Dombey and Son
of her being there, without a lurking misgiving that it would have been
better if she had not come. He could calmly think how beautiful she
was, how full of promise, what a home some happy man would find in such
a heart one day. He could reflect upon his own place in that heart,
with pride; and with a brave determination, if not to deserve it—he
still thought that far above him—never to deserve it less.
Some fairy influence must surely have hovered round the hands of Susan
Nipper when she made the tea, engendering the tranquil air that reigned
in the back parlour during its discussion. Some counter-influence must
surely have hovered round the hands of Uncle Sol’s chronometer, and
moved them faster than the Tartar frigate ever went before the wind. Be
this as it may, the visitors had a coach in waiting at a quiet corner
not far off; and the chronometer, on being incidentally referred to,
gave such a positive opinion that it had been waiting a long time, that
it was impossible to doubt the fact, especially when stated on such
unimpeachable authority. If Uncle Sol had been going to be hanged by
his own time, he never would have allowed that the chronometer was too
fast, by the least fraction of a second.
Florence at parting recapitulated to the old man all that she had said
before, and bound him to their compact. Uncle Sol attended her lovingly
to the legs of the wooden Midshipman, and there resigned her to Walter,
who was ready to escort her and Susan Nipper to the coach.
“Walter,” said Florence by the way, “I have been afraid to ask before
your Uncle. Do you think you will be absent very long?”
“Indeed,” said Walter, “I don’t know. I fear so. Mr Dombey signified as
much, I thought, when he appointed me.”
“Is it a favour, Walter?” inquired Florence, after a moment’s
hesitation, and looking anxiously in his face.
“The appointment?” returned Walter.
“Yes.”
Walter would have given anything to have answered in the affirmative,
but his face answered before his lips could, and Florence was too
attentive to it not to understand its reply.
“I am afraid you have scarcely been a favourite with Papa,” she said,
timidly.
“There is no reason,” replied Walter, smiling, “why I should be.”
“No reason, Walter!”
“There was no reason,” said Walter, understanding what she meant.
“There are many people employed in the House. Between Mr Dombey and a
young man like me, there’s a wide space of separation. If I do my duty,
I do what I ought, and do no more than all the rest.”
Had Florence any misgiving of which she was hardly conscious: any
misgiving that had sprung into an indistinct and undefined existence
since that recent night when she had gone down to her father’s room:
that Walter’s accidental interest in her, and early knowledge of her,
might have involved him in that powerful displeasure and dislike? Had
Walter any such idea, or any sudden thought that it was in her mind at
that moment? Neither of them hinted at it. Neither of them spoke at
all, for some short time. Susan, walking on the other side of Walter,
eyed them both sharply; and certainly Miss Nipper’s thoughts travelled
in that direction, and very confidently too.
“You may come back very soon,” said Florence, “perhaps, Walter.”
“I may come back,” said Walter, “an old man, and find you an old lady.
But I hope for better things.”
“Papa,” said Florence, after a moment, “will—will recover from his
grief, and—speak more freely to me one day, perhaps; and if he should,
I will tell him how much I wish to see you back again, and ask him to
recall you for my sake.”
There was a touching modulation in these words about her father, that
Walter understood too well.
The coach being close at hand, he would have left her without speaking,
for now he felt what parting was; but Florence held his hand when she
was seated, and then he found there was a little packet in her own.
“Walter,” she said, looking full upon him with her affectionate eyes,
“like you, I hope for better things. I will pray for them, and believe
that they will arrive. I made this little gift for Paul. Pray take it
with my love, and do not look at it until you are gone away. And now,
God bless you, Walter! never forget me. You are my brother, dear!”
He was glad that Susan Nipper came between them, or he might have left
her with a sorrowful remembrance of him. He was glad too that she did
not look out of the coach again, but waved the little hand to him
instead, as long as he could see it.
In spite of her request, he could not help opening the packet that
night when he went to bed. It was a little purse: and there was money
in it.
Bright rose the sun next morning, from his absence in strange countries
and up rose Walter with it to receive the Captain, who was already at
the door: having turned out earlier than was necessary, in order to get
under weigh while Mrs MacStinger was still slumbering. The Captain
pretended to be in tip-top spirits, and brought a very smoky tongue in
one of the pockets of the broad blue coat for breakfast.
“And, Wal”r,” said the Captain, when they took their seats at table, if
your Uncle’s the man I think him, he’ll bring out the last bottle of
the Madeira on the present occasion.”
“No, no, Ned,” returned the old man. “No! That shall be opened when
Walter comes home again.”
“Well said!” cried the Captain. “Hear him!”
“There it lies,” said Sol Gills, “down in the little cellar, covered
with dirt and cobwebs. There may be dirt and cobwebs over you and me
perhaps, Ned, before it sees the light.”
“Hear him!” cried the Captain. “Good morality! Wal”r, my lad. Train up
a fig-tree in the way it should go, and when you are old sit under the
shade on it. Overhaul the—Well,” said the Captain on second thoughts,
“I ain’t quite certain where that’s to be found, but when found, make a
note of. Sol Gills, heave ahead again!”
