Dombey and Son
worse for it to-morrow!
Mrs Blimber was a little alarmed by this—comparatively
speaking—profligate behaviour; and especially by the alteration in the
character of the music, which, beginning to comprehend low melodies
that were popular in the streets, might not unnaturally be supposed to
give offence to Lady Skettles. But Lady Skettles was so very kind as to
beg Mrs Blimber not to mention it; and to receive her explanation that
Mr Feeder’s spirits sometimes betrayed him into excesses on these
occasions, with the greatest courtesy and politeness; observing, that
he seemed a very nice sort of person for his situation, and that she
particularly liked the unassuming style of his hair—which (as already
hinted) was about a quarter of an inch long.
Once, when there was a pause in the dancing, Lady Skettles told Paul
that he seemed very fond of music. Paul replied, that he was; and if
she was too, she ought to hear his sister, Florence, sing. Lady
Skettles presently discovered that she was dying with anxiety to have
that gratification; and though Florence was at first very much
frightened at being asked to sing before so many people, and begged
earnestly to be excused, yet, on Paul calling her to him, and saying,
“Do, Floy! Please! For me, my dear!” she went straight to the piano,
and began. When they all drew a little away, that Paul might see her;
and when he saw her sitting there all alone, so young, and good, and
beautiful, and kind to him; and heard her thrilling voice, so natural
and sweet, and such a golden link between him and all his life’s love
and happiness, rising out of the silence; he turned his face away, and
hid his tears. Not, as he told them when they spoke to him, not that
the music was too plaintive or too sorrowful, but it was so dear to
him.
They all loved Florence. How could they help it! Paul had known
beforehand that they must and would; and sitting in his cushioned
corner, with calmly folded hands; and one leg loosely doubled under
him, few would have thought what triumph and delight expanded his
childish bosom while he watched her, or what a sweet tranquillity he
felt. Lavish encomiums on “Dombey’s sister” reached his ears from all
the boys: admiration of the self-possessed and modest little beauty was
on every lip: reports of her intelligence and accomplishments floated
past him, constantly; and, as if borne in upon the air of the summer
night, there was a half intelligible sentiment diffused around,
referring to Florence and himself, and breathing sympathy for both,
that soothed and touched him.
He did not know why. For all that the child observed, and felt, and
thought, that night—the present and the absent; what was then and what
had been—were blended like the colours in the rainbow, or in the
plumage of rich birds when the sun is shining on them, or in the
softening sky when the same sun is setting. The many things he had had
to think of lately, passed before him in the music; not as claiming his
attention over again, or as likely evermore to occupy it, but as
peacefully disposed of and gone. A solitary window, gazed through years
ago, looked out upon an ocean, miles and miles away; upon its waters,
fancies, busy with him only yesterday, were hushed and lulled to rest
like broken waves. The same mysterious murmur he had wondered at, when
lying on his couch upon the beach, he thought he still heard sounding
through his sister’s song, and through the hum of voices, and the tread
of feet, and having some part in the faces flitting by, and even in the
heavy gentleness of Mr Toots, who frequently came up to shake him by
the hand. Through the universal kindness he still thought he heard it,
speaking to him; and even his old-fashioned reputation seemed to be
allied to it, he knew not how. Thus little Paul sat musing, listening,
looking on, and dreaming; and was very happy.
Until the time arrived for taking leave: and then, indeed, there was a
sensation in the party. Sir Barnet Skettles brought up Skettles Junior
to shake hands with him, and asked him if he would remember to tell his
good Papa, with his best compliments, that he, Sir Barnet Skettles, had
said he hoped the two young gentlemen would become intimately
acquainted. Lady Skettles kissed him, and patted his hair upon his
brow, and held him in her arms; and even Mrs Baps—poor Mrs Baps! Paul
was glad of that—came over from beside the music-book of the gentleman
who played the harp, and took leave of him quite as heartily as anybody
in the room.
“Good-bye, Doctor Blimber,” said Paul, stretching out his hand.
“Good-bye, my little friend,” returned the Doctor.
“I’m very much obliged to you, Sir,” said Paul, looking innocently up
into his awful face. “Ask them to take care of Diogenes, if you
please.”
Diogenes was the dog: who had never in his life received a friend into
his confidence, before Paul. The Doctor promised that every attention
should be paid to Diogenes in Paul’s absence, and Paul having again
thanked him, and shaken hands with him, bade adieu to Mrs Blimber and
Cornelia with such heartfelt earnestness that Mrs Blimber forgot from
that moment to mention Cicero to Lady Skettles, though she had fully
intended it all the evening. Cornelia, taking both Paul’s hands in
hers, said, “Dombey, Dombey, you have always been my favourite pupil.
God bless you!” And it showed, Paul thought, how easily one might do
injustice to a person; for Miss Blimber meant it—though she was a
Forcer—and felt it.
A buzz then went round among the young gentlemen, of “Dombey’s going!”
