mr Morfin's room being close at hand and empty, and the door wide open,
they moved thither by one accord: the passage being seldom free from
someone passing to or fro. When they were there, and Walter saw in Mr
Carker's face some traces of the emotion within, he almost felt as if he
had never seen the face before; it was so greatly changed.

'Walter,' he said, laying his hand on his shoulder. 'I am far removed
from you, and may I ever be. Do you know what I am?'

'What you are!' appeared to hang on Walter's lips, as he regarded him
attentively.

'It was begun,' said Carker, 'before my twenty-first birthday--led up
to, long before, but not begun till near that time. I had robbed them
when I came of age. I robbed them afterwards. Before my twenty-second
birthday, it was all found out; and then, Walter, from all men's
society, I died.'

Again his last few words hung trembling upon Walter's lips, but he could
neither utter them, nor any of his own.

'The House was very good to me. May Heaven reward the old man for his
forbearance! This one, too, his son, who was then newly in the Firm,
where I had held great trust! I was called into that room which is now
his--I have never entered it since--and came out, what you know me. For
many years I sat in my present seat, alone as now, but then a known
and recognised example to the rest. They were all merciful to me, and
I lived. Time has altered that part of my poor expiation; and I think,
except the three heads of the House, there is no one here who knows my
story rightly. Before the little boy grows up, and has it told to him,
my corner may be vacant. I would rather that it might be so! This is the
only change to me since that day, when I left all youth, and hope, and
good men's company, behind me in that room. God bless you, Walter! Keep
you, and all dear to you, in honesty, or strike them dead!'

Some recollection of his trembling from head to foot, as if with
excessive cold, and of his bursting into tears, was all that Walter
could add to this, when he tried to recall exactly what had passed
between them.

When Walter saw him next, he was bending over his desk in his old
silent, drooping, humbled way. Then, observing him at his work, and
feeling how resolved he evidently was that no further intercourse should
arise between them, and thinking again and again on all he had seen and
heard that morning in so short a time, in connexion with the history of
both the Carkers, Walter could hardly believe that he was under orders
for the West Indies, and would soon be lost to Uncle Sol, and Captain
Cuttle, and to glimpses few and far between of Florence Dombey--no, he
meant Paul--and to all he loved, and liked, and looked for, in his daily
life.

But it was true, and the news had already penetrated to the outer
office; for while he sat with a heavy heart, pondering on these things,
and resting his head upon his arm, Perch the messenger, descending from
his mahogany bracket, and jogging his elbow, begged his pardon, but
wished to say in his ear, Did he think he could arrange to send home to
England a jar of preserved Ginger, cheap, for Mrs Perch's own eating, in
the course of her recovery from her next confinement?

At his firm, two managers, Mr. Morfin and Mr. Carker, aid Mr. Dombey. Morfin is amiable, while Carker is very crafty. Mr. Carker mentions that the firm needs to send someone to work at its office in the Barbados, and is going to let Morfin choose whom to send. Dombey, however, happens to be interrupted by Walter, who uncomfortably reminds him of Florence. He announces to Walter that he will be sending him to the West Indies. Walter is stunned but agrees to go. After the conversation, James Carker, Manager, summons John Carker, Junior, into his office. James is angry at being reminded of John's presence, and alludes to a disgrace he has caused. Walter is distressed by this exchange and tries to take the blame. After he leaves, he hears the brothers continuing to talk and John Carker explaining that Walter reminds him of the person he once was; he says that he has looked out for him, hoping Walter would not make the same mistakes he had. Walter questions John Carker about this afterwards, and John explains that he had stolen money from the firm as a young man and was disgraced, but was allowed to continue working there in a low-ranking position. He is deeply ashamed and no longer has any hopes or ambitions in life

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.