The grand half-yearly festival holden by Doctor and Mrs Blimber, on
which occasion they requested the pleasure of the company of every young
gentleman pursuing his studies in that genteel establishment, at an
early party, when the hour was half-past seven o'clock, and when the
object was quadrilles, had duly taken place, about this time; and
the young gentlemen, with no unbecoming demonstrations of levity, had
betaken themselves, in a state of scholastic repletion, to their
own homes. Mr Skettles had repaired abroad, permanently to grace the
establishment of his father Sir Barnet Skettles, whose popular manners
had obtained him a diplomatic appointment, the honours of which were
discharged by himself and Lady Skettles, to the satisfaction even of
their own countrymen and countrywomen: which was considered almost
miraculous. Mr Tozer, now a young man of lofty stature, in Wellington
boots, was so extremely full of antiquity as to be nearly on a par with
a genuine ancient Roman in his knowledge of English: a triumph that
affected his good parents with the tenderest emotions, and caused
the father and mother of Mr Briggs (whose learning, like ill-arranged
luggage, was so tightly packed that he couldn't get at anything he
wanted) to hide their diminished heads. The fruit laboriously gathered
from the tree of knowledge by this latter young gentleman, in fact,
had been subjected to so much pressure, that it had become a kind of
intellectual Norfolk Biffin, and had nothing of its original form or
flavour remaining. Master Bitherstone now, on whom the forcing system
had the happier and not uncommon effect of leaving no impression
whatever, when the forcing apparatus ceased to work, was in a much more
comfortable plight; and being then on shipboard, bound for Bengal, found
himself forgetting, with such admirable rapidity, that it was doubtful
whether his declensions of noun-substantives would hold out to the end
of the voyage.

When Doctor Blimber, in pursuance of the usual course, would have said
to the young gentlemen, on the morning of the party, 'Gentlemen, we will
resume our studies on the twenty-fifth of next month,' he departed from
the usual course, and said, 'Gentlemen, when our friend Cincinnatus
retired to his farm, he did not present to the senate any Roman who he
sought to nominate as his successor. But there is a Roman here,' said
Doctor Blimber, laying his hand on the shoulder of Mr Feeder, B.A.,
'adolescens imprimis gravis et doctus, gentlemen, whom I, a retiring
Cincinnatus, wish to present to my little senate, as their future
Dictator. Gentlemen, we will resume our studies on the twenty-fifth of
next month, under the auspices of Mr Feeder, B.A.' At this (which
Doctor Blimber had previously called upon all the parents, and urbanely
explained), the young gentlemen cheered; and Mr Tozer, on behalf of the
rest, instantly presented the Doctor with a silver inkstand, in a speech
containing very little of the mother-tongue, but fifteen quotations
from the Latin, and seven from the Greek, which moved the younger of the
young gentlemen to discontent and envy: they remarking, 'Oh, ah. It was
all very well for old Tozer, but they didn't subscribe money for old
Tozer to show off with, they supposed; did they? What business was it
of old Tozer's more than anybody else's? It wasn't his inkstand.
Why couldn't he leave the boys' property alone?' and murmuring other
expressions of their dissatisfaction, which seemed to find a greater
relief in calling him old Tozer, than in any other available vent.

Not a word had been said to the young gentlemen, nor a hint dropped, of
anything like a contemplated marriage between Mr Feeder, B.A., and the
fair Cornelia Blimber. Doctor Blimber, especially, seemed to take pains
to look as if nothing would surprise him more; but it was perfectly well
known to all the young gentlemen nevertheless, and when they departed
for the society of their relations and friends, they took leave of Mr
Feeder with awe.

Mr Feeder's most romantic visions were fulfilled. The Doctor had
determined to paint the house outside, and put it in thorough repair;
and to give up the business, and to give up Cornelia. The painting and
repairing began upon the very day of the young gentlemen's departure,
and now behold! the wedding morning was come, and Cornelia, in a new
pair of spectacles, was waiting to be led to the hymeneal altar.

The Doctor with his learned legs, and Mrs Blimber in a lilac bonnet, and
Mr Feeder, B.A., with his long knuckles and his bristly head of hair,
and Mr Feeder's brother, the Reverend Alfred Feeder, M.A., who was
to perform the ceremony, were all assembled in the drawing-room, and
Cornelia with her orange-flowers and bridesmaids had just come down, and
looked, as of old, a little squeezed in appearance, but very charming,
when the door opened, and the weak-eyed young man, in a loud voice, made
the following proclamation:

'MR AND MRS TOOTS!'

Upon which there entered Mr Toots, grown extremely stout, and on his arm
a lady very handsomely and becomingly dressed, with very bright black
eyes.

'Mrs Blimber,' said Mr Toots, 'allow me to present my wife.'

Mrs Blimber was delighted to receive her. Mrs Blimber was a little
condescending, but extremely kind.

'And as you've known me for a long time, you know,' said Mr Toots, 'let
me assure you that she is one of the most remarkable women that ever
lived.'

'My dear!' remonstrated Mrs Toots.

'Upon my word and honour she is,' said Mr Toots. 'I--I assure you, Mrs
Blimber, she's a most extraordinary woman.'

Mrs Toots laughed merrily, and Mrs Blimber led her to Cornelia. Mr Toots
having paid his respects in that direction and having saluted his old
preceptor, who said, in allusion to his conjugal state, 'Well, Toots,
well, Toots! So you are one of us, are you, Toots?'--retired with Mr
Feeder, B.A., into a window.

Mr Feeder, B.A., being in great spirits, made a spar at Mr Toots, and
tapped him skilfully with the back of his hand on the breastbone.

'Well, old Buck!' said Mr Feeder with a laugh. 'Well! Here we are! Taken
in and done for. Eh?'

'Feeder,' returned Mr Toots. 'I give you joy. If you're as--as--as
perfectly blissful in a matrimonial life, as I am myself, you'll have
nothing to desire.'

'I don't forget my old friends, you see,' said Mr Feeder. 'I ask em to
my wedding, Toots.'

'Feeder,' replied Mr Toots gravely, 'the fact is, that there were
several circumstances which prevented me from communicating with you
until after my marriage had been solemnised. In the first place, I had
made a perfect brute of myself to you, on the subject of Miss Dombey;
and I felt that if you were asked to any wedding of mine, you
would naturally expect that it was with Miss Dombey, which involved
explanations, that upon my word and honour, at that crisis, would
have knocked me completely over. In the second place, our wedding was
strictly private; there being nobody present but one friend of myself
and Mrs Toots's, who is a Captain in--I don't exactly know in what,'
said Mr Toots, 'but it's of no consequence. I hope, Feeder, that in
writing a statement of what had occurred before Mrs Toots and myself
went abroad upon our foreign tour, I fully discharged the offices of
friendship.'

'Toots, my boy,' said Mr Feeder, shaking his hands, 'I was joking.'

'And now, Feeder,' said Mr Toots, 'I should be glad to know what you
think of my union.'

'Capital!' returned Mr Feeder.

'You think it's capital, do you, Feeder?' said Mr Toots solemnly.
'Then how capital must it be to Me! For you can never know what an
extraordinary woman that is.'

Mr Feeder was willing to take it for granted. But Mr Toots shook his
head, and wouldn't hear of that being possible.

'You see,' said Mr Toots, 'what I wanted in a wife was--in short, was
sense. Money, Feeder, I had. Sense I--I had not, particularly.'

Mr Feeder murmured, 'Oh, yes, you had, Toots!' But Mr Toots said:

'No, Feeder, I had not. Why should I disguise it? I had not. I knew that
sense was There,' said Mr Toots, stretching out his hand towards his
wife, 'in perfect heaps. I had no relation to object or be offended, on
the score of station; for I had no relation. I have never had anybody
belonging to me but my guardian, and him, Feeder, I have always
considered as a Pirate and a Corsair. Therefore, you know it was not
likely,' said Mr Toots, 'that I should take his opinion.'

'No,' said Mr Feeder.

'Accordingly,' resumed Mr Toots, 'I acted on my own. Bright was the day
on which I did so! Feeder! Nobody but myself can tell what the capacity
of that woman's mind is. If ever the Rights of Women, and all that kind
of thing, are properly attended to, it will be through her powerful
intellect--Susan, my dear!' said Mr Toots, looking abruptly out of the
windows 'pray do not exert yourself!'

'My dear,' said Mrs Toots, 'I was only talking.'

'But, my love,' said Mr Toots, 'pray do not exert yourself. You really
must be careful. Do not, my dear Susan, exert yourself. She's so easily
excited,' said Mr Toots, apart to Mrs Blimber, 'and then she forgets the
medical man altogether.'

