Dombey and Son
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 today?”
“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 three, 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
pocket-handkerchief; 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
observable 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 was certainly 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,