Florence lived alone in the great dreary house, and day succeeded day,
and still she lived alone; and the blank walls looked down upon her with
a vacant stare, as if they had a Gorgon-like mind to stare her youth and
beauty into stone.

No magic dwelling-place in magic story, shut up in the heart of a thick
wood, was ever more solitary and deserted to the fancy, than was her
father's mansion in its grim reality, as it stood lowering on the
street: always by night, when lights were shining from neighbouring
windows, a blot upon its scanty brightness; always by day, a frown upon
its never-smiling face.

There were not two dragon sentries keeping ward before the gate of this
above, as in magic legend are usually found on duty over the wronged
innocence imprisoned; but besides a glowering visage, with its thin lips
parted wickedly, that surveyed all comers from above the archway of the
door, there was a monstrous fantasy of rusty iron, curling and twisting
like a petrifaction of an arbour over threshold, budding in spikes
and corkscrew points, and bearing, one on either side, two ominous
extinguishers, that seemed to say, 'Who enter here, leave light behind!'
There were no talismanic characters engraven on the portal, but the
house was now so neglected in appearance, that boys chalked the railings
and the pavement--particularly round the corner where the side wall
was--and drew ghosts on the stable door; and being sometimes driven off
by Mr Towlinson, made portraits of him, in return, with his ears growing
out horizontally from under his hat. Noise ceased to be, within the
shadow of the roof. The brass band that came into the street once a
week, in the morning, never brayed a note in at those windows; but all
such company, down to a poor little piping organ of weak intellect,
with an imbecile party of automaton dancers, waltzing in and out at
folding-doors, fell off from it with one accord, and shunned it as a
hopeless place.

The spell upon it was more wasting than the spell that used to set
enchanted houses sleeping once upon a time, but left their waking
freshness unimpaired.

The passive desolation of disuse was everywhere silently manifest about
it. Within doors, curtains, drooping heavily, lost their old folds and
shapes, and hung like cumbrous palls. Hecatombs of furniture, still
piled and covered up, shrunk like imprisoned and forgotten men, and
changed insensibly. Mirrors were dim as with the breath of years.
Patterns of carpets faded and became perplexed and faint, like the
memory of those years' trifling incidents. Boards, starting at unwonted
footsteps, creaked and shook. Keys rusted in the locks of doors. Damp
started on the walls, and as the stains came out, the pictures seemed to
go in and secrete themselves. Mildew and mould began to lurk in closets.
Fungus trees grew in corners of the cellars.  Dust accumulated, nobody
knew whence nor how; spiders, moths, and grubs were heard of every day.
An exploratory blackbeetle now and then was found immovable upon the
stairs, or in an upper room, as wondering how he got there. Rats began
to squeak and scuffle in the night time, through dark galleries they
mined behind the panelling.

The dreary magnificence of the state rooms, seen imperfectly by the
doubtful light admitted through closed shutters, would have answered
well enough for an enchanted abode. Such as the tarnished paws of
gilded lions, stealthily put out from beneath their wrappers; the marble
lineaments of busts on pedestals, fearfully revealing themselves through
veils; the clocks that never told the time, or, if wound up by any
chance, told it wrong, and struck unearthly numbers, which are not
upon the dial; the accidental tinklings among the pendant lustres, more
startling than alarm-bells; the softened sounds and laggard air that
made their way among these objects, and a phantom crowd of others,
shrouded and hooded, and made spectral of shape. But, besides, there was
the great staircase, where the lord of the place so rarely set his foot,
and by which his little child had gone up to Heaven. There were other
staircases and passages where no one went for weeks together; there were
two closed rooms associated with dead members of the family, and with
whispered recollections of them; and to all the house but Florence,
there was a gentle figure moving through the solitude and gloom, that
gave to every lifeless thing a touch of present human interest and
wonder.

For Florence lived alone in the deserted house, and day succeeded day,
and still she lived alone, and the cold walls looked down upon her with
a vacant stare, as if they had a Gorgon-like mind to stare her youth and
beauty into stone.

The grass began to grow upon the roof, and in the crevices of the
basement paving. A scaly crumbling vegetation sprouted round the
window-sills. Fragments of mortar lost their hold upon the insides of
the unused chimneys, and came dropping down. The two trees with the
smoky trunks were blighted high up, and the withered branches domineered
above the leaves, Through the whole building white had turned yellow,
yellow nearly black; and since the time when the poor lady died, it had
slowly become a dark gap in the long monotonous street.

But Florence bloomed there, like the king's fair daughter in the
story. Her books, her music, and her daily teachers, were her only real
companions, Susan Nipper and Diogenes excepted: of whom the former, in
her attendance on the studies of her young mistress, began to grow
quite learned herself, while the latter, softened possibly by the same
influences, would lay his head upon the window-ledge, and placidly
open and shut his eyes upon the street, all through a summer morning;
sometimes pricking up his head to look with great significance after
some noisy dog in a cart, who was barking his way along, and sometimes,
with an exasperated and unaccountable recollection of his supposed enemy
in the neighbourhood, rushing to the door, whence, after a deafening
disturbance, he would come jogging back with a ridiculous complacency
that belonged to him, and lay his jaw upon the window-ledge again, with
the air of a dog who had done a public service.

So Florence lived in her wilderness of a home, within the circle of her
innocent pursuits and thoughts, and nothing harmed her. She could go
down to her father's rooms now, and think of him, and suffer her loving
heart humbly to approach him, without fear of repulse. She could look
upon the objects that had surrounded him in his sorrow, and could nestle
near his chair, and not dread the glance that she so well remembered.
She could render him such little tokens of her duty and service, as
putting everything in order for him with her own hands, binding little
nosegays for table, changing them as one by one they withered and he did
not come back, preparing something for him every day, and leaving some
timid mark of her presence near his usual seat. To-day, it was a little
painted stand for his watch; tomorrow she would be afraid to leave it,
and would substitute some other trifle of her making not so likely to
attract his eye. Waking in the night, perhaps, she would tremble at the
thought of his coming home and angrily rejecting it, and would hurry
down with slippered feet and quickly beating heart, and bring it away.
At another time, she would only lay her face upon his desk, and leave a
kiss there, and a tear.

Still no one knew of this. Unless the household found it out when she
was not there--and they all held Mr Dombey's rooms in awe--it was as
deep a secret in her breast as what had gone before it. Florence stole
into those rooms at twilight, early in the morning, and at times when
meals were served downstairs. And although they were in every nook the
better and the brighter for her care, she entered and passed out as
quietly as any sunbeam, opting that she left her light behind.

Shadowy company attended Florence up and down the echoing house, and
sat with her in the dismantled rooms. As if her life were an enchanted
vision, there arose out of her solitude ministering thoughts, that made
it fanciful and unreal. She imagined so often what her life would have
been if her father could have loved her and she had been a favourite
child, that sometimes, for the moment, she almost believed it was so,
and, borne on by the current of that pensive fiction, seemed to remember
how they had watched her brother in his grave together; how they had
freely shared his heart between them; how they were united in the dear
remembrance of him; how they often spoke about him yet; and her kind
father, looking at her gently, told her of their common hope and trust
in God. At other times she pictured to herself her mother yet alive. And
oh the happiness of falling on her neck, and clinging to her with
the love and confidence of all her soul! And oh the desolation of the
solitary house again, with evening coming on, and no one there!

But there was one thought, scarcely shaped out to herself, yet fervent
and strong within her, that upheld Florence when she strove and filled
her true young heart, so sorely tried, with constancy of purpose. Into
her mind, as into all others contending with the great affliction of
our mortal nature, there had stolen solemn wonderings and hopes, arising
in the dim world beyond the present life, and murmuring, like faint
music, of recognition in the far-off land between her brother and her
mother: of some present consciousness in both of her: some love and
commiseration for her: and some knowledge of her as she went her way
upon the earth. It was a soothing consolation to Florence to give
shelter to these thoughts, until one day--it was soon after she had last
seen her father in his own room, late at night--the fancy came upon her,
that, in weeping for his alienated heart, she might stir the spirits of
the dead against him. Wild, weak, childish, as it may have been to think
so, and to tremble at the half-formed thought, it was the impulse of
her loving nature; and from that hour Florence strove against the cruel
wound in her breast, and tried to think of him whose hand had made it,
only with hope.

Her father did not know--she held to it from that time--how much she
loved him. She was very young, and had no mother, and had never learned,
by some fault or misfortune, how to express to him that she loved him.
She would be patient, and would try to gain that art in time, and win
him to a better knowledge of his only child.