Mrs Blimber was impressing on Mrs Toots the necessity of caution, when
Mr Feeder, B.A., offered her his arm, and led her down to the carriages
that were waiting to go to church. Doctor Blimber escorted Mrs Toots. Mr
Toots escorted the fair bride, around whose lambent spectacles two gauzy
little bridesmaids fluttered like moths. Mr Feeder's brother, Mr Alfred
Feeder, M.A., had already gone on, in advance, to assume his official
functions.

The ceremony was performed in an admirable manner. Cornelia, with her
crisp little curls, 'went in,' as the Chicken might have said, with
great composure; and Doctor Blimber gave her away, like a man who had
quite made up his mind to it. The gauzy little bridesmaids appeared
to suffer most. Mrs Blimber was affected, but gently so; and told the
Reverend Mr Alfred Feeder, M.A., on the way home, that if she could only
have seen Cicero in his retirement at Tusculum, she would not have had a
wish, now, ungratified.

There was a breakfast afterwards, limited to the same small party;
at which the spirits of Mr Feeder, B.A., were tremendous, and so
communicated themselves to Mrs Toots that Mr Toots was several times
heard to observe, across the table, 'My dear Susan, don't exert
yourself!' The best of it was, that Mr Toots felt it incumbent on him to
make a speech; and in spite of a whole code of telegraphic dissuasions
from Mrs Toots, appeared on his legs for the first time in his life.

'I really,' said Mr Toots, 'in this house, where whatever was done to
me in the way of--of any mental confusion sometimes--which is of no
consequence and I impute to nobody--I was always treated like one of
Doctor Blimber's family, and had a desk to myself for a considerable
period--can--not--allow--my friend Feeder to be--'

Mrs Toots suggested 'married.'

'It may not be inappropriate to the occasion, or altogether
uninteresting,' said Mr Toots with a delighted face, 'to observe that my
wife is a most extraordinary woman, and would do this much better than
myself--allow my friend Feeder to be married--especially to--'

Mrs Toots suggested 'to Miss Blimber.'

'To Mrs Feeder, my love!' said Mr Toots, in a subdued tone of private
discussion: "'whom God hath joined," you know, "let no man"--don't you
know? I cannot allow my friend Feeder to be married--especially to Mrs
Feeder--without proposing their--their--Toasts; and may,' said Mr Toots,
fixing his eyes on his wife, as if for inspiration in a high flight,
'may the torch of Hymen be the beacon of joy, and may the flowers
we have this day strewed in their path, be the--the banishers of--of
gloom!'

Doctor Blimber, who had a taste for metaphor, was pleased with this, and
said, 'Very good, Toots! Very well said, indeed, Toots!' and nodded
his head and patted his hands. Mr Feeder made in reply, a comic speech
chequered with sentiment. Mr Alfred Feeder, M.A., was afterwards very
happy on Doctor and Mrs Blimber; Mr Feeder, B.A., scarcely less so, on
the gauzy little bridesmaids. Doctor Blimber then, in a sonorous voice,
delivered a few thoughts in the pastoral style, relative to the rushes
among which it was the intention of himself and Mrs Blimber to dwell,
and the bee that would hum around their cot. Shortly after which, as the
Doctor's eyes were twinkling in a remarkable manner, and his son-in-law
had already observed that time was made for slaves, and had inquired
whether Mrs Toots sang, the discreet Mrs Blimber dissolved the sitting,
and sent Cornelia away, very cool and comfortable, in a post-chaise,
with the man of her heart.

Mr and Mrs Toots withdrew to the Bedford (Mrs Toots had been there
before in old times, under her maiden name of Nipper), and there found
a letter, which it took Mr Toots such an enormous time to read, that Mrs
Toots was frightened.

'My dear Susan,' said Mr Toots, 'fright is worse than exertion. Pray be
calm!'

'Who is it from?' asked Mrs Toots.

'Why, my love,' said Mr Toots, 'it's from Captain Gills. Do not excite
yourself. Walters and Miss Dombey are expected home!'

'My dear,' said Mrs Toots, raising herself quickly from the sofa, very
pale, 'don't try to deceive me, for it's no use, they're come home--I
see it plainly in your face!'

'She's a most extraordinary woman!' exclaimed Mr Toots, in rapturous
admiration. 'You're perfectly right, my love, they have come home. Miss
Dombey has seen her father, and they are reconciled!'

'Reconciled!' cried Mrs Toots, clapping her hands.

'My dear,' said Mr Toots; 'pray do not exert yourself. Do remember the
medical man! Captain Gills says--at least he don't say, but I imagine,
from what I can make out, he means--that Miss Dombey has brought her
unfortunate father away from his old house, to one where she and Walters
are living; that he is lying very ill there--supposed to be dying; and
that she attends upon him night and day.'

Mrs Toots began to cry quite bitterly.

'My dearest Susan,' replied Mr Toots, 'do, do, if you possibly can,
remember the medical man! If you can't, it's of no consequence--but do
endeavour to!'

His wife, with her old manner suddenly restored, so pathetically
entreated him to take her to her precious pet, her little mistress, her
own darling, and the like, that Mr Toots, whose sympathy and admiration
were of the strongest kind, consented from his very heart of hearts; and
they agreed to depart immediately, and present themselves in answer to
the Captain's letter.

Now some hidden sympathies of things, or some coincidences, had that
day brought the Captain himself (toward whom Mr and Mrs Toots were soon
journeying) into the flowery train of wedlock; not as a principal, but
as an accessory. It happened accidentally, and thus:

The Captain, having seen Florence and her baby for a moment, to his
unbounded content, and having had a long talk with Walter, turned out
for a walk; feeling it necessary to have some solitary meditation on the
changes of human affairs, and to shake his glazed hat profoundly over
the fall of Mr Dombey, for whom the generosity and simplicity of his
nature were awakened in a lively manner. The Captain would have been
very low, indeed, on the unhappy gentleman's account, but for the
recollection of the baby; which afforded him such intense satisfaction
whenever it arose, that he laughed aloud as he went along the street,
and, indeed, more than once, in a sudden impulse of joy, threw up his
glazed hat and caught it again; much to the amazement of the spectators.
The rapid alternations of light and shade to which these two conflicting
subjects of reflection exposed the Captain, were so very trying to his
spirits, that he felt a long walk necessary to his composure; and as
there is a great deal in the influence of harmonious associations, he
chose, for the scene of this walk, his old neighbourhood, down among
the mast, oar, and block makers, ship-biscuit bakers, coal-whippers,
pitch-kettles, sailors, canals, docks, swing-bridges, and other soothing
objects.

These peaceful scenes, and particularly the region of Limehouse Hole and
thereabouts, were so influential in calming the Captain, that he walked
on with restored tranquillity, and was, in fact, regaling himself, under
his breath, with the ballad of Lovely Peg, when, on turning a corner,
he was suddenly transfixed and rendered speechless by a triumphant
procession that he beheld advancing towards him.

This awful demonstration was headed by that determined woman Mrs
MacStinger, who, preserving a countenance of inexorable resolution, and
wearing conspicuously attached to her obdurate bosom a stupendous watch
and appendages, which the Captain recognised at a glance as the property
of Bunsby, conducted under her arm no other than that sagacious mariner;
he, with the distraught and melancholy visage of a captive borne into a
foreign land, meekly resigning himself to her will. Behind them appeared
the young MacStingers, in a body, exulting. Behind them, two ladies
of a terrible and steadfast aspect, leading between them a short
gentleman in a tall hat, who likewise exulted. In the wake, appeared
Bunsby's boy, bearing umbrellas. The whole were in good marching order;
and a dreadful smartness that pervaded the party would have sufficiently
announced, if the intrepid countenances of the ladies had been wanting,
that it was a procession of sacrifice, and that the victim was Bunsby.

The first impulse of the Captain was to run away. This also appeared
to be the first impulse of Bunsby, hopeless as its execution must
have proved. But a cry of recognition proceeding from the party, and
Alexander MacStinger running up to the Captain with open arms, the
Captain struck.

'Well, Cap'en Cuttle!' said Mrs MacStinger. 'This is indeed a meeting! I
bear no malice now, Cap'en Cuttle--you needn't fear that I'm a going to
cast any reflections. I hope to go to the altar in another spirit.' Here
Mrs MacStinger paused, and drawing herself up, and inflating her bosom
with a long breath, said, in allusion to the victim, 'My 'usband, Cap'en
Cuttle!'

The abject Bunsby looked neither to the right nor to the left, nor at
his bride, nor at his friend, but straight before him at nothing. The
Captain putting out his hand, Bunsby put out his; but, in answer to the
Captain's greeting, spake no word.

'Cap'en Cuttle,' said Mrs MacStinger, 'if you would wish to heal up past
animosities, and to see the last of your friend, my 'usband, as a single
person, we should be 'appy of your company to chapel. Here is a lady
here,' said Mrs MacStinger, turning round to the more intrepid of
the two, 'my bridesmaid, that will be glad of your protection, Cap'en
Cuttle.'

