e 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
he  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 boy 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.'

        CHAPTER 15.
     Amazing Artfulness of Captain Cuttle, and a new Pursuit for Walter Gay

     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 he 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.'
     Despite  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  be 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.

        CHAPTER 16.
     What the Waves were always saying

     Paul had  never  risen from his little  bed. He lay there, listening to
the  noises in the  street, quite tranquilly;  not  caring much how the time
went, but watching it and watching everything about him with observing eyes.
     When the sunbeams struck into his room through the rustling blinds, and
quivered on the opposite wall like golden water, he  knew  that  evening was
coming on, and that the  sky  was red  and beautiful. As the reflection died
away, and a gloom went creeping  up the wall, he watched it  deepen, deepen,
deepen,  into  night. Then he thought  how the long streets were dotted with
lamps,  and how  the peaceful stars were shining overhead.  His fancy  had a
strange  tendency to wander to the river,  which he knew was flowing through
the great  city; and now  he thought how black it was, and how deep it would
look, reflecting the  hosts of stars  -  and more than all, how steadily  it
rolled away to meet the sea.
     As it grew later in the  night, and footsteps  in the street  became so
rare  that  he could hear them coming,  count them as they passed, and  lose
them  in the hollow  distance, he would lie and watch the many-coloured ring
about the candle, and  wait  patiently  for day. His only  trouble  was, the
swift and  rapid river. He felt forced, sometimes, to  try  to stop it -  to
stem it with his childish  hands - or choke its way with sand - and when  he
saw  it coming  on,  resistless, he cried out! But a word from Florence, who
was  always at his side, restored him to himself; and  leaning his poor head
upon her breast, he told Floy of his dream, and smiled.
     When day began to  dawn again, he watched  for the  sun;  and  when its
cheerful light began  to sparkle  in  the  room, he  pictured to  himself  -
pictured! he saw -  the  high church towers rising up into the  morning sky,
the  town  reviving,  waking,  starting  into  life  once  more,  the  river
glistening as it rolled (but  rolling fast as ever), and the country  bright
with  dew. Familiar  sounds and cries came by degrees into the street below;
the servants in the house were roused and busy; faces looked in at the door,
and voices asked his attendants softly how he was.  Paul always answered for
himself, 'I am better. I am a great deal better, thank you! Tell Papa so!'
     By little and little, he got tired of the  bustle of the day, the noise
of  carriages  and carts, and people  passing and repassing; and  would fall
asleep, or be troubled  with a restless  and uneasy sense again - the  child
could hardly tell whether this were in his sleeping or his  waking moments -
of  that rushing river. 'Why, will it never stop,  Floy?' he would sometimes
ask her. 'It is bearing me away, I think!'
     But Floy could  always  soothe and  reassure him; and it  was his daily
delight to make her lay her head down on his pillow, and take some rest.
     'You  are always watching me, Floy, let me  watch you, now!' They would
prop him up with cushions in a corner of his bed, and there he would recline
the  while she lay beside him: bending  forward oftentimes to kiss her,  and
whispering to those who were near that she was tired, and how she had sat up
so many nights beside him.
     Thus,  the flush of the  day, in its  heat and light,  would  gradually
decline; and again the golden water would be dancing on the wall.
     He  was  visited  by  as many  as  three grave doctors -  they used  to
assemble downstairs, and come up together -  and the room  was so quiet, and
Paul  was so observant of them (though he never asked of anybody  what  they
said), that  he even knew the difference in the sound of  their watches. But
his interest centred  in Sir Parker Peps, who always took his  seat  on  the
side of the bed. For Paul had heard them say long  ago, that that  gentleman
had been with his Mama when she  clasped Florence in her arms, and died. And
he could not forget it, now. He liked him for it. He was not afraid.
     The people round him changed as unaccountably as on that first night at
Doctor Blimber's  - except Florence; Florence  never changed -  and what had
been Sir Parker  Peps, was now his  father,  sitting with his head  upon his
hand. Old Mrs Pipchin dozing in an easy chair, often changed to Miss Tox, or
his aunt; and Paul  was quite  content to  shut his eyes again, and see what
happened  next, without emotion. But this figure with its head upon its hand
returned so often, and remained so long,  and sat so still and solemn, never
speaking, never being  spoken to, and rarely  lifting up its face, that Paul
began to wonder languidly, if it were  real; and  in  the night-time  saw it
sitting there, with fear.
     'Floy!' he said. 'What is that?'
     'Where, dearest?'
     'There! at the bottom of the bed.'
     'There's nothing there, except Papa!'
     The  figure lifted up its  head,  and rose,  and coming to the bedside,
said:
     'My own boy! Don't you know me?'
     Paul looked it in the face, and thought, was this  his father? But  the
face so altered to his thinking, thrilled  while he gazed, as if  it were in
pain; and before he could  reach out both his hands to take it between them,
and draw it towards him, the figure turned away quickly from the little bed,
and went out at the door.
     Paul looked at  Florence with a fluttering heart, but he knew what  she
was going to say, and stopped her with  his face  against her lips. The next
time he  observed the  figure sitting at the bottom of the bed, he called to
it.
     'Don't be sorry for me, dear Papa! Indeed I am quite happy!'
     His father coming and bending down to him -  which  he did quickly, and
without first pausing by  the bedside -  Paul  held  him round the neck, and
repeated those  words  to him  several times,  and very earnestly; and  Paul
never saw him in his room  again at any time, whether it  were day or night,
but  he called out, 'Don't be  sorry for me! Indeed I am  quite happy!' This
was the beginning  of his always saying  in the morning that he was  a great
deal better, and that they were to tell his father so.
     How many times the golden water danced upon the  wall;  how many nights
the  dark, dark  river rolled towards the  sea in spite of him;  Paul  never
counted, never sought  to know. If their kindness, or his sense of it, could
have increased, they  were more kind, and he more  grateful every  day;  but
whether they were  many  days  or few, appeared of little moment now, to the
gentle boy.