This became the purpose of her life. The morning sun shone down upon the
faded house, and found the resolution bright and fresh within the bosom
of its solitary mistress, Through all the duties of the day, it
animated her; for Florence hoped that the more she knew, and the more
accomplished she became, the more glad he would be when he came to know
and like her. Sometimes she wondered, with a swelling heart and rising
tear, whether she was proficient enough in anything to surprise him when
they should become companions. Sometimes she tried to think if there
were any kind of knowledge that would bespeak his interest more readily
than another. Always: at her books, her music, and her work: in her
morning walks, and in her nightly prayers: she had her engrossing aim
in view. Strange study for a child, to learn the road to a hard parent's
heart!

There were many careless loungers through the street, as the summer
evening deepened into night, who glanced across the road at the sombre
house, and saw the youthful figure at the window, such a contrast to it,
looking upward at the stars as they began to shine, who would have slept
the worse if they had known on what design she mused so steadfastly. The
reputation of the mansion as a haunted house, would not have been
the gayer with some humble dwellers elsewhere, who were struck by its
external gloom in passing and repassing on their daily avocations, and
so named it, if they could have read its story in the darkening face.
But Florence held her sacred purpose, unsuspected and unaided: and
studied only how to bring her father to the understanding that she loved
him, and made no appeal against him in any wandering thought.

Thus Florence lived alone in the deserted house, and day succeeded day,
and still she lived alone, and the monotonous walls looked down upon her
with a stare, as if they had a Gorgon-like intent to stare her youth and
beauty into stone.

Susan Nipper stood opposite to her young mistress one morning, as she
folded and sealed a note she had been writing: and showed in her looks
an approving knowledge of its contents.

'Better late than never, dear Miss Floy,' said Susan, 'and I do say,
that even a visit to them old Skettleses will be a Godsend.'

'It is very good of Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles, Susan,' returned
Florence, with a mild correction of that young lady's familiar mention
of the family in question, 'to repeat their invitation so kindly.'

Miss Nipper, who was perhaps the most thoroughgoing partisan on the face
of the earth, and who carried her partisanship into all matters great or
small, and perpetually waged war with it against society, screwed up
her lips and shook her head, as a protest against any recognition of
disinterestedness in the Skettleses, and a plea in bar that they would
have valuable consideration for their kindness, in the company of
Florence.

'They know what they're about, if ever people did,' murmured Miss
Nipper, drawing in her breath 'oh! trust them Skettleses for that!'

'I am not very anxious to go to Fulham, Susan, I confess,' said Florence
thoughtfully: 'but it will be right to go. I think it will be better.'

'Much better,' interposed Susan, with another emphatic shake of her
head.

'And so,' said Florence, 'though I would prefer to have gone when there
was no one there, instead of in this vacation time, when it seems there
are some young people staying in the house, I have thankfully said yes.'

'For which I say, Miss Floy, Oh be joyful!' returned Susan, 'Ah! h--h!'

This last ejaculation, with which Miss Nipper frequently wound up a
sentence, at about that epoch of time, was supposed below the level of
the hall to have a general reference to Mr Dombey, and to be expressive
of a yearning in Miss Nipper to favour that gentleman with a piece of
her mind. But she never explained it; and it had, in consequence,
the charm of mystery, in addition to the advantage of the sharpest
expression.

'How long it is before we have any news of Walter, Susan!' observed
Florence, after a moment's silence.

'Long indeed, Miss Floy!' replied her maid. 'And Perch said, when he
came just now to see for letters--but what signifies what he says!'
exclaimed Susan, reddening and breaking off. 'Much he knows about it!'

Florence raised her eyes quickly, and a flush overspread her face.

'If I hadn't,' said Susan Nipper, evidently struggling with some
latent anxiety and alarm, and looking full at her young mistress,
while endeavouring to work herself into a state of resentment with the
unoffending Mr Perch's image, 'if I hadn't more manliness than that
insipidest of his sex, I'd never take pride in my hair again, but turn
it up behind my ears, and wear coarse caps, without a bit of border,
until death released me from my insignificance. I may not be a Amazon,
Miss Floy, and wouldn't so demean myself by such disfigurement, but
anyways I'm not a giver up, I hope.'

'Give up! What?' cried Florence, with a face of terror.

'Why, nothing, Miss,' said Susan. 'Good gracious, nothing! It's only
that wet curl-paper of a man, Perch, that anyone might almost make
away with, with a touch, and really it would be a blessed event for all
parties if someone would take pity on him, and would have the goodness!'

'Does he give up the ship, Susan?' inquired Florence, very pale.

'No, Miss,' returned Susan, 'I should like to see him make so bold as
do it to my face! No, Miss, but he goes on about some bothering ginger
that Mr Walter was to send to Mrs Perch, and shakes his dismal head, and
says he hopes it may be coming; anyhow, he says, it can't come now in
time for the intended occasion, but may do for next, which really,' said
Miss Nipper, with aggravated scorn, 'puts me out of patience with the
man, for though I can bear a great deal, I am not a camel, neither am
I,' added Susan, after a moment's consideration, 'if I know myself, a
dromedary neither.'

'What else does he say, Susan?' inquired Florence, earnestly. 'Won't you
tell me?'

'As if I wouldn't tell you anything, Miss Floy, and everything!' said
Susan. 'Why, nothing Miss, he says that there begins to be a general
talk about the ship, and that they have never had a ship on that voyage
half so long unheard of, and that the Captain's wife was at the office
yesterday, and seemed a little put out about it, but anyone could say
that, we knew nearly that before.'

'I must visit Walter's uncle,' said Florence, hurriedly, 'before I leave
home. I will go and see him this morning. Let us walk there, directly,
Susan.'

Miss Nipper having nothing to urge against the proposal, but being
perfectly acquiescent, they were soon equipped, and in the streets, and
on their way towards the little Midshipman.

The state of mind in which poor Walter had gone to Captain Cuttle's,
on the day when Brogley the broker came into possession, and when there
seemed to him to be an execution in the very steeples, was pretty much
the same as that in which Florence now took her way to Uncle Sol's; with
this difference, that Florence suffered the added pain of thinking that
she had been, perhaps, the innocent occasion of involving Walter in
peril, and all to whom he was dear, herself included, in an agony of
suspense. For the rest, uncertainty and danger seemed written upon
everything. The weathercocks on spires and housetops were mysterious
with hints of stormy wind, and pointed, like so many ghostly fingers,
out to dangerous seas, where fragments of great wrecks were drifting,
perhaps, and helpless men were rocked upon them into a sleep as deep as
the unfathomable waters. When Florence came into the City, and passed
gentlemen who were talking together, she dreaded to hear them speaking
of the ship, and saying it was lost. Pictures and prints of vessels
fighting with the rolling waves filled her with alarm. The smoke and
clouds, though moving gently, moved too fast for her apprehensions, and
made her fear there was a tempest blowing at that moment on the ocean.

Susan Nipper may or may not have been affected similarly, but having her
attention much engaged in struggles with boys, whenever there was any
press of people--for, between that grade of human kind and herself,
there was some natural animosity that invariably broke out, whenever
they came together--it would seem that she had not much leisure on the
road for intellectual operations.

Arriving in good time abreast of the wooden Midshipman on the opposite
side of the way, and waiting for an opportunity to cross the street,
they were a little surprised at first to see, at the Instrument-maker's
door, a round-headed lad, with his chubby face addressed towards the
sky, who, as they looked at him, suddenly thrust into his capacious
mouth two fingers of each hand, and with the assistance of that
machinery whistled, with astonishing shrillness, to some pigeons at a
considerable elevation in the air.

'Mrs Richards's eldest, Miss!' said Susan, 'and the worrit of Mrs
Richards's life!'

As Polly had been to tell Florence of the resuscitated prospects of her
son and heir, Florence was prepared for the meeting: so, a favourable
moment presenting itself, they both hastened across, without any
further contemplation of Mrs Richards's bane. That sporting character,
unconscious of their approach, again whistled with his utmost might, and
then yelled in a rapture of excitement, 'Strays! Whoo-oop! Strays!' which
identification had such an effect upon the conscience-stricken pigeons,
that instead of going direct to some town in the North of England, as
appeared to have been their original intention, they began to wheel and
falter; whereupon Mrs Richards's first born pierced them with another
whistle, and again yelled, in a voice that rose above the turmoil of the
street, 'Strays! Whoo-oop! Strays!'

From this transport, he was abruptly recalled to terrestrial objects, by
a poke from Miss Nipper, which sent him into the shop.

'Is this the way you show your penitence, when Mrs Richards has been
fretting for you months and months?' said Susan, following the poke.
'Where's Mr Gills?'

Rob, who smoothed his first rebellious glance at Miss Nipper when he
saw Florence following, put his knuckles to his hair, in honour of the
latter, and said to the former, that Mr Gills was out.'

