t in my eyes, thank  God!'  said the impetuous Susan
Nipper.
     'But,  Susan,  I  am  going  with Walter,  and  I would  go with Walter
anywhere - everywhere! Walter is poor, and I am very poor, and I must learn,
now, both to help myself, and help him.'
     'Dear Miss  Floy!'  cried Susan,  bursting out afresh, and  shaking her
head violently, 'it's nothing new to you to help yourself and others too and
be  the patientest and truest of noble hearts,  but let me talk to Mr Walter
Gay and settle it with him, for suffer you to go away across the world alone
I cannot, and I won't.'
     'Alone,  Susan?' returned Florence. 'Alone? and Walter  taking me  with
him!' Ah,  what  a bright, amazed,  enraptured smile was  on her  face! - He
should have seen it. 'I am sure you  will not  speak to Walter if I ask  you
not,' she added tenderly; 'and pray don't, dear.'
     Susan sobbed 'Why not, Miss Floy?'
     'Because,' said Florence, 'I am going to be his wife, to give him up my
whole heart, and to  live with him  and die with him. He might think, if you
said to him what you have said to me, that I am afraid of what is before me,
or that you have  some cause to  be  afraid for me. Why, Susan, dear, I love
him!'
     Miss Nipper  was so much  affected by the quiet fervour of these words,
and the  simple, heartfelt, all-pervading earnestness expressed in them, and
making  the speaker's face more beautiful and pure than ever, that she could
only  cling  to  her  again, crying. Was her little  mistress really, really
going  to be married, and pitying, caressing, and protecting her, as she had
done before.  But the Nipper, though  susceptible of womanly weaknesses, was
almost  as capable  of putting constraint upon  herself as of  attacking the
redoubtable MacStinger. From  that  time, she never returned to the subject,
but  was  always  cheerful, active, bustling, and  hopeful. She did, indeed,
inform Mr Toots privately, that she was only 'keeping  up' for the time, and
that when it was  all over, and Miss Dombey  was gone, she might be expected
to become a spectacle distressful; and Mr Toots did also express that it was
his case too, and that they would mingle their tears together; but she never
otherwise indulged  her  private feelings in  the presence  of  Florence  or
within the precincts of the Midshipman.
     Limited and plain as Florence's  wardrobe was - what a contrast to that
prepared  for  the last marriage in which she had taken part! - there  was a
good deal to  do  in getting it  ready, and Susan Nipper worked  away at her
side,  all day,  with  the  concentrated  zeal  of  fifty sempstresses.  The
wonderful contributions Captain Cuttle would have made to this branch of the
outfit, if he had been permitted - as pink parasols, tinted silk  stockings,
blue shoes, and other articles no less necessary on shipboard - would occupy
some space in  the recital. He was induced, however, by  various  fraudulent
representations, to limit his contributions to a work-box and dressing case,
of  each of which he  purchased the very largest  specimen that could be got
for money. For ten days or a fortnight  afterwards, he generally sat, during
the greater part of the day, gazing at these  boxes; divided between extreme
admiration  of them,  and dejected misgivings that  they  were  not gorgeous
enough,  and frequently diving out  into the  street to  purchase  some wild
article   that   he  deemed   necessary  to  their  completeness.   But  his
master-stroke was, the bearing of them both off,  suddenly, one morning, and
getting the  two  words FLORENCE GAY engraved upon a brass heart inlaid over
the lid of each. After this, he smoked four pipes successively in the little
parlour by himself, and was discovered chuckling, at the  expiration  of  as
many hours.
     Walter was busy and away all day, but came there every morning early to
see Florence, and always passed  the evening  with her. Florence  never left
her high rooms  but to steal downstairs to wait for him when it was his time
to come, or,  sheltered by his proud, encircling arm, to bear him company to
the  door again, and sometimes  peep into  the street. In  the twilight they
were always together.  Oh blessed time! Oh wandering heart at rest! Oh deep,
exhaustless, mighty well of love, in which so much was sunk!
     The cruel  mark was on her bosom  yet. It  rose against her father with
the breath she drew, it lay between her and her lover when he pressed her to
his heart. But she forgot it.  In  the beating of that heart for her, and in
the beating  of her own for him, all harsher  music was  unheard, all  stern
unloving hearts forgotten. Fragile and delicate she was, but with a might of
love within her that could, and did, create a world to fly to, and  to  rest
in, out of his one image.
     How often did the great house, and the old days, come before her in the
twilight time, when she was sheltered by the arm,  so proud,  so fond,  and,
creeping closer  to him, shrunk within  it  at the recollection! How  often,
from remembering  the  night when  she went down to  that  room and  met the
never-to-be forgotten look, did she raise her eyes to those that watched her
with such loving earnestness, and weep with happiness  in such a refuge! The
more she clung to it, the more the dear dead  child was in her thoughts: but
as if  the last time she had  seen her father, had been when he was sleeping
and  she kissed his face, she always left him  so,  and never, in her fancy,
passed that hour.
     'Walter, dear,' said Florence, one evening, when it was almost dark.'Do
you know what I have been thinking to-day?'
     'Thinking how the time  is flying on, and how soon we shall be upon the
sea, sweet Florence?'
     'I  don't mean that, Walter, though I think  of that  too.  I have been
thinking what a charge I am to you.
     'A precious, sacred charge, dear heart! Why, I think that sometimes.'
     'You  are laughing, Walter.  I  know that's  much more in your thoughts
than mine. But I mean a cost.
     'A cost, my own?'
     'In  money, dear. All  these preparations that Susan and I  are so busy
with  - I have been able to purchase very little  for myself.  You were poor
before. But how much poorer I shall make you, Walter!'
     'And how much richer, Florence!'
     Florence laughed, and shook her head.
     'Besides,'  said  Walter,  'long ago  -  before I went to sea - I had a
little purse presented to me, dearest, which had money in it.'
     'Ah!'  returned  Florence, laughing  sorrowfully,  'very  little!  very
little, Walter! But, you must not think,' and  here she laid her  light hand
on his shoulder, and looked into his face, 'that I regret  to be this burden
on you. No, dear love, I am glad of it. I am happy in it. I wouldn't have it
otherwise for all the world!'
     'Nor I, indeed, dear Florence.'
     'Ay! but, Walter, you can never feel it as  I do. I am so proud of you!
It makes  my heart  swell with such delight to know that  those who speak of
you must say you married a poor disowned girl, who had  taken  shelter here;
who had no  other home,  no other  friends;  who had nothing -  nothing! Oh,
Walter, if  I  could  have brought you millions, I never  could have been so
happy for your sake, as I am!'
     'And you, dear Florence? are you nothing?' he returned.
     'No,  nothing, Walter.  Nothing  but your wife.' The  light hand  stole
about his neck, and the voice came nearer - nearer. 'I am nothing any  more,
that is not  you. I  have no earthly hope any more, that is not  you. I have
nothing dear to me any more, that is not you.
     Oh! well  might  Mr Toots  leave the little  company that evening,  and
twice go out to correct his watch by the Royal Exchange, and once to keep an
appointment with a banker which he suddenly  remembered, and once to take  a
little turn to Aldgate Pump and back!
     But before he went upon these expeditions,  or indeed  before  he came,
and before lights were brought, Walter said:
     'Florence,  love,  the  lading  of  our  ship  is  nearly finished, and
probably on the very day of our marriage she will drop down the river. Shall
we go away that morning, and stay in Kent until we go on  board at Gravesend
within a week?'
     'If you please, Walter. I shall be happy anywhere. But - '
     'Yes, my life?'
     'You know,' said  Florence, 'that  we shall have no marriage party, and
that  nobody will distinguish us by our dress from other people. As we leave
the  same  day, will you - will you take me somewhere that morning, Walter -
early - before we go to church?'
     Walter  seemed  to  understand her,  as so true a  lover so truly loved
should,  and confirmed his ready promise with  a  kiss - with more than  one
perhaps,  or  two  or threes  or  five or six;  and in  the grave,  peaceful
evening, Florence was very happy.
     Then into the quiet  room  came Susan Nipper  and the candles;  shortly
afterwards, the tea, the Captain, and the  excursive Mr Toots, who, as above
mentioned, was frequently on the move afterwards,  and passed but a restless
evening.  This, however, was  not  his habit:  for he  generally got on very
well, by dint  of  playing at cribbage with the Captain under the advice and
guidance  of  Miss Nipper, and distracting  his  mind with the  calculations
incidental to the game; which  he found  to  be a  very  effectual means  of
utterly confounding himself.
     The Captain's visage on  these occasions presented one  of  the  finest
examples  of combination  and  succession  of expression ever observed.  His
instinctive delicacy and his chivalrous feeling towards Florence, taught him
that it was  not a time  for any boisterous jollity, or  violent display  of
satisfaction; floating  reminiscences of Lovely Peg, on the other hand, were
constantly struggling for a vent, and urging the  Captain to commit  himself
by some irreparable  demonstration. Anon,  his  admiration of  Florence  and
Walter - well-matched, truly, and full of grace and interest in their youth,
and love, and  good  looks,  as they sat  apart  - would  take such complete
possession of  hIm, that he would lay down  his cards,  and  beam upon them,
dabbing  his  head  all  over  with his  pockethandkerchief;  until  warned,
perhaps, by the sudden  rushing forth of Mr Toots, that he had unconsciously
been very  instrumental,  indeed,  in making that gentleman miserable.  This
reflection would make the Captain profoundly melancholy, until the return of
Mr Toots; when he  would fall to his cards  again, with many side winks  and
nods, and  polite waves of his hook at Miss Nipper, importing that he wasn't
going to do so any  more. The state that  ensued on  this, was, perhaps, his
best;  for then, endeavouring to discharge all  expression from his face, he
would sit staring round  the room,  with all these expressions conveyed into
it at  once,  and  each wrestling with the  other.  Delighted  admiration of
Florence and Walter always  overthrew the rest, and  remained victorious and
undisguised,  unless Mr Toots  made another rush into the air, and then  the
Captain  would  sit, like  a remorseful culprit, until he  came  back again,
occasionally  calling  upon himself,  in  a low reproachful voice, to 'Stand
by!' or growling some  remonstrance  to 'Ed'ard Cuttle, my lad,' on the want
of caution observabl in his behaviour.
     One of Mr Toots's hardest trials, however,  was of  his own seeking. On
the approach of the Sunday which was to witness the last of those askings in
church of which the Captain had spoken, Mr Toots thus stated his feelings to
Susan Nipper.
     'Susan,' said  Mr Toots, 'I am  drawn  towards the  building. The words
which cut me off from Miss Dombey for ever, will strike upon  my ears like a
knell you know, but upon my word  and  honour, I feel that I must hear them.
Therefore,' said Mr  Toots,  'will you accompany me to-morrow, to the sacred
edifice?'
     Miss Nipper expressed  her  readiness to  do so,  if that  would be any
satisfaction to Mr Toots, but besought him to abandon his idea of going.
     'Susan,'  returned Mr  Toots,  with much solemnity, 'before my whiskers
began to be observed by anybody but myself, I adored Miss  Dombey. While yet
a  victim to the thraldom  of Blimber, I adored Miss Dombey. When I could no
longer be  kept out  of my  property, in  a legal  point of  view, and - and
accordingly came into it - I adored Miss Dombey. The banns which consign her
to Lieutenant Walters, and me to - to Gloom, you know,' said Mr Toots, after
hesitating  for a strong expression, 'may be dreadful, will be dreadful; but
I feel that I  should wish to hear them spoken. I feel that I should wish to
know that the ground wascertainly cut from under me,  and  that  I  hadn't a
hope to cherish, or a - or a leg, in short, to - to go upon.'