     One night he had been thinking of  his  mother, and her  picture in the
drawing-room downstairs,  and thought  she  must have  loved  sweet Florence
better than his father did, to have held her in  her arms when she felt that
she was  dying  - for even  he, her brother, who had such dear love for her,
could have no greater  wish than that. The train of thought suggested to him
to inquire if he had ever seen his mother? for he could not remember whether
they had told him, yes or no, the river running very fast, and confusing his
mind.
     'Floy, did I ever see Mama?'
     'No, darling, why?'
     'Did I ever see any kind face, like Mama's,  looking at me when I was a
baby, Floy?'
     He asked, incredulously, as if he had some vision of a face before him.
     'Oh yes, dear!'
     'Whose, Floy?'
     'Your old nurse's. Often.'
     'And where is my old nurse?' said Paul. 'Is she dead too?  Floy, are we
all dead, except you?'
     There was a hurry in the room, for an instant - longer, perhaps; but it
seemed no more - then all was still again; and Florence, with her face quite
colourless, but  smiling, held his  head upon her arm. Her arm trembled very
much.
     'Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please!'
     'She is not here, darling. She shall come to-morrow.'
     'Thank you, Floy!'
     Paul closed  his eyes with those words, and fell asleep. When he awoke,
the sun was high, and  the broad  day was clear and He lay a little, looking
at  the windows, which were open, and the curtains rustling in  the air, and
waving to and fro: then he said, 'Floy, is it tomorrow? Is she come?'
     Someone  seemed to go  in quest  of  her.  Perhaps  it  was Susan. Paul
thought he heard her telling him when he had closed his eyes again, that she
would soon  be back;  but he did not open  them to see. She kept  her word -
perhaps  she had never been away  -  but the next thing that  happened was a
noise of footsteps on the stairs, and then Paul woke - woke mind and  body -
and sat upright in his  bed. He  saw  them now about him. There was  no grey
mist  before them, as there had  been sometimes in  the night.  He knew them
every one, and called them by their names.
     'And who is this? Is this my old nurse?' said the child, regarding with
a radiant smile, a figure coming in.
     Yes,  yes. No other  stranger would have shed  those tears at  sight of
him, and called  him her dear  boy, her  pretty boy, her  own  poor blighted
child. No other woman would have  stooped down by his  bed, and taken up his
wasted hand, and put it to her lips and breast, as one who had some right to
fondle it.  No other  woman  would have so forgotten everybody there but him
and Floy, and been so full of tenderness and pity.
     'Floy! this  is  a  kind good face!'  said Paul. 'I  am glad to  see it
again. Don't go away, old nurse! Stay here.'
     His senses were all quickened, and he heard a name he knew.
     'Who was  that, who said "Walter"?'  he  asked, looking round. 'Someone
said Walter. Is he here? I should like to see him very much.'
     Nobody replied directly; but his father  soon said to  Susan, 'Call him
back,  then:  let him come  up!' Alter a  short pause of expectation, during
which he looked with smiling interest and wonder, on his nurse, and saw that
she had not  forgotten Floy, Walter was brought into the room. His open face
and manner,  and his cheerful  eyes,  had always made him  a favourite  with
Paul; and when Paul saw him' he stretched Out his hand, and said 'Good-bye!'
     'Good-bye,  my child!'  said Mrs  Pipchin, hurrying to  his bed's head.
'Not good-bye?'
     For an instant, Paul looked at her with the wistful face with  which he
had  so often  gazed  upon  her in his corner by  the fire.  'Yes,' he  said
placidly, 'good-bye! Walter dear, good-bye!' - turning his head to where  he
stood, and putting out his hand again. 'Where is Papa?'
     He felt his father's breath upon his cheek, before the words had parted
from his lips.
     'Remember  Walter,  dear  Papa,'  he whispered,  looking in  his  face.
'Remember  Walter. I was fond of Walter!' The feeble  hand waved in the air,
as if it cried 'good-bye!' to Walter once again.
     'Now lay me down,' he said, 'and,  Floy, come close to  me, and  let me
see you!'
     Sister  and brother wound their  arms around each other, and the golden
light came streaming in, and fell upon them, locked together.
     'How  fast  the  river  runs, between its  green banks and  the rushes,
'Floy! But it's very near the sea. I hear the waves! They always said so!'
     Presently  he  told  her  the  motion of  the boat upon the  stream was
lulling him to rest. How green the banks  were now, how bright  the  flowers
growing on them, and how tall the  rushes!  Now the boat was out at sea, but
gliding smoothly on. And now there  was a shore before him. Who stood on the
bank! -
     He put his hands together, as he had been used to do at his prayers. He
did not remove his arms to do it; but they saw him fold them so,  behind her
neck.
     'Mama is like you, Floy. I know her by the face! But tell them that the
print upon the stairs at school is  not divine enough.  The light about  the
head is shining on me as I go!'
     The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred
in  the room. The old,  old fashion! The fashion that came in with our first
garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run its course, and the
wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, old fashion - Death!
     Oh  thank GOD,  all  who  see  it,  for  that  older  fashion  yet,  of
Immortality! And look  upon us, angels  of young  children, with regards not
quite estranged, when the swift river bears us to the ocean!
     'Dear me, dear me!  To think,' said Miss Tox, bursting  out afresh that
night,  as  if  her heart  were broken, 'that Dombey  and  Son  should be  a
Daughter after all!'

        CHAPTER 17.
     Captain Cuttle does a little Business for the Young People

     Captain Cuttle, in the exercise of that surprising talent for deep-laid
and  unfathomable  scheming,  with  which (as  is  not  unusual  in  men  of
transparent  simplicity)  he  sincerely believed  himself to be  endowed  by
nature, had gone to Mr Dombey's house  on the  eventful  Sunday, winking all
the way as a vent for his superfluous sagacity, and had presented himself in
the full lustre  of the ankle-jacks  before  the  eyes of Towlinson. Hearing
from  that individual,  to  his  great concern,  of  the impending calamity,
Captain  Cuttle,  in  his  delicacy, sheered off  again  confounded;  merely
handing in the nosegay as  a  small mark of his solicitude, and leaving  his
respectful compliments for the family in general, which  he accompanied with
an expression of  his hope that they would  lay their heads well to the wind
under existing circumstances, and a friendly intimation  that he would 'look
up again' to-morrow.
