When the Midsummer vacation approached, no indecent manifestations
of joy were exhibited by the leaden-eyed young gentlemen assembled at
Doctor Blimber's. Any such violent expression as 'breaking up,' would
have been quite inapplicable to that polite establishment. The young
gentlemen oozed away, semi-annually, to their own homes; but they never
broke up. They would have scorned the action.

Tozer, who was constantly galled and tormented by a starched white
cambric neckerchief, which he wore at the express desire of Mrs Tozer,
his parent, who, designing him for the Church, was of opinion that he
couldn't be in that forward state of preparation too soon--Tozer said,
indeed, that choosing between two evils, he thought he would rather stay
where he was, than go home. However inconsistent this declaration might
appear with that passage in Tozer's Essay on the subject, wherein he had
observed 'that the thoughts of home and all its recollections, awakened
in his mind the most pleasing emotions of anticipation and delight,'
and had also likened himself to a Roman General, flushed with a recent
victory over the Iceni, or laden with Carthaginian spoil, advancing
within a few hours' march of the Capitol, presupposed, for the purposes
of the simile, to be the dwelling-place of Mrs Tozer, still it was very
sincerely made. For it seemed that Tozer had a dreadful Uncle, who
not only volunteered examinations of him, in the holidays, on abstruse
points, but twisted innocent events and things, and wrenched them to the
same fell purpose. So that if this Uncle took him to the Play, or, on a
similar pretence of kindness, carried him to see a Giant, or a Dwarf,
or a Conjuror, or anything, Tozer knew he had read up some classical
allusion to the subject beforehand, and was thrown into a state of
mortal apprehension: not foreseeing where he might break out, or what
authority he might not quote against him.

As to Briggs, his father made no show of artifice about it. He never
would leave him alone. So numerous and severe were the mental trials of
that unfortunate youth in vacation time, that the friends of the family
(then resident near Bayswater, London) seldom approached the ornamental
piece of water in Kensington Gardens, without a vague expectation of
seeing Master Briggs's hat floating on the surface, and an unfinished
exercise lying on the bank. Briggs, therefore, was not at all sanguine
on the subject of holidays; and these two sharers of little Paul's
bedroom were so fair a sample of the young gentlemen in general, that
the most elastic among them contemplated the arrival of those festive
periods with genteel resignation.

It was far otherwise with little Paul. The end of these first holidays
was to witness his separation from Florence, but who ever looked forward
to the end of holidays whose beginning was not yet come! Not Paul,
assuredly. As the happy time drew near, the lions and tigers climbing up
the bedroom walls became quite tame and frolicsome. The grim sly faces
in the squares and diamonds of the floor-cloth, relaxed and peeped out
at him with less wicked eyes. The grave old clock had more of personal
interest in the tone of its formal inquiry; and the restless sea went
rolling on all night, to the sounding of a melancholy strain--yet it was
pleasant too--that rose and fell with the waves, and rocked him, as it
were, to sleep.

Mr Feeder, B.A., seemed to think that he, too, would enjoy the holidays
very much. Mr Toots projected a life of holidays from that time forth;
for, as he regularly informed Paul every day, it was his 'last half' at
Doctor Blimber's, and he was going to begin to come into his property
directly.

It was perfectly understood between Paul and Mr Toots, that they were
intimate friends, notwithstanding their distance in point of years and
station. As the vacation approached, and Mr Toots breathed harder and
stared oftener in Paul's society, than he had done before, Paul knew
that he meant he was sorry they were going to lose sight of each other,
and felt very much obliged to him for his patronage and good opinion.

It was even understood by Doctor Blimber, Mrs Blimber, and Miss Blimber,
as well as by the young gentlemen in general, that Toots had somehow
constituted himself protector and guardian of Dombey, and the
circumstance became so notorious, even to Mrs Pipchin, that the good old
creature cherished feelings of bitterness and jealousy against Toots;
and, in the sanctuary of her own home, repeatedly denounced him as a
'chuckle-headed noodle.' Whereas the innocent Toots had no more idea
of awakening Mrs Pipchin's wrath, than he had of any other definite
possibility or proposition. On the contrary, he was disposed to consider
her rather a remarkable character, with many points of interest about
her. For this reason he smiled on her with so much urbanity, and asked
her how she did, so often, in the course of her visits to little Paul,
that at last she one night told him plainly, she wasn't used to it,
whatever he might think; and she could not, and she would not bear
it, either from himself or any other puppy then existing: at which
unexpected acknowledgment of his civilities, Mr Toots was so alarmed
that he secreted himself in a retired spot until she had gone. Nor did
he ever again face the doughty Mrs Pipchin, under Doctor Blimber's roof.

They were within two or three weeks of the holidays, when, one day,
Cornelia Blimber called Paul into her room, and said, 'Dombey, I am
going to send home your analysis.'

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

'You know what I mean, do you, Dombey?' inquired Miss Blimber, looking
hard at him, through the spectacles.

'No, Ma'am,' said Paul.

'Dombey, Dombey,' said Miss Blimber, 'I begin to be afraid you are a
sad boy. When you don't know the meaning of an expression, why don't you
seek for information?'

'Mrs Pipchin told me I wasn't to ask questions,' returned Paul.

'I must beg you not to mention Mrs Pipchin to me, on any account,
Dombey,' returned Miss Blimber. 'I couldn't think of allowing it. The
course of study here, is very far removed from anything of that sort. A
repetition of such allusions would make it necessary for me to request
to hear, without a mistake, before breakfast-time to-morrow morning,
from Verbum personale down to simillimia cygno.'

'I didn't mean, Ma'am--' began little Paul.

'I must trouble you not to tell me that you didn't mean, if you please,
Dombey,' said Miss Blimber, who preserved an awful politeness in
her admonitions. 'That is a line of argument I couldn't dream of
permitting.'

Paul felt it safest to say nothing at all, so he only looked at Miss
Blimber's spectacles. Miss Blimber having shaken her head at him
gravely, referred to a paper lying before her.

'"Analysis of the character of P. Dombey." If my recollection serves
me,' said Miss Blimber breaking off, 'the word analysis as opposed to
synthesis, is thus defined by Walker. "The resolution of an object,
whether of the senses or of the intellect, into its first elements."
As opposed to synthesis, you observe. Now you know what analysis is,
Dombey.'

Dombey didn't seem to be absolutely blinded by the light let in upon his
intellect, but he made Miss Blimber a little bow.

'"Analysis,"' resumed Miss Blimber, casting her eye over the paper, '"of
the character of P. Dombey." I find that the natural capacity of Dombey
is extremely good; and that his general disposition to study may be
stated in an equal ratio. Thus, taking eight as our standard and
highest number, I find these qualities in Dombey stated each at six
three-fourths!'

Miss Blimber paused to see how Paul received this news. Being undecided
whether six three-fourths meant six pounds fifteen, or sixpence three
farthings, or six foot three, or three quarters past six, or six
somethings that he hadn't learnt yet, with three unknown something elses
over, Paul rubbed his hands and looked straight at Miss Blimber. It
happened to answer as well as anything else he could have done; and
Cornelia proceeded.

'"Violence two. Selfishness two. Inclination to low company, as evinced
in the case of a person named Glubb, originally seven, but since
reduced. Gentlemanly demeanour four, and improving with advancing
years." Now what I particularly wish to call your attention to, Dombey,
is the general observation at the close of this analysis.'

Paul set himself to follow it with great care.

'"It may be generally observed of Dombey,"' said Miss Blimber, reading
in a loud voice, and at every second word directing her spectacles
towards the little figure before her: '"that his abilities and
inclinations are good, and that he has made as much progress as under
the circumstances could have been expected. But it is to be lamented
of this young gentleman that he is singular (what is usually termed
old-fashioned) in his character and conduct, and that, without
presenting anything in either which distinctly calls for reprobation,
he is often very unlike other young gentlemen of his age and social
position." Now, Dombey,' said Miss Blimber, laying down the paper, 'do
you understand that?'

'I think I do, Ma'am,' said Paul.

'This analysis, you see, Dombey,' Miss Blimber continued, 'is going to
be sent home to your respected parent. It will naturally be very painful
to him to find that you are singular in your character and conduct. It
is naturally painful to us; for we can't like you, you know, Dombey, as
well as we could wish.'

She touched the child upon a tender point. He had secretly become more
and more solicitous from day to day, as the time of his departure drew
more near, that all the house should like him. From some hidden reason,
very imperfectly understood by himself--if understood at all--he felt a
gradually increasing impulse of affection, towards almost everything and
everybody in the place. He could not bear to think that they would be
quite indifferent to him when he was gone. He wanted them to remember
him kindly; and he had made it his business even to conciliate a
great hoarse shaggy dog, chained up at the back of the house, who had
previously been the terror of his life: that even he might miss him when
he was no longer there.

Little thinking that in this, he only showed again the difference
between himself and his compeers, poor tiny Paul set it forth to Miss
Blimber as well as he could, and begged her, in despite of the official
analysis, to have the goodness to try and like him. To Mrs Blimber,
who had joined them, he preferred the same petition: and when that lady
could not forbear, even in his presence, from giving utterance to her
often-repeated opinion, that he was an odd child, Paul told her that he
was sure she was quite right; that he thought it must be his bones, but
he didn't know; and that he hoped she would overlook it, for he was fond
of them all.

'Not so fond,' said Paul, with a mixture of timidity and perfect
frankness, which was one of the most peculiar and most engaging
qualities of the child, 'not so fond as I am of Florence, of course;
that could never be. You couldn't expect that, could you, Ma'am?'

'Oh! the old-fashioned little soul!' cried Mrs Blimber, in a whisper.

'But I like everybody here very much,' pursued Paul, 'and I should
grieve to go away, and think that anyone was glad that I was gone, or
didn't care.'

Mrs Blimber was now quite sure that Paul was the oddest child in the
world; and when she told the Doctor what had passed, the Doctor did not
controvert his wife's opinion. But he said, as he had said before, when
Paul first came, that study would do much; and he also said, as he had
said on that occasion, 'Bring him on, Cornelia! Bring him on!'