     Susan  Nipper  could only commiserate Mr Toots's unfortunate condition,
and agree, under these circumstances,  to accompany him; which she  did next
morning.
     The church Walter had chosen for the  purpose,  was a mouldy old church
in a  yard,  hemmed in by a labyrinth  of back streets  and courts,  with  a
little burying-ground round it, and itself buried in a kind of vault, formed
by the  neighbouring  houses, and paved  with echoing stones It was  a great
dim, shabby  pile,  with high old oaken pews, among which  about a  score of
people lost  themselves  every Sunday; while  the clergyman's voice drowsily
resounded through the emptiness, and the organ rumbled  and rolled as if the
church  had got the colic, for want  of a congregation to keep  the wind and
damp out. But  so far was this city church  from languishing for the company
of  other churches, that spires were clustered round  it, as  the  masts  of
shipping  cluster on  the river. It would have been  hard to count them from
its steeple-top,  they  were so many.  In almost every yard  and blind-place
near, there was a  church. The confusion  of  bells when Susan  and Mr Toots
betook themselves towards it  on  the Sunday  morning,  was deafening. There
were twenty churches close together, clamouring for people to come in.
     The two stray sheep in question were penned by a beadle in a commodious
pew,  and,  being  early, sat  for  some  time  counting  the  congregation,
listening to the disappointed  bell  high up in the  tower, or looking at  a
shabby  little  old man in  the porch behind the screen, who was ringing the
same,  like the Bull in Cock Robin,'  with  his foot in a stirrup. Mr Toots,
after a lengthened survey of the large books on the  reading-desk, whispered
Miss  Nipper that he wondered where the banns were kept, but that young lady
merely shook her head and frowned; repelling for the time all approaches  of
a temporal nature.
     Mr  Toots,  however, appearing  unable  to keep his thoughts  from  the
banns, was  evidently  looking  out  for them  during the  whole preliminary
portion  of  the service. As the time for reading them  approached, the poor
young gentleman manifested  great  anxiety and  trepidation, which  was  not
diminished by the unexpected apparition of  the Captain in the  front row of
the gallery.  When the clerk handed  up  a list to the  clergyman, Mr Toots,
being  then  seated, held on by  the seat  of the pew; but when the names of
Walter Gay and Florence Dombey were  read aloud as being  in  the third  and
last stage of that association, he was so entirley conquered by his feelings
as to  rush  from the  church without  his  hat, followed by  the beadle and
pew-opener, and two  gentlemen of the medical profeesion, who happened to be
present;  of whom the  first-named  presently  returned  for  that  article,
informing Miss Nipper in a whisper that  she  was not to make herself uneasy
about  the  gentleman, as  the gentleman  said  his indisposition was  of no
consequence.
     Miss Nipper, feeling that the eyes  of that  integral portion of Europe
which lost itself weekly among the  high-backed pews, were  upon  her, would
have  been sufficient embarrassed by this incident, though it had terminated
here; the  more so, as the Captain in the front row of the gallery, was in a
state of unmitigated consciousness which could hardly fail to express to the
congregation that he had some mysterious connection with it. But the extreme
restlessness of Mr Toots painfully increased and protracted  the delicacy of
her situation. That young gentleman, incapable,  in his  state  of mind,  of
remaining alone  in the churchyard, a prey to solitary meditation, and  also
desirous, no doubt, of testifying his respect for the offices he had in some
measure interrupted,  suddenly returned -  not coming back to the  pew,  but
stationing himself on a free seat in the aisle,  between two elderly females
who were in the habit  of receiving  their portion of a weekly dole of bread
then  set  forth  on  a shelf  in  the porch. In  this  conjunction Mr Toots
remained, greatly  disturbing the congregation, who  felt  it  impossible to
avoid  looking  at him,  until  his  feelings  overcame him  again,  when he
departed silently and suddenly. Not venturing to trust himself in the church
any  more, and  yet wishing to  have  some social participation  in what was
going on there,  Mr Toots was, after  this, seen from time to  time, looking
in, with a lorn aspect, at one or  other of  the windows; and  as there were
several windows accessible to him from without, and as his  restlessness was
very  great, it  not  only became  difficult to conceive  at which window he
would  appear next, but likewise became necessary, as it were, for the whole
congregation to speculate upon  the chances of the different windows, during
the comparative leisure afforded them by the sermon. Mr Toots's movements in
the  churchyard  were so  eccentric,  that he seemed generally to defeat all
calculation,  and to appear, like the conjuror's figure, where he was  least
expected;  and  the  effect  of  these  mysterious  presentations  was  much
increased  by  its  being difficult to him to see in, and  easy to everybody
else to see  out: which  occasioned his remaining,  every time,  longer than
might have been expected, with his face  close to the glass, until he all at
once became aware that all eyes were upon him, and vanished.
     These proceedings on  the  part of  Mr Toots, and the strong individual
consciousness  of them that  was exhibited  by  the  Captain,  rendered Miss
Nipper's position  so responsible a one, that she was mightily  relieved  by
the  conclusion  of the  service; and was hardly  so affable to Mr Toots  as
usual,  when he  informed her and the Captain, on the way  back, that now he
was  sure he had no hope, you know, he felt more  comfortable - at least not
exactly more comfortable, but more comfortably and completely miserable.
     Swiftly now, indeed,  the time flew by until  it was the evening before
the day appointed  for  the marriage.  They were all assembled  in the upper
room at the Midshipman's, and had no fear of interruption; for there were no
lodgers  in  the house  now, and the Midshipman had it all  to himself. They
were  grave and quiet in the prospect of to-morrow, but moderately  cheerful
too. Florence, with Walter close beside her, was finishing a little piece of
work intended as a  parting gift  to the Captain.  The  Captain was  playing
cribbage with Mr Toots. Mr Toots was taking counsel as to his hand, of Susan
Nipper. Miss Nipper was giving it, with  all due secrecy and circumspection.
Diogenes  was  listening,  and  occasionally  breaking   out  into  a  gruff
half-smothered  fragment  of  a  bark,  of   which   he  afterwards   seemed
half-ashamed, as if he doubted having any reason for it.
     'Steady, steady!' said the Captain to Diogenes, 'what's amiss with you?
You don't seem easy in your mind to-night, my boy!'
     Diogenes  wagged  his  tail,  but   pricked  up  his  ears  immediately
afterwards, and gave utterance  to another fragment of  a bark; for which he
apologised to the Captain, by again wagging his tail.
     'It's  my opinion, Di,' said  the Captain, looking thoughtfully at  his
cards, and stroking his chin with his hook, 'as you  have your doubts of Mrs
Richards; but if you're the animal I  take you to be, you'll think better o'
that; for her looks is her commission. Now, Brother:' to Mr Toots: 'if so be
as you're ready, heave ahead.'
     The Captain  spoke with  all composure  and attention to the game,  but
suddenly his cards dropped out  of his hand, his mouth and eyes opened wide,
his legs drew themselves up and stuck out in front of  his chair, and he sat
staring at  the door  with  blank amazement. Looking round upon the company,
and seeing that none of them observed him  or the cause of his astonishment,
the  Captain  recovered  himself  with  a great  gasp,  struck  the table  a
tremendous  blow, cried in a  stentorian roar, 'Sol Gills ahoy!' and tumbled
into the arms of a weather-beaten pea-coat that had come with Polly into the
room.
     In  another moment,  Walter was  in  the  arms  of  the  weather-beaten
pea-coat. In another  moment, Florence was in the arms of the weather-beaten
pea-coat. In another moment, Captain Cuttle  had  embraced Mrs  Richards and
Miss Nipper,  and was violently shaking hands  with Mr Toots, exclaiming, as
he waved  his hook above his  head, 'Hooroar, my lad, hooroar!'  To which Mr
Toots, wholly at a loss to account for these proceedings, replied with great
politeness, 'Certainly, Captain Gills, whatever you think proper!'
     The  weather-beaten  pea-coat,  and  a  no less  weather-beaten cap and
comforter belonging to it, turned from the Captain and from Florence back to
Walter,   and  sounds  came  from  the  weather-beaten  pea-coat,  cap,  and
comforter, as of  an  old  man sobbing  underneath  them;  while  the shaggy
sleeves  clasped Walter tight. During  this pause,  there  was an  universal
silence, and the Captain polished  his  nose with great diligence.  But when
the pea-coat, cap, and comforter lifted themselves up again, Florence gently
moved towards them;  and she  and Walter taking  them off, disclosed the old
Instrument-maker, a little thinner and more careworn than of old, in his old
Welsh wig and his old coffee-coloured coat and basket buttons, with  his old
infallible chronometer ticking away in his pocket.
     'Chock full o' science,' said the radiant Captain, 'as ever he was! Sol
Gills, Sol Gills, what have  you been up to,  for this  many  a long day, my
ould boy?'
     'I'm half blind, Ned,' said the old man, 'and almost deaf and dumb with
joy.'
     'His wery woice,' said the Captain, looking round with an exultation to
which even his face could hardly render  justice - 'his wery woice as  chock
full o'  science as ever it was! Sol Gills, lay  to, my  lad, upon  your own
wines and fig-trees like a taut ould patriark as you are, and overhaul  them
there adwentures  o' yourn, in your  own formilior woice. 'Tis  the  woice,'
said the Captain, impressively,  and announcing  a  quotation with his hook,
'of the sluggard, I heerd him complain, you have woke  me too soon,  I  must
slumber again. Scatter his ene-mies, and make 'em fall!'
     The Captain  sat down with the air of a man  who  had happily expressed
the feeling  of everybody present,  and immediately rose again to present Mr
Toots, who  was  much  disconcerted  by the arrival of anybody, appearing to
prefer a claim to the name of Gills.
     'Although,'  stammered  Mr  Toots,  'I  had  not  the pleasure of  your
acquaintance, Sir, before you were - you were - '
     'Lost to sight, to memory dear,' suggested the Captain, in a low voice.
     Exactly  so, Captain Gills!' assented Mr Toots. 'Although I had not the
pleasure of your  acquaintance, Mr - Mr  Sols,' said Toots,  hitting on that
name in the  inspiration of a bright idea, 'before that happened, I have the
greatest  pleasure,  I assure you, in - you  know, in knowing you. I  hope,'
said Mr Toots, 'that you're as well as can be expected.'
     With these courteous words, Mr Toots sat down blushing and chuckling.
     The  old  Instrument-maker,  seated  in  a corner  between  Walter  and
Florence, and  nodding at Polly, who was looking on, all smiles and delight,
answered the Captain thus:
     'Ned  Cuttle,  my dear boy,  although  I have  heard  something of  the
changes of events here, from my pleasant friend there - what a pleasant face
she has to be sure, to welcome a wanderer home!' said the  old man, breaking
off, and rubbing his hands in his old dreamy way.
     'Hear  him!'  cried  the Captain  gravely.  ''Tis  woman as seduces all
mankind. For which,' aside to Mr Toots, 'you'll overhaul  your Adam and Eve,
brother.'
     'I shall make a point of doing so, Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots.
     'Although I have heard something of the changes of events,  from  her,'
resumed the Instrument-maker, taking his old spectacles from his pocket, and
putting  them  on his forehead  in his  old manner, 'they are  so  great and
unexpected, and I  am so overpowered by  the  sight  of my dear  boy, and by
the,' -  glancing  at  the downcast eyes of  Florence, and not attempting to
finish the sentence - 'that  I - I can't say  much to-night. But my dear Ned
Cuttle, why didn't you write?'
     The  astonishment   depicted  in  the  Captain's   features  positively
frightened Mr Toots, whose eyes were quite fixed by it, so that he could not
withdraw them from his face.
     'Write!' echoed the Captain. 'Write, Sol Gills?'