     The Captain's compliments were never  heard  of any more. The Captain's
nosegay, after lying in the hall all night, was swept into the dust-bin next
morning; and the Captain's sly arrangement, involved in one catastrophe with
greater  hopes and  loftier  designs, was  crushed  to  pieces.  So, when an
avalanche bears  down a mountain-forest, twigs and  bushes  suffer  with the
trees, and all perish together.
     When Walter returned home on the Sunday evening from his long walk, and
its memorable close, he was too much occupied at first by the tidings he had
to give them, and by  the emotions naturally awakened  in his breast by  the
scene  through  which  he had  passed, to observe either that his  Uncle was
evidently unacquainted with  the intelligence the Captain  had undertaken to
impart, or that the Captain made signals with his hook, warning him to avoid
the subject. Not that the Captain's signals  were calculated to  have proved
very comprehensible, however  attentively observed; for, like  those Chinese
sages who are  said in their  conferences  to write certain learned words in
the air  that are wholly impossible of pronunciation, the  Captain made such
waves and  flourishes as nobody without a previous knowledge of his mystery,
would have been at all likely to understand.
     Captain  Cuttle, however,  becoming  cognisant  of what  had  happened,
relinquished these  attempts,  as he perceived  the  slender chance that now
existed of his being able to obtain a little easy chat with Mr Dombey before
the  period of  Walter's  departure.  But in  admitting  to himself,  with a
disappointed and crestfallen countenance, that Sol Gills must be  told,  and
that Walter must go - taking  the case for the  present as he found  it, and
not  having it enlightened or improved beforehand by the knowing  management
of a friend  - the  Captain still felt an unabated confidence  that he,  Ned
Cuttle, was the man for Mr  Dombey; and that, to set Walter's fortunes quite
square, nothing was  wanted but  that they two should come together. For the
Captain never could forget how well he and Mr Dombey had got on at Brighton;
with  what nicety each  of them  had  put in a word when  it was wanted; how
exactly they had taken one another's measure; nor how Ned Cuttle had pointed
out that resources in the first extremity, and had brought the interview  to
the  desired  termination. On all these grounds the  Captain soothed himself
with thinking that though Ned Cuttle was forced by the pressure of events to
'stand by' almost  useless  for  the present, Ned would fetch  up with a wet
sail in good time, and carry all before him.
     Under the influence of this good-natured  delusion, Captain Cuttle even
went  so far as to  revolve in his own bosom, while he sat looking at Walter
and listening with a tear on his shirt-collar to what he related, whether it
might  not  be at  once genteel and  politic  to  give  Mr  Dombey  a verbal
invitation, whenever they should  meet, to come and  cut  his mutton in Brig
Place on some day  of his own naming, and enter on the question of his young
friend's  prospects over a social glass.  But the  uncertain  temper of  Mrs
MacStinger, and  the possibility of her setting up  her rest  in the passage
during  such  an  entertainment,  and there  delivering  some  homily of  an
uncomplimentary  nature, operated  as  a  check  on the Captain's hospitable
thoughts, and rendered him timid of giving them encouragement.
     One  fact  was  quite  clear  to  the  Captain,   as   Walter,  sitting
thoughtfully over  his  untasted  dinner, dwelt  on all that  had  happened;
namely,  that  however  Walter's modesty  might  stand  in  the  way of  his
perceiving it  himself, he  was, as one  might say,  a member of Mr Dombey's
family. He had  been,  in his own person, connected with the incident  he so
pathetically  described; he  had  been by  name  remembered and commended in
close association with it; and his  fortunes must have a particular interest
in his employer's eyes. If the Captain had any lurking doubt whatever of his
own conclusions, he had not the least doubt that  they were good conclusions
for the peace of mind of the Instrument-maker. Therefore  he availed himself
of so favourable a moment for breaking the  West Indian intelligence  to his
friend,  as a piece of extraordinary preferment; declaring that for his part
he would freely give a hundred thousand pounds (if he had  it) for  Walter's
gain in the long-run, and  that he  had  no doubt  such an investment  would
yield a handsome premium.
     Solomon Gills  was at  first  stunned by the  communication, which fell
upon the little back-parlour  like a  thunderbolt, and  tore  up  the hearth
savagely.  But  the  Captain flashed such golden  prospects  before his  dim
sight: hinted so  mysteriously at  'Whittingtonian  consequences; laid  such
emphasis on  what Walter  had  just  now  told  them: and appealed to it  so
confidently  as  a  corroboration  of  his predictions, and  a great advance
towards  the realisation of  the romantic  legend  of Lovely  Peg:  that  he
bewildered the old man. Walter, for his part,  feigned to be so full of hope
and ardour, and so sure of coming home again soon, and backed up the Captain
with  such  expressive shakings of  his head and rubbings of his hands, that
Solomon,  looking first at  him  then at Captain Cuttle, began to  think  he
ought to be transported with joy.
     'But I'm  behind  the  time, you understand,' he  observed  in apology,
passing his hand nervously down the whole row of bright buttons on his coat,
and then up again,  as if they  were beads  and he  were telling them  twice
over:  'and  I  would rather have  my  dear  boy here. It's an old-fashioned
notion, I  daresay. He  was  always fond of the  sea He's'  - and  he looked
wistfully at Walter - 'he's glad to go.'
     'Uncle Sol!' cried Walter, quickly, 'if you say that,  I won't go.  No,
Captain Cuttle, I  won't. If my Uncle thinks I  could be glad  to leave him,
though I was  going to  be made Governor  of all  the  Islands in  the  West
Indies, that's enough. I'm a fixture.'