The short gentleman in the tall hat, who it appeared was the husband of
the other lady, and who evidently exulted at the reduction of a fellow
creature to his own condition, gave place at this, and resigned the lady
to Captain Cuttle. The lady immediately seized him, and, observing that
there was no time to lose, gave the word, in a strong voice, to advance.

The Captain's concern for his friend, not unmingled, at first, with some
concern for himself--for a shadowy terror that he might be married by
violence, possessed him, until his knowledge of the service came to his
relief, and remembering the legal obligation of saying, 'I will,'
he felt himself personally safe so long as he resolved, if asked
any question, distinctly to reply 'I won't'--threw him into a profuse
perspiration; and rendered him, for a time, insensible to the movements
of the procession, of which he now formed a feature, and to the
conversation of his fair companion. But as he became less agitated, he
learnt from this lady that she was the widow of a Mr Bokum, who had held
an employment in the Custom House; that she was the dearest friend of
Mrs MacStinger, whom she considered a pattern for her sex; that she had
often heard of the Captain, and now hoped he had repented of his past
life; that she trusted Mr Bunsby knew what a blessing he had gained, but
that she feared men seldom did know what such blessings were, until they
had lost them; with more to the same purpose.

All this time, the Captain could not but observe that Mrs Bokum kept
her eyes steadily on the bridegroom, and that whenever they came near a
court or other narrow turning which appeared favourable for flight, she
was on the alert to cut him off if he attempted escape. The other lady,
too, as well as her husband, the short gentleman with the tall hat, were
plainly on guard, according to a preconcerted plan; and the wretched man
was so secured by Mrs MacStinger, that any effort at self-preservation
by flight was rendered futile. This, indeed, was apparent to the mere
populace, who expressed their perception of the fact by jeers and cries;
to all of which, the dread MacStinger was inflexibly indifferent, while
Bunsby himself appeared in a state of unconsciousness.

The Captain made many attempts to accost the philosopher, if only in
a monosyllable or a signal; but always failed, in consequence of the
vigilance of the guard, and the difficulty, at all times peculiar to
Bunsby's constitution, of having his attention aroused by any outward
and visible sign whatever. Thus they approached the chapel, a neat
whitewashed edifice, recently engaged by the Reverend Melchisedech
Howler, who had consented, on very urgent solicitation, to give the
world another two years of existence, but had informed his followers
that, then, it must positively go.

While the Reverend Melchisedech was offering up some extemporary
orisons, the Captain found an opportunity of growling in the
bridegroom's ear:

'What cheer, my lad, what cheer?'

To which Bunsby replied, with a forgetfulness of the Reverend
Melchisedech, which nothing but his desperate circumstances could have
excused:

'D----d bad,'

'Jack Bunsby,' whispered the Captain, 'do you do this here, of your own
free will?'

Mr Bunsby answered 'No.'

'Why do you do it, then, my lad?' inquired the Captain, not unnaturally.

Bunsby, still looking, and always looking with an immovable countenance,
at the opposite side of the world, made no reply.

'Why not sheer off?' said the Captain. 'Eh?' whispered Bunsby, with a
momentary gleam of hope.

'Sheer off,' said the Captain.

'Where's the good?' retorted the forlorn sage. 'She'd capter me agen.'

'Try!' replied the Captain. 'Cheer up! Come! Now's your time. Sheer off,
Jack Bunsby!'

Jack Bunsby, however, instead of profiting by the advice, said in a
doleful whisper:

'It all began in that there chest o' yourn. Why did I ever conwoy her
into port that night?'

'My lad,' faltered the Captain, 'I thought as you had come over her; not
as she had come over you. A man as has got such opinions as you have!'

Mr Bunsby merely uttered a suppressed groan.

'Come!' said the Captain, nudging him with his elbow, 'now's your time!
Sheer off! I'll cover your retreat. The time's a flying. Bunsby! It's
for liberty. Will you once?'

Bunsby was immovable.

'Bunsby!' whispered the Captain, 'will you twice?'

Bunsby wouldn't twice.

'Bunsby!' urged the Captain, 'it's for liberty; will you three times?
Now or never!'

Bunsby didn't then, and didn't ever; for Mrs MacStinger immediately
afterwards married him.

One of the most frightful circumstances of the ceremony to the Captain,
was the deadly interest exhibited therein by Juliana MacStinger; and the
fatal concentration of her faculties, with which that promising child,
already the image of her parent, observed the whole proceedings. The
Captain saw in this a succession of man-traps stretching out infinitely;
a series of ages of oppression and coercion, through which the seafaring
line was doomed. It was a more memorable sight than the unflinching
steadiness of Mrs Bokum and the other lady, the exultation of the
short gentleman in the tall hat, or even the fell inflexibility of Mrs
MacStinger. The Master MacStingers understood little of what was going
on, and cared less; being chiefly engaged, during the ceremony, in
treading on one another's half-boots; but the contrast afforded by
those wretched infants only set off and adorned the precocious woman in
Juliana. Another year or two, the Captain thought, and to lodge where
that child was, would be destruction.

The ceremony was concluded by a general spring of the young family on Mr
Bunsby, whom they hailed by the endearing name of father, and from
whom they solicited half-pence. These gushes of affection over, the
procession was about to issue forth again, when it was delayed for
some little time by an unexpected transport on the part of Alexander
MacStinger. That dear child, it seemed, connecting a chapel with
tombstones, when it was entered for any purpose apart from the ordinary
religious exercises, could not be persuaded but that his mother was now
to be decently interred, and lost to him for ever. In the anguish of
this conviction, he screamed with astonishing force, and turned black in
the face. However touching these marks of a tender disposition were
to his mother, it was not in the character of that remarkable woman to
permit her recognition of them to degenerate into weakness. Therefore,
after vainly endeavouring to convince his reason by shakes, pokes,
bawlings-out, and similar applications to his head, she led him into
the air, and tried another method; which was manifested to the marriage
party by a quick succession of sharp sounds, resembling applause, and
subsequently, by their seeing Alexander in contact with the coolest
paving-stone in the court, greatly flushed, and loudly lamenting.

The procession being then in a condition to form itself once more, and
repair to Brig Place, where a marriage feast was in readiness, returned
as it had come; not without the receipt, by Bunsby, of many humorous
congratulations from the populace on his recently-acquired happiness.
The Captain accompanied it as far as the house-door, but, being made
uneasy by the gentler manner of Mrs Bokum, who, now that she was
relieved from her engrossing duty--for the watchfulness and alacrity
of the ladies sensibly diminished when the bridegroom was safely
married--had greater leisure to show an interest in his behalf, there
left it and the captive; faintly pleading an appointment, and promising
to return presently. The Captain had another cause for uneasiness, in
remorsefully reflecting that he had been the first means of Bunsby's
entrapment, though certainly without intending it, and through his
unbounded faith in the resources of that philosopher.

To go back to old Sol Gills at the wooden Midshipman's, and not first go
round to ask how Mr Dombey was--albeit the house where he lay was out of
London, and away on the borders of a fresh heath--was quite out of the
Captain's course. So he got a lift when he was tired, and made out the
journey gaily.

The blinds were pulled down, and the house so quiet, that the Captain
was almost afraid to knock; but listening at the door, he heard low
voices within, very near it, and, knocking softly, was admitted by Mr
Toots. Mr Toots and his wife had, in fact, just arrived there; having
been at the Midshipman's to seek him, and having there obtained the
address.

They were not so recently arrived, but that Mrs Toots had caught the
baby from somebody, taken it in her arms, and sat down on the stairs,
hugging and fondling it. Florence was stooping down beside her; and no
one could have said which Mrs Toots was hugging and fondling most, the
mother or the child, or which was the tenderer, Florence of Mrs Toots,
or Mrs Toots of her, or both of the baby; it was such a little group of
love and agitation.

'And is your Pa very ill, my darling dear Miss Floy?' asked Susan.

'He is very, very ill,' said Florence. 'But, Susan, dear, you must
not speak to me as you used to speak. And what's this?' said Florence,
touching her clothes, in amazement. 'Your old dress, dear? Your old cap,
curls, and all?'

Susan burst into tears, and showered kisses on the little hand that had
touched her so wonderingly.

'My dear Miss Dombey,' said Mr Toots, stepping forward, 'I'll explain.
She's the most extraordinary woman. There are not many to equal her! She
has always said--she said before we were married, and has said to this
day--that whenever you came home, she'd come to you in no dress but the
dress she used to serve you in, for fear she might seem strange to you,
and you might like her less. I admire the dress myself,' said Mr Toots,
'of all things. I adore her in it! My dear Miss Dombey, she'll be your
maid again, your nurse, all that she ever was, and more. There's no
change in her. But, Susan, my dear,' said Mr Toots, who had spoken with
great feeling and high admiration, 'all I ask is, that you'll remember
the medical man, and not exert yourself too much!'