     'Ay,' said  the old man, 'either to Barbados, or Jamaica, or  Demerara,
That was what I asked.'
     'What you asked, Sol Gills?' repeated the Captain.
     'Ay,'  said  the  old  man.  'Don't you  know, Ned?  Sure  you have not
forgotten? Every time I wrote to you.'
     The Captain took off his glazed hat, hung it on his hook, and smoothing
his hair from behind  with his hand, sat gazing  at the group around him:  a
perfect image of wondering resignation.
     'You don't appear to understand me, Ned!' observed old Sol.
     'Sol  Gills,'  returned the Captain, after staring  at him and the rest
for a  long  time,  without speaking, 'I'm gone about and adrift.  Pay out a
word or two respecting  them adwenturs, will you! Can't I  bring up, nohows?
Nohows?' said the Captain, ruminating, and staring all round.
     'You  know,  Ned,' said  Sol  Gills, 'why I left  here. Did you open my
packet, Ned?'
     'Why, ay, ay,' said the Captain. 'To be sure, I opened the packet.'
     'And read it?' said the old man.
     'And read  it,'  answered  the Captain,  eyeing  him  attentively,  and
proceeding to quote  it from memory. '"My dear Ned Cuttle, when I  left home
for the West Indies  in forlorn search of intelligence of my dear-" There he
sits!  There's Wal'r!' said the  Captain, as if he were  relieved by getting
hold of anything that was real and indisputable.
     'Well, Ned. Now attend a moment!' said the old man. 'When I wrote first
- that was from Barbados - I said that though you would receive that  letter
long before the year was out, I should be glad if you would open the packet,
as it explained the  reason of my going away. Very good, Ned.  When  I wrote
the second, third, and perhaps  the fourth times - that was from Jamaica - I
said  I was in  just the same  state, couldn't rest, and  couldn't come away
from that part  of the world, without knowing that my boy was lost or saved.
When I wrote next - that, I think, was from Demerara, wasn't it?'
     'That  he  thinks  was  from  Demerara, warn't  it!' said  the Captain,
looking hopelessly round.
     'I  said,'  proceeded  old  Sol,  'that  still  there  was  no  certain
information got yet. That I  found many captains and others, in that part of
the world,  who had known me for years, and who assisted  me with a  passage
here and there, and for  whom I was able, now  and then, to do a  little  in
return, in my own craft. That everyone was sorry for me,  and seemed to take
a sort of interest  in my wanderings; and that  I began to think it would be
my fate to cruise about in search of tidings of my boy, until I died.'
     'Began  to think  as how he was a scientific Flying Dutchman!' said the
Captain, as before, and with great seriousness.
     'But when the news come one  day, Ned, - that was to Barbados, after  I
got back there, - that  a  China trader home'ard bound  had been spoke, that
had my boy aboard, then, Ned, I took passage in the next ship and came home;
arrived  at  home to-night  to find  it true, thank God!'  said the old man,
devoutly.
     The Captain, after  bowing  his  head with great  reverence, stared all
round   the   circle,   beginning  with  Mr  Toots,  and  ending  with   the
Instrument-maker; then gravely said:
     'Sol Gills!  The observation as  I'm a-going to make  is calc'lated  to
blow every stitch of sail as you can carry, clean out of the bolt-ropes, and
bring you  on your beam ends with a lurch. Not one  of them letters was ever
delivered to Ed'ard Cuttle. Not one o' them  letters,' repeated the Captain,
to make his declaration  the more solemn and impressive, 'was ever delivered
unto Ed'ard Cuttle, Mariner, of England,  as lives at home at ease, and doth
improve each shining hour!'
     'And posted by my own hand! And directed  by my own  hand, Number  nine
Brig Place!' exclaimed old Sol.
     The colour all went out  of the Captain's face and all  came back again
in a glow.
     'What do you  mean, Sol Gills, my  friend, by Number  nine Brig Place?'
inquired the Captain.
     'Mean? Your lodgings, Ned,' returned the old man. 'Mrs What's-her-name!
I shall forget my own name next, but I am behind the present time - I always
was, you recollect - and very much confused. Mrs - '
     'Sol  Gills!' said  the  Captain,  as  if  he  were  putting  the  most
improbable case in the world, 'it ain't  the name of MacStinger as you're  a
trying to remember?'
     'Of course it is!' exclaimed the Instrument-maker. 'To be sure Ned. Mrs
MacStinger!'
     Captain Cuttle, whose eyes were now  as wide open as they would be, and
the  knobs  upon  whose  face were  perfectly  luminous, gave  a long shrill
whistle of a most melancholy sound, and stood gazing at everybody in a state
of speechlessness.
     'Overhaul that there again, Sol Gills, will you be so kind?' he said at
last.
     'All  these  letters,'  returned  Uncle  Sol,  beating  time  with  the
forefinger of his right hand  upon the palm  of his  left, with a steadiness
and  distinctness  that  might  have  done  honour,  even  to the infallible
chronometer in his  pocket, 'I posted with my own hand, and directed with my
own hand, to Captain Cuttle, at Mrs MacStinger's, Number nine Brig Place.'
     The Captain took  his glazed  hat off his hook, looked into it,  put it
on, and sat down.
     'Why, friends all,' said the Captain,  staring round in the  last state
of discomfiture, 'I cut and run from there!'
     'And no  one  knew  where you were gone, Captain Cuttle?'  cried Walter
hastily.
     'Bless your heart, Wal'r,'  said the  Captain, shaking his head, 'she'd
never  have  allowed o'  my  coming  to take  charge o' this here  property.
Nothing  could be  done  but cut and run. Lord love  you,  Wal'r!' said  the
Captain, 'you've only  seen  her  in a  calm!  But  see  her when  her angry
passions rise - and make a note on!'
     'I'd give it her!' remarked the Nipper, softly.
     'Would you,  do you think, my dear?'  returned the Captain, with feeble
admiration. 'Well, my  dear,  it does  you  credit. But there ain't  no wild
animal I wouldn't sooner face myself. I only got my chest away by means of a
friend as nobody's a match for. It was no good sending any letter there. She
wouldn't take  in  any letter, bless  you,'  said  the Captain,  'under them
circumstances! Why,  you could hardly make it worth a man's while  to be the
postman!'
     'Then  it's pretty clear, Captain Cuttle,  that all of  us, and you and
Uncle Sol especially,' said Walter,  'may thank Mrs MacStinger  for no small
anxiety.'
     The  general obligation in this wise  to the determined  relict of  the
late Mr  MacStinger, was so  apparent, that  the Captain did not contest the
point; but  being  in some  measure ashamed  of  his position, though nobody
dwelt  upon the subject, and Walter  especially avoided it,  remembering the
last conversation  he and  the Captain had held  together respecting  it, he
remained under a cloud for nearly five minutes - an extraordinary period for
him when that sun, his  face, broke out once more, shining on all  beholders
with extraordinary brilliancy; and  he fell into a fit of shaking hands with
everybody over and over again.
     At an early hour, but not before Uncle  Sol  and  Walter had questioned
each other at some length about their voyages and dangers,  they all, except
Walter, vacated Florence's  room, and went  down  to the  parlour. Here they
were soon afterwards joined by Walter, who told them Florence  was a  little
sorrowful and heavy-hearted, and had gone to bed. Though they could not have
disturbed her  with their  voices  down there, they all  spoke in a  whisper
after this: and each,  in  his  different way, felt very lovingly and gently
towards Walter's fair  young  bride:  and  a  long explanation there was  of
everything  relating  to  her, for the satisfaction  of Uncle Sol;  and very
sensible Mr Toots  was of the delicacy with  which Walter made his name  and
services important, and his presence necessary to their little council.
     'Mr Toots,' said  Walter, on  parting with  him  at the house door, 'we
shall see each other to-morrow morning?'
     'Lieutenant Walters,' returned  Mr Toots, grasping  his hand fervently,
'I shall certainly be present.
     'This  is the last night we shall meet for a long time - the last night
we may ever meet,' said  Walter. 'Such a noble heart as  yours, must feel, I
think, when another heart  is bound to it. I  hope you know that  I  am very
grateful to you?'
     'Walters,' replied Mr  Toots, quite touched, 'I should be glad to  feel
that you had reason to be so.'
     'Florence,'  said Walter,  'on this last night of her  bearing  her own
name, has made me promise - it was only just now,  when you left us together
- that I would tell you - with her dear love - '
     Mr Toots laid his hand upon the doorpost, and his eyes upon his hand.
     - with her dear love,'  said Walter, 'that she  can never have a friend
whom  she  will  value  above  you.  That  the  recollection  of  your  true
consideration for  her always,  can  never  be forgotten  by  her.  That she
remembers  you in her prayers to-night, and hopes that you will think of her
when she is far away. Shall I say anything for you?'
     'Say,  Walter,' replied Mr  Toots indistinctly, 'that I shall think  of
her every day,  but never without feeling happy  to know that she is married
to the man  she loves, and who loves her. Say, if you please, that I am sure
her husband deserves her - even her!- and that I am glad of her choice.'
     Mr Toots got more distinct as he came to these last words, and  raising
his eyes  from the doorpost, said them  stoutly. He then shook Walter's hand
again  with  a  fervour that  Walter  was not slow  to  return  and  started
homeward.
     Mr Toots was accompanied by the Chicken, whom  he had  of late  brought
with him  every evening, and left in the shop, with an idea  that unforeseen
circumstances  might  arise  from  without,  in  which  the  prowess of that
distinguished character  would be of service to  the Midshipman. The Chicken
did not appear to be in a particularly good humour on this  occasion. Either
the gas-lamps were treacherous, or he cocked  his eye  in a  hideous manner,
and likewise distorted  his nose, when  Mr Toots, crossing the  road, looked
back over his shoulder  at the room where Florence slept.  On the road home,
he  was  more  demonstrative  of  aggressive intentions  against  the  other
foot-passengers, than  comported  with  a professor  of the  peaceful art of
self-defence. Arrived at home, instead of leaving Mr Toots in his apartments
when he  had escorted him thither, he remained before him weighing his white
hat  in both  hands by the brim,  and twitching his head  and  nose (both of
which had been many times broken, and but  indifferently repaired), with  an
air of decided disrespect.
     His patron being much engaged  with his own  thoughts, did  not observe
this  for  some  time,  nor indeed  until the Chicken,  determined not to be
overlooked,  had made divers clicking sounds  with his  tongue and teeth, to
attract attention.
     'Now, Master,' said  the Chicken, doggedly, when he, at length,  caught
Mr Toots's eye, 'I want to know whether this here gammon is to finish it, or
whether you're a going in to win?'
     'Chicken,' returned Mr Toots, 'explain yourself.'
     'Why then, here's all  about it, Master,' said the Chicken.  'I ain't a
cove to chuck a word away. Here's  wot it is.  Are any on 'em to  be doubled
up?'
     When the Chicken put this question he dropped his hat, made a dodge and
a  feint with his left  hand, hit a supposed enemy a  violent blow with  his
right, shook his head smartly, and recovered himself'
     'Come, Master,' said the Chicken. 'Is it to be gammon or pluck? Which?'
     Chicken,'  returned  Mr Toots,  'your expressions are coarse, and  your
meaning is obscure.'
     'Why, then, I  tell you what, Master,' said the Chicken. 'This is where
it is. It's mean.'
     'What is mean, Chicken?' asked Mr Toots.
     'It is,'  said  the Chicken, with a frightful corrugation of his broken
nose. 'There!  Now, Master! Wot!  When you  could go and  blow on this  here
match to the stiff'un;'  by which depreciatory appellation it has been since
supposed  that  the Game One  intended  to  signify Mr Dombey; 'and when you
could knock the winner and all the kit of 'em dead out o' wind and time, are
you  going  to give  in? To  give in? 'said the Chicken,  with  contemptuous
emphasis. 'Wy, it's mean!'