     'Wal'r,  my  lad,'  said  the  Captain.  'Steady!  Sol  Gills,  take an
observation of your nevy.
     Following with his eyes the majestic action  of the Captain's hook, the
old man looked at Walter.
     'Here is a  certain craft,' said  the Captain, with a magnificent sense
of the allegory into which  he was soaring, 'a-going to put out on a certain
voyage. What name is  wrote  upon that craft indelibly? Is it The  Gay? or,'
said the Captain, raising his voice as much as  to say, observe the point of
this, 'is it The Gills?'
     'Ned,' said the old man, drawing Walter to his side, and taking his arm
tenderly through his, 'I know. I know. Of course I know that Wally considers
me more than himself always. That's in my mind. When I say he is glad to go,
I mean I  hope he is. Eh? look you, Ned and you too, Wally, my dear, this is
new and unexpected to me; and I'm afraid my being behind the time, and poor,
is  at  the bottom of it. Is it really good fortune for him, do you tell me,
now?' said the old man, looking anxiously from one to the other. 'Really and
truly? Is it? I can reconcile myself to almost anything that advances Wally,
but  I won't have Wally  putting  himself  at  any disadvantage  for me,  or
keeping anything from me. You, Ned Cuttle!' said the old man,  fastening  on
the Captain, to the manifest confusion of that diplomatist; 'are you dealing
plainly by your old friend? Speak out, Ned Cuttle. Is there anything behind?
Ought he to go? How do you know it first, and why?'
     As it was a contest of affection and self-denial, Walter struck in with
infinite  effect, to the  Captain's  relief; and between them they tolerably
reconciled old Sol Gills, by continued talking, to the project; or rather so
confused him, that nothing, not even the pain of separation, was  distinctly
clear to his mind.
     He had not much time to  balance the matter;  for on the very next day,
Walter received from Mr  Carker the Manager, the necessary  credentials  for
his passage and outfit, together with the information  that the Son and Heir
would sail in a fortnight, or within a day or two afterwards  at latest.  In
the  hurry  of  preparation: which Walter  purposely  enhanced  as  much  as
possible: the old man lost what little selfpossession he  ever  had; and  so
the time of departure drew on rapidly.
     The Captain, who did not fail to make himself acquainted with  all that
passed,  through inquiries  of  Walter from day to day, found the time still
tending on  towards his going away, without any occasion offering itself, or
seeming likely to offer itself,  for a better understanding of his position.
It was after much consideration of this fact, and much  pondering  over such
an unfortunate combination  of circumstances, that a bright idea occurred to
the Captain. Suppose he made a call on Mr Carker, and tried to find out from
him how the land really lay!
     Captain Cuttle  liked this idea very much. It came upon him in a moment
of  inspiration,  as  he  was smoking  an early  pipe in  Brig  Place  after
breakfast; and it was worthy of the  tobacco. It would quiet his conscience,
which  was an  honest one,  and was made a little uneasy by what Walter  had
confided to him, and what Sol Gills had said; and it would be a deep, shrewd
act of  friendship.  He  would sound Mr  Carker carefully, and  say much  or
little, just as he read that gentleman's character, and discovered that they
got on well together or the reverse.
     Accordingly,  without the fear of Walter before  his eyes (who he  knew
was at  home packing), Captain Cuttle  again  assumed  his  ankle-jacks  and
mourning brooch, and issued forth on this second expedition. He purchased no
propitiatory  nosegay on the present occasion, as he was going to a place of
business; but he put a small sunflower in his button-hole to give himself an
agreeable relish of the  country; and  with this, and the  knobby stick, and
the glazed hat, bore down upon the offices of Dombey and Son.
     After taking a  glass  of warm rum-and-water  at a tavern close by,  to
collect his thoughts, the Captain made a rush down  the court, lest its good
effects should evaporate, and appeared suddenly to Mr Perch.
     'Matey,'  said  the  Captain,  in  persuasive  accents.  'One  of  your
Governors  is  named  Carker.'  Mr  Perch  admitted  it;  but  gave  him  to
understand, as in official duty bound, that all his  Governors were engaged,
and never expected to be disengaged any more.
     'Look'ee  here, mate,' said the Captain  in  his ear; 'my name's Cap'en
Cuttle.'
     The Captain would have hooked Perch gently to him, but  Mr Perch eluded
the attempt; not so  much in design,  as in starting  at the  sudden thought
that  such a weapon unexpectedly exhibited to Mrs  Perch might, in  her then
condition, be destructive to that lady's hopes.
     'If you'll be so good as just report Cap'en Cuttle here, when you get a
chance,' said the Captain, 'I'll wait.'
     Saying which,  the  Captain  took  his seat on Mr  Perch's bracket, and
drawing  out his handkerchief  from the  crown of  the  glazed hat  which he
jammed between his  knees (without injury to its  shape,  for nothing  human
could  bend it),  rubbed his head well all over, and appeared refreshed.  He
subsequently arranged  his hair  with  his hook,  and sat  looking round the
office, contemplating the clerks with a serene respect.
     The Captain's equanimity was so impenetrable, and he was  altogether so
mysterious a being, that Perch the messenger was daunted.
     'What name was it you said?'  asked Mr Perch,  bending down over him as
he sat on the bracket.
     'Cap'en,' in a deep hoarse whisper.
     'Yes,' said Mr Perch, keeping time with his head.
     'Cuttle.'
     'Oh!' said  Mr Perch, in  the same tone, for he caught it, and couldn't
help it; the Captain, in his diplomacy, was so impressive. 'I'll see if he's
disengaged now. I don't know. Perhaps he may be for a minute.'
     'Ay,  ay, my lad, I won't detain  him longer than  a minute,' said  the
Captain,  nodding with all the weighty importance  that he felt within  him.
Perch, soon returning, said, 'Will Captain Cuttle walk this way?'