Cornelia had always brought him on as vigorously as she could; and Paul
had had a hard life of it. But over and above the getting through his
tasks, he had long had another purpose always present to him, and to
which he still held fast. It was, to be a gentle, useful, quiet little
fellow, always striving to secure the love and attachment of the rest;
and though he was yet often to be seen at his old post on the stairs, or
watching the waves and clouds from his solitary window, he was oftener
found, too, among the other boys, modestly rendering them some little
voluntary service. Thus it came to pass, that even among those rigid and
absorbed young anchorites, who mortified themselves beneath the roof of
Doctor Blimber, Paul was an object of general interest; a fragile little
plaything that they all liked, and that no one would have thought of
treating roughly. But he could not change his nature, or rewrite the
analysis; and so they all agreed that Dombey was old-fashioned.

There were some immunities, however, attaching to the character enjoyed
by no one else. They could have better spared a newer-fashioned child,
and that alone was much. When the others only bowed to Doctor Blimber
and family on retiring for the night, Paul would stretch out his morsel
of a hand, and boldly shake the Doctor's; also Mrs Blimber's; also
Cornelia's. If anybody was to be begged off from impending punishment,
Paul was always the delegate. The weak-eyed young man himself had once
consulted him, in reference to a little breakage of glass and china. And
it was darkly rumoured that the butler, regarding him with favour such
as that stern man had never shown before to mortal boy, had sometimes
mingled porter with his table-beer to make him strong.

Over and above these extensive privileges, Paul had free right of entry
to Mr Feeder's room, from which apartment he had twice led Mr Toots
into the open air in a state of faintness, consequent on an unsuccessful
attempt to smoke a very blunt cigar: one of a bundle which that young
gentleman had covertly purchased on the shingle from a most desperate
smuggler, who had acknowledged, in confidence, that two hundred pounds
was the price set upon his head, dead or alive, by the Custom House. It
was a snug room, Mr Feeder's, with his bed in another little room inside
of it; and a flute, which Mr Feeder couldn't play yet, but was going to
make a point of learning, he said, hanging up over the fireplace. There
were some books in it, too, and a fishing-rod; for Mr Feeder said he
should certainly make a point of learning to fish, when he could find
time. Mr Feeder had amassed, with similar intentions, a beautiful little
curly secondhand key-bugle, a chess-board and men, a Spanish Grammar,
a set of sketching materials, and a pair of boxing-gloves. The art
of self-defence Mr Feeder said he should undoubtedly make a point of
learning, as he considered it the duty of every man to do; for it might
lead to the protection of a female in distress.

But Mr Feeder's great possession was a large green jar of snuff, which Mr
Toots had brought down as a present, at the close of the last vacation;
and for which he had paid a high price, having been the genuine property
of the Prince Regent. Neither Mr Toots nor Mr Feeder could partake of
this or any other snuff, even in the most stinted and moderate degree,
without being seized with convulsions of sneezing. Nevertheless it was
their great delight to moisten a box-full with cold tea, stir it up on a
piece of parchment with a paper-knife, and devote themselves to its
consumption then and there. In the course of which cramming of their
noses, they endured surprising torments with the constancy of martyrs:
and, drinking table-beer at intervals, felt all the glories of
dissipation.

To little Paul sitting silent in their company, and by the side of
his chief patron, Mr Toots, there was a dread charm in these reckless
occasions: and when Mr Feeder spoke of the dark mysteries of London, and
told Mr Toots that he was going to observe it himself closely in all its
ramifications in the approaching holidays, and for that purpose had
made arrangements to board with two old maiden ladies at Peckham, Paul
regarded him as if he were the hero of some book of travels or wild
adventure, and was almost afraid of such a slashing person.

Going into this room one evening, when the holidays were very near, Paul
found Mr Feeder filling up the blanks in some printed letters, while
some others, already filled up and strewn before him, were being folded
and sealed by Mr Toots. Mr Feeder said, 'Aha, Dombey, there you are, are
you?'--for they were always kind to him, and glad to see him--and then
said, tossing one of the letters towards him, 'And there you are, too,
Dombey. That's yours.'

'Mine, Sir?' said Paul.

'Your invitation,' returned Mr Feeder.

Paul, looking at it, found, in copper-plate print, with the exception
of his own name and the date, which were in Mr Feeder's penmanship, that
Doctor and Mrs Blimber requested the pleasure of Mr P. Dombey's company
at an early party on Wednesday Evening the Seventeenth Instant; and
that the hour was half-past seven o'clock; and that the object was
Quadrilles. Mr Toots also showed him, by holding up a companion sheet of
paper, that Doctor and Mrs Blimber requested the pleasure of Mr Toots's
company at an early party on Wednesday Evening the Seventeenth Instant,
when the hour was half-past seven o'clock, and when the object was
Quadrilles. He also found, on glancing at the table where Mr Feeder sat,
that the pleasure of Mr Briggs's company, and of Mr Tozer's company,
and of every young gentleman's company, was requested by Doctor and Mrs
Blimber on the same genteel Occasion.

Mr Feeder then told him, to his great joy, that his sister was invited,
and that it was a half-yearly event, and that, as the holidays began
that day, he could go away with his sister after the party, if he liked,
which Paul interrupted him to say he would like, very much. Mr Feeder
then gave him to understand that he would be expected to inform Doctor
and Mrs Blimber, in superfine small-hand, that Mr P. Dombey would be
happy to have the honour of waiting on them, in accordance with their
polite invitation. Lastly, Mr Feeder said, he had better not refer to
the festive occasion, in the hearing of Doctor and Mrs Blimber; as these
preliminaries, and the whole of the arrangements, were conducted on
principles of classicality and high breeding; and that Doctor and Mrs
Blimber on the one hand, and the young gentlemen on the other, were
supposed, in their scholastic capacities, not to have the least idea of
what was in the wind.

Paul thanked Mr Feeder for these hints, and pocketing his invitation,
sat down on a stool by the side of Mr Toots, as usual. But Paul's head,
which had long been ailing more or less, and was sometimes very heavy
and painful, felt so uneasy that night, that he was obliged to support
it on his hand. And yet it dropped so, that by little and little it sunk
on Mr Toots's knee, and rested there, as if it had no care to be ever
lifted up again.

That was no reason why he should be deaf; but he must have been, he
thought, for, by and by, he heard Mr Feeder calling in his ear, and
gently shaking him to rouse his attention. And when he raised his head,
quite scared, and looked about him, he found that Doctor Blimber had
come into the room; and that the window was open, and that his forehead
was wet with sprinkled water; though how all this had been done without
his knowledge, was very curious indeed.

'Ah! Come, come! That's well! How is my little friend now?' said Doctor
Blimber, encouragingly.

'Oh, quite well, thank you, Sir,' said Paul.

But there seemed to be something the matter with the floor, for he
couldn't stand upon it steadily; and with the walls too, for they were
inclined to turn round and round, and could only be stopped by being
looked at very hard indeed. Mr Toots's head had the appearance of being
at once bigger and farther off than was quite natural; and when he took
Paul in his arms, to carry him upstairs, Paul observed with astonishment
that the door was in quite a different place from that in which he had
expected to find it, and almost thought, at first, that Mr Toots was
going to walk straight up the chimney.

It was very kind of Mr Toots to carry him to the top of the house so
tenderly; and Paul told him that it was. But Mr Toots said he would do
a great deal more than that, if he could; and indeed he did more as
it was: for he helped Paul to undress, and helped him to bed, in the
kindest manner possible, and then sat down by the bedside and chuckled
very much; while Mr Feeder, B.A., leaning over the bottom of the
bedstead, set all the little bristles on his head bolt upright with his
bony hands, and then made believe to spar at Paul with great science, on
account of his being all right again, which was so uncommonly facetious,
and kind too in Mr Feeder, that Paul, not being able to make up his mind
whether it was best to laugh or cry at him, did both at once.

How Mr Toots melted away, and Mr Feeder changed into Mrs Pipchin, Paul
never thought of asking; neither was he at all curious to know; but
when he saw Mrs Pipchin standing at the bottom of the bed, instead of Mr
Feeder, he cried out, 'Mrs Pipchin, don't tell Florence!'

'Don't tell Florence what, my little Paul?' said Mrs Pipchin, coming
round to the bedside, and sitting down in the chair.

'About me,' said Paul.

'No, no,' said Mrs Pipchin.

'What do you think I mean to do when I grow up, Mrs Pipchin?' inquired
Paul, turning his face towards her on his pillow, and resting his chin
wistfully on his folded hands.

Mrs Pipchin couldn't guess.

'I mean,' said Paul, 'to put my money all together in one Bank, never
try to get any more, go away into the country with my darling Florence,
have a beautiful garden, fields, and woods, and live there with her all
my life!'

'Indeed!' cried Mrs Pipchin.

'Yes,' said Paul. 'That's what I mean to do, when I--' He stopped, and
pondered for a moment.

Mrs Pipchin's grey eye scanned his thoughtful face.

'If I grow up,' said Paul. Then he went on immediately to tell Mrs
Pipchin all about the party, about Florence's invitation, about the
pride he would have in the admiration that would be felt for her by all
the boys, about their being so kind to him and fond of him, about his
being so fond of them, and about his being so glad of it. Then he
told Mrs Pipchin about the analysis, and about his being certainly
old-fashioned, and took Mrs Pipchin's opinion on that point, and whether
she knew why it was, and what it meant. Mrs Pipchin denied the fact
altogether, as the shortest way of getting out of the difficulty; but
Paul was far from satisfied with that reply, and looked so searchingly
at Mrs Pipchin for a truer answer, that she was obliged to get up and
look out of the window to avoid his eyes.