In Brighton, Dr. Blimber hands over the running of his school to Mr. Feeder, who is also going to marry his daughter Cornelia. At the wedding, the guests are joined by Toots and his own wife-Susan Nipper. The two are very happy together. After the wedding, back at their hotel, Toots and Susan receive word that Florence and Walter have returned, and have reconciled with her father. However, Dombey is very ill, which is causing Florence distress. Susan insists they hurry back to London so that she can help and support Florence. They arrive back and are happily greeted, arriving just before Captain Cuttle, who, while taking a walk, has been surprised to witness the marriage of Mrs. MacStinger and an unwilling but resigned Bunsby


Florence had need of help. Her father's need of it was sore, and made
the aid of her old friend invaluable. Death stood at his pillow. A
shade, already, of what he had been, shattered in mind, and perilously
sick in body, he laid his weary head down on the bed his daughter's
hands prepared for him, and had never raised it since.

She was always with him. He knew her, generally; though, in the
wandering of his brain, he often confused the circumstances under which
he spoke to her. Thus he would address her, sometimes, as if his boy
were newly dead; and would tell her, that although he had said nothing
of her ministering at the little bedside, yet he had seen it--he had
seen it; and then would hide his face and sob, and put out his worn
hand. Sometimes he would ask her for herself. 'Where is Florence?' 'I am
here, Papa, I am here.' 'I don't know her!' he would cry. 'We have been
parted so long, that I don't know her!' and then a staring dread would
be upon him, until she could soothe his perturbation; and recall the
tears she tried so hard, at other times, to dry.

He rambled through the scenes of his old pursuits--through many where
Florence lost him as she listened--sometimes for hours. He would repeat
that childish question, 'What is money?' and ponder on it, and think
about it, and reason with himself, more or less connectedly, for a good
answer; as if it had never been proposed to him until that moment. He
would go on with a musing repetition of the title of his old firm twenty
thousand times, and at every one of them, would turn his head upon his
pillow. He would count his children--one--two--stop, and go back, and
begin again in the same way.

But this was when his mind was in its most distracted state. In all the
other phases of its illness, and in those to which it was most constant,
it always turned on Florence. What he would oftenest do was this: he
would recall that night he had so recently remembered, the night on
which she came down to his room, and would imagine that his heart smote
him, and that he went out after her, and up the stairs to seek her.
Then, confounding that time with the later days of the many footsteps,
he would be amazed at their number, and begin to count them as he
followed her. Here, of a sudden, was a bloody footstep going on among
the others; and after it there began to be, at intervals, doors standing
open, through which certain terrible pictures were seen, in mirrors,
of haggard men, concealing something in their breasts. Still, among the
many footsteps and the bloody footsteps here and there, was the step of
Florence. Still she was going on before. Still the restless mind went,
following and counting, ever farther, ever higher, as to the summit of a
mighty tower that it took years to climb.

One day he inquired if that were not Susan who had spoken a long while
ago.

Florence said 'Yes, dear Papa;' and asked him would he like to see her?

He said 'very much.' And Susan, with no little trepidation, showed
herself at his bedside.

It seemed a great relief to him. He begged her not to go; to understand
that he forgave her what she had said; and that she was to stay.
Florence and he were very different now, he said, and very happy. Let
her look at this! He meant his drawing the gentle head down to his
pillow, and laying it beside him.

He remained like this for days and weeks. At length, lying, the faint
feeble semblance of a man, upon his bed, and speaking in a voice so low
that they could only hear him by listening very near to his lips, he
became quiet. It was dimly pleasant to him now, to lie there, with the
window open, looking out at the summer sky and the trees: and, in the
evening, at the sunset. To watch the shadows of the clouds and leaves,
and seem to feel a sympathy with shadows. It was natural that he should.
To him, life and the world were nothing else.

He began to show now that he thought of Florence's fatigue: and often
taxed his weakness to whisper to her, 'Go and walk, my dearest, in the
sweet air. Go to your good husband!' One time when Walter was in his
room, he beckoned him to come near, and to stoop down; and pressing his
hand, whispered an assurance to him that he knew he could trust him with
his child when he was dead.

It chanced one evening, towards sunset, when Florence and Walter were
sitting in his room together, as he liked to see them, that Florence,
having her baby in her arms, began in a low voice to sing to the little
fellow, and sang the old tune she had so often sung to the dead child:
He could not bear it at the time; he held up his trembling hand,
imploring her to stop; but next day he asked her to repeat it, and to
do so often of an evening: which she did. He listening, with his face
turned away.

Florence was sitting on a certain time by his window, with her
work-basket between her and her old attendant, who was still her
faithful companion. He had fallen into a doze. It was a beautiful
evening, with two hours of light to come yet; and the tranquillity and
quiet made Florence very thoughtful. She was lost to everything for the
moment, but the occasion when the so altered figure on the bed had first
presented her to her beautiful Mama; when a touch from Walter leaning on
the back of her chair, made her start.

'My dear,' said Walter, 'there is someone downstairs who wishes to speak
to you.'

She fancied Walter looked grave, and asked him if anything had happened.

'No, no, my love!' said Walter. 'I have seen the gentleman myself, and
spoken with him. Nothing has happened. Will you come?'

Florence put her arm through his; and confiding her father to the
black-eyed Mrs Toots, who sat as brisk and smart at her work as
black-eyed woman could, accompanied her husband downstairs. In the
pleasant little parlour opening on the garden, sat a gentleman, who rose
to advance towards her when she came in, but turned off, by reason of
some peculiarity in his legs, and was only stopped by the table.

Florence then remembered Cousin Feenix, whom she had not at first
recognised in the shade of the leaves. Cousin Feenix took her hand, and
congratulated her upon her marriage.

'I could have wished, I am sure,' said Cousin Feenix, sitting down
as Florence sat, 'to have had an earlier opportunity of offering my
congratulations; but, in point of fact, so many painful occurrences have
happened, treading, as a man may say, on one another's heels, that I
have been in a devil of a state myself, and perfectly unfit for every
description of society. The only description of society I have kept, has
been my own; and it certainly is anything but flattering to a man's good
opinion of his own sources, to know that, in point of fact, he has the
capacity of boring himself to a perfectly unlimited extent.'

Florence divined, from some indefinable constraint and anxiety in this
gentleman's manner--which was always a gentleman's, in spite of the
harmless little eccentricities that attached to it--and from Walter's
manner no less, that something more immediately tending to some object
was to follow this.

'I have been mentioning to my friend Mr Gay, if I may be allowed to have
the honour of calling him so,' said Cousin Feenix, 'that I am rejoiced
to hear that my friend Dombey is very decidedly mending. I trust my
friend Dombey will not allow his mind to be too much preyed upon, by any
mere loss of fortune. I cannot say that I have ever experienced any very
great loss of fortune myself: never having had, in point of fact, any
great amount of fortune to lose. But as much as I could lose, I have
lost; and I don't find that I particularly care about it. I know my
friend Dombey to be a devilish honourable man; and it's calculated to
console my friend Dombey very much, to know, that this is the universal
sentiment. Even Tommy Screwzer,--a man of an extremely bilious habit,
with whom my friend Gay is probably acquainted--cannot say a syllable in
disputation of the fact.'

Florence felt, more than ever, that there was something to come; and
looked earnestly for it. So earnestly, that Cousin Feenix answered, as
if she had spoken.

'The fact is,' said Cousin Feenix, 'that my friend Gay and myself have
been discussing the propriety of entreating a favour at your hands;
and that I have the consent of my friend Gay--who has met me in an
exceedingly kind and open manner, for which I am very much indebted to
him--to solicit it. I am sensible that so amiable a lady as the lovely
and accomplished daughter of my friend Dombey will not require much
urging; but I am happy to know, that I am supported by my friend Gay's
influence and approval. As in my parliamentary time, when a man had a
motion to make of any sort--which happened seldom in those days, for we
were kept very tight in hand, the leaders on both sides being regular
Martinets, which was a devilish good thing for the rank and file, like
myself, and prevented our exposing ourselves continually, as a great
many of us had a feverish anxiety to do--as, in my parliamentary time,
I was about to say, when a man had leave to let off any little private
popgun, it was always considered a great point for him to say that he
had the happiness of believing that his sentiments were not without
an echo in the breast of Mr Pitt; the pilot, in point of fact, who had
weathered the storm. Upon which, a devilish large number of fellows
immediately cheered, and put him in spirits. Though the fact is, that
these fellows, being under orders to cheer most excessively whenever Mr
Pitt's name was mentioned, became so proficient that it always woke 'em.
And they were so entirely innocent of what was going on, otherwise, that
it used to be commonly said by Conversation Brown--four-bottle man at
the Treasury Board, with whom the father of my friend Gay was probably
acquainted, for it was before my friend Gay's time--that if a man had
risen in his place, and said that he regretted to inform the house that
there was an Honourable Member in the last stage of convulsions in the
Lobby, and that the Honourable Member's name was Pitt, the approbation
would have been vociferous.'