     Mr  Carker  the Manager, standing  on  the hearth-rug before  the empty
fireplace,  which  was ornamented with  a castellated sheet  of brown paper,
looked at the Captain as he came in, with no very special encouragement.
     'Mr Carker?' said Captain Cuttle.
     'I believe so,' said Mr Carker, showing all his teeth.
     The Captain liked his answering with a  smile; it looked pleasant. 'You
see,' began  the Captain, rolling his eyes slowly round the little room, and
taking in as much of it as his shirt-collar permitted; 'I'm  a seafaring man
myself, Mr Carker, and Wal'r, as is  on your books here, is almost a  son of
mine.'
     'Walter Gay?' said Mr Carker, showing all his teeth again.
     'Wal'r Gay it  is,'  replied the Captain, 'right!' The Captain's manner
expressed  a warm  approval of Mr Carker's  quickness of perception. 'I'm  a
intimate friend of his and his Uncle's. Perhaps,' said the Captain, 'you may
have heard your head Governor mention my name? - Captain Cuttle.'
     'No!' said Mr Carker, with a still wider demonstration than before.
     'Well,' resumed the Captain, 'I've the pleasure of his acquaintance.  I
waited upon him down on the Sussex coast there,  with my young friend Wal'r,
when - in short, when there was a little accommodation wanted.'  The Captain
nodded  his  head in  a manner that  was  at  once  comfortable,  easy,  and
expressive. 'You remember, I daresay?'
     'I think,'  said  Mr  Carker,  'I  had  the  honour  of  arranging  the
business.'
     'To  be sure!'  returned  the Captain. 'Right again! you had.  Now I've
took the liberty of coming here -
     'Won't you sit down?' said Mr Carker, smiling.
     'Thank'ee,' returned the Captain, availing himself of the offer. 'A man
does get more  way upon himself, perhaps, in  his conversation, when he sits
down. Won't you take a cheer yourself?'
     'No thank you,' said the Manager, standing,  perhaps from the force  of
winter habit, with his back against the chimney-piece, and looking down upon
the Captain with an eye in every tooth and gum. 'You have taken the liberty,
you were going to say - though it's none - '
     'Thank'ee kindly,  my  lad,' returned the Captain: 'of coming  here, on
account of my friend Wal'r. Sol Gills,  his Uncle, is a man of  science, and
in  science  he may  be  considered  a clipper; but he  ain't  what I should
altogether call a able seaman - not man of practice. Wal'r is as trim a  lad
as ever stepped; but he's a little down by the head in one respect, and that
is,  modesty. Now what I  should  wish to  put  to you,'  said the  Captain,
lowering his voice,  and speaking in a  kind  of confidential  growl, 'in  a
friendly way, entirely between you and me, and for my own private reckoning,
'till your head Governor  has wore round a bit, and I can come  alongside of
him,  is  this  -  Is everything right  and  comfortable here,  and is Wal'r
out'ard bound with a pretty fair wind?'
     'What do  you think now, Captain Cuttle?' returned Carker, gathering up
his skirts and  settling himself in his position. 'You are a  practical man;
what do you think?'
     The acuteness and the significance of the Captain's eye as he cocked it
in reply, no words short of those unutterable Chinese words  before referred
to could describe.
     'Come!' said the Captain, unspeakably encouraged,  'what do you say? Am
I right or wrong?'
     So much had the Captain expressed in his eye, emboldened and incited by
Mr Carker's smiling urbanity, that he felt himself in as fair a condition to
put  the question, as  if he had expressed his  sentiments with  the  utmost
elaboration.
     'Right,' said Mr Carker, 'I have no doubt.'
     'Out'ard bound with fair weather, then, I say,' cried Captain Cuttle.
     Mr Carker smiled assent.
     'Wind right astarn, and plenty of it,' pursued the Captain.
     Mr Carker smiled assent again.
     'Ay, ay!' said Captain Cuttle, greatly  relieved and pleased. 'I know'd
how she headed, well enough; I told Wal'r so. Thank'ee, thank'ee.'
     'Gay has brilliant prospects,' observed Mr Carker, stretching his mouth
wider yet: 'all the world before him.'
     'All the  world  and  his wife  too,  as  the  saying is,' returned the
delighted Captain.
     At the word 'wife'  (which  he had uttered without design), the Captain
stopped, cocked his eye again, and putting the glazed  hat on the top of the
knobby stick,  gave it  a twirl,  and looked sideways  at his always smiling
friend.
     'I'd bet  a  gill  of  old  Jamaica,'  said  the  Captain,  eyeing  him
attentively, 'that I know what you're a smiling at.'
     Mr Carker took his cue, and smiled the more.
     'It goes no farther?' said the Captain, making a poke  at the door with
the knobby stick to assure himself that it was shut.
     'Not an inch,' said Mr Carker.
     'You're thinking of a capital F perhaps?' said the Captain.
     Mr Carker didn't deny it.
     'Anything about a L,' said the Captain, 'or a O?'
     Mr Carker still smiled.
     'Am  I  right,  again?'  inquired the  Captain in a  whisper, with  the
scarlet circle on his forehead swelling in his triumphant joy.
     Mr Carker, in reply,  still  smiling, and now nodding  assent,  Captain
Cuttle  rose and  squeezed him by the  hand, assuring him, warmly, that they
were on the  same  tack, and that as for him (Cuttle) he had laid his course
that way all along. 'He know'd  her  first,' said the Captain,  with all the
secrecy and gravity that the subject demanded, 'in an  uncommon manner - you
remember his finding her in the street when she was  a'most a babby - he has
liked  her ever  since, and she  him, as much  as  two youngsters can. We've
always said, Sol Gills and me, that they was cut out for each other.'
     A cat, or a monkey, or a hyena, or a death's-head, could not have shown
the Captain more teeth at one time, than Mr Carker showed him at this period
of their interview.
     'There's  a  general indraught that way,' observed  the  happy Captain.
'Wind and water sets in that direction, you see. Look  at  his being present
t'other day!'
     'Most favourable to his hopes,' said Mr Carker.