     'Chicken,'  said Mr  Toots, severely, 'you're a perfect  Vulture!  Your
sentiments are atrocious.'
     'My  sentiments is Game  and  Fancy,  Master,'  returned  the  Chicken.
'That's  wot my sentiments  is. I  can't  abear  a meanness. I'm  afore  the
public, I'm  to  be heerd on  at the  bar  of the Little  Helephant,  and no
Gov'ner o' mine mustn't go and do  what's  mean.  Wy,  it's  mean,' said the
Chicken, with increased expression. 'That's where it is. It's mean.'
     'Chicken,' said Mr Toots, 'you disgust me.'
     'Master,' returned the Chicken, putting on  his hat, 'there's a pair on
us,  then.  Come!  Here's  a offer!  You've spoke to  me more than once't or
twice't about the public line. Never mind! Give me a fi'typunnote to-morrow,
and let me go.'
     'Chicken,'  returned  Mr Toots, 'after the odious  sentiments you  have
expressed, I shall be glad to part on such terms.'
     'Done  then,' said the Chicken.  'It's a bargain. This here conduct  of
yourn  won't suit my book,  Master. Wy,  it's mean,'  said the  Chicken; who
seemed equally  unable to get beyond that  point, and to  stop short  of it.
'That's where it is; it's mean!'
     So Mr Toots and the  Chicken  agreed to part on this incompatibility of
moral perception;  and  Mr  Toots lying down  to  sleep, dreamed happily  of
Florence, who  had thought of him as her friend upon  the last night  of her
maiden life, and who had sent him her dear love.

        CHAPTER 57.
     Another Wedding

     Mr Sownds the beadle, and Mrs Miff the  pew-opener, are early at  their
posts  in the fine church where Mr  Dombey  was  married. A yellow-faced old
gentleman  from  India,  is  going to take  unto himself  a  young wife this
morning,  and  six carriages full of company are expected, and Mrs  Miff has
been  informed that  the yellow-faced old gentleman could pave the  road  to
church with diamonds and hardly miss them. The  nuptial benediction is to be
a superior one, proceeding from a very reverend, a dean, and the  lady is to
be given away, as an extraordinary present,  by somebody  who comes  express
from the Horse Guards
     Mrs Miff  is  more intolerant of common  people  this morning, than she
generally is; and she  his always strong opinions on that subject, for it is
associated  with  free  sittings.  Mrs Miff  is  not a  student of political
economy (she thinks the science is  connected  with dissenters; 'Baptists or
Wesleyans, or some  o' them,' she  says), but she can never  understand what
business your common folks  have to be  married. 'Drat  'em,' says  Mrs Miff
'you  read  the  same  things  over  'em'  and  instead  of  sovereigns  get
sixpences!'
     Mr Sownds the beadle is more liberal than Mrs Miff - but then he is not
a pew-opener. 'It must be done, Ma'am,' he says. 'We must marry 'em. We must
have  our national  schools  to walk  at the head of, and  we must  have our
standing  armies. We must marry 'em,  Ma'am,'  says Mr Sownds, 'and keep the
country going.'
     Mr  Sownds  is sitting on  the steps and  Mrs  Miff is dusting  in  the
church, when a  young couple, plainly dressed, come in. The mortified bonnet
of Mrs Miff is  sharply  turned towards  them, for she espies in this  early
visit indications  of a runaway  match. But they don't want to be married  -
'Only,' says the gentleman,  'to walk round the church.'  And as he  slips a
genteel compliment into the palm of Mrs Miff, her vinegary face relaxes, and
her mortified bonnet and her spare dry figure dip and crackle.
     Mrs Miff  resumes her  dusting and plumps  up her  cushions  - for  the
yellow-faced old gentleman is  reported to have tender knees - but keeps her
glazed, pew-opening eye  on  the  young couple  who  are walking  round  the
church. 'Ahem,' coughs Mrs Miff whose cough is  drier than  the hay  in  any
hassock in her charge,  'you'll  come to us one of these mornings, my dears,
unless I'm much mistaken!'
     They  are looking  at a tablet  on  the  wall, erected to the memory of
someone dead. They are a long  way off  from  Mrs Miff, but Mrs Miff can see
with half an  eye  how  she is leaning on his arm, and how his head  is bent
down over her. 'Well, well,' says Mrs Miff, 'you might do  worse. For you're
a tidy pair!'
     There is  nothing personal in Mrs Miff's remark.  She  merely speaks of
stock-in-trade.  She is hardly more curious in couples than in  coffins. She
is such a spare, straight, dry  old lady - such a pew of a woman - that  you
should find as  many individual sympathies in a chip. Mr Sownds, now, who is
fleshy, and has scarlet in his coat, is of a different temperament. He says,
as they stand upon the steps watching the young couple  away, that she has a
pretty figure,  hasn't  she, and  as well as he could see (for she  held her
head down coming out), an uncommon pretty face. 'Altogether, Mrs Miff,' says
Mr Sownds with a relish, 'she is what you may call a rose-bud.'
     Mrs Miff assents with a spare nod of her mortified bonnet; but approves
of this so little, that she inwardly resolves she wouldn't be the wife of Mr
Sownds for any money he could give her, Beadle as he is.
     And  what are the young couple saying as  they leave the church, and go
out at the gate?
     'Dear Walter, thank you! I can go away, now, happy.'
     'And  when  we  come  back,  Florence,  we will come and see  his grave
again.'
     Florence  lifts her eyes,  so bright with tears, to his  kind face; and
clasps her disengaged hand on that other modest little hand which clasps his
arm.
     'It is very early, Walter, and the streets are almost empty yet. Let us
walk.'
     'But you will be so tired, my love.'
     'Oh no! I was  very tired the first time that  we ever walked together,
but  I shall  not be so  to-day.' And thus  -  not much  changed -  she,  as
innocent and earnest-hearted -  he, as frank,  as hopeful, and more proud of
her - Florence and Walter, on their bridal morning, walk through the streets
together.
     Not even in  that childish walk of long  ago, were  they so far removed
from all the world about them as to-day. The childish feet of  long ago, did
not tread such enchanted ground as theirs do now. The confidence and love of
children may be given many times, and will spring up in many places; but the
woman's heart of Florence, with its undivided treasure,  can be yielded only
once, and under slight or change, can only droop and die.
     They take the streets that are the quietest, and do not go near that in
which her  old  home stands. It is a fair, warm summer  morning, and the sun
shines on them, as they walk towards the darkening mist that overspreads the
City. Riches are uncovering in shops; jewels, gold,  and silver flash in the
goldsmith's sunny windows; and  great houses cast  a stately shade upon them
as they  pass. But  through the light, and through  the  shade, they  go  on
lovingly together, lost to everything around; thinking of  no other  riches,
and no prouder home, than they have now in one another.
     Gradually they come into the darker, narrower  streets, where  the sun,
now yellow, and now red, is seen through the  mist, only at street  corners,
and  in small open  spaces where there is a tree, or one of  the innumerable
churches, or a paved way and a flight of steps, or a curious little patch of
garden, or a burying-ground, where the few tombs and tombstones  are  almost
black. Lovingly and trustfully, through  all the narrow yards and alleys and
the shady streets, Florence goes, clinging to his arm, to be his wife.
     Her heart beats quicker now, for Walter tells her that their  church is
very near. They pass a few great  stacks of warehouses,  with waggons at the
doors, and busy carmen stopping  up the way - but Florence  does  not see or
hear them  - and  then the air is quiet, and the day is darkened, and she is
trembling in a church which has a strange smell like a cellar.
     The shabby little old man, ringer of the disappointed bell, is standing
in the porch,  and has put his hat  in the font  - for he is quite  at  home
there,  being  sexton. He ushers  them into  an  old  brown, panelled, dusty
vestry,  like  a corner-cupboard with the shelves taken out; where the wormy
registers diffuse a smell like faded snuff, which has set the tearful Nipper
sneezing.
     Youthful, and how beautiful, the young bride  looks,  in this old dusty
place, with no kindred object near her but her husband. There is a dusty old
clerk,  who keeps  a  sort  of  evaporated news  shop underneath an  archway
opposite,  behind  a perfect fortification  of posts.  There is a dusty  old
pew-opener who only keeps herself, and  finds that quite enough to do. There
is a dusty  old beadle (these are Mr Toots's beadle and pew-opener  of  last
Sunday), who  has something to  do with  a Worshipful Company who have got a
Hall in the next yard, with a stained-glass window in it that no mortal ever
saw.  There are  dusty  wooden ledges and cornices poked in and out over the
altar, and over the  screen and round the gallery, and over  the inscription
about  what  the Master  and Wardens  of the Worshipful  Company did  in one
thousand six hundred and ninety-four.  There  are  dusty old sounding-boards
over the  pulpit and  reading-desk, looking like lids to be let down on  the
officiating  ministers  in  case  of their giving offence.  There  is  every
possible provision for the accommodation of  dust, except in the churchyard,
where  the  facilities in that respect are  very limited. The Captain, Uncle
Sol, and Mr  Toots are come; the clergyman is putting on his surplice in the
vestry, while the clerk  walks round him, blowing  the dust  off it; and the
bride and bridegroom  stand before the altar. There is no bridesmaid, unless
Susan Nipper is one; and  no better father than Captain Cuttle. A man with a
wooden leg, chewing a faint apple and carrying a blue bag in has hand, looks
in to  see what is going on; but finding it nothing entertaining, stumps off
again, and pegs his way among the echoes out of doors.
     No gracious  ray of light is seen to fall on Florence, kneeling at  the
altar with her timid head bowed down. The morning luminary is built out, and
don't shine there.  There  is a meagre tree  outside, where the sparrows are
chirping  a  little; and  there is a blackbird in an eyelet-hole of sun in a
dyer's  garret,  over  against  the window,  who whistles  loudly whilst the
service  is performing; and  there is the  man with  the wooden leg stumping
away. The  amens of the dusty clerk appear, like Macbeth's,  to stick in his
throat a little'; but Captain Cuttle helps him out, and does it with so much
goodwill that  he interpolates  three entirely  new responses  of that word,
never introduced into the service before.
     They are married,  and have signed their names in one of the old sneezy
registers,  and  the  clergyman's surplice is restored to the dust, and  the
clergymam is gone home.  In  a  dark corner of the dark church, Florence has
turned to Susan Nipper, and is weeping in her arms. Mr Toots's eyes are red.
The  Captain lubricates his nose. Uncle Sol has  pulled down  his spectacles
from his forehead, and walked out to the door.
     'God bless you,  Susan; dearest Susan! If you ever  can bear witness to
the love I have for Walter, and the reason  that I have to  love  him, do it
for his sake. Good-bye! Good-bye!'
     They have thought it better  not  to go back to the Midshipman,  but to
part so; a coach is waiting for them, near at hand.
     Miss  Nipper  cannot speak; she  only  sobs and  chokes,  and hugs  her
mistress. Mr Toots advances, urges her to cheer up, and takes charge of her.
Florence gives him her hand - gives him,  in the fulness of  her heart,  her
lips - kisses  Uncle Sol, and Captain Cuttle, and is borne away by her young
husband.
     But  Susan  cannot bear  that  Florence should go away with  a mournful
recollection  of her.  She had meant to be so different, that she reproaches
herself bitterly. Intent on making one last effort to redeem her  character,
she breaks from Mr Toots and runs away to find the coach, and show a parting
smile. The Captain, divining her object, sets off after her; for he feels it
his duty also to dismiss  them with a cheer, if  possible.  Uncle Sol and Mr
Toots are left behind together, outside the church, to wait for them.