This postponement of the point, put Florence in a flutter; and she
looked from Cousin Feenix to Walter, in increasing agitation.

'My love,' said Walter, 'there is nothing the matter.'

'There is nothing the matter, upon my honour,' said Cousin Feenix; 'and
I am deeply distressed at being the means of causing you a moment's
uneasiness. I beg to assure you that there is nothing the matter.
The favour that I have to ask is, simply--but it really does seem so
exceedingly singular, that I should be in the last degree obliged to my
friend Gay if he would have the goodness to break the--in point of fact,
the ice,' said Cousin Feenix.

Walter thus appealed to, and appealed to no less in the look that
Florence turned towards him, said:

'My dearest, it is no more than this. That you will ride to London with
this gentleman, whom you know.'

'And my friend Gay, also--I beg your pardon!' interrupted Cousin Feenix.

'--And with me--and make a visit somewhere.'

'To whom?' asked Florence, looking from one to the other.

'If I might entreat,' said Cousin Feenix, 'that you would not press
for an answer to that question, I would venture to take the liberty of
making the request.'

'Do you know, Walter?'

'Yes.'

'And think it right?'

'Yes. Only because I am sure that you would too. Though there may be
reasons I very well understand, which make it better that nothing more
should be said beforehand.'

'If Papa is still asleep, or can spare me if he is awake, I will go
immediately,' said Florence. And rising quietly, and glancing at them
with a look that was a little alarmed but perfectly confiding, left the
room.

When she came back, ready to bear them company, they were talking
together, gravely, at the window; and Florence could not but wonder what
the topic was, that had made them so well acquainted in so short a time.
She did not wonder at the look of pride and love with which her husband
broke off as she entered; for she never saw him, but that rested on her.

'I will leave,' said Cousin Feenix, 'a card for my friend Dombey,
sincerely trusting that he will pick up health and strength with every
returning hour. And I hope my friend Dombey will do me the favour to
consider me a man who has a devilish warm admiration of his character,
as, in point of fact, a British merchant and a devilish upright
gentleman. My place in the country is in a most confounded state of
dilapidation, but if my friend Dombey should require a change of air,
and would take up his quarters there, he would find it a remarkably
healthy spot--as it need be, for it's amazingly dull. If my friend
Dombey suffers from bodily weakness, and would allow me to recommend
what has frequently done myself good, as a man who has been extremely
queer at times, and who lived pretty freely in the days when men lived
very freely, I should say, let it be in point of fact the yolk of an
egg, beat up with sugar and nutmeg, in a glass of sherry, and taken
in the morning with a slice of dry toast. Jackson, who kept the
boxing-rooms in Bond Street--man of very superior qualifications, with
whose reputation my friend Gay is no doubt acquainted--used to mention
that in training for the ring they substituted rum for sherry. I should
recommend sherry in this case, on account of my friend Dombey being in
an invalided condition; which might occasion rum to fly--in point of
fact to his head--and throw him into a devil of a state.'

Of all this, Cousin Feenix delivered himself with an obviously nervous
and discomposed air. Then, giving his arm to Florence, and putting
the strongest possible constraint upon his wilful legs, which seemed
determined to go out into the garden, he led her to the door, and handed
her into a carriage that was ready for her reception.

Walter entered after him, and they drove away.

Their ride was six or eight miles long. When they drove through certain
dull and stately streets, lying westward in London, it was growing dusk.
Florence had, by this time, put her hand in Walter's; and was looking
very earnestly, and with increasing agitation, into every new street
into which they turned.

When the carriage stopped, at last, before that house in Brook Street,
where her father's unhappy marriage had been celebrated, Florence
said, 'Walter, what is this? Who is here?' Walter cheering her, and
not replying, she glanced up at the house-front, and saw that all the
windows were shut, as if it were uninhabited. Cousin Feenix had by this
time alighted, and was offering his hand.

'Are you not coming, Walter?'

'No, I will remain here. Don't tremble there is nothing to fear, dearest
Florence.'

'I know that, Walter, with you so near. I am sure of that, but--'

The door was softly opened, without any knock, and Cousin Feenix led her
out of the summer evening air into the close dull house. More sombre and
brown than ever, it seemed to have been shut up from the wedding-day,
and to have hoarded darkness and sadness ever since.

Florence ascended the dusky staircase, trembling; and stopped, with her
conductor, at the drawing-room door. He opened it, without speaking,
and signed an entreaty to her to advance into the inner room, while he
remained there. Florence, after hesitating an instant, complied.

Sitting by the window at a table, where she seemed to have been writing
or drawing, was a lady, whose head, turned away towards the dying light,
was resting on her hand. Florence advancing, doubtfully, all at once
stood still, as if she had lost the power of motion. The lady turned her
head.

'Great Heaven!' she said, 'what is this?'

'No, no!' cried Florence, shrinking back as she rose up and putting out
her hands to keep her off. 'Mama!'

They stood looking at each other. Passion and pride had worn it, but it
was the face of Edith, and beautiful and stately yet. It was the face
of Florence, and through all the terrified avoidance it expressed, there
was pity in it, sorrow, a grateful tender memory. On each face, wonder
and fear were painted vividly; each so still and silent, looking at the
other over the black gulf of the irrevocable past.

Florence was the first to change. Bursting into tears, she said from her
full heart, 'Oh, Mama, Mama! why do we meet like this? Why were you ever
kind to me when there was no one else, that we should meet like this?'

Edith stood before her, dumb and motionless. Her eyes were fixed upon
her face.

'I dare not think of that,' said Florence, 'I am come from Papa's sick
bed. We are never asunder now; we never shall be' any more. If you would
have me ask his pardon, I will do it, Mama. I am almost sure he will
grant it now, if I ask him. May Heaven grant it to you, too, and comfort
you!'

She answered not a word.

'Walter--I am married to him, and we have a son,' said Florence,
timidly--'is at the door, and has brought me here. I will tell him
that you are repentant; that you are changed,' said Florence, looking
mournfully upon her; 'and he will speak to Papa with me, I know. Is
there anything but this that I can do?'

Edith, breaking her silence, without moving eye or limb, answered
slowly:

'The stain upon your name, upon your husband's, on your child's. Will
that ever be forgiven, Florence?'

'Will it ever be, Mama? It is! Freely, freely, both by Walter and by me.
If that is any consolation to you, there is nothing that you may believe
more certainly. You do not--you do not,' faltered Florence, 'speak of
Papa; but I am sure you wish that I should ask him for his forgiveness.
I am sure you do.'

She answered not a word.

'I will!' said Florence. 'I will bring it you, if you will let me; and
then, perhaps, we may take leave of each other, more like what we
used to be to one another. I have not,' said Florence very gently, and
drawing nearer to her, 'I have not shrunk back from you, Mama, because
I fear you, or because I dread to be disgraced by you. I only wish to do
my duty to Papa. I am very dear to him, and he is very dear to me. But
I never can forget that you were very good to me. Oh, pray to Heaven,'
cried Florence, falling on her bosom, 'pray to Heaven, Mama, to forgive
you all this sin and shame, and to forgive me if I cannot help doing
this (if it is wrong), when I remember what you used to be!'

Edith, as if she fell beneath her touch, sunk down on her knees, and
caught her round the neck.

'Florence!' she cried. 'My better angel! Before I am mad again, before
my stubbornness comes back and strikes me dumb, believe me, upon my soul
I am innocent!'

'Mama!'

'Guilty of much! Guilty of that which sets a waste between us evermore.
Guilty of what must separate me, through the whole remainder of my life,
from purity and innocence--from you, of all the earth. Guilty of a blind
and passionate resentment, of which I do not, cannot, will not, even
now, repent; but not guilty with that dead man. Before God!'

Upon her knees upon the ground, she held up both her hands, and swore
it.

'Florence!' she said, 'purest and best of natures,--whom I love--who
might have changed me long ago, and did for a time work some change even
in the woman that I am,--believe me, I am innocent of that; and once
more, on my desolate heart, let me lay this dear head, for the last
time!'

She was moved and weeping. Had she been oftener thus in older days, she
had been happier now.

'There is nothing else in all the world,' she said, 'that would have
wrung denial from me. No love, no hatred, no hope, no threat. I said
that I would die, and make no sign. I could have done so, and I would,
if we had never met, Florence.'