There was a certain calm Apothecary, who attended at the establishment
when any of the young gentlemen were ill, and somehow he got into the
room and appeared at the bedside, with Mrs Blimber. How they came there,
or how long they had been there, Paul didn't know; but when he saw them,
he sat up in bed, and answered all the Apothecary's questions at full
length, and whispered to him that Florence was not to know anything
about it, if he pleased, and that he had set his mind upon her coming
to the party. He was very chatty with the Apothecary, and they parted
excellent friends. Lying down again with his eyes shut, he heard the
Apothecary say, out of the room and quite a long way off--or he dreamed
it--that there was a want of vital power (what was that, Paul wondered!)
and great constitutional weakness. That as the little fellow had set his
heart on parting with his school-mates on the seventeenth, it would be
better to indulge the fancy if he grew no worse. That he was glad to
hear from Mrs Pipchin, that the little fellow would go to his friends
in London on the eighteenth. That he would write to Mr Dombey, when he
should have gained a better knowledge of the case, and before that day.
That there was no immediate cause for--what? Paul lost that word. And
that the little fellow had a fine mind, but was an old-fashioned boy.

What old fashion could that be, Paul wondered with a palpitating heart,
that was so visibly expressed in him; so plainly seen by so many people!

He could neither make it out, nor trouble himself long with the effort.
Mrs Pipchin was again beside him, if she had ever been away (he thought
she had gone out with the Doctor, but it was all a dream perhaps),
and presently a bottle and glass got into her hands magically, and
she poured out the contents for him. After that, he had some real good
jelly, which Mrs Blimber brought to him herself; and then he was so
well, that Mrs Pipchin went home, at his urgent solicitation, and Briggs
and Tozer came to bed. Poor Briggs grumbled terribly about his own
analysis, which could hardly have discomposed him more if it had been a
chemical process; but he was very good to Paul, and so was Tozer, and so
were all the rest, for they every one looked in before going to bed,
and said, 'How are you now, Dombey?' 'Cheer up, little Dombey!' and
so forth. After Briggs had got into bed, he lay awake for a long time,
still bemoaning his analysis, and saying he knew it was all wrong, and
they couldn't have analysed a murderer worse, and--how would Doctor
Blimber like it if his pocket-money depended on it? It was very easy,
Briggs said, to make a galley-slave of a boy all the half-year, and then
score him up idle; and to crib two dinners a-week out of his board, and
then score him up greedy; but that wasn't going to be submitted to, he
believed, was it? Oh! Ah!

Before the weak-eyed young man performed on the gong next morning, he
came upstairs to Paul and told him he was to lie still, which Paul very
gladly did. Mrs Pipchin reappeared a little before the Apothecary, and a
little after the good young woman whom Paul had seen cleaning the stove
on that first morning (how long ago it seemed now!) had brought him his
breakfast. There was another consultation a long way off, or else Paul
dreamed it again; and then the Apothecary, coming back with Doctor and
Mrs Blimber, said:

'Yes, I think, Doctor Blimber, we may release this young gentleman from
his books just now; the vacation being so very near at hand.'

'By all means,' said Doctor Blimber. 'My love, you will inform Cornelia,
if you please.'

'Assuredly,' said Mrs Blimber.

The Apothecary bending down, looked closely into Paul's eyes, and felt
his head, and his pulse, and his heart, with so much interest and care,
that Paul said, 'Thank you, Sir.'

'Our little friend,' observed Doctor Blimber, 'has never complained.'

'Oh no!' replied the Apothecary. 'He was not likely to complain.'

'You find him greatly better?' said Doctor Blimber.

'Oh! he is greatly better, Sir,' returned the Apothecary.

Paul had begun to speculate, in his own odd way, on the subject that
might occupy the Apothecary's mind just at that moment; so musingly
had he answered the two questions of Doctor Blimber. But the Apothecary
happening to meet his little patient's eyes, as the latter set off on
that mental expedition, and coming instantly out of his abstraction with
a cheerful smile, Paul smiled in return and abandoned it.

He lay in bed all that day, dozing and dreaming, and looking at Mr
Toots; but got up on the next, and went downstairs. Lo and behold, there
was something the matter with the great clock; and a workman on a pair
of steps had taken its face off, and was poking instruments into the
works by the light of a candle! This was a great event for Paul, who sat
down on the bottom stair, and watched the operation attentively: now
and then glancing at the clock face, leaning all askew, against the wall
hard by, and feeling a little confused by a suspicion that it was ogling
him.

The workman on the steps was very civil; and as he said, when he
observed Paul, 'How do you do, Sir?' Paul got into conversation with
him, and told him he hadn't been quite well lately. The ice being thus
broken, Paul asked him a multitude of questions about chimes and clocks:
as, whether people watched up in the lonely church steeples by night
to make them strike, and how the bells were rung when people died, and
whether those were different bells from wedding bells, or only sounded
dismal in the fancies of the living. Finding that his new acquaintance
was not very well informed on the subject of the Curfew Bell of ancient
days, Paul gave him an account of that institution; and also asked
him, as a practical man, what he thought about King Alfred's idea of
measuring time by the burning of candles; to which the workman replied,
that he thought it would be the ruin of the clock trade if it was
to come up again. In fine, Paul looked on, until the clock had quite
recovered its familiar aspect, and resumed its sedate inquiry; when the
workman, putting away his tools in a long basket, bade him good day,
and went away. Though not before he had whispered something, on
the door-mat, to the footman, in which there was the phrase
'old-fashioned'--for Paul heard it.

What could that old fashion be, that seemed to make the people sorry!
What could it be!

Having nothing to learn now, he thought of this frequently; though not
so often as he might have done, if he had had fewer things to think of.
But he had a great many; and was always thinking, all day long.

First, there was Florence coming to the party. Florence would see that
the boys were fond of him; and that would make her happy. This was his
great theme. Let Florence once be sure that they were gentle and good to
him, and that he had become a little favourite among them, and then the
would always think of the time he had passed there, without being very
sorry. Florence might be all the happier too for that, perhaps, when he
came back.

When he came back! Fifty times a day, his noiseless little feet went up
the stairs to his own room, as he collected every book, and scrap, and
trifle that belonged to him, and put them all together there, down to
the minutest thing, for taking home! There was no shade of coming back
on little Paul; no preparation for it, or other reference to it, grew
out of anything he thought or did, except this slight one in connexion
with his sister. On the contrary, he had to think of everything familiar
to him, in his contemplative moods and in his wanderings about the
house, as being to be parted with; and hence the many things he had to
think of, all day long.

He had to peep into those rooms upstairs, and think how solitary they
would be when he was gone, and wonder through how many silent days,
weeks, months, and years, they would continue just as grave and
undisturbed. He had to think--would any other child (old-fashioned, like
himself) stray there at any time, to whom the same grotesque distortions
of pattern and furniture would manifest themselves; and would anybody
tell that boy of little Dombey, who had been there once?

He had to think of a portrait on the stairs, which always looked
earnestly after him as he went away, eyeing it over his shoulder; and
which, when he passed it in the company of anyone, still seemed to gaze
at him, and not at his companion. He had much to think of, in
association with a print that hung up in another place, where, in the
centre of a wondering group, one figure that he knew, a figure with a
light about its head--benignant, mild, and merciful--stood pointing
upward.

At his own bedroom window, there were crowds of thoughts that mixed
with these, and came on, one upon another, like the rolling waves. Where
those wild birds lived, that were always hovering out at sea in troubled
weather; where the clouds rose and first began; whence the wind issued
on its rushing flight, and where it stopped; whether the spot where
he and Florence had so often sat, and watched, and talked about these
things, could ever be exactly as it used to be without them; whether it
could ever be the same to Florence, if he were in some distant place,
and she were sitting there alone.

He had to think, too, of Mr Toots, and Mr Feeder, B.A., of all the boys;
and of Doctor Blimber, Mrs Blimber, and Miss Blimber; of home, and of
his aunt and Miss Tox; of his father; Dombey and Son, Walter with the
poor old Uncle who had got the money he wanted, and that gruff-voiced
Captain with the iron hand. Besides all this, he had a number of little
visits to pay, in the course of the day; to the schoolroom, to Doctor
Blimber's study, to Mrs Blimber's private apartment, to Miss Blimber's,
and to the dog. For he was free of the whole house now, to range it
as he chose; and, in his desire to part with everybody on affectionate
terms, he attended, in his way, to them all. Sometimes he found places
in books for Briggs, who was always losing them; sometimes he looked up
words in dictionaries for other young gentlemen who were in extremity;
sometimes he held skeins of silk for Mrs Blimber to wind; sometimes he
put Cornelia's desk to rights; sometimes he would even creep into the
Doctor's study, and, sitting on the carpet near his learned feet, turn
the globes softly, and go round the world, or take a flight among the
far-off stars.

In those days immediately before the holidays, in short, when the
other young gentlemen were labouring for dear life through a general
resumption of the studies of the whole half-year, Paul was such a
privileged pupil as had never been seen in that house before. He could
hardly believe it himself; but his liberty lasted from hour to hour,
and from day to day; and little Dombey was caressed by everyone. Doctor
Blimber was so particular about him, that he requested Johnson to retire
from the dinner-table one day, for having thoughtlessly spoken to him as
'poor little Dombey;' which Paul thought rather hard and severe, though
he had flushed at the moment, and wondered why Johnson should pity him.
It was the more questionable justice, Paul thought, in the Doctor, from
his having certainly overheard that great authority give his assent on
the previous evening, to the proposition (stated by Mrs Blimber) that
poor dear little Dombey was more old-fashioned than ever. And now it
was that Paul began to think it must surely be old-fashioned to be
very thin, and light, and easily tired, and soon disposed to lie down
anywhere and rest; for he couldn't help feeling that these were more and
more his habits every day.

At last the party-day arrived; and Doctor Blimber said at breakfast,
'Gentlemen, we will resume our studies on the twenty-fifth of next
month.' Mr Toots immediately threw off his allegiance, and put on
his ring: and mentioning the Doctor in casual conversation shortly
afterwards, spoke of him as 'Blimber'! This act of freedom inspired
the older pupils with admiration and envy; but the younger spirits were
appalled, and seemed to marvel that no beam fell down and crushed him.

Not the least allusion was made to the ceremonies of the evening, either
at breakfast or at dinner; but there was a bustle in the house all day,
and in the course of his perambulations, Paul made acquaintance with
various strange benches and candlesticks, and met a harp in a green
greatcoat standing on the landing outside the drawing-room door. There
was something queer, too, about Mrs Blimber's head at dinner-time, as if
she had screwed her hair up too tight; and though Miss Blimber showed
a graceful bunch of plaited hair on each temple, she seemed to have her
own little curls in paper underneath, and in a play-bill too; for
Paul read 'Theatre Royal' over one of her sparkling spectacles, and
'Brighton' over the other.