'Fetch him home,' said Miss Nipper, with authority, 'and say that my
young lady's here.'

'I don't know where he's gone,' said Rob.

'Is that your penitence?' cried Susan, with stinging sharpness.

'Why how can I go and fetch him when I don't know where to go?'
whimpered the baited Rob. 'How can you be so unreasonable?'

'Did Mr Gills say when he should be home?' asked Florence.

'Yes, Miss,' replied Rob, with another application of his knuckles to
his hair. 'He said he should be home early in the afternoon; in about a
couple of hours from now, Miss.'

'Is he very anxious about his nephew?' inquired Susan.

'Yes, Miss,' returned Rob, preferring to address himself to Florence and
slighting Nipper; 'I should say he was, very much so. He ain't indoors,
Miss, not a quarter of an hour together. He can't settle in one place
five minutes. He goes about, like a--just like a stray,' said Rob,
stooping to get a glimpse of the pigeons through the window, and
checking himself, with his fingers half-way to his mouth, on the verge
of another whistle.

'Do you know a friend of Mr Gills, called Captain Cuttle?' inquired
Florence, after a moment's reflection.

'Him with a hook, Miss?' rejoined Rob, with an illustrative twist of his
left hand. Yes, Miss. He was here the day before yesterday.'

'Has he not been here since?' asked Susan.

'No, Miss,' returned Rob, still addressing his reply to Florence.

'Perhaps Walter's Uncle has gone there, Susan,' observed Florence,
turning to her.

'To Captain Cuttle's, Miss?' interposed Rob; 'no, he's not gone there,
Miss. Because he left particular word that if Captain Cuttle called, I
should tell him how surprised he was, not to have seen him yesterday,
and should make him stop till he came back.'

'Do you know where Captain Cuttle lives?' asked Florence.

Rob replied in the affirmative, and turning to a greasy parchment book
on the shop desk, read the address aloud.

Florence again turned to her maid and took counsel with her in a low
voice, while Rob the round-eyed, mindful of his patron's secret charge,
looked on and listened. Florence proposed that they could go to Captain
Cuttle's house; hear from his own lips, what he thought of the absence
of any tidings of the Son and Heir; and bring him, if they could, to
comfort Uncle Sol. Susan at first objected slightly, on the score of
distance; but a hackney-coach being mentioned by her mistress, withdrew
that opposition, and gave in her assent. There were some minutes of
discussion between them before they came to this conclusion, during
which the staring Rob paid close attention to both speakers, and
inclined his ear to each by turns, as if he were appointed arbitrator of
the argument.

In time, Rob was despatched for a coach, the visitors keeping shop
meanwhile; and when he brought it, they got into it, leaving word for
Uncle Sol that they would be sure to call again, on their way back. Rob
having stared after the coach until it was as invisible as the
pigeons had now become, sat down behind the desk with a most assiduous
demeanour; and in order that he might forget nothing of what had
transpired, made notes of it on various small scraps of paper, with
a vast expenditure of ink. There was no danger of these documents
betraying anything, if accidentally lost; for long before a word was
dry, it became as profound a mystery to Rob, as if he had had no part
whatever in its production.

While he was yet busy with these labours, the hackney-coach, after
encountering unheard-of difficulties from swivel-bridges, soft roads,
impassable canals, caravans of casks, settlements of scarlet-beans and
little wash-houses, and many such obstacles abounding in that country,
stopped at the corner of Brig Place. Alighting here, Florence and Susan
Nipper walked down the street, and sought out the abode of Captain
Cuttle.

It happened by evil chance to be one of Mrs MacStinger's great cleaning
days. On these occasions, Mrs MacStinger was knocked up by the policeman
at a quarter before three in the morning, and rarely such before twelve
o'clock next night. The chief object of this institution appeared to be,
that Mrs MacStinger should move all the furniture into the back garden
at early dawn, walk about the house in pattens all day, and move the
furniture back again after dark. These ceremonies greatly fluttered
those doves the young MacStingers, who were not only unable at such
times to find any resting-place for the soles of their feet, but
generally came in for a good deal of pecking from the maternal bird
during the progress of the solemnities.

At the moment when Florence and Susan Nipper presented themselves at Mrs
MacStinger's door, that worthy but redoubtable female was in the act of
conveying Alexander MacStinger, aged two years and three months, along
the passage, for forcible deposition in a sitting posture on the street
pavement: Alexander being black in the face with holding his breath
after punishment, and a cool paving-stone being usually found to act as
a powerful restorative in such cases.

The feelings of Mrs MacStinger, as a woman and a mother, were outraged
by the look of pity for Alexander which she observed on Florence's face.
Therefore, Mrs MacStinger asserting those finest emotions of our nature,
in preference to weakly gratifying her curiosity, shook and buffeted
Alexander both before and during the application of the paving-stone,
and took no further notice of the strangers.

'I beg your pardon, Ma'am,' said Florence, when the child had found his
breath again, and was using it. 'Is this Captain Cuttle's house?'

'No,' said Mrs MacStinger.

'Not Number Nine?' asked Florence, hesitating.

'Who said it wasn't Number Nine?' said Mrs MacStinger.

Susan Nipper instantly struck in, and begged to inquire what Mrs
MacStinger meant by that, and if she knew whom she was talking to.

Mrs MacStinger in retort, looked at her all over. 'What do you want with
Captain Cuttle, I should wish to know?' said Mrs MacStinger.

'Should you? Then I'm sorry that you won't be satisfied,' returned Miss
Nipper.

'Hush, Susan! If you please!' said Florence. 'Perhaps you can have the
goodness to tell us where Captain Cuttle lives, Ma'am as he don't live
here.'

'Who says he don't live here?' retorted the implacable MacStinger. 'I
said it wasn't Cap'en Cuttle's house--and it ain't his house--and forbid
it, that it ever should be his house--for Cap'en Cuttle don't know how
to keep a house--and don't deserve to have a house--it's my house--and
when I let the upper floor to Cap'en Cuttle, oh I do a thankless thing,
and cast pearls before swine!'

Mrs MacStinger pitched her voice for the upper windows in offering these
remarks, and cracked off each clause sharply by itself as if from
a rifle possessing an infinity of barrels. After the last shot, the
Captain's voice was heard to say, in feeble remonstrance from his own
room, 'Steady below!'

'Since you want Cap'en Cuttle, there he is!' said Mrs MacStinger, with
an angry motion of her hand. On Florence making bold to enter, without
any more parley, and on Susan following, Mrs MacStinger recommenced her
pedestrian exercise in pattens, and Alexander MacStinger (still on
the paving-stone), who had stopped in his crying to attend to the
conversation, began to wail again, entertaining himself during that
dismal performance, which was quite mechanical, with a general survey of
the prospect, terminating in the hackney-coach.

The Captain in his own apartment was sitting with his hands in his
pockets and his legs drawn up under his chair, on a very small desolate
island, lying about midway in an ocean of soap and water. The Captain's
windows had been cleaned, the walls had been cleaned, the stove had been
cleaned, and everything the stove excepted, was wet, and shining with
soft soap and sand: the smell of which dry-saltery impregnated the
air. In the midst of the dreary scene, the Captain, cast away upon his
island, looked round on the waste of waters with a rueful countenance,
and seemed waiting for some friendly bark to come that way, and take him
off.

But when the Captain, directing his forlorn visage towards the door, saw
Florence appear with her maid, no words can describe his astonishment.
Mrs MacStinger's eloquence having rendered all other sounds but
imperfectly distinguishable, he had looked for no rarer visitor than the
potboy or the milkman; wherefore, when Florence appeared, and coming to
the confines of the island, put her hand in his, the Captain stood up,
aghast, as if he supposed her, for the moment, to be some young member
of the Flying Dutchman's family.

Instantly recovering his self-possession, however, the Captain's first
care was to place her on dry land, which he happily accomplished, with
one motion of his arm. Issuing forth, then, upon the main, Captain
Cuttle took Miss Nipper round the waist, and bore her to the island
also. Captain Cuttle, then, with great respect and admiration, raised
the hand of Florence to his lips, and standing off a little (for the
island was not large enough for three), beamed on her from the soap and
water like a new description of Triton.

'You are amazed to see us, I am sure,' said Florence, with a smile.

The inexpressibly gratified Captain kissed his hook in reply, and
growled, as if a choice and delicate compliment were included in the
words, 'Stand by! Stand by!'

'But I couldn't rest,' said Florence, 'without coming to ask you what
you think about dear Walter--who is my brother now--and whether there is
anything to fear, and whether you will not go and console his poor Uncle
every day, until we have some intelligence of him?'