     The coach is gone, but the street is steep, and narrow, and blocked up,
and Susan can see it at a stand-still in the distance, she  is sure. Captain
Cuttle follows her as she flies down the hill, and waves his glazed hat as a
general signal, which may attract the right coach and which may not.
     Susan outstrips the Captain, and comes up  with it. She looks in at the
window, sees Walter, with the  gentle  face beside him, and claps  her hands
and screams:
     'Miss Floy, my darling!  look at me! We are all so happy now, dear! One
more good-bye, my precious, one more!'
     How  Susan does it, she don't know,  but  she reaches  to  the  window,
kisses her, and has her arms about her neck, in a moment.
     We are  all so  happy now,  my  dear  Miss  Floy!' says Susan,  with  a
suspicious catching in her breath. 'You, you won't be angry with me now. Now
will you?'
     'Angry, Susan!'
     'No,  no; I am  sure you  won't. I say  you won't, my pet, my dearest!'
exclaims Susan; 'and here's  the Captain  too - your friend the Captain, you
know - to say good-bye once more!'
     'Hooroar,  my  Heart's  Delight!'  vociferates  the   Captain,  with  a
countenance of strong emotion. 'Hooroar, Wal'r my lad. Hooroar! Hooroar!'
     What with the young husband at one window,  and the young wife  at  the
other; the Captain hanging on at this door, and Susan Nipper holding fast by
that;  the coach obliged to go on whether  it will or no,  and all the other
carts and coaches turbulent because it  hesitates;  there never  was so much
confusion on four  wheels. But Susan  Nipper gallantly  maintains her point.
She keeps a smiling face upon her mistress, smiling through her tears, until
the last. Even when she is left behind,  the Captain continues to appear and
disappear  at the  door,  crying  'Hooroar,  my  lad!  Hooroar,  my  Heart's
Delight!' with his shirt-collar in a violent state of agitation, until it is
hopeless to attempt to keep up with the coach any longer. Finally,  when the
coach is  gone, Susan Nipper, being  rejoined  by the Captain,  falls into a
state of insensibility, and is taken into a baker's shop to recover.
     Uncle Sol and Mr Toots wait patiently in the churchyard, sitting on the
coping-stone of  the railings, until  Captain  Cuttle  and Susan come  back,
Neither being  at  all  desirous to  speak,  or to  be  spoken to,  they are
excellent  company, and quite satisfied.  When they  all arrive again at the
little  Midshipman, and sit down to  breakfast,  nobody  can touch a morsel.
Captain Cuttle makes a feint of being voracious about toast, but gives it up
as  a  swindle.  Mr Toots says,  after breakfast, he  will come back  in the
evening; and  goes wandering about the town all  day, with a vague sensation
upon him as if he hadn't been to bed for a fortnight.
     There  is  a strange charm in the house, and in the room, in which they
have been used  to  be together,  and  out of  which  so much  is  gone.  It
aggravates, and yet it soothes, the sorrow of the separation. Mr Toots tells
Susan Nipper when he comes at night, that he hasn't been so wretched all day
long, and yet  he likes it. He confides in  Susan Nipper,  being  alone with
her,  and tells  her what his feelings were when she gave  him  that  candid
opinion as to the probability of  Miss Dombey's ever loving him. In the vein
of confidence engendered by these  common recollections, and their tears, Mr
Toots  proposes  that  they shall  go  out  together, and buy something  for
supper. Miss Nipper assenting, they buy a good many little things; and, with
the aid of Mrs Richards, set the supper out quite showily before the Captain
and old Sol came home.
     The  Captain and  old  Sol  have  been  on  board  the ship,  and  have
established Di there, and have seen the chests put aboard. They have much to
tell  about  the  popularity of Walter, and the  comforts he will have about
him, and the quiet way in which it seems he has been working early and late,
to make  his cabin what the Captain calls 'a picter,' to surprise his little
wife. 'A admiral's cabin, mind you,' says the Captain, 'ain't more trim.'
     But  one of  the  Captain's chief  delights is, that he  knows the  big
watch,  and  the  sugar-tongs, and tea-spoons, are  on board: and  again and
again he  murmurs  to  himself, 'Ed'ard Cuttle, my lad, you  never shaped  a
better  course in your life than  when you  made that there little  property
over  jintly. You see how the  land bore, Ed'ard,' says the Captain, 'and it
does you credit, my lad.'
     The  old Instrument-maker is more distraught and misty than  he used to
be,  and takes the  marriage and the parting very much  to heart. But  he is
greatly  comforted by having his  old ally,  Ned Cuttle, at his side; and he
sits down to supper with a grateful and contented face.
     'My boy has been preserved and thrives,'  says  old Sol  Gills, rubbing
his hands. 'What right have I to be otherwise than thankful and happy!'
     The Captain, who  has not yet taken his seat at the table, but  who has
been fidgeting about for some time, and now stands hesitating in  his place,
looks doubtfully at Mr Gills, and says:
     'Sol! There's the last bottle of the old  Madeira down below. Would you
wish to have it up to-night, my boy, and drink to Wal'r and his wife?'
     The Instrument-maker,  looking wistfully at the Captain, puts his  hand
into the  breast-pocket  of  his  coffee-coloured  coat,  brings  forth  his
pocket-book, and takes a letter out.
     'To Mr Dombey,'  says the old  man. 'From  Walter. To be  sent in three
weeks' time. I'll read it.'
     '"Sir.  I  am married  to your daughter. She  is gone  with  me  upon a
distant voyage. To be devoted to her is to have  no claim on her or you, but
God knows that I am.
     '"Why, loving  her  beyond  all  earthly things,  I  have  yet, without
remorse, united her to the uncertainties  and dangers of my life, I will not
say to you. You know why, and you are her father.
     '"Do not reproach her. She has never reproached you.
     '"I  do  not  think or  hope that  you will  ever forgive me. There  is
nothing  I expect less. But if an hour should come when it  will comfort you
to  believe that  Florence has someone ever near  her, the great  charge  of
whose life is  to cancel her  remembrance of past  sorrow, I solemnly assure
you, you may, in that hour, rest in that belief."'
     Solomon  puts back the letter carefully  in his  pocket-book,  and puts
back his pocket-book in his coat.
     'We won't drink the last bottle  of the old Madeira yet, Ned,' says the
old man thoughtfully. 'Not yet.
     'Not yet,' assents the Captain. 'No. Not yet.'
     Susan and Mr Toots are of the same opinion.  After a silence  they  all
sit down to supper, and drink  to the young  husband  and wife  in something
else; and the last  bottle of the old Madeira still  remains among its  dust
and cobwebs, undisturbed.

     A  few days have elapsed, and a stately  ship is out  at sea, spreading
its white wings to the favouring wind.
     Upon the deck, image to the roughest man  on board of something that is
graceful, beautiful, and harmless -  something that it is good  and pleasant
to have there, and that  should make the voyage prosperous - is Florence. It
is night, and she and Walter  sit  alone, watching  the solemn path of light
upon the sea between them and the moon.
     At  length she cannot see it plainly, for the tears that fill her eyes;
and then she lays her head down on his breast, and puts her  arms around his
neck, saying, 'Oh Walter, dearest love, I am so happy!'
     Her husband holds her to his  heart, and they are  very quiet, and  the
stately ship goes on serenely.
     'As I hear the sea,' says  Florence, 'and sit watching it, it brings so
many days into my mind. It makes me think so much - '
     'Of Paul, my love. I know it does.'
     Of Paul and Walter.  And the voices in the waves  are always whispering
to  Florence,  in their ceaseless murmuring, of love - of  love, eternal and
illimitable,  not bounded by  the confines of  this world, or by the end  of
time, but  ranging still, beyond  the sea, beyond the sky,  to the invisible
country far away!

        CHAPTER 58.
     After a Lapse

     The sea  had ebbed  and flowed, through  a  whole year. Through a whole
year, the winds and clouds had come and gone; the ceaseless work of Time had
been performed, in storm and sunshine.  Through  a whole  year, the tides of
human chance and change  had set in their  allotted courses. Through a whole
year,  the  famous  House  of Dombey and  Son had  fought a fight for  life,
against   cross   accidents,  doubtful   rumours,   unsuccessful   ventures,
unpropitious times, and  most of all, against the infatuation  of its  head,
who  would not contract its enterprises by  a hair's breadth,  and would not
listen to a word of warning that the  ship  he strained  so hard against the
storm, was  weak, and  could not bear it. The  year was  out, and the  great
House was down.
     One summer afternoon; a year, wanting some odd days, after the marriage
in the City church;  there  was a  buzz  and whisper upon 'Change of a great
failure. A certain cold proud man, well known there, was not there,  nor was
he represented there. Next day  it was noised abroad that Dombey and Son had
stopped, and  next night there was  a List of Bankrupts published, headed by
that name.
     The world was very busy now, in sooth, and had a deal to say. It was an
innocently  credulous  and  a much ill-used world. It  was a world in  which
there was 'no other sort of bankruptcy  whatever. There were no  conspicuous
people  in it, trading far and wide on rotten banks of religion, patriotism,
virtue,  honour. There was no  amount  worth  mentioning  of  mere paper  in
circulation,  on which anybody  lived  pretty  handsomely, promising to  pay
great sums of goodness with no effects. There were no shortcomings anywhere,
in  anything but  money.  The world was  very angry indeed;  and  the people
especially,  who, in  a worse world,  might have  been  supposed  to be  apt
traders themselves in shows  and  pretences,  were  observed to  be mightily
indignant.
     Here was  a new inducement to dissipation, presented to  that sport  of
circumstances, Mr Perch the  Messenger!  It was  apparently the  fate  of Mr
Perch  to  be  always  waking  up,  and finding  himself famous. He had  but
yesterday,  as one  might say, subsided into private life from the celebrity
of the elopement and the events that followed it; and now he was made a more
important man than ever, by the bankruptcy.  Gliding from his bracket in the
outer office where he now sat, watching the strange faces of accountants and
others, who quickly superseded nearly all the  old clerks,  Mr Perch had but
to show  himself in the court  outside, or, at farthest, in  the bar of  the
King's Arms, to be asked a multitude of questions, almost certain to include
that interesting question, what would he take to  drink? Then would Mr Perch
descant upon the hours of acute uneasiness he and Mrs Perch had suffered out
at  Balls Pond, when  they first  suspected 'things  was  going wrong.' Then
would  Mr Perch relate to gaping listeners, in a low voice, as if the corpse
of the deceased House were  lying unburied  in the  next room, how Mrs Perch
had first come to surmise that things was going wrong by hearing him (Perch)
moaning  in  his  sleep,  'twelve  and ninepence in  the pound,  twelve  and
ninepence  in  the pound!'  Which act  of  somnambulism he supposed to  have
originated in  the  impression made upon him by  the  change in Mr  Dombey's
face. Then would he inform them how he had once said, 'Might I make so  bold
as ask, Sir, are you unhappy in your  mind?' and how Mr Dombey  had replied,
'My faithful  Perch  - but no, it cannot  be!' and with that had struck  his
hand upon his forehead, and said, 'Leave  me, Perch!' Then, in  short, would
Mr Perch, a  victim  to  his position, tell  all manner of  lies;  affecting
himself to tears by those that were of a moving nature, and really believing
that  the inventions  of yesterday had, on repetition, a sort of truth about
them to-day.
     Mr Perch always closed these conferences by meekly remarking, That,  of
course, whatever his suspicions might have been (as if he had ever had any!)
it wasn't for  him to betray his trust, was it? Which sentiment (there never
being  any  creditors  present) was  received as  doing great honour  to his
feelings. Thus, he generally  brought away a  soothed conscience and left an
agreeable impression  behind him, when he returned to  his bracket: again to
sit watching the strange faces of the accountants and others, making so free
with the great mysteries, the Books; or now and then to go on tiptoe into Mr
Dombey's empty room, and  stir the  fire; or to take an  airing at the door,
and have  a little more doleful chat with  any straggler whom he knew; or to
propitiate, with various small attentions, the head accountant: from whom Mr
Perch had expectations of a messengership in a Fire Office, when the affairs
of the House should be wound up.