There was a grand array of white waistcoats and cravats in the young
gentlemen's bedrooms as evening approached; and such a smell of singed
hair, that Doctor Blimber sent up the footman with his compliments, and
wished to know if the house was on fire. But it was only the hairdresser
curling the young gentlemen, and over-heating his tongs in the ardour of
business.

When Paul was dressed--which was very soon done, for he felt unwell and
drowsy, and was not able to stand about it very long--he went down into
the drawing-room; where he found Doctor Blimber pacing up and down the
room full dressed, but with a dignified and unconcerned demeanour, as
if he thought it barely possible that one or two people might drop in by
and by. Shortly afterwards, Mrs Blimber appeared, looking lovely, Paul
thought; and attired in such a number of skirts that it was quite an
excursion to walk round her. Miss Blimber came down soon after her Mama;
a little squeezed in appearance, but very charming.

Mr Toots and Mr Feeder were the next arrivals. Each of these gentlemen
brought his hat in his hand, as if he lived somewhere else; and when
they were announced by the butler, Doctor Blimber said, 'Ay, ay, ay! God
bless my soul!' and seemed extremely glad to see them. Mr Toots was
one blaze of jewellery and buttons; and he felt the circumstance so
strongly, that when he had shaken hands with the Doctor, and had bowed
to Mrs Blimber and Miss Blimber, he took Paul aside, and said, 'What do
you think of this, Dombey?'

But notwithstanding this modest confidence in himself, Mr Toots appeared
to be involved in a good deal of uncertainty whether, on the whole, it
was judicious to button the bottom button of his waistcoat, and whether,
on a calm revision of all the circumstances, it was best to wear his
waistbands turned up or turned down. Observing that Mr Feeder's were
turned up, Mr Toots turned his up; but the waistbands of the next
arrival being turned down, Mr Toots turned his down. The differences
in point of waistcoat-buttoning, not only at the bottom, but at the top
too, became so numerous and complicated as the arrivals thickened, that
Mr Toots was continually fingering that article of dress, as if he
were performing on some instrument; and appeared to find the incessant
execution it demanded, quite bewildering.

All the young gentlemen, tightly cravatted, curled, and pumped, and with
their best hats in their hands, having been at different times announced
and introduced, Mr Baps, the dancing-master, came, accompanied by Mrs
Baps, to whom Mrs Blimber was extremely kind and condescending. Mr Baps
was a very grave gentleman, with a slow and measured manner of speaking;
and before he had stood under the lamp five minutes, he began to talk to
Toots (who had been silently comparing pumps with him) about what you
were to do with your raw materials when they came into your ports in
return for your drain of gold. Mr Toots, to whom the question seemed
perplexing, suggested 'Cook 'em.' But Mr Baps did not appear to think
that would do.

Paul now slipped away from the cushioned corner of a sofa, which had
been his post of observation, and went downstairs into the tea-room to
be ready for Florence, whom he had not seen for nearly a fortnight, as
he had remained at Doctor Blimber's on the previous Saturday and Sunday,
lest he should take cold. Presently she came: looking so beautiful in
her simple ball dress, with her fresh flowers in her hand, that when she
knelt down on the ground to take Paul round the neck and kiss him (for
there was no one there, but his friend and another young woman waiting
to serve out the tea), he could hardly make up his mind to let her go
again, or to take away her bright and loving eyes from his face.

'But what is the matter, Floy?' asked Paul, almost sure that he saw a
tear there.

'Nothing, darling; nothing,' returned Florence.

Paul touched her cheek gently with his finger--and it was a tear! 'Why,
Floy!' said he.

'We'll go home together, and I'll nurse you, love,' said Florence.

'Nurse me!' echoed Paul.

Paul couldn't understand what that had to do with it, nor why the two
young women looked on so seriously, nor why Florence turned away her
face for a moment, and then turned it back, lighted up again with
smiles.

'Floy,' said Paul, holding a ringlet of her dark hair in his hand. 'Tell
me, dear, Do you think I have grown old-fashioned?'

His sister laughed, and fondled him, and told him 'No.'

'Because I know they say so,' returned Paul, 'and I want to know what
they mean, Floy.'

But a loud double knock coming at the door, and Florence hurrying to the
table, there was no more said between them.  Paul wondered again when he
saw his friend whisper to Florence, as if she were comforting her; but a
new arrival put that out of his head speedily.

It was Sir Barnet Skettles, Lady Skettles, and Master Skettles. Master
Skettles was to be a new boy after the vacation, and Fame had been busy,
in Mr Feeder's room, with his father, who was in the House of Commons,
and of whom Mr Feeder had said that when he did catch the Speaker's
eye (which he had been expected to do for three or four years), it was
anticipated that he would rather touch up the Radicals.

'And what room is this now, for instance?' said Lady Skettles to Paul's
friend, 'Melia.

'Doctor Blimber's study, Ma'am,' was the reply.

Lady Skettles took a panoramic survey of it through her glass, and said
to Sir Barnet Skettles, with a nod of approval, 'Very good.' Sir Barnet
assented, but Master Skettles looked suspicious and doubtful.

'And this little creature, now,' said Lady Skettles, turning to Paul.
'Is he one of the--'

'Young gentlemen, Ma'am; yes, Ma'am,' said Paul's friend.

'And what is your name, my pale child?' said Lady Skettles.

'Dombey,' answered Paul.

Sir Barnet Skettles immediately interposed, and said that he had had the
honour of meeting Paul's father at a public dinner, and that he hoped
he was very well. Then Paul heard him say to Lady Skettles, 'City--very
rich--most respectable--Doctor mentioned it.' And then he said to Paul,
'Will you tell your good Papa that Sir Barnet Skettles rejoiced to hear
that he was very well, and sent him his best compliments?'

'Yes, Sir,' answered Paul.

'That is my brave boy,' said Sir Barnet Skettles. 'Barnet,' to Master
Skettles, who was revenging himself for the studies to come, on the
plum-cake, 'this is a young gentleman you ought to know. This is a
young gentleman you may know, Barnet,' said Sir Barnet Skettles, with an
emphasis on the permission.

'What eyes! What hair! What a lovely face!' exclaimed Lady Skettles
softly, as she looked at Florence through her glass.

'My sister,' said Paul, presenting her.

The satisfaction of the Skettleses was now complete. And as Lady Skettles
had conceived, at first sight, a liking for Paul, they all went upstairs
together: Sir Barnet Skettles taking care of Florence, and young Barnet
following.

Young Barnet did not remain long in the background after they had
reached the drawing-room, for Dr Blimber had him out in no time, dancing
with Florence. He did not appear to Paul to be particularly happy, or
particularly anything but sulky, or to care much what he was about; but
as Paul heard Lady Skettles say to Mrs Blimber, while she beat time with
her fan, that her dear boy was evidently smitten to death by that angel
of a child, Miss Dombey, it would seem that Skettles Junior was in a
state of bliss, without showing it.

Little Paul thought it a singular coincidence that nobody had occupied
his place among the pillows; and that when he came into the room again,
they should all make way for him to go back to it, remembering it was
his. Nobody stood before him either, when they observed that he liked to
see Florence dancing, but they left the space in front quite clear, so
that he might follow her with his eyes. They were so kind, too, even
the strangers, of whom there were soon a great many, that they came and
spoke to him every now and then, and asked him how he was, and if his
head ached, and whether he was tired. He was very much obliged to them
for all their kindness and attention, and reclining propped up in
his corner, with Mrs Blimber and Lady Skettles on the same sofa, and
Florence coming and sitting by his side as soon as every dance was
ended, he looked on very happily indeed.

Florence would have sat by him all night, and would not have danced at
all of her own accord, but Paul made her, by telling her how much
it pleased him. And he told her the truth, too; for his small heart
swelled, and his face glowed, when he saw how much they all admired her,
and how she was the beautiful little rosebud of the room.

From his nest among the pillows, Paul could see and hear almost
everything that passed as if the whole were being done for his
amusement. Among other little incidents that he observed, he observed Mr
Baps the dancing-master get into conversation with Sir Barnet Skettles,
and very soon ask him, as he had asked Mr Toots, what you were to do
with your raw materials, when they came into your ports in return for
your drain of gold--which was such a mystery to Paul that he was quite
desirous to know what ought to be done with them. Sir Barnet Skettles
had much to say upon the question, and said it; but it did not appear
to solve the question, for Mr Baps retorted, Yes, but supposing Russia
stepped in with her tallows; which struck Sir Barnet almost dumb, for
he could only shake his head after that, and say, Why then you must fall
back upon your cottons, he supposed.

Sir Barnet Skettles looked after Mr Baps when he went to cheer up
Mrs Baps (who, being quite deserted, was pretending to look over the
music-book of the gentleman who played the harp), as if he thought him a
remarkable kind of man; and shortly afterwards he said so in those words
to Doctor Blimber, and inquired if he might take the liberty of asking
who he was, and whether he had ever been in the Board of Trade.
Doctor Blimber answered no, he believed not; and that in fact he was a
Professor of--'

'Of something connected with statistics, I'll swear?' observed Sir
Barnet Skettles.

'Why no, Sir Barnet,' replied Doctor Blimber, rubbing his chin. 'No, not
exactly.'

'Figures of some sort, I would venture a bet,' said Sir Barnet Skettles.

'Why yes,' said Doctor Blimber, yes, but not of that sort. Mr Baps is a
very worthy sort of man, Sir Barnet, and--in fact he's our Professor of
dancing.'

Paul was amazed to see that this piece of information quite altered Sir
Barnet Skettles's opinion of Mr Baps, and that Sir Barnet flew into
a perfect rage, and glowered at Mr Baps over on the other side of the
room. He even went so far as to D-- Mr Baps to Lady Skettles, in telling
her what had happened, and to say that it was like his most con-sum-mate
and con-foun-ded impudence.