     'Look at his being  towed  along in  the wake of that day!' pursued the
Captain. 'Why what can cut him adrift now?'
     'Nothing,' replied Mr Carker.
     'You're  right  again,'  returned the  Captain, giving his hand another
squeeze. 'Nothing it  is.  So!  steady!  There's a son  gone:  pretty little
creetur. Ain't there?'
     'Yes, there's a son gone,' said the acquiescent Carker.
     'Pass the word, and there's another ready for you,'  quoth the Captain.
'Nevy of  a scientific Uncle! Nevy of Sol Gills! Wal'r! Wal'r, as is already
in  your business! And' - said  the Captain, rising gradually to a quotation
he was preparing for a final burst, 'who - comes from Sol Gills's  daily, to
your business,  and  your buzzums.'  The Captain's complacency as  he gently
jogged Mr Carker with his elbow, on concluding each  of  the foregoing short
sentences, could be surpassed by nothing but  the  exultation  with which he
fell  back and eyed  him when  he had  finished  this  brilliant display  of
eloquence  and sagacity; his great blue waistcoat heaving with the throes of
such a masterpiece, and his nose in a state of violent inflammation from the
same cause.
     'Am I right?' said the Captain.
     'Captain Cuttle,'  said Mr  Carker, bending  down at  the knees, for  a
moment, in an odd manner, as if he were falling together to hug the whole of
himself at once, 'your views in  reference to  Walter Gay are thoroughly and
accurately right. I understand that we speak together in confidence.
     'Honour!' interposed the Captain. 'Not a word.'
     'To him or anyone?' pursued the Manager.
     Captain Cuttle frowned and shook his head.
     'But merely for  your own  satisfaction and guidance - and guidance, of
course,' repeated Mr Carker, 'with a view to your future proceedings.'
     'Thank'ee kindly,  I  am sure,' said the Captain, listening with  great
attention.
     'I  have no  hesitation  in saying, that's the fact.  You have hit  the
probabilities exactly.'
     'And  with  regard  to  your head Governor,' said  the Captain, 'why an
interview had better come about nat'ral between us. There's time enough.'
     Mr Carker, with his mouth from ear to ear, repeated, 'Time enough.' Not
articulating the words, but  bowing his head affably,  and forming them with
his tongue and lips.
     'And as I know - it's what I always said- that Wal'r's in a way to make
his fortune,' said the Captain.
     'To make his fortune,' Mr Carker repeated, in the same dumb manner.
     'And as  Wal'r's going on this little  voyage is, as I may say, in  his
day's work, and a part of his general expectations here,' said the Captain.
     'Of his general  expectations  here,'  assented  Mr Carker,  dumbly  as
before.
     'Why, so long as I know  that,' pursued the Captain, 'there's no hurry,
and my mind's at ease.
     Mr Carker still blandly assenting in the same voiceless manner, Captain
Cuttle  was strongly confirmed  in  his opinion that he was one of the  most
agreeable men he had ever met, and that even Mr Dombey might improve himself
on  such a model.  With great heartiness, therefore, the  Captain once again
extended his enormous hand (not unlike an old block in colour), and gave him
a grip that left  upon his  smoother flesh a  proof impression of the chinks
and crevices with which the Captain's palm was liberally tattooed.
     'Farewell!' said the Captain. 'I ain't a  man of many words, but I take
it very kind of you to be so friendly, and above-board. You'll excuse  me if
I've been at all intruding, will you?' said the Captain.
     'Not at all,' returned the other.
     'Thank'ee. My berth ain't very roomy,' said the  Captain,  turning back
again, 'but it's tolerably snug; and  if  you was to find yourself near Brig
Place, number  nine, at  any time - will  you make a note of it? - and would
come upstairs, without minding what was said by the person  at the  door,  I
should be proud to see you.
     With  that  hospitable  invitation,  the Captain  said  'Good day!' and
walked out and shut  the door; leaving Mr Carker still reclining against the
chimney-piece. In whose sly look and watchful manner; in  whose false mouth,
stretched but not laughing; in whose spotless cravat and very whiskers; even
in whose silent passing of his soft hand over his white linen and his smooth
face; there was something desperately cat-like.
     The unconscious  Captain walked out in a  state  of  self-glorification
that imparted quite a new cut to the broad blue  suit. 'Stand by, Ned!' said
the  Captain to himself. 'You've done a little  business for  the youngsters
today, my lad!'
     In his  exultation, and in  his familiarity,  present and  prospective,
with  the House,  the Captain, when  he reached the  outer office, could not
refrain from rallying Mr Perch a little,  and asking  him whether he thought
everybody was still engaged. But not to be  bitter on a man who had done his
duty, the Captain whispered in his ear, that if he felt disposed for a glass
of  rum-and-water,  and  would follow, he would be happy  to bestow the same
upon him.
     Before leaving the  premises, the Captain, somewhat to the astonishment
of the clerks, looked round from a central point of view, and took a general
survey of  the  officers part  and  parcel of a project in  which his  young
friend  was  nearly  interested.  The   strong-room  excited  his   especial
admiration; but, that he might not appear too particular, he limited himself
to an approving glance, and, with a graceful  recognition of the clerks as a
body, that was full of politeness and patronage, passed out into the  court.
Being promptly joined by Mr Perch, he conveyed that gentleman to the tavern,
and fulfilled his pledge - hastily, for Perch's time was precious.
     'I'll give you for a toast,' said the Captain, 'Wal'r!'
     'Who?' submitted Mr Perch.
     'Wal'r!' repeated the Captain, in a voice of thunder.
     Mr Perch, who seemed to remember having heard in infancy that there was
once a poet of  that name, made  no objection; but he was much astonished at
the Captain's coming  into  the City  to propose a  poet; indeed,  if he had
proposed to put a  poet's statue up  - say Shakespeare's for example  - in a
civic  thoroughfare,  he  could hardly have  done  a greater  outrage  to Mr
Perch's  experience.   On   the  whole,  he   was   such  a  mysterious  and
incomprehensible character, that Mr Perch  decided not to mention him to Mrs
Perch at all, in case of giving rise to any disagreeable consequences.