     To Major Bagstock, the bankruptcy was quite  a calamity. The  Major was
not a sympathetic character - his attention being wholly concentrated  on J.
B. - nor was he  a man  subject to lively  emotions, except  in the physical
regards of  gasping and choking. But he had so paraded  his friend Dombey at
the club; had so flourished him at the heads  of the members in general, and
so  put them down by continual assertion of his riches; that the club, being
but human, was  delighted  to retort upon  the Major, by asking him, with  a
show of  great  concern,  whether  this  tremendous smash  had  been  at all
expected, and how his friend  Dombey bore it. To such questions,  the Major,
waxing very purple, would reply  that it was a bad world,  Sir,  altogether;
that Joey knew a thing or two, but had been done, Sir, done  like an infant;
that if you had foretold this, Sir, to J. Bagstock, when he went abroad with
Dombey  and was chasing that vagabond up and down France, J. Bagstock  would
have pooh-pooh'd you -  would have pooh- pooh'd you, Sir, by the  Lord! That
Joe had been deceived, Sir, taken in, hoodwinked, blindfolded, but was broad
awake again and staring; insomuch, Sir, that if Joe's father were to rise up
from  the grave  to-morrow, he  wouldn't  trust the old blade  with  a penny
piece, but would tell him that his son Josh was too old a soldier to be done
again,  Sir. That he  was a  suspicious,  crabbed, cranky,  used-up,  J.  B.
infidel, Sir; and that if it were consistent with the dignity of a rough and
tough  old  Major,  of the old school,  who  had  had  the  honour of  being
personally known to, and commended by, their late Royal Highnesses the Dukes
of Kent and York, to retire to a tub and  live in it, by Gad! Sir, he'd have
a tub in Pall Mall to-morrow, to show his contempt for mankind!'
     Of  all  this, and  many  variations  of the same tune, the Major would
deliver himself with so many apoplectic symptoms, such rollings of his head,
and  such  violent growls of  ill  usage  and resentment,  that  the younger
members  of the club surmised he  had invested money in his  friend Dombey's
House,  and lost it; though the older soldiers and deeper dogs, who knew Joe
better, wouldn't hear of such a thing. The unfortunate Native, expressing no
opinion, suffered dreadfully; not  merely in his moral feelings, which  were
regularly fusilladed by the Major every hour in the day, and riddled through
and through, but in his sensitiveness to bodily knocks and bumps, which  was
kept continually on the stretch. For  six entire weeks after the bankruptcy,
this miserable foreigner lived in a rainy season of boot-jacks and brushes.
     Mrs Chick had three ideas upon the subject of the terrible reverse. The
first was that she could not understand it. The second, that her brother had
not made an effort. The third, that if she had been invited to dinner on the
day of that first party, it never would have happened; and that she had said
so, at the time.
     Nobody's opinion stayed  the  misfortune,  lightened  it,  or  made  it
heavier. It was understood that the affairs of the House were to be wound up
as they best could be; that Mr Dombey freely resigned everything he had, and
asked for no favour from anyone. That any resumption of the business was out
of the question, as he  would listen to no friendly negotiation having  that
compromise  in  view;  that  he  had  relinquished  every  post  of trust or
distinction he had  held,  as a  man respected among  merchants; that he was
dying, according to some; that  he  was going  melancholy  mad, according to
others; that he was a broken man, according to all.
     The clerks dispersed after holding a little dinner  of condolence among
themselves, which  was enlivened by comic singing,  and went off  admirably.
Some took  places abroad, and some engaged  in  other Houses at  home;  some
looked up relations in the country,  for whom they suddenly  remembered they
had  a  particular  affection;  and  some advertised for  employment in  the
newspapers.  Mr Perch alone remained of all the  late establishment, sitting
on his bracket looking at the accountants, or starting off it, to propitiate
the head  accountant, who  was to get him into the Fire Office. The Counting
House soon got to be dirty and neglected.  The principal  slipper  and dogs'
collar seller, at the corner  of the court, would have doubted the propriety
of throwing up his forefinger to the brim of his hat, any more, if Mr Dombey
had  appeared there  now;  and the ticket porter, with  his hands  under his
white  apron,  moralised  good sound  morality  about  ambition,  which  (he
observed) was not, in his opinion, made to rhyme to perdition, for nothing.
     Mr  Morfin,  the  hazel-eyed  bachelor,  with  the  hair  and  whiskers
sprinkled with  grey, was perhaps  the only person within the  atmosphere of
the  House - its head, of course, excepted  - who  was heartily  and  deeply
affected by the disaster that had befallen it. He had treated Mr Dombey with
due respect and deference through many years, but he had never disguised his
natural character, or meanly truckled to him, or pampered his master passion
for   the  advancement   of  his  own  purposes.   He  had,   therefore,  no
self-disrespect to avenge; no long-tightened springs to release with a quick
recoil. He  worked early and late  to  unravel whatever  was complicated  or
difficult  in the  records  of the transactions of the House;  was always in
attendance to  explain  whatever required explanation;  sat in his  old room
sometimes  very late at  night, studying points by  his  mastery of which he
could  spare Mr Dombey  the pain of being personally  referred to;  and then
would go home to Islington, and  calm his mind  by producing the most dismal
and forlorn sounds out of his violoncello before going to bed.
     He was solacing himself with this  melodious grumbler one evening, and,
having  been much  dispirited by the proceedings  of  the day,  was scraping
consolation out of its deepest notes, when his landlady (who was fortunately
deaf, and had no other consciousness of these performances than a  sensation
of something rumbling in her bones) announced a lady.
     'In mourning,' she said.
     The  violoncello  stopped immediately; and the  performer, laying it on
the  sofa  with great tenderness and care, made a sign that the lady was  to
come in. He followed directly, and met Harriet Carker on the stair.
     'Alone!'  he said,  'and John  here this morning! Is there anything the
matter, my dear? But no,' he added, 'your face tells quite another story.'
     'I am afraid it is a selfish revelation that you see there, then,'  she
answered.
     'It is a  very pleasant one,' said he; 'and, if selfish, a novelty too,
worth seeing in you. But I don't believe that.'
     He had placed a chair for her by this time,  and sat down opposite; the
violoncello lying snugly on the sofa between them.
     'You will not be surprised at  my coming alone, or at John's not having
told you I was coming,' said Harriet;  'and  you will believe  that,  when I
tell you why I have come. May I do so now?'
     'You can do nothing better.'
     'You were not busy?'
     He pointed to the violoncello lying on the sofa, and said 'I have been,
all day. Here's my witness. I have been confiding all my cares to it. I wish
I had none but my own to tell.'
     'Is the House at an end?' said Harriet, earnestly.
     'Completely at an end.'
     'Will it never be resumed?'
     'Never.'
     The bright  expression of her face  was not  overshadowed  as  her lips
silently repeated  the  word.  He  seemed to observe this  with  some little
involuntary surprise: and said again:
     'Never.  You  remember  what  I  told  you.  It has  been,  all  along,
impossible to convince  him;  impossible  to  reason  with  him;  sometimes,
impossible even to approach him.  The worst has happened; and the  House has
fallen, never to be built up any more.'
     'And Mr Dombey, is he personally ruined?'
     'Ruined.'
     'Will he have no private fortune left? Nothing?'
     A certain eagerness in  her voice, and something that was almost joyful
in her look, seemed to surprise him  more and more;  to disappoint  him too,
and jar discordantly  against his own emotions. He drummed  with the fingers
of one hand  on  the table, looking wistfully at her, and shaking  his head,
said, after a pause:
     'The extent  of  Mr  Dombey's  resources  is  not accurately  within my
knowledge;  but though they  are doubtless very large,  his obligations  are
enormous. He  is a gentleman of  high honour and integrity. Any  man in  his
position could, and many a man in his position would, have saved himself, by
making  terms which would  have very  slightly, almost insensibly, increased
the losses of those who had had dealings with him, and left him a remnant to
live upon.  But he is resolved on payment to the last farthing of his means.
His own words  are, that they  will clear, or nearly clear,  the House,  and
that no  one can  lose much.  Ah, Miss  Harriet, it would  do  us no harm to
remember oftener than we do, that  vices are sometimes only virtues  carried
to excess! His pride shows well in this.'
     She  heard him with little or no  change in her  expression, and with a
divided attention that showed her to be busy with something in her own mind.
When he was silent, she asked him hurriedly:
     'Have you seen him lately?'
     'No one sees him. When this crisis of his affairs renders  it necessary
for him to  come out of his house, he comes out  for the occasion, and again
goes  home, and  shuts himself up, and will sea  no one. He has written me a
letter, acknowledging our past  connexion in  higher terms than it deserved,
and parting from me. I am delicate  of obtruding myself upon  him now, never
having had much intercourse with him in better times; but I have tried to do
so. I have written, gone there, entreated. Quite in vain.'
     He watched  her, as  in the hope  that  she  would testify some greater
concern than  she  had yet shown; and spoke  gravely and feelingly, as if to
impress her the more; but there was no change in her.
     'Well, well, Miss Harriet,' he  said, with a disappointed air, 'this is
not  to  the purpose.  You  have  not come here to hear this. Some other and
pleasanter theme is in your mind. Let it be in mine,  too, and we shall talk
upon more equal terms. Come!'
     'No,  it is the  same theme,' returned  Harriet, with frank  and  quick
surprise. 'Is it  not likely that it should  be? Is it not natural that John
and  I  should have been thinking and  speaking very much of late  of  these
great changes? Mr Dombey, whom he served so many years - you  know upon what
terms - reduced, as you describe; and we quite rich!'
     Good, true  face, as that face of hers was, and pleasant as it had been
to him, Mr Morfin, the hazel-eyed bachelor, since the first time he had ever
looked  upon it,  it pleased him less at that moment, lighted with a ray  of
exultation, than it had ever pleased him before.
     'I need not remind you,'  said Harriet, casting down  her eyes upon her
black dress,  'through what  means  our  circumstances changed. You have not
forgotten that our brother  James, upon that dreadful day,  left no will, no
relations but ourselves.'
     The face was pleasanter  to him now, though it was pale and melancholy,
than it had been a moment since. He seemed to breathe more cheerily.
     'You know,' she said, 'our history, the history of both my brothers, in
connexion with the unfortunate, unhappy gentleman, of whom  you have  spoken
so truly. You know how few our wants are - John's and mine - and what little
use we  have for  money, after the  life  we  have led together for so  many
years; and  now that  he  is earning an income that is ample for us, through
your kindness. You are not unprepared to hear what favour I have come to ask
of you?'
     'I hardly know. I was, a minute ago. Now, I think, I am not.'
     'Of my  dead brother I  say nothing. If  the dead know what we do - but
you understand  me.  Of my living brother I  could say much; but what need I
say more, than  that this act  of duty, in which  I have  come  to ask  your
indispensable assistance, is his own, and that  he  cannot  rest until it is
performed!'
     She raised  her eyes again;  and the  light of  exultation  in her face
began to appear beautiful, in the observant eyes that watched her.
     'Dear Sir,' she  went  on to say, 'it  must  be done very  quietly  and
secretly. Your experience and knowledge will point out a way of doing it. Mr
Dombey  may,  perhaps,  be  led  to believe  that  it  is  something  saved,
unexpectedly, from  the wreck  of his fortunes;  or that it  is  a voluntary
tribute to his honourable  and upright character,  from  some  of those with
whom he  has had great  dealings; or that  it is some old lost  debt repaid.