There was another thing that Paul observed. Mr Feeder, after imbibing
several custard-cups of negus, began to enjoy himself. The dancing in
general was ceremonious, and the music rather solemn--a little like
church music in fact--but after the custard-cups, Mr Feeder told Mr
Toots that he was going to throw a little spirit into the thing. After
that, Mr Feeder not only began to dance as if he meant dancing and
nothing else, but secretly to stimulate the music to perform wild tunes.
Further, he became particular in his attentions to the ladies; and
dancing with Miss Blimber, whispered to her--whispered to her!--though
not so softly but that Paul heard him say this remarkable poetry,

             'Had I a heart for falsehood framed,
              I ne'er could injure You!'

This, Paul heard him repeat to four young ladies, in succession. Well
might Mr Feeder say to Mr Toots, that he was afraid he should be the
worse for it to-morrow!

Mrs Blimber was a little alarmed by this--comparatively
speaking--profligate behaviour; and especially by the alteration in the
character of the music, which, beginning to comprehend low melodies that
were popular in the streets, might not unnaturally be supposed to give
offence to Lady Skettles. But Lady Skettles was so very kind as to beg
Mrs Blimber not to mention it; and to receive her explanation that
Mr Feeder's spirits sometimes betrayed him into excesses on these
occasions, with the greatest courtesy and politeness; observing, that
he seemed a very nice sort of person for his situation, and that she
particularly liked the unassuming style of his hair--which (as already
hinted) was about a quarter of an inch long.

Once, when there was a pause in the dancing, Lady Skettles told Paul
that he seemed very fond of music. Paul replied, that he was; and if
she was too, she ought to hear his sister, Florence, sing. Lady Skettles
presently discovered that she was dying with anxiety to have that
gratification; and though Florence was at first very much frightened at
being asked to sing before so many people, and begged earnestly to be
excused, yet, on Paul calling her to him, and saying, 'Do, Floy! Please!
For me, my dear!' she went straight to the piano, and began. When they
all drew a little away, that Paul might see her; and when he saw her
sitting there all alone, so young, and good, and beautiful, and kind
to him; and heard her thrilling voice, so natural and sweet, and such
a golden link between him and all his life's love and happiness, rising
out of the silence; he turned his face away, and hid his tears. Not,
as he told them when they spoke to him, not that the music was too
plaintive or too sorrowful, but it was so dear to him.

They all loved Florence. How could they help it! Paul had known
beforehand that they must and would; and sitting in his cushioned
corner, with calmly folded hands; and one leg loosely doubled under him,
few would have thought what triumph and delight expanded his childish
bosom while he watched her, or what a sweet tranquillity he felt. Lavish
encomiums on 'Dombey's sister' reached his ears from all the boys:
admiration of the self-possessed and modest little beauty was on every
lip: reports of her intelligence and accomplishments floated past him,
constantly; and, as if borne in upon the air of the summer night, there
was a half intelligible sentiment diffused around, referring to Florence
and himself, and breathing sympathy for both, that soothed and touched
him.

He did not know why. For all that the child observed, and felt, and
thought, that night--the present and the absent; what was then and
what had been--were blended like the colours in the rainbow, or in
the plumage of rich birds when the sun is shining on them, or in the
softening sky when the same sun is setting. The many things he had had
to think of lately, passed before him in the music; not as claiming
his attention over again, or as likely evermore to occupy it, but as
peacefully disposed of and gone. A solitary window, gazed through years
ago, looked out upon an ocean, miles and miles away; upon its waters,
fancies, busy with him only yesterday, were hushed and lulled to rest
like broken waves. The same mysterious murmur he had wondered at, when
lying on his couch upon the beach, he thought he still heard sounding
through his sister's song, and through the hum of voices, and the tread
of feet, and having some part in the faces flitting by, and even in the
heavy gentleness of Mr Toots, who frequently came up to shake him by
the hand. Through the universal kindness he still thought he heard it,
speaking to him; and even his old-fashioned reputation seemed to be
allied to it, he knew not how. Thus little Paul sat musing, listening,
looking on, and dreaming; and was very happy.

Until the time arrived for taking leave: and then, indeed, there was a
sensation in the party. Sir Barnet Skettles brought up Skettles Junior
to shake hands with him, and asked him if he would remember to tell his
good Papa, with his best compliments, that he, Sir Barnet Skettles,
had said he hoped the two young gentlemen would become intimately
acquainted. Lady Skettles kissed him, and patted his hair upon his brow,
and held him in her arms; and even Mrs Baps--poor Mrs Baps! Paul was
glad of that--came over from beside the music-book of the gentleman who
played the harp, and took leave of him quite as heartily as anybody in
the room.

'Good-bye, Doctor Blimber,' said Paul, stretching out his hand.

'Good-bye, my little friend,' returned the Doctor.

'I'm very much obliged to you, Sir,' said Paul, looking innocently up
into his awful face. 'Ask them to take care of Diogenes, if you please.'

Diogenes was the dog: who had never in his life received a friend into
his confidence, before Paul. The Doctor promised that every attention
should be paid to Diogenes in Paul's absence, and Paul having again
thanked him, and shaken hands with him, bade adieu to Mrs Blimber and
Cornelia with such heartfelt earnestness that Mrs Blimber forgot from
that moment to mention Cicero to Lady Skettles, though she had fully
intended it all the evening. Cornelia, taking both Paul's hands in hers,
said, 'Dombey, Dombey, you have always been my favourite pupil. God bless
you!' And it showed, Paul thought, how easily one might do injustice to
a person; for Miss Blimber meant it--though she was a Forcer--and felt
it.

A buzz then went round among the young gentlemen, of 'Dombey's going!'
'Little Dombey's going!' and there was a general move after Paul and
Florence down the staircase and into the hall, in which the whole
Blimber family were included. Such a circumstance, Mr Feeder said aloud,
as had never happened in the case of any former young gentleman within
his experience; but it would be difficult to say if this were sober fact
or custard-cups. The servants, with the butler at their head, had all an
interest in seeing Little Dombey go; and even the weak-eyed young man,
taking out his books and trunks to the coach that was to carry him and
Florence to Mrs Pipchin's for the night, melted visibly.

Not even the influence of the softer passion on the young gentlemen--and
they all, to a boy, doted on Florence--could restrain them from taking
quite a noisy leave of Paul; waving hats after him, pressing downstairs
to shake hands with him, crying individually 'Dombey, don't forget me!'
and indulging in many such ebullitions of feeling, uncommon among those
young Chesterfields. Paul whispered Florence, as she wrapped him up
before the door was opened, Did she hear them? Would she ever forget
it? Was she glad to know it? And a lively delight was in his eyes as he
spoke to her.

Once, for a last look, he turned and gazed upon the faces thus addressed
to him, surprised to see how shining and how bright, and numerous they
were, and how they were all piled and heaped up, as faces are at crowded
theatres. They swam before him as he looked, like faces in an agitated
glass; and next moment he was in the dark coach outside, holding close
to Florence. From that time, whenever he thought of Doctor Blimber's, it
came back as he had seen it in this last view; and it never seemed to be
a real place again, but always a dream, full of eyes.

This was not quite the last of Doctor Blimber's, however. There was
something else. There was Mr Toots. Who, unexpectedly letting down
one of the coach-windows, and looking in, said, with a most egregious
chuckle, 'Is Dombey there?' and immediately put it up again, without
waiting for an answer. Nor was this quite the last of Mr Toots, even;
for before the coachman could drive off, he as suddenly let down the
other window, and looking in with a precisely similar chuckle, said in
a precisely similar tone of voice, 'Is Dombey there?' and disappeared
precisely as before.

How Florence laughed! Paul often remembered it, and laughed himself
whenever he did so.

But there was much, soon afterwards--next day, and after that--which
Paul could only recollect confusedly. As, why they stayed at Mrs
Pipchin's days and nights, instead of going home; why he lay in bed,
with Florence sitting by his side; whether that had been his father in
the room, or only a tall shadow on the wall; whether he had heard his
doctor say, of someone, that if they had removed him before the occasion
on which he had built up fancies, strong in proportion to his own
weakness, it was very possible he might have pined away.

He could not even remember whether he had often said to Florence, 'Oh
Floy, take me home, and never leave me!' but he thought he had. He
fancied sometimes he had heard himself repeating, 'Take me home, Floy!
take me home!'

But he could remember, when he got home, and was carried up the
well-remembered stairs, that there had been the rumbling of a coach for
many hours together, while he lay upon the seat, with Florence still
beside him, and old Mrs Pipchin sitting opposite. He remembered his old
bed too, when they laid him down in it: his aunt, Miss Tox, and Susan:
but there was something else, and recent too, that still perplexed him.

'I want to speak to Florence, if you please,' he said. 'To Florence by
herself, for a moment!'

She bent down over him, and the others stood away.

'Floy, my pet, wasn't that Papa in the hall, when they brought me from
the coach?'

'Yes, dear.'

'He didn't cry, and go into his room, Floy, did he, when he saw me
coming in?'

Florence shook her head, and pressed her lips against his cheek.

'I'm very glad he didn't cry,' said little Paul. 'I thought he did.
Don't tell them that I asked.'

Despite his academic difficulties and dreamy ways, Paul has gradually bonded with the staff and students at the Blimber School. At the same time, he has become sicklier. He is released from his studies shortly before the vacation is to begin. As the school prepares for an end-of-term party, a future pupil and his parents, the Skettles, arrive to visit the school. Paul and Florence charm everyone, and when Paul leaves the school to return to London for the vacation, he is shown a great deal of affection. He returns to London, where his state of confusion and the reaction of other characters suggest that his health is declining


Walter could not, for several days, decide what to do in the Barbados
business; and even cherished some faint hope that Mr Dombey might not
have meant what he had said, or that he might change his mind, and tell
him he was not to go. But as nothing occurred to give this idea (which
was sufficiently improbable in itself) any touch of confirmation, and as
time was slipping by, and he had none to lose, he felt that he must act,
without hesitating any longer.