     Mysterious  and incomprehensible, the Captain,  with that lively  sense
upon him of having done a little  business  for the youngsters, remained all
day,  even to his most intimate friends; and but that  Walter attributed his
winks  and grins, and  other such  pantomimic  reliefs  of  himself, to  his
satisfaction in the success of their innocent deception  upon old Sol Gills,
he would assuredly have  betrayed himself before night.  As it was, however,
he  kept  his own  secret;  and went home  late from the  Instrument-maker's
house,  wearing the  glazed  hat  so much  on one side, and carrying  such a
beaming  expression in his eyes, that Mrs MacStinger (who  might  have  been
brought  up  at  Doctor  Blimber's, she was such  a Roman  matron) fortified
herself,  at  the  first  glimpse  of him, behind the open  street door, and
refused to come out to  the contemplation  of her blessed  infants, until he
was securely lodged in his own room.

        CHAPTER 18.
     Father and Daughter

     There is a hush through Mr Dombey's house. Servants gliding up and down
stairs  rustle,  but  make   no  sound  of  footsteps.  They  talk  together
constantly, and sit long at meals,  making much of their meat and drink, and
enjoying themselves after a grim  unholy fashion. Mrs Wickam,  with her eyes
suffused  with tears, relates melancholy  anecdotes; and  tells them how she
always said at Mrs  Pipchin's that  it would be so, and takes more table-ale
than usual, and is very sorry but sociable. Cook's state of mind is similar.
She promises  a little fry for  supper,  and struggles about equally against
her feelings and the onions. Towlinson begins to think there's a fate in it,
and wants to  know  if anybody can tell him  ofany  good that  ever came  of
living in a corner house. It seems to  all of them as having happened a long
time  ago;  though yet the child  lies, calm  and beautiful, upon his little
bed.
     After dark there come some visitors - noiseless visitors, with shoes of
felt -  who  have  been there before;  and  with them comes that bed of rest
which is so strange  a one for infant sleepers. All this time, the  bereaved
father has  not been  seen even by his  attendant; for he  sits in an  inner
corner of his own dark room when anyone is there, and never seems to move at
other  times,  except  to pace  it to  and  fro. But  in  the morning it  is
whispered among the  household  that he was heard to go upstairs in the dead
night, and that he stayed there - in the room - until the sun was shining.
     At the offices in the City, the  ground-glass windows are made more dim
by  shutters;  and  while  the  lighted   lamps  upon  the  desks  are  half
extinguished by the day that wanders in, the day is half extinguished by the
lamps, and an unusual gloom prevails. There  is not much business  done. The
clerks are indisposed to work; and they  make assignations  to  eat chops in
the  afternoon,  and go up the river. Perch, the messenger,  stays long upon
his errands; and finds himself in bars of public-houses, invited  thither by
friends, and holding forth on the uncertainty of human affairs. He goes home
to Ball's Pond earlier in  the evening than usual, and treats Mrs Perch to a
veal cutlet and Scotch ale. Mr Carker the Manager treats no  one; neither is
he treated;  but  alone  in his own room he  shows his teeth all day; and it
would  seem  that  there  is something gone from  Mr  Carker's  path  - some
obstacle removed - which clears his way before him.
     Now the rosy children living  opposite to Mr Dombey's house, peep  from
their nursery windows down  into the street; for there are four black horses
at  his door,  with  feathers on their  heads;  and  feathers tremble on the
carriage that they draw; and these, and  an  array  of  men with scarves and
staves,  attract a crowd. The juggler who was going to twirl the basin, puts
his  loose  coat on  again  over his fine  dress;  and  his  trudging  wife,
one-sided with her heavy baby  in her arms, loiters to see the  company come
out. But closer to her  dingy breast  she presses her  baby, when the burden
that  is  so easily carried is borne  forth;  and the  youngest of  the rosy
children at the high window opposite, needs no restraining hand to check her
in her glee, when,  pointing  with her  dimpled  finger, she  looks into her
nurse's face, and asks 'What's that?'
     And  now,  among  the  knot of  servants dressed in  mourning, and  the
weeping women, Mr Dombey passes through the hall to the  other carriage that
is  waiting to receive him. He is not 'brought down,' these observers think,
by  sorrow and  distress  of mind. His walk is as  erect, his  bearing is as
stiff as ever  it has been. He hides his face  behind  no  handkerchief, and
looks  before him. But  that his face  is something  sunk and  rigid, and is
pale, it bears the same expression as of  old. He takes his place within the
carriage, and  three other gentlemen follow. Then  the  grand funeral  moves
slowly down the  street. The feathers are yet nodding in the distance,  when
the  juggler  has  the basin  spinning on a cane,  and has the same crowd to
admire  it.  But  the juggler's  wife  is  less  alert than usual  with  the
money-box, for a child's burial  has set her thinking that perhaps  the baby
underneath her shabby shawl may not grow up to be a man, and wear a sky-blue
fillet  round his  head, and salmon-coloured  worsted drawers, and tumble in
the mud.
     The feathers wind their gloomy  way along the  streets, and come within
the sound of a church bell. In this same church, the pretty boy received all
that will soon be  left of him on earth - a  name. All of  him that is dead,
they lay there,  near the perishable  substance of his mother.  It  is well.
Their ashes lie where Florence in her walks - oh lonely, lonely walks! - may
pass them any day.
     The  service over, and  the clergyman withdrawn, Mr Dombey looks round,
demanding  in  a low voice,  whether  the  person  who has been requested to
attend to receive instructions for the tablet, is there?
     Someone comes forward, and says 'Yes.'
     Mr Dombey intimates where he would have it placed; and shows him,  with
his hand upon  the  wall, the shape  and  size; and how it  is to follow the
memorial  to  the  mother.  Then,  with   his  pencil,  he  writes  out  the
inscription, and gives it to him: adding, 'I wish to have it done at once.