At these words Captain Cuttle, as by an involuntary gesture, clapped
his hand to his head, on which the hard glazed hat was not, and looked
discomfited.

'Have you any fears for Walter's safety?' inquired Florence, from whose
face the Captain (so enraptured he was with it) could not take his eyes:
while she, in her turn, looked earnestly at him, to be assured of the
sincerity of his reply.

'No, Heart's-delight,' said Captain Cuttle, 'I am not afeard. Wal'r is a
lad as'll go through a deal o' hard weather. Wal'r is a lad as'll bring
as much success to that 'ere brig as a lad is capable on. Wal'r,' said
the Captain, his eyes glistening with the praise of his young friend,
and his hook raised to announce a beautiful quotation, 'is what you may
call a out'ard and visible sign of an in'ard and spirited grasp, and
when found make a note of.'

Florence, who did not quite understand this, though the Captain
evidently thought it full of meaning, and highly satisfactory, mildly
looked to him for something more.

'I am not afeard, my Heart's-delight,' resumed the Captain, 'There's
been most uncommon bad weather in them latitudes, there's no denyin',
and they have drove and drove and been beat off, may be t'other side
the world. But the ship's a good ship, and the lad's a good lad; and it
ain't easy, thank the Lord,' the Captain made a little bow, 'to break
up hearts of oak, whether they're in brigs or buzzums. Here we have 'em
both ways, which is bringing it up with a round turn, and so I ain't a
bit afeard as yet.'

'As yet?' repeated Florence.

'Not a bit,' returned the Captain, kissing his iron hand; 'and afore
I begin to be, my Hearts-delight, Wal'r will have wrote home from
the island, or from some port or another, and made all taut and
ship-shape.' And with regard to old Sol Gills, here the Captain became
solemn, 'who I'll stand by, and not desert until death do us part,
and when the stormy winds do blow, do blow, do blow--overhaul the
Catechism,' said the Captain parenthetically, 'and there you'll find
them expressions--if it would console Sol Gills to have the opinion of a
seafaring man as has got a mind equal to any undertaking that he puts
it alongside of, and as was all but smashed in his 'prenticeship, and of
which the name is Bunsby, that 'ere man shall give him such an opinion
in his own parlour as'll stun him. Ah!' said Captain Cuttle, vauntingly,
'as much as if he'd gone and knocked his head again a door!'

'Let us take this gentleman to see him, and let us hear what he says,'
cried Florence. 'Will you go with us now? We have a coach here.'

Again the Captain clapped his hand to his head, on which the hard
glazed hat was not, and looked discomfited. But at this instant a most
remarkable phenomenon occurred. The door opening, without any note of
preparation, and apparently of itself, the hard glazed hat in question
skimmed into the room like a bird, and alighted heavily at the Captain's
feet. The door then shut as violently as it had opened, and nothing
ensued in explanation of the prodigy.

Captain Cuttle picked up his hat, and having turned it over with a look
of interest and welcome, began to polish it on his sleeve. While doing
so, the Captain eyed his visitors intently, and said in a low voice,

'You see I should have bore down on Sol Gills yesterday, and this
morning, but she--she took it away and kept it. That's the long and short
of the subject.'

'Who did, for goodness sake?' asked Susan Nipper.

'The lady of the house, my dear,' returned the Captain, in a gruff
whisper, and making signals of secrecy. 'We had some words about the
swabbing of these here planks, and she--In short,' said the Captain,
eyeing the door, and relieving himself with a long breath, 'she stopped
my liberty.'

'Oh! I wish she had me to deal with!' said Susan, reddening with the
energy of the wish. 'I'd stop her!'

'Would you, do you, my dear?' rejoined the Captain, shaking his head
doubtfully, but regarding the desperate courage of the fair aspirant
with obvious admiration. 'I don't know. It's difficult navigation. She's
very hard to carry on with, my dear. You never can tell how she'll head,
you see. She's full one minute, and round upon you next. And when she in
a tartar,' said the Captain, with the perspiration breaking out upon
his forehead. There was nothing but a whistle emphatic enough for the
conclusion of the sentence, so the Captain whistled tremulously. After
which he again shook his head, and recurring to his admiration of Miss
Nipper's devoted bravery, timidly repeated, 'Would you, do you think, my
dear?'

Susan only replied with a bridling smile, but that was so very full of
defiance, that there is no knowing how long Captain Cuttle might have
stood entranced in its contemplation, if Florence in her anxiety had not
again proposed their immediately resorting to the oracular Bunsby. Thus
reminded of his duty, Captain Cuttle Put on the glazed hat firmly, took
up another knobby stick, with which he had supplied the place of that
one given to Walter, and offering his arm to Florence, prepared to cut
his way through the enemy.

It turned out, however, that Mrs MacStinger had already changed her
course, and that she headed, as the Captain had remarked she often did,
in quite a new direction. For when they got downstairs, they found that
exemplary woman beating the mats on the doorsteps, with Alexander,
still upon the paving-stone, dimly looming through a fog of dust; and
so absorbed was Mrs MacStinger in her household occupation, that when
Captain Cuttle and his visitors passed, she beat the harder, and neither
by word nor gesture showed any consciousness of their vicinity. The
Captain was so well pleased with this easy escape--although the effect
of the door-mats on him was like a copious administration of snuff, and
made him sneeze until the tears ran down his face--that he could hardly
believe his good fortune; but more than once, between the door and the
hackney-coach, looked over his shoulder, with an obvious apprehension of
Mrs MacStinger's giving chase yet.

However, they got to the corner of Brig Place without any molestation
from that terrible fire-ship; and the Captain mounting the
coach-box--for his gallantry would not allow him to ride inside with the
ladies, though besought to do so--piloted the driver on his course for
Captain Bunsby's vessel, which was called the Cautious Clara, and was
lying hard by Ratcliffe.

Arrived at the wharf off which this great commander's ship was jammed
in among some five hundred companions, whose tangled rigging looked
like monstrous cobwebs half swept down, Captain Cuttle appeared at the
coach-window, and invited Florence and Miss Nipper to accompany him
on board; observing that Bunsby was to the last degree soft-hearted
in respect of ladies, and that nothing would so much tend to bring his
expansive intellect into a state of harmony as their presentation to the
Cautious Clara.

Florence readily consented; and the Captain, taking her little hand
in his prodigious palm, led her, with a mixed expression of patronage,
paternity, pride, and ceremony, that was pleasant to see, over several
very dirty decks, until, coming to the Clara, they found that cautious
craft (which lay outside the tier) with her gangway removed, and
half-a-dozen feet of river interposed between herself and her nearest
neighbour. It appeared, from Captain Cuttle's explanation, that the
great Bunsby, like himself, was cruelly treated by his landlady, and
that when her usage of him for the time being was so hard that he could
bear it no longer, he set this gulf between them as a last resource.

'Clara a-hoy!' cried the Captain, putting a hand to each side of his
mouth.

'A-hoy!' cried a boy, like the Captain's echo, tumbling up from below.

'Bunsby aboard?' cried the Captain, hailing the boy in a stentorian
voice, as if he were half-a-mile off instead of two yards.

'Ay, ay!' cried the boy, in the same tone.

The boy then shoved out a plank to Captain Cuttle, who adjusted it
carefully, and led Florence across: returning presently for Miss Nipper.
So they stood upon the deck of the Cautious Clara, in whose standing
rigging, divers fluttering articles of dress were curing, in company
with a few tongues and some mackerel.

Immediately there appeared, coming slowly up above the bulk-head of the
cabin, another bulk-head--human, and very large--with one stationary eye
in the mahogany face, and one revolving one, on the principle of some
lighthouses. This head was decorated with shaggy hair, like oakum,
which had no governing inclination towards the north, east, west, or
south, but inclined to all four quarters of the compass, and to every
point upon it. The head was followed by a perfect desert of chin, and by
a shirt-collar and neckerchief, and by a dreadnought pilot-coat, and by
a pair of dreadnought pilot-trousers, whereof the waistband was so very
broad and high, that it became a succedaneum for a waistcoat: being
ornamented near the wearer's breastbone with some massive wooden
buttons, like backgammon men. As the lower portions of these pantaloons
became revealed, Bunsby stood confessed; his hands in their pockets,
which were of vast size; and his gaze directed, not to Captain Cuttle or
the ladies, but the mast-head.

The profound appearance of this philosopher, who was bulky and strong,
and on whose extremely red face an expression of taciturnity sat
enthroned, not inconsistent with his character, in which that quality
was proudly conspicuous, almost daunted Captain Cuttle, though on
familiar terms with him. Whispering to Florence that Bunsby had never
in his life expressed surprise, and was considered not to know what it
meant, the Captain watched him as he eyed his mast-head, and afterwards
swept the horizon; and when the revolving eye seemed to be coming round
in his direction, said:

'Bunsby, my lad, how fares it?'