Walter's chief difficulty was, how to break the change in his affairs to
Uncle Sol, to whom he was sensible it would be a terrible blow. He
had the greater difficulty in dashing Uncle Sol's spirits with such an
astounding piece of intelligence, because they had lately recovered
very much, and the old man had become so cheerful, that the little back
parlour was itself again. Uncle Sol had paid the first appointed portion
of the debt to Mr Dombey, and was hopeful of working his way through
the rest; and to cast him down afresh, when he had sprung up so manfully
from his troubles, was a very distressing necessity.

Yet it would never do to run away from him. He must know of it
beforehand; and how to tell him was the point. As to the question of
going or not going, Walter did not consider that he had any power of
choice in the matter. Mr Dombey had truly told him that he was young,
and that his Uncle's circumstances were not good; and Mr Dombey had
plainly expressed, in the glance with which he had accompanied that
reminder, that if he declined to go he might stay at home if he chose,
but not in his counting-house. His Uncle and he lay under a great
obligation to Mr Dombey, which was of Walter's own soliciting. He might
have begun in secret to despair of ever winning that gentleman's favour,
and might have thought that he was now and then disposed to put a slight
upon him, which was hardly just. But what would have been duty without
that, was still duty with it--or Walter thought so--and duty must be
done.

When Mr Dombey had looked at him, and told him he was young, and that
his Uncle's circumstances were not good, there had been an expression of
disdain in his face; a contemptuous and disparaging assumption that he
would be quite content to live idly on a reduced old man, which stung
the boy's generous soul. Determined to assure Mr Dombey, in so far as it
was possible to give him the assurance without expressing it in words,
that indeed he mistook his nature, Walter had been anxious to show even
more cheerfulness and activity after the West Indian interview than he
had shown before: if that were possible, in one of his quick and zealous
disposition. He was too young and inexperienced to think, that possibly
this very quality in him was not agreeable to Mr Dombey, and that it
was no stepping-stone to his good opinion to be elastic and hopeful of
pleasing under the shadow of his powerful displeasure, whether it were
right or wrong. But it may have been--it may have been--that the great
man thought himself defied in this new exposition of an honest spirit,
and purposed to bring it down.

'Well! at last and at least, Uncle Sol must be told,' thought Walter,
with a sigh. And as Walter was apprehensive that his voice might perhaps
quaver a little, and that his countenance might not be quite as hopeful
as he could wish it to be, if he told the old man himself, and saw the
first effects of his communication on his wrinkled face, he resolved to
avail himself of the services of that powerful mediator, Captain Cuttle.
Sunday coming round, he set off therefore, after breakfast, once more to
beat up Captain Cuttle's quarters.

It was not unpleasant to remember, on the way thither, that Mrs
MacStinger resorted to a great distance every Sunday morning, to attend
the ministry of the Reverend Melchisedech Howler, who, having been one
day discharged from the West India Docks on a false suspicion (got up
expressly against him by the general enemy) of screwing gimlets into
puncheons, and applying his lips to the orifice, had announced the
destruction of the world for that day two years, at ten in the morning,
and opened a front parlour for the reception of ladies and gentlemen
of the Ranting persuasion, upon whom, on the first occasion of their
assemblage, the admonitions of the Reverend Melchisedech had produced
so powerful an effect, that, in their rapturous performance of a sacred
jig, which closed the service, the whole flock broke through into a
kitchen below, and disabled a mangle belonging to one of the fold.

This the Captain, in a moment of uncommon conviviality, had confided
to Walter and his Uncle, between the repetitions of lovely Peg, on the
night when Brogley the broker was paid out. The Captain himself was
punctual in his attendance at a church in his own neighbourhood, which
hoisted the Union Jack every Sunday morning; and where he was good
enough--the lawful beadle being infirm--to keep an eye upon the boys,
over whom he exercised great power, in virtue of his mysterious hook.
Knowing the regularity of the Captain's habits, Walter made all the
haste he could, that he might anticipate his going out; and he made such
good speed, that he had the pleasure, on turning into Brig Place, to
behold the broad blue coat and waistcoat hanging out of the Captain's
open window, to air in the sun.

It appeared incredible that the coat and waistcoat could be seen by
mortal eyes without the Captain; but he certainly was not in them,
otherwise his legs--the houses in Brig Place not being lofty--would have
obstructed the street door, which was perfectly clear. Quite wondering
at this discovery, Walter gave a single knock.

'Stinger,' he distinctly heard the Captain say, up in his room, as if
that were no business of his. Therefore Walter gave two knocks.

'Cuttle,' he heard the Captain say upon that; and immediately afterwards
the Captain, in his clean shirt and braces, with his neckerchief hanging
loosely round his throat like a coil of rope, and his glazed hat
on, appeared at the window, leaning out over the broad blue coat and
waistcoat.

'Wal'r!' cried the Captain, looking down upon him in amazement.

'Ay, ay, Captain Cuttle,' returned Walter, 'only me'

'What's the matter, my lad?' inquired the Captain, with great concern.
'Gills an't been and sprung nothing again?'

'No, no,' said Walter. 'My Uncle's all right, Captain Cuttle.'

The Captain expressed his gratification, and said he would come down
below and open the door, which he did.

'Though you're early, Wal'r,' said the Captain, eyeing him still
doubtfully, when they got upstairs:

'Why, the fact is, Captain Cuttle,' said Walter, sitting down, 'I was
afraid you would have gone out, and I want to benefit by your friendly
counsel.'

'So you shall,' said the Captain; 'what'll you take?'

'I want to take your opinion, Captain Cuttle,' returned Walter, smiling.
'That's the only thing for me.'

'Come on then,' said the Captain. 'With a will, my lad!'

Walter related to him what had happened; and the difficulty in which he
felt respecting his Uncle, and the relief it would be to him if Captain
Cuttle, in his kindness, would help him to smooth it away; Captain
Cuttle's infinite consternation and astonishment at the prospect
unfolded to him, gradually swallowing that gentleman up, until it left
his face quite vacant, and the suit of blue, the glazed hat, and the
hook, apparently without an owner.

'You see, Captain Cuttle,' pursued Walter, 'for myself, I am young, as
Mr Dombey said, and not to be considered. I am to fight my way through
the world, I know; but there are two points I was thinking, as I came
along, that I should be very particular about, in respect to my Uncle.
I don't mean to say that I deserve to be the pride and delight of his
life--you believe me, I know--but I am. Now, don't you think I am?'

The Captain seemed to make an endeavour to rise from the depths of
his astonishment, and get back to his face; but the effort being
ineffectual, the glazed hat merely nodded with a mute, unutterable
meaning.

'If I live and have my health,' said Walter, 'and I am not afraid of
that, still, when I leave England I can hardly hope to see my Uncle
again. He is old, Captain Cuttle; and besides, his life is a life of
custom--'

'Steady, Wal'r! Of a want of custom?' said the Captain, suddenly
reappearing.

'Too true,' returned Walter, shaking his head: 'but I meant a life of
habit, Captain Cuttle--that sort of custom. And if (as you very truly
said, I am sure) he would have died the sooner for the loss of the
stock, and all those objects to which he has been accustomed for so many
years, don't you think he might die a little sooner for the loss of--'

'Of his Nevy,' interposed the Captain. 'Right!'

'Well then,' said Walter, trying to speak gaily, 'we must do our best to
make him believe that the separation is but a temporary one, after all;
but as I know better, or dread that I know better, Captain Cuttle, and
as I have so many reasons for regarding him with affection, and duty,
and honour, I am afraid I should make but a very poor hand at that, if
I tried to persuade him of it. That's my great reason for wishing you to
break it out to him; and that's the first point.'

'Keep her off a point or so!' observed the Captain, in a comtemplative
voice.

'What did you say, Captain Cuttle?' inquired Walter.

'Stand by!' returned the Captain, thoughtfully.

Walter paused to ascertain if the Captain had any particular information
to add to this, but as he said no more, went on.

'Now, the second point, Captain Cuttle. I am sorry to say, I am not a
favourite with Mr Dombey. I have always tried to do my best, and I have
always done it; but he does not like me. He can't help his likings and
dislikings, perhaps. I say nothing of that. I only say that I am certain
he does not like me. He does not send me to this post as a good one; he
disclaims to represent it as being better than it is; and I doubt very
much if it will ever lead me to advancement in the House--whether it
does not, on the contrary, dispose of me for ever, and put me out of the
way. Now, we must say nothing of this to my Uncle, Captain Cuttle, but
must make it out to be as favourable and promising as we can; and when I
tell you what it really is, I only do so, that in case any means should
ever arise of lending me a hand, so far off, I may have one friend at
home who knows my real situation.

'Wal'r, my boy,' replied the Captain, 'in the Proverbs of Solomon you
will find the following words, "May we never want a friend in need, nor
a bottle to give him!" When found, make a note of.'

Here the Captain stretched out his hand to Walter, with an air of
downright good faith that spoke volumes; at the same time repeating (for
he felt proud of the accuracy and pointed application of his quotation),
'When found, make a note of.'

'Captain Cuttle,' said Walter, taking the immense fist extended to him
by the Captain in both his hands, which it completely filled, next to
my Uncle Sol, I love you. There is no one on earth in whom I can more
safely trust, I am sure. As to the mere going away, Captain Cuttle, I
don't care for that; why should I care for that! If I were free to seek
my own fortune--if I were free to go as a common sailor--if I were free
to venture on my own account to the farthest end of the world--I would
gladly go! I would have gladly gone, years ago, and taken my chance of
what might come of it. But it was against my Uncle's wishes, and against
the plans he had formed for me; and there was an end of that. But what I
feel, Captain Cuttle, is that we have been a little mistaken all along,
and that, so far as any improvement in my prospects is concerned, I
am no better off now than I was when I first entered Dombey's
House--perhaps a little worse, for the House may have been kindly
inclined towards me then, and it certainly is not now.'

'Turn again, Whittington,' muttered the disconsolate Captain, after
looking at Walter for some time.