'I trust,' said Cousin Feenix, ambling in at the door, and speaking,
half in the room, and half out of it, 'that my lovely and accomplished
relative will excuse my having, by a little stratagem, effected this
meeting. I cannot say that I was, at first, wholly incredulous as to
the possibility of my lovely and accomplished relative having, very
unfortunately, committed herself with the deceased person with white
teeth; because in point of fact, one does see, in this world--which is
remarkable for devilish strange arrangements, and for being decidedly
the most unintelligible thing within a man's experience--very odd
conjunctions of that sort. But as I mentioned to my friend Dombey, I
could not admit the criminality of my lovely and accomplished relative
until it was perfectly established. And feeling, when the deceased
person was, in point of fact, destroyed in a devilish horrible manner,
that her position was a very painful one--and feeling besides that our
family had been a little to blame in not paying more attention to her,
and that we are a careless family--and also that my aunt, though a
devilish lively woman, had perhaps not been the very best of mothers--I
took the liberty of seeking her in France, and offering her such
protection as a man very much out at elbows could offer. Upon which
occasion, my lovely and accomplished relative did me the honour to
express that she believed I was, in my way, a devilish good sort of
fellow; and that therefore she put herself under my protection. Which in
point of fact I understood to be a kind thing on the part of my lovely
and accomplished relative, as I am getting extremely shaky, and have
derived great comfort from her solicitude.'

Edith, who had taken Florence to a sofa, made a gesture with her hand as
if she would have begged him to say no more.

'My lovely and accomplished relative,' resumed Cousin Feenix, still
ambling about at the door, 'will excuse me, if, for her satisfaction,
and my own, and that of my friend Dombey, whose lovely and accomplished
daughter we so much admire, I complete the thread of my observations.
She will remember that, from the first, she and I never alluded to the
subject of her elopement. My impression, certainly, has always been,
that there was a mystery in the affair which she could explain if so
inclined. But my lovely and accomplished relative being a devilish
resolute woman, I knew that she was not, in point of fact, to be trifled
with, and therefore did not involve myself in any discussions. But,
observing lately, that her accessible point did appear to be a very
strong description of tenderness for the daughter of my friend Dombey,
it occurred to me that if I could bring about a meeting, unexpected on
both sides, it might lead to beneficial results. Therefore, we being in
London, in the present private way, before going to the South of Italy,
there to establish ourselves, in point of fact, until we go to our long
homes, which is a devilish disagreeable reflection for a man, I applied
myself to the discovery of the residence of my friend Gay--handsome man
of an uncommonly frank disposition, who is probably known to my lovely
and accomplished relative--and had the happiness of bringing his amiable
wife to the present place. And now,' said Cousin Feenix, with a real
and genuine earnestness shining through the levity of his manner and his
slipshod speech, 'I do conjure my relative, not to stop half way, but to
set right, as far as she can, whatever she has done wrong--not for
the honour of her family, not for her own fame, not for any of those
considerations which unfortunate circumstances have induced her to
regard as hollow, and in point of fact, as approaching to humbug--but
because it is wrong, and not right.'

Cousin Feenix's legs consented to take him away after this; and leaving
them alone together, he shut the door.

Edith remained silent for some minutes, with Florence sitting close
beside her. Then she took from her bosom a sealed paper.

'I debated with myself a long time,' she said in a low voice, 'whether
to write this at all, in case of dying suddenly or by accident, and
feeling the want of it upon me. I have deliberated, ever since, when and
how to destroy it. Take it, Florence. The truth is written in it.'

'Is it for Papa?' asked Florence.

'It is for whom you will,' she answered. 'It is given to you, and is
obtained by you. He never could have had it otherwise.'

Again they sat silent, in the deepening darkness.

'Mama,' said Florence, 'he has lost his fortune; he has been at the
point of death; he may not recover, even now. Is there any word that I
shall say to him from you?'

'Did you tell me,' asked Edith, 'that you were very dear to him?'

'Yes!' said Florence, in a thrilling voice.

'Tell him I am sorry that we ever met.'

'No more?' said Florence after a pause.

'Tell him, if he asks, that I do not repent of what I have done--not
yet--for if it were to do again to-morrow, I should do it. But if he is
a changed man---'

She stopped. There was something in the silent touch of Florence's hand
that stopped her.

'--But that being a changed man, he knows, now, it would never be. Tell
him I wish it never had been.'

'May I say,' said Florence, 'that you grieved to hear of the afflictions
he has suffered?'

'Not,' she replied, 'if they have taught him that his daughter is very
dear to him. He will not grieve for them himself, one day, if they have
brought that lesson, Florence.'

'You wish well to him, and would have him happy. I am sure you would!'
said Florence. 'Oh! let me be able, if I have the occasion at some
future time, to say so?'

Edith sat with her dark eyes gazing steadfastly before her, and did not
reply until Florence had repeated her entreaty; when she drew her hand
within her arm, and said, with the same thoughtful gaze upon the night
outside:

'Tell him that if, in his own present, he can find any reason to
compassionate my past, I sent word that I asked him to do so. Tell him
that if, in his own present, he can find a reason to think less bitterly
of me, I asked him to do so. Tell him, that, dead as we are to one
another, never more to meet on this side of eternity, he knows there is
one feeling in common between us now, that there never was before.'

Her sternness seemed to yield, and there were tears in her dark eyes.

'I trust myself to that,' she said, 'for his better thoughts of me, and
mine of him. When he loves his Florence most, he will hate me least.
When he is most proud and happy in her and her children, he will be most
repentant of his own part in the dark vision of our married life. At
that time, I will be repentant too--let him know it then--and think that
when I thought so much of all the causes that had made me what I was,
I needed to have allowed more for the causes that had made him what he
was. I will try, then, to forgive him his share of blame. Let him try to
forgive me mine!'

'Oh Mama!' said Florence. 'How it lightens my heart, even in such a
strange meeting and parting, to hear this!'

'Strange words in my own ears,' said Edith, 'and foreign to the sound of
my own voice! But even if I had been the wretched creature I have
given him occasion to believe me, I think I could have said them still,
hearing that you and he were very dear to one another. Let him, when
you are dearest, ever feel that he is most forbearing in his thoughts of
me--that I am most forbearing in my thoughts of him! Those are the last
words I send him! Now, goodbye, my life!'

She clasped her in her arms, and seemed to pour out all her woman's soul
of love and tenderness at once.

'This kiss for your child! These kisses for a blessing on your head! My
own dear Florence, my sweet girl, farewell!'

'To meet again!' cried Florence.

'Never again! Never again! When you leave me in this dark room, think
that you have left me in the grave. Remember only that I was once, and
that I loved you!'

And Florence left her, seeing her face no more, but accompanied by her
embraces and caresses to the last.

Cousin Feenix met her at the door, and took her down to Walter in the
dingy dining room, upon whose shoulder she laid her head weeping.

'I am devilish sorry,' said Cousin Feenix, lifting his wristbands to his
eyes in the simplest manner possible, and without the least concealment,
'that the lovely and accomplished daughter of my friend Dombey and
amiable wife of my friend Gay, should have had her sensitive nature
so very much distressed and cut up by the interview which is just
concluded. But I hope and trust I have acted for the best, and that my
honourable friend Dombey will find his mind relieved by the disclosures
which have taken place. I exceedingly lament that my friend Dombey
should have got himself, in point of fact, into the devil's own state
of conglomeration by an alliance with our family; but am strongly of
opinion that if it hadn't been for the infernal scoundrel Barker--man
with white teeth--everything would have gone on pretty smoothly.
In regard to my relative who does me the honour to have formed an
uncommonly good opinion of myself, I can assure the amiable wife of my
friend Gay, that she may rely on my being, in point of fact, a father to
her. And in regard to the changes of human life, and the extraordinary
manner in which we are perpetually conducting ourselves, all I can say
is, with my friend Shakespeare--man who wasn't for an age but for all
time, and with whom my friend Gay is no doubt acquainted--that its like
the shadow of a dream.'