A deep, gruff, husky utterance, which seemed to have no connexion with
Bunsby, and certainly had not the least effect upon his face, replied,
'Ay, ay, shipmet, how goes it?' At the same time Bunsby's right hand and
arm, emerging from a pocket, shook the Captain's, and went back again.

'Bunsby,' said the Captain, striking home at once, 'here you are; a man
of mind, and a man as can give an opinion. Here's a young lady as wants
to take that opinion, in regard of my friend Wal'r; likewise my t'other
friend, Sol Gills, which is a character for you to come within hail of,
being a man of science, which is the mother of invention, and knows no
law. Bunsby, will you wear, to oblige me, and come along with us?'

The great commander, who seemed by expression of his visage to be always
on the look-out for something in the extremest distance, and to have no
ocular knowledge of anything within ten miles, made no reply whatever.

'Here is a man,' said the Captain, addressing himself to his fair
auditors, and indicating the commander with his outstretched hook, 'that
has fell down, more than any man alive; that has had more accidents
happen to his own self than the Seamen's Hospital to all hands; that
took as many spars and bars and bolts about the outside of his head
when he was young, as you'd want a order for on Chatham-yard to build
a pleasure yacht with; and yet that his opinions in that way, it's my
belief, for there ain't nothing like 'em afloat or ashore.'

The stolid commander appeared by a very slight vibration in his elbows,
to express some satisfaction in this encomium; but if his face had
been as distant as his gaze was, it could hardly have enlightened
the beholders less in reference to anything that was passing in his
thoughts.

'Shipmet,' said Bunsby, all of a sudden, and stooping down to look out
under some interposing spar, 'what'll the ladies drink?'

Captain Cuttle, whose delicacy was shocked by such an inquiry in
connection with Florence, drew the sage aside, and seeming to explain in
his ear, accompanied him below; where, that he might not take offence,
the Captain drank a dram himself, which Florence and Susan, glancing
down the open skylight, saw the sage, with difficulty finding room for
himself between his berth and a very little brass fireplace, serve out
for self and friend. They soon reappeared on deck, and Captain Cuttle,
triumphing in the success of his enterprise, conducted Florence back to
the coach, while Bunsby followed, escorting Miss Nipper, whom he
hugged upon the way (much to that young lady's indignation) with his
pilot-coated arm, like a blue bear.

The Captain put his oracle inside, and gloried so much in having secured
him, and having got that mind into a hackney-coach, that he could not
refrain from often peeping in at Florence through the little window
behind the driver, and testifying his delight in smiles, and also in
taps upon his forehead, to hint to her that the brain of Bunsby was
hard at it. In the meantime, Bunsby, still hugging Miss Nipper (for his
friend, the Captain, had not exaggerated the softness of his heart),
uniformly preserved his gravity of deportment, and showed no other
consciousness of her or anything.

Uncle Sol, who had come home, received them at the door, and ushered
them immediately into the little back parlour: strangely altered by the
absence of Walter. On the table, and about the room, were the charts
and maps on which the heavy-hearted Instrument-maker had again and again
tracked the missing vessel across the sea, and on which, with a pair of
compasses that he still had in his hand, he had been measuring, a minute
before, how far she must have driven, to have driven here or there:
and trying to demonstrate that a long time must elapse before hope was
exhausted.

'Whether she can have run,' said Uncle Sol, looking wistfully over the
chart; 'but no, that's almost impossible or whether she can have been
forced by stress of weather,--but that's not reasonably likely. Or
whether there is any hope she so far changed her course as--but even I
can hardly hope that!' With such broken suggestions, poor old Uncle Sol
roamed over the great sheet before him, and could not find a speck of
hopeful probability in it large enough to set one small point of the
compasses upon.

Florence saw immediately--it would have been difficult to help
seeing--that there was a singular, indescribable change in the old
man, and that while his manner was far more restless and unsettled
than usual, there was yet a curious, contradictory decision in it, that
perplexed her very much. She fancied once that he spoke wildly, and at
random; for on her saying she regretted not to have seen him when she
had been there before that morning, he at first replied that he had
been to see her, and directly afterwards seemed to wish to recall that
answer.

'You have been to see me?' said Florence. 'To-day?'

'Yes, my dear young lady,' returned Uncle Sol, looking at her and away
from her in a confused manner. 'I wished to see you with my own eyes,
and to hear you with my own ears, once more before--' There he stopped.

'Before when? Before what?' said Florence, putting her hand upon his
arm.

'Did I say "before?"' replied old Sol. 'If I did, I must have meant
before we should have news of my dear boy.'

'You are not well,' said Florence, tenderly. 'You have been so very
anxious I am sure you are not well.'

'I am as well,' returned the old man, shutting up his right hand, and
holding it out to show her: 'as well and firm as any man at my time of
life can hope to be. See! It's steady. Is its master not as capable of
resolution and fortitude as many a younger man? I think so. We shall
see.'

There was that in his manner more than in his words, though they
remained with her too, which impressed Florence so much, that she would
have confided her uneasiness to Captain Cuttle at that moment, if
the Captain had not seized that moment for expounding the state
of circumstance, on which the opinion of the sagacious Bunsby was
requested, and entreating that profound authority to deliver the same.

Bunsby, whose eye continued to be addressed to somewhere about the
half-way house between London and Gravesend, two or three times put out
his rough right arm, as seeking to wind it for inspiration round
the fair form of Miss Nipper; but that young female having withdrawn
herself, in displeasure, to the opposite side of the table, the soft
heart of the Commander of the Cautious Clara met with no response to its
impulses. After sundry failures in this wise, the Commander, addressing
himself to nobody, thus spake; or rather the voice within him said
of its own accord, and quite independent of himself, as if he were
possessed by a gruff spirit:

'My name's Jack Bunsby!'

'He was christened John,' cried the delighted Captain Cuttle. 'Hear
him!'

'And what I says,' pursued the voice, after some deliberation, 'I stands
to.'

The Captain, with Florence on his arm, nodded at the auditory, and
seemed to say, 'Now he's coming out. This is what I meant when I brought
him.'

'Whereby,' proceeded the voice, 'why not? If so, what odds? Can any man
say otherwise? No. Awast then!'

When it had pursued its train of argument to this point, the voice
stopped, and rested. It then proceeded very slowly, thus:

'Do I believe that this here Son and Heir's gone down, my lads? Mayhap.
Do I say so? Which? If a skipper stands out by Sen' George's Channel,
making for the Downs, what's right ahead of him? The Goodwins. He
isn't forced to run upon the Goodwins, but he may. The bearings of this
observation lays in the application on it. That ain't no part of my
duty. Awast then, keep a bright look-out for'ard, and good luck to you!'

The voice here went out of the back parlour and into the street, taking
the Commander of the Cautious Clara with it, and accompanying him on
board again with all convenient expedition, where he immediately turned
in, and refreshed his mind with a nap.

The students of the sage's precepts, left to their own application
of his wisdom--upon a principle which was the main leg of the Bunsby
tripod, as it is perchance of some other oracular stools--looked upon
one another in a little uncertainty; while Rob the Grinder, who had
taken the innocent freedom of peering in, and listening, through the
skylight in the roof, came softly down from the leads, in a state of
very dense confusion. Captain Cuttle, however, whose admiration of
Bunsby was, if possible, enhanced by the splendid manner in which he
had justified his reputation and come through this solemn reference,
proceeded to explain that Bunsby meant nothing but confidence; that
Bunsby had no misgivings; and that such an opinion as that man had
given, coming from such a mind as his, was Hope's own anchor, with good
roads to cast it in. Florence endeavoured to believe that the Captain
was right; but the Nipper, with her arms tight folded, shook her head
in resolute denial, and had no more trust in Bunsby than in Mr Perch
himself.

The philosopher seemed to have left Uncle Sol pretty much where he had
found him, for he still went roaming about the watery world, compasses
in hand, and discovering no rest for them. It was in pursuance of a
whisper in his ear from Florence, while the old man was absorbed in this
pursuit, that Captain Cuttle laid his heavy hand upon his shoulder.

'What cheer, Sol Gills?' cried the Captain, heartily.

'But so-so, Ned,' returned the Instrument-maker. 'I have been
remembering, all this afternoon, that on the very day when my boy
entered Dombey's House, and came home late to dinner, sitting just there
where you stand, we talked of storm and shipwreck, and I could hardly
turn him from the subject.'

But meeting the eyes of Florence, which were fixed with earnest scrutiny
upon his face, the old man stopped and smiled.