“Little Dombey’s going!” and there was a general move after Paul and
Florence down the staircase and into the hall, in which the whole
Blimber family were included. Such a circumstance, Mr Feeder said
aloud, as had never happened in the case of any former young gentleman
within his experience; but it would be difficult to say if this were
sober fact or custard-cups. The servants, with the butler at their
head, had all an interest in seeing Little Dombey go; and even the
weak-eyed young man, taking out his books and trunks to the coach that
was to carry him and Florence to Mrs Pipchin’s for the night, melted
visibly.
Not even the influence of the softer passion on the young gentlemen—and
they all, to a boy, doted on Florence—could restrain them from taking
quite a noisy leave of Paul; waving hats after him, pressing downstairs
to shake hands with him, crying individually “Dombey, don’t forget me!”
and indulging in many such ebullitions of feeling, uncommon among those
young Chesterfields. Paul whispered Florence, as she wrapped him up
before the door was opened, Did she hear them? Would she ever forget
it? Was she glad to know it? And a lively delight was in his eyes as he
spoke to her.
Once, for a last look, he turned and gazed upon the faces thus
addressed to him, surprised to see how shining and how bright, and
numerous they were, and how they were all piled and heaped up, as faces
are at crowded theatres. They swam before him as he looked, like faces
in an agitated glass; and next moment he was in the dark coach outside,
holding close to Florence. From that time, whenever he thought of
Doctor Blimber’s, it came back as he had seen it in this last view; and
it never seemed to be a real place again, but always a dream, full of
eyes.
This was not quite the last of Doctor Blimber’s, however. There was
something else. There was Mr Toots. Who, unexpectedly letting down one
of the coach-windows, and looking in, said, with a most egregious
chuckle, “Is Dombey there?” and immediately put it up again, without
waiting for an answer. Nor was this quite the last of Mr Toots, even;
for before the coachman could drive off, he as suddenly let down the
other window, and looking in with a precisely similar chuckle, said in
a precisely similar tone of voice, “Is Dombey there?” and disappeared
precisely as before.
How Florence laughed! Paul often remembered it, and laughed himself
whenever he did so.
But there was much, soon afterwards—next day, and after that—which Paul
could only recollect confusedly. As, why they stayed at Mrs Pipchin’s
days and nights, instead of going home; why he lay in bed, with
Florence sitting by his side; whether that had been his father in the
room, or only a tall shadow on the wall; whether he had heard his
doctor say, of someone, that if they had removed him before the
occasion on which he had built up fancies, strong in proportion to his
own weakness, it was very possible he might have pined away.
He could not even remember whether he had often said to Florence, “Oh
Floy, take me home, and never leave me!” but he thought he had. He
fancied sometimes he had heard himself repeating, “Take me home, Floy!
take me home!”
But he could remember, when he got home, and was carried up the
well-remembered stairs, that there had been the rumbling of a coach for
many hours together, while he lay upon the seat, with Florence still
beside him, and old Mrs Pipchin sitting opposite. He remembered his old
bed too, when they laid him down in it: his aunt, Miss Tox, and Susan:
but there was something else, and recent too, that still perplexed him.
“I want to speak to Florence, if you please,” he said. “To Florence by
herself, for a moment!”
She bent down over him, and the others stood away.
“Floy, my pet, wasn’t that Papa in the hall, when they brought me from
the coach?”
“Yes, dear.”
“He didn’t cry, and go into his room, Floy, did he, when he saw me
coming in?”
Florence shook her head, and pressed her lips against his cheek.
“I’m very glad he didn’t cry,” said little Paul. “I thought he did.
Don’t tell them that I asked.”
CHAPTER XV.
Amazing Artfulness of Captain Cuttle, and a new Pursuit for Walter Gay
Walter could not, for several days, decide what to do in the Barbados
business; and even cherished some faint hope that Mr Dombey might not
have meant what he had said, or that he might change his mind, and tell
him he was not to go. But as nothing occurred to give this idea (which
was sufficiently improbable in itself) any touch of confirmation, and
as time was slipping by, and he had none to lose, he felt that he must
act, without hesitating any longer.
Walter’s chief difficulty was, how to break the change in his affairs
to Uncle Sol, to whom he was sensible it would be a terrible blow. He
had the greater difficulty in dashing Uncle Sol’s spirits with such an
astounding piece of intelligence, because they had lately recovered
very much, and the old man had become so cheerful, that the little back
parlour was itself again. Uncle Sol had paid the first appointed
portion of the debt to Mr Dombey, and was hopeful of working his way
through the rest; and to cast him down afresh, when he had sprung up so
manfully from his troubles, was a very distressing necessity.
Yet it would never do to run away from him. He must know of it
beforehand; and how to tell him was the point. As to the question of
going or not going, Walter did not consider that he had any power of
choice in the matter. Mr Dombey had truly told him that he was young,
and that his Uncle’s circumstances were not good; and Mr Dombey had
plainly expressed, in the glance with which he had accompanied that
reminder, that if he declined to go he might stay at home if he chose,
but not in his counting-house. His Uncle and he lay under a great
obligation to Mr Dombey, which was of Walter’s own soliciting. He might
have begun in secret to despair of ever winning that gentleman’s
favour, and might have thought that he was now and then disposed to put
a slight upon him, which was hardly just. But what would have been duty
without that, was still duty with it—or Walter thought so—and duty must
be done.