'Ay,' replied Walter, laughing, 'and turn a great many times, too,
Captain Cuttle, I'm afraid, before such fortune as his ever turns
up again. Not that I complain,' he added, in his lively, animated,
energetic way. 'I have nothing to complain of. I am provided for. I can
live. When I leave my Uncle, I leave him to you; and I can leave him
to no one better, Captain Cuttle. I haven't told you all this because
I despair, not I; it's to convince you that I can't pick and choose in
Dombey's House, and that where I am sent, there I must go, and what I
am offered, that I must take. It's better for my Uncle that I should
be sent away; for Mr Dombey is a valuable friend to him, as he proved
himself, you know when, Captain Cuttle; and I am persuaded he won't be
less valuable when he hasn't me there, every day, to awaken his dislike.
So hurrah for the West Indies, Captain Cuttle! How does that tune go
that the sailors sing?

              'For the Port of Barbados, Boys!

                                            Cheerily!

              Leaving old England behind us, Boys!

                                            Cheerily!'
Here the Captain roared in chorus--

              'Oh cheerily, cheerily!

                                            Oh cheer-i-ly!'

The last line reaching the quick ears of an ardent skipper not quite
sober, who lodged opposite, and who instantly sprung out of bed, threw
up his window, and joined in, across the street, at the top of his
voice, produced a fine effect. When it was impossible to sustain the
concluding note any longer, the skipper bellowed forth a terrific
'ahoy!' intended in part as a friendly greeting, and in part to show
that he was not at all breathed. That done, he shut down his window, and
went to bed again.

'And now, Captain Cuttle,' said Walter, handing him the blue coat and
waistcoat, and bustling very much, 'if you'll come and break the news to
Uncle Sol (which he ought to have known, days upon days ago, by
rights), I'll leave you at the door, you know, and walk about until the
afternoon.'

The Captain, however, scarcely appeared to relish the commission, or to
be by any means confident of his powers of executing it. He had arranged
the future life and adventures of Walter so very differently, and so
entirely to his own satisfaction; he had felicitated himself so often on
the sagacity and foresight displayed in that arrangement, and had found
it so complete and perfect in all its parts; that to suffer it to go
to pieces all at once, and even to assist in breaking it up, required a
great effort of his resolution. The Captain, too, found it difficult to
unload his old ideas upon the subject, and to take a perfectly new
cargo on board, with that rapidity which the circumstances required,
or without jumbling and confounding the two. Consequently, instead of
putting on his coat and waistcoat with anything like the impetuosity
that could alone have kept pace with Walter's mood, he declined to
invest himself with those garments at all at present; and informed
Walter that on such a serious matter, he must be allowed to 'bite his
nails a bit'.

'It's an old habit of mine, Wal'r,' said the Captain, 'any time these
fifty year. When you see Ned Cuttle bite his nails, Wal'r, then you may
know that Ned Cuttle's aground.'

Thereupon the Captain put his iron hook between his teeth, as if it
were a hand; and with an air of wisdom and profundity that was the very
concentration and sublimation of all philosophical reflection and grave
inquiry, applied himself to the consideration of the subject in its
various branches.

'There's a friend of mine,' murmured the Captain, in an absent manner,
'but he's at present coasting round to Whitby, that would deliver such
an opinion on this subject, or any other that could be named, as would
give Parliament six and beat 'em. Been knocked overboard, that man,'
said the Captain, 'twice, and none the worse for it. Was beat in his
apprenticeship, for three weeks (off and on), about the head with a
ring-bolt. And yet a clearer-minded man don't walk.'

In spite of his respect for Captain Cuttle, Walter could not help
inwardly rejoicing at the absence of this sage, and devoutly hoping that
his limpid intellect might not be brought to bear on his difficulties
until they were quite settled.

'If you was to take and show that man the buoy at the Nore,' said
Captain Cuttle in the same tone, 'and ask him his opinion of it, Wal'r,
he'd give you an opinion that was no more like that buoy than your
Uncle's buttons are. There ain't a man that walks--certainly not on two
legs--that can come near him. Not near him!'

'What's his name, Captain Cuttle?' inquired Walter, determined to be
interested in the Captain's friend.

'His name's Bunsby,' said the Captain. 'But Lord, it might be anything
for the matter of that, with such a mind as his!'

The exact idea which the Captain attached to this concluding piece of
praise, he did not further elucidate; neither did Walter seek to draw
it forth. For on his beginning to review, with the vivacity natural to
himself and to his situation, the leading points in his own affairs, he
soon discovered that the Captain had relapsed into his former profound
state of mind; and that while he eyed him steadfastly from beneath his
bushy eyebrows, he evidently neither saw nor heard him, but remained
immersed in cogitation.

In fact, Captain Cuttle was labouring with such great designs, that far
from being aground, he soon got off into the deepest of water, and could
find no bottom to his penetration. By degrees it became perfectly plain
to the Captain that there was some mistake here; that it was undoubtedly
much more likely to be Walter's mistake than his; that if there were
really any West India scheme afoot, it was a very different one from
what Walter, who was young and rash, supposed; and could only be some
new device for making his fortune with unusual celerity. 'Or if there
should be any little hitch between 'em,' thought the Captain, meaning
between Walter and Mr Dombey, 'it only wants a word in season from a
friend of both parties, to set it right and smooth, and make all taut
again.' Captain Cuttle's deduction from these considerations was, that
as he already enjoyed the pleasure of knowing Mr Dombey, from having
spent a very agreeable half-hour in his company at Brighton (on the
morning when they borrowed the money); and that, as a couple of men of
the world, who understood each other, and were mutually disposed to make
things comfortable, could easily arrange any little difficulty of this
sort, and come at the real facts; the friendly thing for him to do would
be, without saying anything about it to Walter at present, just to step
up to Mr Dombey's house--say to the servant 'Would ye be so good, my
lad, as report Cap'en Cuttle here?'--meet Mr Dombey in a confidential
spirit--hook him by the button-hole--talk it over--make it all
right--and come away triumphant!

As these reflections presented themselves to the Captain's mind, and
by slow degrees assumed this shape and form, his visage cleared like
a doubtful morning when it gives place to a bright noon. His eyebrows,
which had been in the highest degree portentous, smoothed their rugged
bristling aspect, and became serene; his eyes, which had been nearly
closed in the severity of his mental exercise, opened freely; a smile
which had been at first but three specks--one at the right-hand corner
of his mouth, and one at the corner of each eye--gradually overspread
his whole face, and, rippling up into his forehead, lifted the glazed
hat: as if that too had been aground with Captain Cuttle, and were now,
like him, happily afloat again.

Finally, the Captain left off biting his nails, and said, 'Now, Wal'r,
my boy, you may help me on with them slops.' By which the Captain meant
his coat and waistcoat.

Walter little imagined why the Captain was so particular in the
arrangement of his cravat, as to twist the pendent ends into a sort of
pigtail, and pass them through a massive gold ring with a picture of
a tomb upon it, and a neat iron railing, and a tree, in memory of some
deceased friend. Nor why the Captain pulled up his shirt-collar to
the utmost limits allowed by the Irish linen below, and by so doing
decorated himself with a complete pair of blinkers; nor why he changed
his shoes, and put on an unparalleled pair of ankle-jacks, which he only
wore on extraordinary occasions. The Captain being at length attired to
his own complete satisfaction, and having glanced at himself from
head to foot in a shaving-glass which he removed from a nail for that
purpose, took up his knotted stick, and said he was ready.

The Captain's walk was more complacent than usual when they got out
into the street; but this Walter supposed to be the effect of the
ankle-jacks, and took little heed of. Before they had gone very far,
they encountered a woman selling flowers; when the Captain stopping
short, as if struck by a happy idea, made a purchase of the largest
bundle in her basket: a most glorious nosegay, fan-shaped, some two feet
and a half round, and composed of all the jolliest-looking flowers that
blow.

Armed with this little token which he designed for Mr Dombey, Captain
Cuttle walked on with Walter until they reached the Instrument-maker's
door, before which they both paused.

'You're going in?' said Walter.

'Yes,' returned the Captain, who felt that Walter must be got rid
of before he proceeded any further, and that he had better time his
projected visit somewhat later in the day.

'And you won't forget anything?'

'No,' returned the Captain.

'I'll go upon my walk at once,' said Walter, 'and then I shall be out of
the way, Captain Cuttle.'

'Take a good long 'un, my lad!' replied the Captain, calling after him.
Walter waved his hand in assent, and went his way.

His way was nowhere in particular; but he thought he would go out into
the fields, where he could reflect upon the unknown life before him, and
resting under some tree, ponder quietly. He knew no better fields than
those near Hampstead, and no better means of getting at them than by
passing Mr Dombey's house.

It was as stately and as dark as ever, when he went by and glanced up
at its frowning front. The blinds were all pulled down, but the upper
windows stood wide open, and the pleasant air stirring those curtains
and waving them to and fro was the only sign of animation in the whole
exterior. Walter walked softly as he passed, and was glad when he had
left the house a door or two behind.

He looked back then; with the interest he had always felt for the place
since the adventure of the lost child, years ago; and looked especially
at those upper windows. While he was thus engaged, a chariot drove to
the door, and a portly gentleman in black, with a heavy watch-chain,
alighted, and went in. When he afterwards remembered this gentleman and
his equipage together, Walter had no doubt he was a physician; and then
he wondered who was ill; but the discovery did not occur to him until he
had walked some distance, thinking listlessly of other things.

Though still, of what the house had suggested to him; for Walter
pleased himself with thinking that perhaps the time might come, when the
beautiful child who was his old friend and had always been so grateful
to him and so glad to see him since, might interest her brother in his
behalf and influence his fortunes for the better. He liked to imagine
this--more, at that moment, for the pleasure of imagining her continued
remembrance of him, than for any worldly profit he might gain: but
another and more sober fancy whispered to him that if he were alive
then, he would be beyond the sea and forgotten; she married, rich,
proud, happy. There was no more reason why she should remember him with
any interest in such an altered state of things, than any plaything she
ever had. No, not so much.