     'It shall be done immediately, Sir.'
     'There is really nothing to inscribe but name and age, you see.'
     The man bows, glancing at the paper, but appears to hesitate. Mr Dombey
not observing his hesitation, turns away, and leads towards the porch.
     'I beg  your  pardon, Sir;' a touch falls gently on his mourning cloak;
'but as you wish it done immediately, and it may be  put in hand when I  get
back - '
     'Well?'
     'Will you be so good as read it over again? I think there's a mistake.'
     'Where?'
     The statuary gives him back  the paper, and points out, with his pocket
rule, the words, 'beloved and only child.'
     'It should be, "son," I think, Sir?'
     'You are right. Of course. Make the correction.'
     The father, with a hastier step, pursues his way to the coach. When the
other three, who follow closely,  take their seats, his face is  hidden  for
the first time - shaded by his cloak. Nor do they  see it any more that day.
He  alights  first, and  passes  immediately  into his own  room.  The other
mourners (who are only Mr Chick,  and two of the medical attendants) proceed
upstairs to the drawing-room, to be received by Mrs  Chick and Miss Tox. And
what the face is, in the shut-up chamber underneath: or  what  the  thoughts
are: what the heart is, what the contest or the suffering: no one knows.
     The chief thing that they know, below stairs, in  the kitchen, is  that
'it seems  like Sunday.' They can hardly persuade themselves but that  there
is something unbecoming, if not  wicked, in the conduct of the people out of
doors,  who  pursue  their  ordinary occupations,  and  wear  their everyday
attire. It is quite a novelty to have the blinds  up, and the shutters open;
and they  make  themselves dismally comfortable over bottles  of wine, which
are freely broached as on a festival. They are much inclined to moralise. Mr
Towlinson  proposes with a sigh, 'Amendment to  us all!' for  which, as Cook
says with  another  sigh, 'There's room enough,  God knows.' In the evening,
Mrs  Chick and Miss  Tox take  to needlework again. In  the evening also, Mr
Towlinson goes  out to  take  the air, accompanied by the housemaid, who has
not  yet  tried her  mourning bonnet. They are very tender to  each other at
dusky street-corners, and Towlinson has  visions  of leading an altered  and
blameless existence as a serious greengrocer in Oxford Market.
     There is  sounder sleep and deeper rest  in Mr Dombey's house  tonight,
than there has  been for  many nights.  The  morning  sun  awakens  the  old
household, settled  down  once more in  their  old ways.  The rosy  children
opposite run past with hoops. There is a splendid wedding in the church. The
juggler's wife is active with the money-box in another  quarter of the town.
The  mason  sings and  whistles  as he chips out  P-A-U-L in the marble slab
before him.
     And  can  it  be that in a world so full and busy, the loss of one weak
creature makes  a  void in any heart, so  wide and deep that nothing but the
width and depth of  vast eternity  can fill it up! Florence, in her innocent
affliction, might have  answered,  'Oh  my brother,  oh  my dearly loved and
loving  brother! Only  friend and  companion of my slighted childhood! Could
any  less idea  shed the light already  dawning on your early grave, or give
birth to the softened sorrow that is  springing into life beneath this  rain
of tears!'
     'My dear child,' said  Mrs Chick, who held  it as  a duty incumbent  on
her, to improve the occasion, 'when you are as old as I am - '
     'Which will be the prime of life,' observed Miss Tox.
     'You will then,' pursued Mrs Chick, gently squeezing Miss Tox's hand in
acknowledgment of her friendly remark, 'you will then know that all grief is
unavailing, and that it is our duty to submit.'
     'I will try, dear aunt I do try,' answered Florence, sobbing.
     'I am glad  to hear it,' said Mrs Chick, 'because; my love, as our dear
Miss  Tox  -  of  whose  sound sense and  excellent  judgment,  there cannot
possibly be two opinions - '
     'My dear Louisa, I shall really be proud, soon,' said Miss Tox
     - 'will  tell  you, and confirm  by her experience,' pursued Mrs Chick,
'we are called upon on all occasions to make an effort It is required of us.
If any - my dear,' turning to Miss Tox, 'I want a word. Mis- Mis-'
     'Demeanour?' suggested Miss Tox.
     'No, no, no,' said Mrs Chic 'How can you! Goodness me, it's on, the end
of my tongue. Mis-'
     Placed affection?' suggested Miss Tox, timidly.
     'Good gracious,  Lucretia!'  returned  Mrs Chick  'How very  monstrous!
Misanthrope, is the word  I  want. The idea!  Misplaced affection! I say, if
any misanthrope were  to  put, in my  presence, the  question  "Why  were we
born?" I should reply, "To make an effort"'
     'Very good indeed,' said Miss Tox, much impressed by the originality of
the sentiment 'Very good.'
     'Unhappily,' pursued Mrs Chick, 'we have a warning under  our own eyes.
We have but too much reason to suppose, my dear child, that if an effort had
been  made  in  time,  in  this  family,  a  train of  the  most  trying and
distressing  circumstances  might  have  been  avoided.  Nothing shall  ever
persuade  me,'  observed  the good matron, with a resolute air, 'but that if
that  effort had  been made by poor dear Fanny,  the poor dear darling child
would at least have had a stronger constitution.'
     Mrs Chick abandoned herself to her  feelings for half a moment; but, as
a  practical  illustration of her doctrine, brought herself up short, in the
middle of a sob, and went on again.
     'Therefore, Florence,  pray  let us  see that you have some strength of
mind, and do not selfishly aggravate the distress in which your poor Papa is
plunged.'
     'Dear  aunt!' said Florence, kneeling quickly down before her, that she
might the better and more earnestly look into her face. 'Tell me more  about
Papa. Pray tell me about him! Is he quite heartbroken?'
     Miss Tox was of a tender nature, and there was something in this appeal
that moved her very much. Whether she saw it in a succes