'Stand by, old friend!' cried the Captain. 'Look alive! I tell you what,
Sol Gills; arter I've convoyed Heart's-delight safe home,' here the
Captain kissed his hook to Florence, 'I'll come back and take you in tow
for the rest of this blessed day. You'll come and eat your dinner along
with me, Sol, somewheres or another.'

'Not to-day, Ned!' said the old man quickly, and appearing to be
unaccountably startled by the proposition. 'Not to-day. I couldn't do
it!'

'Why not?' returned the Captain, gazing at him in astonishment.

'I--I have so much to do. I--I mean to think of, and arrange. I couldn't
do it, Ned, indeed. I must go out again, and be alone, and turn my mind
to many things to-day.'

The Captain looked at the Instrument-maker, and looked at Florence, and
again at the Instrument-maker. 'To-morrow, then,' he suggested, at last.

'Yes, yes. To-morrow,' said the old man. 'Think of me to-morrow. Say
to-morrow.'

'I shall come here early, mind, Sol Gills,' stipulated the Captain.

'Yes, yes. The first thing tomorrow morning,' said old Sol; 'and now
good-bye, Ned Cuttle, and God bless you!'

Squeezing both the Captain's hands, with uncommon fervour, as he said
it, the old man turned to Florence, folded hers in his own, and put
them to his lips; then hurried her out to the coach with very singular
precipitation. Altogether, he made such an effect on Captain Cuttle
that the Captain lingered behind, and instructed Rob to be particularly
gentle and attentive to his master until the morning: which injunction
he strengthened with the payment of one shilling down, and the promise
of another sixpence before noon next day. This kind office performed,
Captain Cuttle, who considered himself the natural and lawful body-guard
of Florence, mounted the box with a mighty sense of his trust, and
escorted her home. At parting, he assured her that he would stand by Sol
Gills, close and true; and once again inquired of Susan Nipper, unable
to forget her gallant words in reference to Mrs MacStinger, 'Would you,
do you think my dear, though?'

When the desolate house had closed upon the two, the Captain's thoughts
reverted to the old Instrument-maker, and he felt uncomfortable.
Therefore, instead of going home, he walked up and down the street
several times, and, eking out his leisure until evening, dined late at a
certain angular little tavern in the City, with a public parlour like
a wedge, to which glazed hats much resorted. The Captain's principal
intention was to pass Sol Gills's, after dark, and look in through the
window: which he did, The parlour door stood open, and he could see his
old friend writing busily and steadily at the table within, while the
little Midshipman, already sheltered from the night dews, watched
him from the counter; under which Rob the Grinder made his own bed,
preparatory to shutting the shop. Reassured by the tranquillity that
reigned within the precincts of the wooden mariner, the Captain headed
for Brig Place, resolving to weigh anchor betimes in the morning.

Florence continues to lead a lonely life in the Dombey house, with only Susan and Diogenes for company. She clings to the idea that she will someday be able to earn her father's love. She is finally persuaded to go and visit the Skettles, but before she does so, she learns that there has been a delay and absence of news about Walter's ship. She decides to go and see Sol Gills, feeling anxious about Walter. When she arrives at the shop, she meets Rob Toodle. He explains that Sol is not at home, and is indeed very anxious about Walter. Florence and Susan decide to go and see Captain Cuttle, in case he can offer any helpful news about the ship that they can convey to Uncle Sol. When they arrive, Captain Cuttle reassures them that he does not think Walter will be in any danger. He also says that they could get a second opinion from a seafarer named Bunsby who might be able to offer further reassurance. Florence, Susan, and Cuttle go to meet Bunsby and then they all go back to see Sol. Sol is clearly agitated and anxious, even though Bunsby is confident that nothing bad has happened to Walter's ship. Everyone, including Captain Cuttle, leaves the house feeling worried about Sol Gills

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


Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles, very good people, resided in a pretty
villa at Fulham, on the banks of the Thames; which was one of the most
desirable residences in the world when a rowing-match happened to be
going past, but had its little inconveniences at other times, among
which may be enumerated the occasional appearance of the river in the
drawing-room, and the contemporaneous disappearance of the lawn and
shrubbery.

Sir Barnet Skettles expressed his personal consequence chiefly through
an antique gold snuffbox, and a ponderous silk pocket-kerchief, which
he had an imposing manner of drawing out of his pocket like a banner
and using with both hands at once. Sir Barnet's object in life was
constantly to extend the range of his acquaintance. Like a heavy body
dropped into water--not to disparage so worthy a gentleman by the
comparison--it was in the nature of things that Sir Barnet must spread
an ever widening circle about him, until there was no room left.
Or, like a sound in air, the vibration of which, according to the
speculation of an ingenious modern philosopher, may go on travelling for
ever through the interminable fields of space, nothing but coming to the
end of his moral tether could stop Sir Barnet Skettles in his voyage of
discovery through the social system.

Sir Barnet was proud of making people acquainted with people. He liked
the thing for its own sake, and it advanced his favourite object too.
For example, if Sir Barnet had the good fortune to get hold of a law
recruit, or a country gentleman, and ensnared him to his hospitable
villa, Sir Barnet would say to him, on the morning after his arrival,
'Now, my dear Sir, is there anybody you would like to know? Who is there
you would wish to meet? Do you take any interest in writing people, or
in painting or sculpturing people, or in acting people, or in anything
of that sort?' Possibly the patient answered yes, and mentioned
somebody, of whom Sir Barnet had no more personal knowledge than of
Ptolemy the Great. Sir Barnet replied, that nothing on earth was easier,
as he knew him very well: immediately called on the aforesaid somebody,
left his card, wrote a short note,--'My dear Sir--penalty of your
eminent position--friend at my house naturally desirous--Lady Skettles
and myself participate--trust that genius being superior to ceremonies,
you will do us the distinguished favour of giving us the pleasure,' etc,
etc.--and so killed a brace of birds with one stone, dead as door-nails.

With the snuff-box and banner in full force, Sir Barnet Skettles
propounded his usual inquiry to Florence on the first morning of
her visit. When Florence thanked him, and said there was no one in
particular whom she desired to see, it was natural she should think with
a pang, of poor lost Walter. When Sir Barnet Skettles, urging his kind
offer, said, 'My dear Miss Dombey, are you sure you can remember no one
whom your good Papa--to whom I beg you present the best compliments of
myself and Lady Skettles when you write--might wish you to know?' it was
natural, perhaps, that her poor head should droop a little, and that her
voice should tremble as it softly answered in the negative.

Skettles Junior, much stiffened as to his cravat, and sobered down as to
his spirits, was at home for the holidays, and appeared to feel himself
aggrieved by the solicitude of his excellent mother that he should be
attentive to Florence. Another and a deeper injury under which the soul
of young Barnet chafed, was the company of Dr and Mrs Blimber, who had
been invited on a visit to the paternal roof-tree, and of whom the young
gentleman often said he would have preferred their passing the vacation
at Jericho.

'Is there anybody you can suggest now, Doctor Blimber?' said Sir Barnet
Skettles, turning to that gentleman.

'You are very kind, Sir Barnet,' returned Doctor Blimber. 'Really I am
not aware that there is, in particular. I like to know my fellow-men in
general, Sir Barnet. What does Terence say? Anyone who is the parent of
a son is interesting to me.'

'Has Mrs Blimber any wish to see any remarkable person?' asked Sir
Barnet, courteously.

Mrs Blimber replied, with a sweet smile and a shake of her sky-blue cap,
that if Sir Barnet could have made her known to Cicero, she would have
troubled him; but such an introduction not being feasible, and she
already enjoying the friendship of himself and his amiable lady, and
possessing with the Doctor her husband their joint confidence in regard
to their dear son--here young Barnet was observed to curl his nose--she
asked no more.

Sir Barnet was fain, under these circumstances, to content himself for
the time with the company assembled. Florence was glad of that; for she
had a study to pursue among them, and it lay too near her heart, and was
too precious and momentous, to yield to any other interest.

There were some children staying in the house. Children who were as
frank and happy with fathers and with mothers as those rosy faces
opposite home. Children who had no restraint upon their love, and freely
showed it. Florence sought to learn their secret; sought to find out
what it was she had missed; what simple art they knew, and she knew not;
how she could be taught by them to show her father that she loved him,
and to win his love again.

Many a day did Florence thoughtfully observe these children. On many
a bright morning did she leave her bed when the glorious sun rose, and
walking up and down upon the river's bank, before anyone in the house
was stirring, look up at the windows of their rooms, and think of them,
asleep, so gently tended and affectionately thought of. Florence would
feel more lonely then, than in the great house all alone; and would
think sometimes that she was better there than here, and that there was
greater peace in hiding herself than in mingling with others of her age,
and finding how unlike them all she was. But attentive to her study,
though it touched her to the quick at every little leaf she turned in
the hard book, Florence remained among them, and tried, with patient
hope, to gain the knowledge that she wearied for.