Yet Walter so idealised the pretty child whom he had found wandering in
the rough streets, and so identified her with her innocent gratitude
of that night and the simplicity and truth of its expression, that he
blushed for himself as a libeller when he argued that she could ever
grow proud. On the other hand, his meditations were of that fantastic
order that it seemed hardly less libellous in him to imagine her grown a
woman: to think of her as anything but the same artless, gentle, winning
little creature, that she had been in the days of Good Mrs Brown. In
a word, Walter found out that to reason with himself about Florence at
all, was to become very unreasonable indeed; and that he could do
no better than preserve her image in his mind as something precious,
unattainable, unchangeable, and indefinite--indefinite in all but its
power of giving him pleasure, and restraining him like an angel's hand
from anything unworthy.

It was a long stroll in the fields that Walter took that day, listening
to the birds, and the Sunday bells, and the softened murmur of the
town--breathing sweet scents; glancing sometimes at the dim horizon
beyond which his voyage and his place of destination lay; then looking
round on the green English grass and the home landscape. But he hardly
once thought, even of going away, distinctly; and seemed to put off
reflection idly, from hour to hour, and from minute to minute, while he
yet went on reflecting all the time.

Walter had left the fields behind him, and was plodding homeward in
the same abstracted mood, when he heard a shout from a man, and then
a woman's voice calling to him loudly by name. Turning quickly in his
surprise, he saw that a hackney-coach, going in the contrary direction,
had stopped at no great distance; that the coachman was looking back
from his box and making signals to him with his whip; and that a young
woman inside was leaning out of the window, and beckoning with immense
energy. Running up to this coach, he found that the young woman was
Miss Nipper, and that Miss Nipper was in such a flutter as to be almost
beside herself.

'Staggs's Gardens, Mr Walter!' said Miss Nipper; 'if you please, oh do!'

'Eh?' cried Walter; 'what is the matter?'

'Oh, Mr Walter, Staggs's Gardens, if you please!' said Susan.

'There!' cried the coachman, appealing to Walter, with a sort of
exalting despair; 'that's the way the young lady's been a goin' on
for up'ards of a mortal hour, and me continivally backing out of no
thoroughfares, where she would drive up. I've had a many fares in this
coach, first and last, but never such a fare as her.'

'Do you want to go to Staggs's Gardens, Susan?' inquired Walter.

'Ah! She wants to go there! WHERE IS IT?' growled the coachman.

'I don't know where it is!' exclaimed Susan, wildly. 'Mr Walter, I was
there once myself, along with Miss Floy and our poor darling Master
Paul, on the very day when you found Miss Floy in the City, for we lost
her coming home, Mrs Richards and me, and a mad bull, and Mrs Richards's
eldest, and though I went there afterwards, I can't remember where it
is, I think it's sunk into the ground. Oh, Mr Walter, don't desert
me, Staggs's Gardens, if you please! Miss Floy's darling--all our
darlings--little, meek, meek Master Paul! Oh Mr Walter!'

'Good God!' cried Walter. 'Is he very ill?'

'The pretty flower!' cried Susan, wringing her hands, 'has took the
fancy that he'd like to see his old nurse, and I've come to bring her to
his bedside, Mrs Staggs, of Polly Toodle's Gardens, someone pray!'

Greatly moved by what he heard, and catching Susan's earnestness
immediately, Walter, now that he understood the nature of her errand,
dashed into it with such ardour that the coachman had enough to do
to follow closely as he ran before, inquiring here and there and
everywhere, the way to Staggs's Gardens.

There was no such place as Staggs's Gardens. It had vanished from the
earth. Where the old rotten summer-houses once had stood, palaces now
reared their heads, and granite columns of gigantic girth opened a
vista to the railway world beyond. The miserable waste ground, where the
refuse-matter had been heaped of yore, was swallowed up and gone; and in
its frowsy stead were tiers of warehouses, crammed with rich goods and
costly merchandise. The old by-streets now swarmed with passengers and
vehicles of every kind: the new streets that had stopped disheartened
in the mud and waggon-ruts, formed towns within themselves, originating
wholesome comforts and conveniences belonging to themselves, and never
tried nor thought of until they sprung into existence. Bridges that had
led to nothing, led to villas, gardens, churches, healthy public walks.
The carcasses of houses, and beginnings of new thoroughfares, had
started off upon the line at steam's own speed, and shot away into the
country in a monster train.

As to the neighbourhood which had hesitated to acknowledge the railroad
in its straggling days, that had grown wise and penitent, as any
Christian might in such a case, and now boasted of its powerful and
prosperous relation. There were railway patterns in its drapers' shops,
and railway journals in the windows of its newsmen. There were railway
hotels, office-houses, lodging-houses, boarding-houses; railway plans,
maps, views, wrappers, bottles, sandwich-boxes, and time-tables;
railway hackney-coach and stands; railway omnibuses, railway streets and
buildings, railway hangers-on and parasites, and flatterers out of all
calculation. There was even railway time observed in clocks, as if
the sun itself had given in. Among the vanquished was the master
chimney-sweeper, whilom incredulous at Staggs's Gardens, who now lived
in a stuccoed house three stories high, and gave himself out, with
golden flourishes upon a varnished board, as contractor for the
cleansing of railway chimneys by machinery.

To and from the heart of this great change, all day and night, throbbing
currents rushed and returned incessantly like its life's blood. Crowds
of people and mountains of goods, departing and arriving scores upon
scores of times in every four-and-twenty hours, produced a fermentation
in the place that was always in action. The very houses seemed disposed
to pack up and take trips. Wonderful Members of Parliament, who, little
more than twenty years before, had made themselves merry with the wild
railroad theories of engineers, and given them the liveliest rubs in
cross-examination, went down into the north with their watches in their
hands, and sent on messages before by the electric telegraph, to say
that they were coming. Night and day the conquering engines rumbled at
their distant work, or, advancing smoothly to their journey's end, and
gliding like tame dragons into the allotted corners grooved out to the
inch for their reception, stood bubbling and trembling there, making the
walls quake, as if they were dilating with the secret knowledge of great
powers yet unsuspected in them, and strong purposes not yet achieved.

But Staggs's Gardens had been cut up root and branch. Oh woe the day
when 'not a rood of English ground'--laid out in Staggs's Gardens--is
secure!

At last, after much fruitless inquiry, Walter, followed by the coach and
Susan, found a man who had once resided in that vanished land, and who
was no other than the master sweep before referred to, grown stout,
and knocking a double knock at his own door. He knowed Toodle, he said,
well. Belonged to the Railroad, didn't he?

'Yes sir, yes!' cried Susan Nipper from the coach window.

Where did he live now? hastily inquired Walter.

He lived in the Company's own Buildings, second turning to the right,
down the yard, cross over, and take the second on the right again. It
was number eleven; they couldn't mistake it; but if they did, they had
only to ask for Toodle, Engine Fireman, and any one would show them
which was his house. At this unexpected stroke of success Susan Nipper
dismounted from the coach with all speed, took Walter's arm, and set
off at a breathless pace on foot; leaving the coach there to await their
return.

'Has the little boy been long ill, Susan?' inquired Walter, as they
hurried on.

'Ailing for a deal of time, but no one knew how much,' said Susan;
adding, with excessive sharpness, 'Oh, them Blimbers!'

'Blimbers?' echoed Walter.

'I couldn't forgive myself at such a time as this, Mr Walter,' said
Susan, 'and when there's so much serious distress to think about, if
I rested hard on anyone, especially on them that little darling Paul
speaks well of, but I may wish that the family was set to work in a
stony soil to make new roads, and that Miss Blimber went in front, and
had the pickaxe!'

Miss Nipper then took breath, and went on faster than before, as if this
extraordinary aspiration had relieved her. Walter, who had by this time
no breath of his own to spare, hurried along without asking any more
questions; and they soon, in their impatience, burst in at a little door
and came into a clean parlour full of children.

'Where's Mrs Richards?' exclaimed Susan Nipper, looking round. 'Oh Mrs
Richards, Mrs Richards, come along with me, my dear creetur!'

'Why, if it ain't Susan!' cried Polly, rising with her honest face and
motherly figure from among the group, in great surprise.

'Yes, Mrs Richards, it's me,' said Susan, 'and I wish it wasn't, though
I may not seem to flatter when I say so, but little Master Paul is very
ill, and told his Pa today that he would like to see the face of his
old nurse, and him and Miss Floy hope you'll come along with me--and Mr
Walter, Mrs Richards--forgetting what is past, and do a kindness to the
sweet dear that is withering away. Oh, Mrs Richards, withering away!'
Susan Nipper crying, Polly shed tears to see her, and to hear what she
had said; and all the children gathered round (including numbers of new
babies); and Mr Toodle, who had just come home from Birmingham, and was
eating his dinner out of a basin, laid down his knife and fork, and put
on his wife's bonnet and shawl for her, which were hanging up behind the
door; then tapped her on the back; and said, with more fatherly feeling
than eloquence, 'Polly! cut away!'

So they got back to the coach, long before the coachman expected them;
and Walter, putting Susan and Mrs Richards inside, took his seat on the
box himself that there might be no more mistakes, and deposited them
safely in the hall of Mr Dombey's house--where, by the bye, he saw a
mighty nosegay lying, which reminded him of the one Captain Cuttle had
purchased in his company that morning. He would have lingered to know
more of the young invalid, or waited any length of time to see if
he could render the least service; but, painfully sensible that such
conduct would be looked upon by Mr Dombey as presumptuous and forward,
he turned slowly, sadly, anxiously, away.

He had not gone five minutes' walk from the door, when a man came
running after him, and begged him to return. Walter retraced his steps
as quickly as he could, and entered the gloomy house with a sorrowful
foreboding.

Walter has been delaying telling his uncle that he will be moving to the West Indies. He explains to Captain Cuttle that he is worried about what the news will mean for his uncle, and he asks for help convincing him that his absence will only be temporary. He also wants Sol to think that his position in the West Indies is a good one, when it is really a very humble one. Walter asks Captain Cuttle to break the news to his uncle, and while he does so, Walter goes for a long walk. Wandering along, he is accosted by Nipper, who is trying to find her way to Stagg's Garden. Paul is very ill and wants to see Richards, and Nipper is trying to find her. It turns out that Stagg's Garden has been destroyed due to the construction of railway tracks, but they are able to learn of the new address of the Toodles, and go there. Walter personally escorts Susan and Richards back to the Dombey house

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