“But there or somewhere, it shall lie, Ned, until Wally comes back to
claim it,” said the old man. “That’s all I meant to say.”
“And well said too,” returned the Captain; “and if we three don’t crack
that bottle in company, I’ll give you two leave to.”
Notwithstanding the Captain’s excessive joviality, he made but a poor
hand at the smoky tongue, though he tried very hard, when anybody
looked at him, to appear as if he were eating with a vast appetite. He
was terribly afraid, likewise, of being left alone with either Uncle or
nephew; appearing to consider that his only chance of safety as to
keeping up appearances, was in there being always three together. This
terror on the part of the Captain, reduced him to such ingenious
evasions as running to the door, when Solomon went to put his coat on,
under pretence of having seen an extraordinary hackney-coach pass: and
darting out into the road when Walter went upstairs to take leave of
the lodgers, on a feint of smelling fire in a neighbouring chimney.
These artifices Captain Cuttle deemed inscrutable by any uninspired
observer.
Walter was coming down from his parting expedition upstairs, and was
crossing the shop to go back to the little parlour, when he saw a faded
face he knew, looking in at the door, and darted towards it.
“Mr Carker!” cried Walter, pressing the hand of John Carker the Junior.
“Pray come in! This is kind of you, to be here so early to say good-bye
to me. You knew how glad it would make me to shake hands with you,
once, before going away. I cannot say how glad I am to have this
opportunity. Pray come in.”
“It is not likely that we may ever meet again, Walter,” returned the
other, gently resisting his invitation, “and I am glad of this
opportunity too. I may venture to speak to you, and to take you by the
hand, on the eve of separation. I shall not have to resist your frank
approaches, Walter, any more.”
There was a melancholy in his smile as he said it, that showed he had
found some company and friendship for his thoughts even in that.
“Ah, Mr Carker!” returned Walter. “Why did you resist them? You could
have done me nothing but good, I am very sure.”
He shook his head. “If there were any good,” he said, “I could do on
this earth, I would do it, Walter, for you. The sight of you from day
to day, has been at once happiness and remorse to me. But the pleasure
has outweighed the pain. I know that, now, by knowing what I lose.”
“Come in, Mr Carker, and make acquaintance with my good old Uncle,”
urged Walter. “I have often talked to him about you, and he will be
glad to tell you all he hears from me. I have not,” said Walter,
noticing his hesitation, and speaking with embarrassment himself: “I
have not told him anything about our last conversation, Mr Carker; not
even him, believe me.
The grey Junior pressed his hand, and tears rose in his eyes.
“If I ever make acquaintance with him, Walter,” he returned, “it will
be that I may hear tidings of you. Rely on my not wronging your
forbearance and consideration. It would be to wrong it, not to tell him
all the truth, before I sought a word of confidence from him. But I
have no friend or acquaintance except you: and even for your sake, am
little likely to make any.”
“I wish,” said Walter, “you had suffered me to be your friend indeed. I
always wished it, Mr Carker, as you know; but never half so much as
now, when we are going to part.”
“It is enough,” replied the other, “that you have been the friend of my
own breast, and that when I have avoided you most, my heart inclined
the most towards you, and was fullest of you. Walter, good-bye!”
“Good-bye, Mr Carker. Heaven be with you, Sir!” cried Walter with
emotion.
“If,” said the other, retaining his hand while he spoke; “if when you
come back, you miss me from my old corner, and should hear from anyone
where I am lying, come and look upon my grave. Think that I might have
been as honest and as happy as you! And let me think, when I know time
is coming on, that some one like my former self may stand there, for a
moment, and remember me with pity and forgiveness! Walter, good-bye!”
His figure crept like a shadow down the bright, sun-lighted street, so
cheerful yet so solemn in the early summer morning; and slowly passed
away.
The relentless chronometer at last announced that Walter must turn his
back upon the wooden Midshipman: and away they went, himself, his
Uncle, and the Captain, in a hackney-coach to a wharf, where they were
to take steam-boat for some Reach down the river, the name of which, as
the Captain gave it out, was a hopeless mystery to the ears of
landsmen. Arrived at this Reach (whither the ship had repaired by last
night’s tide), they were boarded by various excited watermen, and among
others by a dirty Cyclops of the Captain’s acquaintance, who, with his
one eye, had made the Captain out some mile and a half off, and had
been exchanging unintelligible roars with him ever since. Becoming the
lawful prize of this personage, who was frightfully hoarse and
constitutionally in want of shaving, they were all three put aboard the
Son and Heir. And the Son and Heir was in a pretty state of confusion,
with sails lying all bedraggled on the wet decks, loose ropes tripping
people up, men in red shirts running barefoot to and fro, casks
blockading every foot of space, and, in the thickest of the fray, a
black cook in a black caboose up to his eyes in vegetables and blinded
with smoke.
The Captain immediately drew Walter into a corner, and with a great
effort, that made his face very red, pulled up the silver watch, which
was so big, and so tight in his pocket, that it came out like a bung.
“Wal”r,” said the Captain, handing it over, and shaking him heartily by
the hand, “a parting gift, my lad. Put it back half an hour every
morning, and about another quarter towards the arternoon, and it’s a