Ah! how to gain it! how to know the charm in its beginning! There were
daughters here, who rose up in the morning, and lay down to rest at
night, possessed of fathers' hearts already. They had no repulse to
overcome, no coldness to dread, no frown to smooth away. As the morning
advanced, and the windows opened one by one, and the dew began to dry
upon the flowers and and youthful feet began to move upon the lawn,
Florence, glancing round at the bright faces, thought what was there
she could learn from these children? It was too late to learn from them;
each could approach her father fearlessly, and put up her lips to meet
the ready kiss, and wind her arm about the neck that bent down to caress
her. She could not begin by being so bold. Oh! could it be that there
was less and less hope as she studied more and more!

She remembered well, that even the old woman who had robbed her when
a little child--whose image and whose house, and all she had said and
done, were stamped upon her recollection, with the enduring sharpness
of a fearful impression made at that early period of life--had spoken
fondly of her daughter, and how terribly even she had cried out in the
pain of hopeless separation from her child. But her own mother, she
would think again, when she recalled this, had loved her well. Then,
sometimes, when her thoughts reverted swiftly to the void between
herself and her father, Florence would tremble, and the tears would
start upon her face, as she pictured to herself her mother living on,
and coming also to dislike her, because of her wanting the unknown grace
that should conciliate that father naturally, and had never done so
from her cradle. She knew that this imagination did wrong to her mother's
memory, and had no truth in it, or base to rest upon; and yet she tried
so hard to justify him, and to find the whole blame in herself, that she
could not resist its passing, like a wild cloud, through the distance of
her mind.

There came among the other visitors, soon after Florence, one beautiful
girl, three or four years younger than she, who was an orphan child, and
who was accompanied by her aunt, a grey-haired lady, who spoke much to
Florence, and who greatly liked (but that they all did) to hear her sing
of an evening, and would always sit near her at that time, with motherly
interest. They had only been two days in the house, when Florence, being
in an arbour in the garden one warm morning, musingly observant of a
youthful group upon the turf, through some intervening boughs,--and
wreathing flowers for the head of one little creature among them who was
the pet and plaything of the rest, heard this same lady and her niece,
in pacing up and down a sheltered nook close by, speak of herself.

'Is Florence an orphan like me, aunt?' said the child.

'No, my love. She has no mother, but her father is living.'

'Is she in mourning for her poor Mama, now?' inquired the child quickly.

'No; for her only brother.'

'Has she no other brother?'

'None.'

'No sister?'

'None,'

'I am very, very sorry!' said the little girl

As they stopped soon afterwards to watch some boats, and had been silent
in the meantime, Florence, who had risen when she heard her name, and
had gathered up her flowers to go and meet them, that they might know of
her being within hearing, resumed her seat and work, expecting to hear
no more; but the conversation recommenced next moment.

'Florence is a favourite with everyone here, and deserves to be, I am
sure,' said the child, earnestly. 'Where is her Papa?'

The aunt replied, after a moment's pause, that she did not know. Her
tone of voice arrested Florence, who had started from her seat again;
and held her fastened to the spot, with her work hastily caught up
to her bosom, and her two hands saving it from being scattered on the
ground.

'He is in England, I hope, aunt?' said the child.

'I believe so. Yes; I know he is, indeed.'

'Has he ever been here?'

'I believe not. No.'

'Is he coming here to see her?'

'I believe not.'

'Is he lame, or blind, or ill, aunt?' asked the child.

The flowers that Florence held to her breast began to fall when she
heard those words, so wonderingly spoke She held them closer; and her
face hung down upon them.

'Kate,' said the lady, after another moment of silence, 'I will tell you
the whole truth about Florence as I have heard it, and believe it to be.
Tell no one else, my dear, because it may be little known here, and your
doing so would give her pain.'

'I never will!' exclaimed the child.

'I know you never will,' returned the lady. 'I can trust you as myself.
I fear then, Kate, that Florence's father cares little for her, very
seldom sees her, never was kind to her in her life, and now quite shuns
her and avoids her. She would love him dearly if he would suffer her,
but he will not--though for no fault of hers; and she is greatly to be
loved and pitied by all gentle hearts.'

More of the flowers that Florence held fell scattering on the ground;
those that remained were wet, but not with dew; and her face dropped
upon her laden hands.

'Poor Florence! Dear, good Florence!' cried the child.

'Do you know why I have told you this, Kate?' said the lady.

'That I may be very kind to her, and take great care to try to please
her. Is that the reason, aunt?'

'Partly,' said the lady, 'but not all. Though we see her so cheerful;
with a pleasant smile for everyone; ready to oblige us all, and bearing
her part in every amusement here: she can hardly be quite happy, do you
think she can, Kate?'

'I am afraid not,' said the little girl.

'And you can understand,' pursued the lady, 'why her observation of
children who have parents who are fond of them, and proud of them--like
many here, just now--should make her sorrowful in secret?'

'Yes, dear aunt,' said the child, 'I understand that very well. Poor
Florence!'

More flowers strayed upon the ground, and those she yet held to her
breast trembled as if a wintry wind were rustling them.

'My Kate,' said the lady, whose voice was serious, but very calm and
sweet, and had so impressed Florence from the first moment of her
hearing it, 'of all the youthful people here, you are her natural and
harmless friend; you have not the innocent means, that happier children
have--'

'There are none happier, aunt!' exclaimed the child, who seemed to cling
about her.

'--As other children have, dear Kate, of reminding her of her misfortune.
Therefore I would have you, when you try to be her little friend,
try all the more for that, and feel that the bereavement you
sustained--thank Heaven! before you knew its weight--gives you claim and
hold upon poor Florence.'

'But I am not without a parent's love, aunt, and I never have been,'
said the child, 'with you.'

'However that may be, my dear,' returned the lady, 'your misfortune is a
lighter one than Florence's; for not an orphan in the wide world can be
so deserted as the child who is an outcast from a living parent's love.'

The flowers were scattered on the ground like dust; the empty hands were
spread upon the face; and orphaned Florence, shrinking down upon the
ground, wept long and bitterly.

But true of heart and resolute in her good purpose, Florence held to it
as her dying mother held by her upon the day that gave Paul life. He did
not know how much she loved him. However long the time in coming, and
however slow the interval, she must try to bring that knowledge to her
father's heart one day or other. Meantime she must be careful in no
thoughtless word, or look, or burst of feeling awakened by any chance
circumstance, to complain against him, or to give occasion for these
whispers to his prejudice.

Even in the response she made the orphan child, to whom she was
attracted strongly, and whom she had such occasion to remember, Florence
was mindful of him. If she singled her out too plainly (Florence
thought) from among the rest, she would confirm--in one mind certainly:
perhaps in more--the belief that he was cruel and unnatural. Her own
delight was no set-off to this. What she had overheard was a reason,
not for soothing herself, but for saving him; and Florence did it, in
pursuance of the study of her heart.

She did so always. If a book were read aloud, and there were anything
in the story that pointed at an unkind father, she was in pain for their
application of it to him; not for herself. So with any trifle of an
interlude that was acted, or picture that was shown, or game that was
played, among them. The occasions for such tenderness towards him were
so many, that her mind misgave her often, it would indeed be better to
go back to the old house, and live again within the shadow of its dull
walls, undisturbed. How few who saw sweet Florence, in her spring of
womanhood, the modest little queen of those small revels, imagined what
a load of sacred care lay heavy in her breast! How few of those who
stiffened in her father's freezing atmosphere, suspected what a heap of
fiery coals was piled upon his head!

Florence pursued her study patiently, and, failing to acquire the secret
of the nameless grace she sought, among the youthful company who were
assembled in the house, often walked out alone, in the early morning,
among the children of the poor. But still she found them all too far
advanced to learn from. They had won their household places long ago,
and did not stand without, as she did, with a bar across the door.

There was one man whom she several times observed at work very early,
and often with a girl of about her own age seated near him. He was a
very poor man, who seemed to have no regular employment, but now went
roaming about the banks of the river when the tide was low, looking out
for bits and scraps in the mud; and now worked at the unpromising
little patch of garden-ground before his cottage; and now tinkered up
a miserable old boat that belonged to him; or did some job of that kind
for a neighbour, as chance occurred. Whatever the man's labour, the
girl was never employed; but sat, when she was with him, in a listless,
moping state, and idle.