Dombey continues to be very ill, but is very tender with Florence, and also shows forgiveness to both Susan and Walter. One day she is called way from his bedside by news of a visitor, who turns out to be Cousin Feenix. Feenix awkwardly explains that he wants Florence to accompany him on a visit, but cannot say to whom; he has, however, revealed everything to Walter, and Walter approves of the plan. Reassured by this, the three of them set off. They arrive at Cousin Feenix's town house, and he and Florence enter while Walter waits outside. Inside, Florence finds Edith. Florence quickly updates her about her marriage and child, and then offers her forgiveness, suggesting that she also thinks her father will forgive Edith. Edith, however, wants to make it clear that she was not in fact guilty of adultery. Edith also provides a written account of the truth, which she gives to Florence with permission for her to disclose it as she sees fit. Although ambivalent, Edith expresses some compassion towards Dombey, and satisfaction that he has at last learned to love his daughter. They part ways with Edith's promise that they will never meet again

Despite the personal tragedies that befall him with the loss of both of his wives, his son, and his daughter, the loss that finally pushes Dombey to his breaking point is the loss of his business. Importantly, the firm goes bankrupt not simply because of Carker's mismanagement but because of Dombey's pride and stubbornness, and his refusal to make the appropriate adjustments to his business practices. The collapse of the firm creates a second scandal following the dissolution of his marriage and completes the collapse of the Dombey reputation. Just as he has feared, he is the subject of gossip and speculation, and many individuals are somewhat pleased to see him humbled. Moreover, even characters like Bagstock and Mrs. Chick make it clear that they don't know how to relate to Dombey in his new position, and he loses the few superficial relationships he possessed. Dombey's isolation and humiliation, however, are the forces that finally break down his pride and stubbornness, allowing him both to reflect on his life and, for the first time, to recognize his mistakes. Once everyone else abandons him, he can finally see the value of Florence's unconditional love and loyalty. Now that he is no longer obsessed with lineage and wealth, he can see the value of her not as a commodity but as an individual who has suffered so patiently. Because Dombey is reduced to a state of humility and vulnerability, he can open his heart, and meet Florence with open arms when she returns to the house. Florence's decision to go back to her father's house when she returns to England may seem unconvincing, since she has been treated so badly by him, and has finally succeeded in establishing a new life for herself. However, now that she has become a mother, she seems to have an even deeper craving for connection to her own family. The next generation, first with her son and then with her daughter, functions as a source of redemption and new beginning. Florence's reestablishment of family is completed in that she not only reconciles with her father but also has a chance to say a final farewell to Edith. Even before Edith explains that she is not actually guilty of adultery, Florence is willing to show compassion to her. Edith's insistence on Florence knowing the truth rather than believing that she had an affair with Carker reveals the stigma around this behavior. While Edith was willing to sacrifice her public reputation to free herself from her marriage, she could bear to have Florence think of her as a fallen woman. A parallel is established between Edith and Alice in that Alice also seems to have been morally redeemed by the time of her death. Harriet's virtue and compassion, much like that of Florence, allows her to end the novel at peace. In typical Victorian novel fashion, many of the characters marry at the novel's conclusion. Some of these marriages seem improbable and abrupt, and may represent a last-minute desire to reassert the value of the domestic world after a novel that has been deeply critical of marriage and the family. What finally provides redemption is Dombey's reform. He not only reorients himself to a totally different kind of life and the companionship of characters far outside of his typical social circle, he also deliberately seeks to correct his past mistakes. This is seen most explicitly in his interactions with his granddaughter. He showers her with the love he has previously denied to his own child. While the errors of the past can never be undone, the novel ends with the suggestion that change and reform are possible even for the most unlikely characters.


A bottle that has been long excluded from the light of day, and is
hoary with dust and cobwebs, has been brought into the sunshine; and the
golden wine within it sheds a lustre on the table.

It is the last bottle of the old Madiera.

'You are quite right, Mr Gills,' says Mr Dombey. 'This is a very rare
and most delicious wine.'

The Captain, who is of the party, beams with joy. There is a very halo
of delight round his glowing forehead.

'We always promised ourselves, Sir,' observes Mr Gills,' Ned and myself,
I mean--'

Mr Dombey nods at the Captain, who shines more and more with speechless
gratification.

'--that we would drink this, one day or other, to Walter safe at home:
though such a home we never thought of. If you don't object to our old
whim, Sir, let us devote this first glass to Walter and his wife.'

'To Walter and his wife!' says Mr Dombey. 'Florence, my child'--and
turns to kiss her.

'To Walter and his wife!' says Mr Toots.

'To Wal'r and his wife!' exclaims the Captain. 'Hooroar!' and the
Captain exhibiting a strong desire to clink his glass against some other
glass, Mr Dombey, with a ready hand, holds out his. The others follow;
and there is a blithe and merry ringing, as of a little peal of marriage
bells.

Other buried wine grows older, as the old Madeira did in its time; and
dust and cobwebs thicken on the bottles.

Mr Dombey is a white-haired gentleman, whose face bears heavy marks of
care and suffering; but they are traces of a storm that has passed on
for ever, and left a clear evening in its track.

Ambitious projects trouble him no more. His only pride is in his
daughter and her husband. He has a silent, thoughtful, quiet manner, and
is always with his daughter. Miss Tox is not infrequently of the family
party, and is quite devoted to it, and a great favourite. Her admiration
of her once stately patron is, and has been ever since the morning of
her shock in Princess's Place, platonic, but not weakened in the least.

Nothing has drifted to him from the wreck of his fortunes, but a certain
annual sum that comes he knows not how, with an earnest entreaty that he
will not seek to discover, and with the assurance that it is a debt, and
an act of reparation. He has consulted with his old clerk about this,
who is clear it may be honourably accepted, and has no doubt it arises
out of some forgotten transaction in the times of the old House.

That hazel-eyed bachelor, a bachelor no more, is married now, and to the
sister of the grey-haired Junior. He visits his old chief sometimes, but
seldom. There is a reason in the greyhaired Junior's history, and yet
a stronger reason in his name, why he should keep retired from his
old employer; and as he lives with his sister and her husband, they
participate in that retirement. Walter sees them sometimes--Florence
too--and the pleasant house resounds with profound duets arranged for
the Piano-Forte and Violoncello, and with the labours of Harmonious
Blacksmiths.

And how goes the wooden Midshipman in these changed days? Why, here he
still is, right leg foremost, hard at work upon the hackney coaches, and
more on the alert than ever, being newly painted from his cocked hat to
his buckled shoes; and up above him, in golden characters, these names
shine refulgent, GILLS AND CUTTLE.

Not another stroke of business does the Midshipman achieve beyond his
usual easy trade. But they do say, in a circuit of some half-mile round
the blue umbrella in Leadenhall Market, that some of Mr Gills's old
investments are coming out wonderfully well; and that instead of being
behind the time in those respects, as he supposed, he was, in truth,
a little before it, and had to wait the fulness of the time and the
design. The whisper is that Mr Gills's money has begun to turn itself,
and that it is turning itself over and over pretty briskly. Certain it
is that, standing at his shop-door, in his coffee-coloured suit, with
his chronometer in his pocket, and his spectacles on his forehead, he
don't appear to break his heart at customers not coming, but looks very
jovial and contented, though full as misty as of yore.

As to his partner, Captain Cuttle, there is a fiction of a business in
the Captain's mind which is better than any reality. The Captain is as
satisfied of the Midshipman's importance to the commerce and navigation
of the country, as he could possibly be, if no ship left the Port of
London without the Midshipman's assistance. His delight in his own name
over the door, is inexhaustible. He crosses the street, twenty times a
day, to look at it from the other side of the way; and invariably says,
on these occasions, 'Ed'ard Cuttle, my lad, if your mother could ha'
know'd as you would ever be a man o' science, the good old creetur would
ha' been took aback in-deed!'

But here is Mr Toots descending on the Midshipman with violent rapidity,
and Mr Toots's face is very red as he bursts into the little parlour.

'Captain Gills,' says Mr Toots, 'and Mr Sols, I am happy to inform you
that Mrs Toots has had an increase to her family.'

'And it does her credit!' cries the Captain.

'I give you joy, Mr Toots!' says old Sol.

'Thank'ee,' chuckles Mr Toots, 'I'm very much obliged to you. I knew
that you'd be glad to hear, and so I came down myself. We're positively
getting on, you know. There's Florence, and Susan, and now here's
another little stranger.'

'A female stranger?' inquires the Captain.

'Yes, Captain Gills,' says Mr Toots, 'and I'm glad of it. The oftener we
can repeat that most extraordinary woman, my opinion is, the better!'

'Stand by!' says the Captain, turning to the old case-bottle with no
throat--for it is evening, and the Midshipman's usual moderate provision
of pipes and glasses is on the board. 'Here's to her, and may she have
ever so many more!'

'Thank'ee, Captain Gills,' says the delighted Mr Toots. 'I echo the
sentiment. If you'll allow me, as my so doing cannot be unpleasant to
anybody, under the circumstances, I think I'll take a pipe.'

Mr Toots begins to smoke, accordingly, and in the openness of his heart
is very loquacious.

'Of all the remarkable instances that that delightful woman has given of
her excellent sense, Captain Gills and Mr Sols,' said Mr Toots, 'I
think none is more remarkable than the perfection with which she has
understood my devotion to Miss Dombey.'

Both his auditors assent.