There must be many ways of  doing it.  I  know you will choose the best. The
favour I have  come to ask is, that you will do it for us in your  own kind,
generous, considerate manner. That you will never speak of it to John, whose
chief happiness in this  act of restitution  is  to do it secretly, unknown,
and  unapproved of:  that  only a  very small part of the inheritance may be
reserved to  us,  until  Mr Dombey shall have  possessed the interest of the
rest  for  the  remainder of  his  life;  that you  will  keep  our  secret,
faithfully  - but that I am sure you will; and that, from  this time, it may
seldom be whispered, even  between you and  me, but  may live in my thoughts
only  as a new reason for thankfulness to Heaven,  and  joy  and pride in my
brother.'
     Such a look of exultation there  may be on  Angels' faces  when the one
repentant  sinner enters Heaven,  among  ninety-nine  just men. It  was  not
dimmed or  tarnished by the joyful tears  that filled her eyes,  but was the
brighter for them.
     'My dear Harriet,' said Mr Morfin, after a silence, 'I was not prepared
for  this. Do I understand you that you  wish to make  your own part in  the
inheritance available for your good purpose, as well as John's?'
     'Oh, yes,' she returned 'When we have shared everything together for so
long a time, and have had no care, hope, or  purpose apart, could  I bear to
be excluded from my share in this? May I not urge a claim to be my brother's
partner and companion to the last?'
     'Heaven forbid that I should dispute it!' he replied.
     'We may rely on your friendly help?' she said. 'I knew we might!'
     'I should be  a worse man than, - than I hope I  am, or would willingly
believe myself,  if I  could  not give  you that assurance from my heart and
soul. You  may, implicitly. Upon my honour,  I will keep your secret. And if
it should be found that Mr Dombey is so reduced as I fear he will be, acting
on  a determination that there  seem to be no  means of influencing,  I will
assist  you to  accomplish the  design, on which  you  and John are  jointly
resolved.'
     She gave him her hand, and thanked him with a cordial, happy face.
     'Harriet,' he said, detaining it in his. 'To speak to  you of the worth
of any sacrifice that you can make now - above all, of any sacrifice of mere
money - would be idle and presumptuous.  To  put before  you  any appeal  to
reconsider your purpose or to set narrow limits to it, would be, I feel, not
less so. I have  no  right to mar the great end of a  great history,  by any
obtrusion of  my own weak self. I  have every right to bend my  head  before
what you confide to  me, satisfied that  it  comes from a higher and  better
source of inspiration than my poor worldly knowledge. I will say  only this:
I am  your  faithful  steward; and I  would  rather be so,  and  your chosen
friend, than I would be anybody in the world, except yourself.'
     She thanked him  again, cordially, and wished him good-night.  'Are you
going home?' he said. 'Let me go with you.'
     'Not to-night. I am  not going home now; I have  a visit to make alone.
Will you come to-morrow?'
     'Well,  well,'  said he,  'I'll come to-morrow. In  the meantime,  I'll
think  of this, and how  we can  best proceed. And perhaps I'll think of it,
dear Harriet, and - and - think of me a little in connexion with it.'
     He handed her down to a coach she  had  in waiting at the door;  and if
his landlady had  not been deaf,  she would have  heard him muttering as  he
went back upstairs, when the coach had driven off, that we were creatures of
habit, and it was a sorrowful habit to be an old bachelor.
     The violoncello lying  on the sofa between the two  chairs,  he took it
up, without putting away the vacant chair, and sat droning on it, and slowly
shaking his head at the vacant chair, for a long, long time. The  expression
he communicated to  the instrument at first, though monstrously pathetic and
bland, was nothing to the expression  he  communicated to his own  face, and
bestowed upon the empty chair: which  was so sincere, that he was obliged to
have recourse to Captain Cuttle's remedy more than once, and to rub his face
with  his sleeve. By degrees, however, the violoncello,  in unison with  his
own frame of  mind, glided melodiously into the Harmonious Blacksmith, which
he played  over and over again, until his ruddy and serene face gleamed like
true metal on  the anvil of a veritable blacksmith. In fine, the violoncello
and  the  empty  chair were the companions of his bachelorhood  until nearly
midnight; and when he took his supper, the violoncello set up  on end in the
sofa  corner,  big with  the  latent  harmony  of a whole  foundry  full  of
harmonious blacksmiths, seemed to  ogle the empty  chair  out of its crooked
eyes, with unutterable intelligence.
     When  Harriet left the house, the driver of  her hired  coach, taking a
course that  was evidently no new one  to him,  went in and out by bye-ways,
through  that part of  the suburbs,  until  he arrived at some  open ground,
where there were a few quiet little old  houses  standing among  gardens. At
the garden-gate of one of these he stopped, and Harriet alighted.
     Her gentle ringing at the bell was  responded  to by a dolorous-looking
woman,  of light complexion, with raised eyebrows, and head drooping on  one
side, who curtseyed at sight of her, and  conducted her across the garden to
the house.
     'How is your patient, nurse, to-night?' said Harriet.
     'In a poor way, Miss, I am afraid. Oh how  she do remind me, sometimes,
of my Uncle's Betsey Jane!' returned the woman of the light complexion, in a
sort of doleful rapture.
     'In what respect?' asked Harriet.
     'Miss, in all  respects,' replied the other, 'except that  she's  grown
up, and Betsey Jane, when at death's door, was but a child.'
     'But  you  have told  me she recovered,' observed  Harriet  mildly; 'so
there is the more reason for hope, Mrs Wickam.'
     'Ah, Miss, hope is  an  excellent thing for such  as has the spirits to
bear it!' said Mrs Wickam, shaking her head. 'My own spirits is not equal to
it, but I don't owe it any grudge. I envys them that is so blest!'
     'You should try to be more cheerful,' remarked Harriet.
     'Thank you,  Miss, I'm  sure,'  said  Mrs  Wickam grimly.  'If I was so
inclined,  the loneliness of  this  situation - you'll excuse my speaking so
free - would put it out  of my power, in four  and twenty hours; but I ain't
at all. I'd rather not.  The little spirits that  I ever had, I was bereaved
of at Brighton some few years ago, and I think I feel myself the  better for
it.'
     In truth, this was the very Mrs Wickam who had  superseded Mrs Richards
as the nurse of little Paul, and  who considered herself  to have gained the
loss  in question, under the roof of the amiable Pipchin. The excellent  and
thoughtful  old  system, hallowed  by long prescription,  which has  usually
picked out from the rest of mankind the most dreary and uncomfortable people
that  could  possibly be laid  hold  of, to  act  as  instructors  of youth,
finger-posts to the virtues, matrons, monitors, attendants on sick beds, and
the like,  had established Mrs Wickam in very good  business as a nurse, and
had led to her serious qualities being particularly commended by an admiring
and numerous connexion.
     Mrs Wickam, with  her  eyebrows elevated, and  her head  on  one  side,
lighted the  way  upstairs  to  a  clean, neat  chamber, opening  on another
chamber  dimly  lighted, where there was a bed.  In  the first  room, an old
woman sat mechanically staring  out at  the open window, on the darkness. In
the second, stretched  upon  the  bed, lay the  shadow of  a figure that had
spurned the  wind and  rain, one wintry night; hardly  to be recognised now,
but by the long black hair  that showed so very black against the colourless
face, and all the white things about it.
     Oh,  the  strong  eyes,  and  the weak frame! The eyes  that turned  so
eagerly  and brightly to the door when Harriet came in; the feeble head that
could not raise itself, and moved so slowly round upon its pillow!
     'Alice!' said the visitor's mild voice, 'am I late to-night?'
     'You always seem late, but are always early.'
     Harriet had sat down by the bedside now, and put her hand upon the thin
hand lying there.
     'You are better?'
     Mrs  Wickam, standing  at the  foot  of the  bed, like  a  disconsolate
spectre,  most  decidedly  and  forcibly  shook her  head to  negative  this
position.
     'It  matters very little!' said Alice, with a  faint smile. 'Better  or
worse to-day, is but a day's difference - perhaps not so much.'
     Mrs Wickam,  as  a  serious character,  expressed her  approval with  a
groan; and  having  made some cold dabs at  the bottom of the bedclothes, as
feeling  for  the patient's  feet  and expecting  to find  them stony;  went
clinking among the medicine bottles  on the table, as who should say, 'while
we are here, let us repeat the mixture as before.'
     'No,'  said  Alice,  whispering  to  her  visitor, 'evil  courses,  and
remorse, travel, want, and  weather, storm  within, and storm without,  have
worn my life away. It will not last much longer.
     She drew the hand up as she spoke, and laid her face against it.
     'I lie here, sometimes, thinking I should like to live until I  had had
a  little time to show you  how grateful I could be! It is  a  weakness, and
soon passes. Better for you as it is. Better for me!'
     How different  her hold upon the hand, from  what it had been when  she
took it by the fireside on the bleak winter evening! Scorn, rage,  defiance,
recklessness, look here! This is the end.
     Mrs Wickam having  clinked sufficiently among the bottles, now produced
the mixture. Mrs  Wickam looked hard at her patient in the act  of drinking,
screwed  her  mouth  up  tight,  her  eyebrows also,  and  shook  her  head,
expressing that tortures shouldn't make her  say it was a hopeless case. Mrs
Wickam then sprinkled a little cooling-stuff about the room, with the air of
a female grave-digger, who was  strewing ashes on ashes, dust on  dust - for
she was  a serious  character - and withdrew  to partake  of certain funeral
baked meats downstairs.
     'How long is it,' asked Alice, 'since I went to you and told you what I
had done, and when you were advised it was too late for anyone to follow?'
     'It is a year and more,' said Harriet.
     'A year and  more,'  said  Alice, thoughtfully  intent upon  her  face.
'Months upon months since you brought me here!'
     Harriet answered 'Yes.'
     'Brought me here, by force of gentleness and kindness. Me!' said Alice,
shrinking with her face behind her hand, 'and made me human by woman's looks
and words, and angel's deeds!'
     Harriet bending over her, composed and  soothed her. By and  bye, Alice
lying as before, with  the hand against  her face, asked to have  her mother
called.
     Harriet called to her more than once, but the old woman was so absorbed
looking  out at the open  window  on the darkness, that she did not hear. It
was not  until Harriet went to her and touched her,  that  she rose up,  and
came.
     'Mother,'  said  Alice, taking the hand again, and fixing  her lustrous
eyes  lovingly upon her visitor, while she merely addressed a motion  of her
finger to the old woman, 'tell her what you know.'
     'To-night, my deary?'
     'Ay, mother,' answered Alice, faintly and solemnly, 'to-night!'
     The old woman, whose wits  appeared disorderly  by  alarm, remorse,  or
grief,  came  creeping along the side of the bed,  opposite to that on which
Harriet  sat; and kneeling  down,  so as to  bring her  withered face upon a
level with the  coverlet, and stretching out her  hand, so as  to  touch her
daughter's arm, began:
     'My handsome gal - '
     Heaven, what a cry  was that,  with which she stopped there, gazing  at
the poor form lying on the bed!
     'Changed, long  ago, mother!  Withered, long ago,' said Alice,  without
looking at her. 'Don't grieve for that now.
     'My daughter,' faltered the old woman, 'my gal who'll  soon get better,
and shame 'em all with her good looks.'
     Alice  smiled mournfully  at Harriet,  and fondled  her hand  a  little
closer, but said nothing.