Florence had often wished to speak to this man; yet she had never taken
courage to do so, as he made no movement towards her. But one morning
when she happened to come upon him suddenly, from a by-path among some
pollard willows which terminated in the little shelving piece of stony
ground that lay between his dwelling and the water, where he was bending
over a fire he had made to caulk the old boat which was lying bottom
upwards, close by, he raised his head at the sound of her footstep, and
gave her Good morning.

'Good morning,' said Florence, approaching nearer, 'you are at work
early.'

'I'd be glad to be often at work earlier, Miss, if I had work to do.'

'Is it so hard to get?' asked Florence.

'I find it so,' replied the man.

Florence glanced to where the girl was sitting, drawn together, with her
elbows on her knees, and her chin on her hands, and said:

'Is that your daughter?'

He raised his head quickly, and looking towards the girl with a
brightened face, nodded to her, and said 'Yes,' Florence looked towards
her too, and gave her a kind salutation; the girl muttered something in
return, ungraciously and sullenly.

'Is she in want of employment also?' said Florence.

The man shook his head. 'No, Miss,' he said. 'I work for both,'

'Are there only you two, then?' inquired Florence.

'Only us two,' said the man. 'Her mother his been dead these ten year.
Martha!' (he lifted up his head again, and whistled to her) 'won't you
say a word to the pretty young lady?'

The girl made an impatient gesture with her cowering shoulders, and
turned her head another way. Ugly, misshapen, peevish, ill-conditioned,
ragged, dirty--but beloved! Oh yes! Florence had seen her father's look
towards her, and she knew whose look it had no likeness to.

'I'm afraid she's worse this morning, my poor girl!' said the man,
suspending his work, and contemplating his ill-favoured child, with a
compassion that was the more tender for being rougher.

'She is ill, then!' said Florence.

The man drew a deep sigh. 'I don't believe my Martha's had five short
days' good health,' he answered, looking at her still, 'in as many long
years.'

'Ay! and more than that, John,' said a neighbour, who had come down to
help him with the boat.

'More than that, you say, do you?' cried the other, pushing back his
battered hat, and drawing his hand across his forehead. 'Very like. It
seems a long, long time.'

'And the more the time,' pursued the neighbour, 'the more you've
favoured and humoured her, John, till she's got to be a burden to
herself, and everybody else.'

'Not to me,' said her father, falling to his work. 'Not to me.'

Florence could feel--who better?--how truly he spoke. She drew a little
closer to him, and would have been glad to touch his rugged hand, and
thank him for his goodness to the miserable object that he looked upon
with eyes so different from any other man's.

'Who would favour my poor girl--to call it favouring--if I didn't?' said
the father.

'Ay, ay,' cried the neighbour. 'In reason, John. But you! You rob
yourself to give to her. You bind yourself hand and foot on her account.
You make your life miserable along of her. And what does she care! You
don't believe she knows it?'

The father lifted up his head again, and whistled to her. Martha made
the same impatient gesture with her crouching shoulders, in reply; and
he was glad and happy.

'Only for that, Miss,' said the neighbour, with a smile, in which there
was more of secret sympathy than he expressed; 'only to get that, he
never lets her out of his sight!'

'Because the day'll come, and has been coming a long while,' observed
the other, bending low over his work, 'when to get half as much from
that unfort'nate child of mine--to get the trembling of a finger, or the
waving of a hair--would be to raise the dead.'

Florence softly put some money near his hand on the old boat, and left
him.

And now Florence began to think, if she were to fall ill, if she were to
fade like her dear brother, would he then know that she had loved him;
would she then grow dear to him; would he come to her bedside, when she
was weak and dim of sight, and take her into his embrace, and cancel all
the past? Would he so forgive her, in that changed condition, for not
having been able to lay open her childish heart to him, as to make it
easy to relate with what emotions she had gone out of his room that
night; what she had meant to say if she had had the courage; and how she
had endeavoured, afterwards, to learn the way she never knew in infancy?

Yes, she thought if she were dying, he would relent. She thought, that
if she lay, serene and not unwilling to depart, upon the bed that was
curtained round with recollections of their darling boy, he would be
touched home, and would say, 'Dear Florence, live for me, and we will
love each other as we might have done, and be as happy as we might have
been these many years!' She thought that if she heard such words from
him, and had her arms clasped round him, she could answer with a smile,
'It is too late for anything but this; I never could be happier, dear
father!' and so leave him, with a blessing on her lips.

The golden water she remembered on the wall, appeared to Florence, in
the light of such reflections, only as a current flowing on to rest,
and to a region where the dear ones, gone before, were waiting, hand in
hand; and often when she looked upon the darker river rippling at her
feet, she thought with awful wonder, but not terror, of that river which
her brother had so often said was bearing him away.

The father and his sick daughter were yet fresh in Florence's mind, and,
indeed, that incident was not a week old, when Sir Barnet and his lady
going out walking in the lanes one afternoon, proposed to her to bear
them company. Florence readily consenting, Lady Skettles ordered out
young Barnet as a matter of course. For nothing delighted Lady Skettles
so much, as beholding her eldest son with Florence on his arm.

Barnet, to say the truth, appeared to entertain an opposite sentiment on
the subject, and on such occasions frequently expressed himself audibly,
though indefinitely, in reference to 'a parcel of girls.' As it was not
easy to ruffle her sweet temper, however, Florence generally reconciled
the young gentleman to his fate after a few minutes, and they strolled
on amicably: Lady Skettles and Sir Barnet following, in a state of
perfect complacency and high gratification.

This was the order of procedure on the afternoon in question; and
Florence had almost succeeded in overruling the present objections
of Skettles Junior to his destiny, when a gentleman on horseback came
riding by, looked at them earnestly as he passed, drew in his rein,
wheeled round, and came riding back again, hat in hand.

The gentleman had looked particularly at Florence; and when the little
party stopped, on his riding back, he bowed to her, before saluting Sir
Barnet and his lady. Florence had no remembrance of having ever seen
him, but she started involuntarily when he came near her, and drew back.

'My horse is perfectly quiet, I assure you,' said the gentleman.

It was not that, but something in the gentleman himself--Florence could
not have said what--that made her recoil as if she had been stung.

'I have the honour to address Miss Dombey, I believe?' said the
gentleman, with a most persuasive smile. On Florence inclining her head,
he added, 'My name is Carker. I can hardly hope to be remembered by Miss
Dombey, except by name. Carker.'

Florence, sensible of a strange inclination to shiver, though the day
was hot, presented him to her host and hostess; by whom he was very
graciously received.

'I beg pardon,' said Mr Carker, 'a thousand times! But I am going down
tomorrow morning to Mr Dombey, at Leamington, and if Miss Dombey can
entrust me with any commission, need I say how very happy I shall be?'

Sir Barnet immediately divining that Florence would desire to write a
letter to her father, proposed to return, and besought Mr Carker to come
home and dine in his riding gear. Mr Carker had the misfortune to be
engaged to dinner, but if Miss Dombey wished to write, nothing would
delight him more than to accompany them back, and to be her faithful
slave in waiting as long as she pleased. As he said this with his widest
smile, and bent down close to her to pat his horse's neck, Florence
meeting his eyes, saw, rather than heard him say, 'There is no news of
the ship!'

Confused, frightened, shrinking from him, and not even sure that he
had said those words, for he seemed to have shown them to her in some
extraordinary manner through his smile, instead of uttering them,
Florence faintly said that she was obliged to him, but she would not
write; she had nothing to say.

'Nothing to send, Miss Dombey?' said the man of teeth.

'Nothing,' said Florence, 'but my--but my dear love--if you please.'

Disturbed as Florence was, she raised her eyes to his face with
an imploring and expressive look, that plainly besought him, if he
knew--which he as plainly did--that any message between her and her
father was an uncommon charge, but that one most of all, to spare her.
Mr Carker smiled and bowed low, and being charged by Sir Barnet with the
best compliments of himself and Lady Skettles, took his leave, and rode
away: leaving a favourable impression on that worthy couple. Florence
was seized with such a shudder as he went, that Sir Barnet, adopting the
popular superstition, supposed somebody was passing over her grave. Mr
Carker turning a corner, on the instant, looked back, and bowed, and
disappeared, as if he rode off to the churchyard straight, to do it.

Florence goes to stay with Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles. Their son is home from school, and Doctor and Mrs. Blimber are also visiting them. Florence continues to be obsessed with the relationships between parents and children, hoping to unlock the secret of how to cultivate a better relationship with her father. There are also hints that Lady and Sir Skettles hope Florence will someday marry their son. One day, Mr. Carker comes to the house and introduces himself to Florence, explaining that he is on his way to Leamington to see Mr. Dombey and would be happy to relay any messages. Carker manages to discreetly tell Florence that there was still no word of Walter's ship, making Florence worried and uncomfortable