'Because you know,' says Mr Toots, 'I have never changed my sentiments
towards Miss Dombey. They are the same as ever. She is the same
bright vision to me, at present, that she was before I made Walters's
acquaintance. When Mrs Toots and myself first began to talk of--in
short, of the tender passion, you know, Captain Gills.'

'Ay, ay, my lad,' says the Captain, 'as makes us all slue round--for
which you'll overhaul the book--'

'I shall certainly do so, Captain Gills,' says Mr Toots, with great
earnestness; 'when we first began to mention such subjects, I explained
that I was what you may call a Blighted Flower, you know.'

The Captain approves of this figure greatly; and murmurs that no flower
as blows, is like the rose.

'But Lord bless me,' pursues Mr Toots, 'she was as entirely conscious of
the state of my feelings as I was myself. There was nothing I could tell
her. She was the only person who could have stood between me and the
silent Tomb, and she did it, in a manner to command my everlasting
admiration. She knows that there's nobody in the world I look up to, as
I do to Miss Dombey. Knows that there's nothing on earth I wouldn't
do for Miss Dombey. She knows that I consider Miss Dombey the most
beautiful, the most amiable, the most angelic of her sex. What is her
observation upon that? The perfection of sense. "My dear, you're right.
I think so too."'

'And so do I!' says the Captain.

'So do I,' says Sol Gills.

'Then,' resumes Mr Toots, after some contemplative pulling at his pipe,
during which his visage has expressed the most contented reflection,
'what an observant woman my wife is! What sagacity she possesses! What
remarks she makes! It was only last night, when we were sitting in
the enjoyment of connubial bliss--which, upon my word and honour, is a
feeble term to express my feelings in the society of my wife--that
she said how remarkable it was to consider the present position of
our friend Walters. "Here," observes my wife, "he is, released from
sea-going, after that first long voyage with his young bride"--as you
know he was, Mr Sols.'

'Quite true,' says the old Instrument-maker, rubbing his hands.

'"Here he is," says my wife, "released from that, immediately; appointed
by the same establishment to a post of great trust and confidence at
home; showing himself again worthy; mounting up the ladder with the
greatest expedition; beloved by everybody; assisted by his uncle at the
very best possible time of his fortunes"--which I think is the case, Mr
Sols? My wife is always correct.'

'Why yes, yes--some of our lost ships, freighted with gold, have come
home, truly,' returns old Sol, laughing. 'Small craft, Mr Toots, but
serviceable to my boy!'

'Exactly so,' says Mr Toots. 'You'll never find my wife wrong. "Here he
is," says that most remarkable woman, "so situated,--and what follows?
What follows?" observed Mrs Toots. Now pray remark, Captain Gills, and
Mr Sols, the depth of my wife's penetration. "Why that, under the very
eye of Mr Dombey, there is a foundation going on, upon which a--an
Edifice;" that was Mrs Toots's word,' says Mr Toots exultingly, "'is
gradually rising, perhaps to equal, perhaps excel, that of which he was
once the head, and the small beginnings of which (a common fault, but a
bad one, Mrs Toots said) escaped his memory. Thus," said my wife, "from
his daughter, after all, another Dombey and Son will ascend"--no "rise;"
that was Mrs Toots's word--"triumphant!"'

Mr Toots, with the assistance of his pipe--which he is extremely glad to
devote to oratorical purposes, as its proper use affects him with a
very uncomfortable sensation--does such grand justice to this prophetic
sentence of his wife's, that the Captain, throwing away his glazed hat
in a state of the greatest excitement, cries:

'Sol Gills, you man of science and my ould pardner, what did I tell
Wal'r to overhaul on that there night when he first took to business?
Was it this here quotation, "Turn again Whittington, Lord Mayor of
London, and when you are old you will never depart from it." Was it them
words, Sol Gills?'

'It certainly was, Ned,' replied the old Instrument-maker. 'I remember
well.'

'Then I tell you what,' says the Captain, leaning back in his chair,
and composing his chest for a prodigious roar. 'I'll give you Lovely Peg
right through; and stand by, both on you, for the chorus!'

Buried wine grows older, as the old Madeira did, in its time; and dust
and cobwebs thicken on the bottles.

Autumn days are shining, and on the sea-beach there are often a young
lady, and a white-haired gentleman. With them, or near them, are two
children: boy and girl. And an old dog is generally in their company.

The white-haired gentleman walks with the little boy, talks with him,
helps him in his play, attends upon him, watches him as if he were the
object of his life. If he be thoughtful, the white-haired gentleman is
thoughtful too; and sometimes when the child is sitting by his side, and
looks up in his face, asking him questions, he takes the tiny hand in
his, and holding it, forgets to answer. Then the child says:

'What, grandpa! Am I so like my poor little Uncle again?'

'Yes, Paul. But he was weak, and you are very strong.'

'Oh yes, I am very strong.'

'And he lay on a little bed beside the sea, and you can run about.'

And so they range away again, busily, for the white-haired gentleman
likes best to see the child free and stirring; and as they go about
together, the story of the bond between them goes about, and follows
them.

But no one, except Florence, knows the measure of the white-haired
gentleman's affection for the girl. That story never goes about. The
child herself almost wonders at a certain secrecy he keeps in it. He
hoards her in his heart. He cannot bear to see a cloud upon her face.
He cannot bear to see her sit apart. He fancies that she feels a slight,
when there is none. He steals away to look at her, in her sleep. It
pleases him to have her come, and wake him in the morning. He is fondest
of her and most loving to her, when there is no creature by. The child
says then, sometimes:

'Dear grandpapa, why do you cry when you kiss me?'

He only answers, 'Little Florence! little Florence!' and smooths away
the curls that shade her earnest eyes.

The voices in the waves speak low to him of Florence, day and
night--plainest when he, his blooming daughter, and her husband, beside
them in the evening, or sit at an open window, listening to their roar.
They speak to him of Florence and his altered heart; of Florence and
their ceaseless murmuring to her of the love, eternal and illimitable,
extending still, beyond the sea, beyond the sky, to the invisible
country far away.

Never from the mighty sea may voices rise too late, to come between us
and the unseen region on the other shore! Better, far better, that
they whispered of that region in our childish ears, and the swift river
hurried us away!

PREFACE OF 1848

I cannot forego my usual opportunity of saying farewell to my readers
in this greeting-place, though I have only to acknowledge the unbounded
warmth and earnestness of their sympathy in every stage of the journey
we have just concluded.

If any of them have felt a sorrow in one of the principal incidents on
which this fiction turns, I hope it may be a sorrow of that sort which
endears the sharers in it, one to another. This is not unselfish in me.
I may claim to have felt it, at least as much as anybody else; and I
would fain be remembered kindly for my part in the experience.

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Twenty-Fourth March, 1848.

PREFACE OF 1867

I make so bold as to believe that the faculty (or the habit) of
correctly observing the characters of men, is a rare one. I have not
even found, within my experience, that the faculty (or the habit) of
correctly observing so much as the faces of men, is a general one by any
means. The two commonest mistakes in judgement that I suppose to
arise from the former default, are, the confounding of shyness with
arrogance--a very common mistake indeed--and the not understanding that
an obstinate nature exists in a perpetual struggle with itself.

Mr Dombey undergoes no violent change, either in this book, or in real
life. A sense of his injustice is within him, all along. The more he
represses it, the more unjust he necessarily is. Internal shame and
external circumstances may bring the contest to a close in a week, or a
day; but, it has been a contest for years, and is only fought out after
a long balance of victory.

I began this book by the Lake of Geneva, and went on with it for some
months in France, before pursuing it in England. The association between
the writing and the place of writing is so curiously strong in my mind,
that at this day, although I know, in my fancy, every stair in the
little midshipman's house, and could swear to every pew in the church
in which Florence was married, or to every young gentleman's bedstead in
Doctor Blimber's establishment, I yet confusedly imagine Captain
Cuttle as secluding himself from Mrs MacStinger among the mountains of
Switzerland. Similarly, when I am reminded by any chance of what it was
that the waves were always saying, my remembrance wanders for a whole
winter night about the streets of Paris--as I restlessly did with a
heavy heart, on the night when I had written the chapter in which my
little friend and I parted company.

Mr. Dombey gradually recovers, but displays a very different personality, being humble and loving to his daughter and son-in-law. He and Miss Tox become friends, and Dombey is able to live off the money given to him by John and Harriet Carker, though he never knows the money's origin. Mr. Morfin has married Harriet and lives happily with her and John. Cuttle and Gils have gone into business together, and are now profiting. Toots and Susan have a baby daughter, and Walter has been fortunate to receive a post where he can prosper and no longer be required to travel at sea. In time, Florence gives birth to a daughter, and while old Mr. Dombey shows great devotion to both of his grandchildren, he is especially attentive to his granddaughter, thereby atoning for the neglect he had shown to his daughter