     'Who'll soon get  better, I say,' repeated the old woman, menacing  the
vacant air with her shrivelled fist, 'and who'll shame 'em all with her good
looks - she will. I say she will! she shall!' - as if she were in passionate
contention with some unseen opponent at the bedside, who contradicted her  -
'my  daughter has been turned away  from,  and cast out, but she could boast
relationship to proud folks too, if  she chose. Ah! To proud  folks! There's
relationship without your clergy and  your wedding rings - they may make it,
but they  can't  break  it  - and my daughter's well  related.  Show  me Mrs
Dombey, and I'll show you my Alice's first cousin.'
     Harriet glanced from the old woman to the lustrous eyes intent upon her
face, and derived corroboration from them.
     'What!' cried the old woman, her nodding  head  bridling with a ghastly
vanity. 'Though I am old and ugly now, - much older  by life  and habit than
years  though, - I was once as young as any.  Ah!  as pretty too, as many! I
was a fresh country  wench in my  time, darling,' stretching out her  arm to
Harriet,  across the  bed, 'and looked  it,  too. Down in  my  country,  Mrs
Dombey's father and his brother were the gayest gentlemen and the best-liked
that came a  visiting from London - they  have long been dead, though! Lord,
Lord, this long while! The brother, who was my Ally's father, longest of the
two.'
     She raised her head a little, and peered at her daughter's  face; as if
from the remembrance of her own youth, she  had flown  to the remembrance of
her child's. Then, suddenly, she laid her face down on the bed, and shut her
head up in her hands and arms.
     'They  were as  like,' said the old  woman, without  looking up, as you
could see  two brothers, so near an age - there wasn't much more than a year
between them, as I  recollect - and if you could have seen my gal, as I have
seen her once, side by side with the  other's daughter, you'd have seen, for
all the difference of dress and life, that they were like each other. Oh! is
the likeness gone, and is it my gal - only my gal - that's to change so!'
     'We shall all change, mother, in our turn,' said Alice.
     'Turn!' cried the old woman, 'but why not hers as soon as my gal's! The
mother  must have changed  - she  looked as old as  me, and full as wrinkled
through her paint - but she  was handsome. What have I  done, I, what have I
done worse than her, that only my gal  is to lie there fading!' With another
of those wild cries, she went running out into the room from which  she  had
come; but  immediately, in her uncertain  mood, returned, and creeping up to
Harriet, said:
     'That's what Alice bade me tell you, deary. That's all. I found it  out
when I  began  to  ask who  she was, and all about her, away in Warwickshire
there, one  summer-time. Such relations  was  no  good  to  me,  then.  They
wouldn't have owned me, and had nothing to give me. I should have asked 'em,
maybe, for a little money, afterwards, if it hadn't been for my Alice; she'd
a'most have killed me, if I had, I  think She was as proud as t'other in her
way,' said the old woman, touching the  face of  her daughter fearfully, and
withdrawing her hand, 'for all she's so quiet now; but she'll shame 'em with
her good looks yet. Ha, ha! She'll shame 'em, will my handsome daughter!'
     Her laugh,  as she retreated, was worse  than her  cry;  worse than the
burst of imbecile lamentation  in which it ended;  worse than the doting air
with which she sat down in her old seat, and stared out at the darkness.
     The  eyes of Alice  had all this time been fixed on Harriet, whose hand
she had never released. She said now:
     'I have felt, lying here, that I should like you to know this. It might
explain,  I have  thought,  something that used to help to  harden me. I had
heard so much, in  my wrongdoing, of  my neglected duty, that I took up with
the belief that duty had not been done to me, and that as the seed was sown,
the harvest  grew. I  somehow made it out that when ladies had bad homes and
mothers, they went wrong in their way, too; but  that  their  way was not so
foul  a one  as mine, and  they had need to bless God for it.'  That  is all
past. It is like a dream,  now, which I cannot quite remember or understand.
It  has been more and more  like  a dream, every day, since you began to sit
here, and to read to me. I only tell it you, as I can recollect it. Will you
read to me a little more?'
     Harriet was withdrawing her hand to  open the book, when Alice detained
it for a moment.
     'You  will  not forget my mother? I forgive her, if I have any cause. I
know that  she forgives me, and is  sorry in her heart. You  will not forget
her?'
     'Never, Alice!'
     'A moment yet. Lay your head so,  dear, that as you read  I may see the
words in your kind face.'
     Harriet complied and read - read  the eternal book  for all  the weary,
and the heavy-laden;  for all the wretched,  fallen,  and neglected  of this
earth  -  read  the blessed history, in which the blind lame palsied beggar,
the  criminal, the woman stained with shame, the  shunned of all  our dainty
clay, has each a portion, that no human pride,  indifference,  or sophistry,
through all the ages that this  world shall last,  can  take away, or by the
thousandth atom  of a grain reduce - read the ministry  of  Him who, through
the round of  human life, and all its hopes and griefs, from birth to death,
from infancy to age,  had sweet compassion for, and  interest in,  its every
scene and stage, its every suffering and sorrow.
     'I shall  come,' said  Harriet, when she shut the book, 'very early  in
the morning.'
     The  lustrous  eyes, yet fixed upon her face, closed for a moment, then
opened; and Alice kissed and blest her.
     The same eyes followed her to the door; and in their  light, and on the
tranquil face, there was a smile when it was closed.
     They never turned  away. She laid  her hand upon  her breast, murmuring
the  sacred name that  had been read  to her; and life passed from her face,
like light removed.
     Nothing  lay there,  any longer, but the ruin of  the  mortal  house on
which the rain had  beaten,  and  the black hair that had  fluttered  in the
wintry wind.

        CHAPTER 59.
     Retribution

     Changes  have come again upon  the great house in the long dull street,
once the scene of  Florence's childhood  and loneliness. It is a great house
still, proof  against  wind  and weather, without breaches in  the roof,  or
shattered windows, or dilapidated walls; but it is a ruin none the less, and
the rats fly from it.
     Mr Towlinson and  company  are, at first, incredulous in respect of the
shapeless  rumours that they hear.  Cook says  our people's  credit ain't so
easy  shook as that comes to, thank God; and Mr Towlinson expects to hear it
reported next, that the Bank of England's a-going to break, or the jewels in
the  Tower  to be sold up. But, next come the  Gazette, and Mr Perch; and Mr
Perch brings Mrs  Perch  to  talk it  over  in  the kitchen, and to  spend a
pleasant evening.
     As soon as there  is no  doubt about it, Mr Towlinson's main anxiety is
that  the failure should be a  good  round one  - not  less than  a  hundred
thousand pound. Mr Perch don't think himself that  a  hundred thousand pound
will nearly cover  it. The women, led by Mrs Perch and Cook, often repeat 'a
hun-dred thou-sand pound!'  with awful satisfaction  - as  if  handling  the
words were like handling the money; and the housemaid, who has her eye on Mr
Towlinson, wishes she had only a hundredth part of the sum to  bestow on the
man of her choice. Mr Towlinson, still mindful of his old wrong, opines that
a foreigner would hardly know what to do with so much money, unless he spent
it on his whiskers; which bitter sarcasm causes the housemaid to withdraw in
tears.
     But not to remain  long absent; for  Cook,  who has  the  reputation of
being  extremely good-hearted,  says, whatever they do, let 'em stand by one
another now, Towlinson, for there's no telling how soon they may be divided.
They have been in that house (says Cook) through a funeral, a wedding, and a
running-away;  and let  it  not  be  said  that they  couldn't  agree  among
themselves at such a time as the present. Mrs Perch is immensely affected by
this moving address, and openly remarks that  Cook is an angel. Mr Towlinson
replies to Cook, far be it from him to stand in the way of that good feeling
which  he could wish to  see;  and adjourning in quest of the housemaid, and
presently  returning with  that young lady on his  arm,  informs the kitchen
that foreigners is only his fun, and that him and Anne have now resolved  to
take one another for better for worse, and to settle in Oxford Market in the
general  greengrocery and herb  and leech line,  where your  kind favours is
particular requested. This  announcement is received with  acclamation;  and
Mrs Perch, projecting her soul into futurity,  says, 'girls,' in Cook's ear,
in a solemn whisper.
     Misfortune in  the  family  without feasting, in these  lower  regions,
couldn't be. Therefore Cook tosses up a hot  dish or two for  supper, and Mr
Towlinson  compounds  a lobster salad to be devoted  to the  same hospitable
purpose. Even Mrs  Pipchin, agitated  by the occasion,  rings her bell,  and
sends down word that she requests to have that little bit of sweetbread that
was left, warmed up for her supper,  and sent to her on a tray with about  a
quarter of a tumbler-full of mulled sherry; for she feels poorly.
     There  is a little talk about Mr Dombey, but very little. It is chiefly
speculation  as to how long he has known that this was going to happen. Cook
says shrewdly,  'Oh a  long  time, bless  you! Take your  oath of that.' And
reference being made to Mr Perch, he confirms her view of the case. Somebody
wonders what  he'll  do,  and  whether  he'll go  out in any  situation.  Mr
Towlinson  thinks  not,  and hints  at  a  refuge in  one  of  them  genteel
almshouses of the better kind. 'Ah, where he'll have his little garden,  you
know,' says Cook  plaintively, 'and  bring  up  sweet  peas in the  spring.'
'Exactly so,' says Mr Towlinson, 'and be one of the Brethren of something or
another.' 'We are all  brethren,' says Mrs Perch,  in a pause of her  drink.
'Except the sisters,' says Mr Perch. 'How  are  the  mighty fallen!' remarks
Cook. 'Pride shall have a fall, and  it always was and will be so!' observes
the housemaid.
     It  is wonderful how good they feel,  in making these  reflections; and
what a Christian unanimity they are sensible of, in bearing the common shock
with  resignation. There is only one interruption to this excellent state of
mind,  which is occasioned  by a young kitchen-maid  of  inferior rank  - in
black  stockings  -  who,  having sat with  her mouth open for  a long time,
unexpectedly discharges  from it words  to this effect,  'Suppose  the wages
shouldn't be  paid!'  The  company sit  for a  moment  speechless; but  Cook
recovering first,  turns upon the young woman, and requests to know how  she
dares  insult  the  family,  whose  bread she  eats,  by  such  a  dishonest
supposition, and  whether  she thinks  that anybody,  with a scrap of honour
left, could deprive  poor servants of  their pittance? 'Because  if  that is
your religious feelings, Mary Daws,'  says Cook warmly, 'I don't know  where
you mean to go to.
     Mr  Towlinson   don't  know  either;  nor  anybody;   and   the   young
kitchen-maid, appearing not to  know  exactly, herself, and scouted  by  the
general voice, is covered with confusion, as with a garment.
     After a few days, strange people begin to  call  at  the  house, and to
make appointments with  one  another in  the dining-room, as if  they  lived
there. Especially,  there is  a  gentleman,  of a  Mosaic  Arabian  cast  of
countenance,  with  a   very   massive  watch-guard,  who  whistles  in  the
drawing-room, and, while he is waiting for  the other  gentleman, who always
has pen and ink in his  pocket, asks Mr Towlinson (by the easy name of  'Old
Cock,') if  he happens  to know  what  the  figure  of them crimson and gold
hangings might have been, when  new bought. The callers and appointments  in
the dining-room become more numerous every day, and every gentleman seems to
have pen and ink in his pocket, and to have some occasion to use it. At last
it is said  that  there is going to be a Sale; and  then more people arrive,
with  pen and  ink in  their pockets,  commanding a detachment  of  men with
carpet  caps,  who immediately begin  to pull up the  carpets, and knock the
furniture about,  and  to print off thousands of impressions of their  shoes
upon the hall and staircase.
     The  council downstairs are in full conclave all this time, and, having
nothing  to do, perform perfect feats of eating. At length, they are one day
summoned in a body to Mrs Pipchin's room, and  thus  addressed  by  the fair
Peruvian:
     'Yo