Dombey and Son
that she loved him, and made no appeal against him in any wandering
thought.
Thus Florence lived alone in the deserted house, and day succeeded day,
and still she lived alone, and the monotonous walls looked down upon
her with a stare, as if they had a Gorgon-like intent to stare her
youth and beauty into stone.
Susan Nipper stood opposite to her young mistress one morning, as she
folded and sealed a note she had been writing: and showed in her looks
an approving knowledge of its contents.
“Better late than never, dear Miss Floy,” said Susan, “and I do say,
that even a visit to them old Skettleses will be a Godsend.”
“It is very good of Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles, Susan,” returned
Florence, with a mild correction of that young lady’s familiar mention
of the family in question, “to repeat their invitation so kindly.”
Miss Nipper, who was perhaps the most thoroughgoing partisan on the
face of the earth, and who carried her partisanship into all matters
great or small, and perpetually waged war with it against society,
screwed up her lips and shook her head, as a protest against any
recognition of disinterestedness in the Skettleses, and a plea in bar
that they would have valuable consideration for their kindness, in the
company of Florence.
“They know what they’re about, if ever people did,” murmured Miss
Nipper, drawing in her breath “oh! trust them Skettleses for that!”
“I am not very anxious to go to Fulham, Susan, I confess,” said
Florence thoughtfully: “but it will be right to go. I think it will be
better.”
“Much better,” interposed Susan, with another emphatic shake of her
head.
“And so,” said Florence, “though I would prefer to have gone when there
was no one there, instead of in this vacation time, when it seems there
are some young people staying in the house, I have thankfully said
yes.”
“For which _I_ say, Miss Floy, Oh be joyful!” returned Susan, “Ah!
h—h!”
This last ejaculation, with which Miss Nipper frequently wound up a
sentence, at about that epoch of time, was supposed below the level of
the hall to have a general reference to Mr Dombey, and to be expressive
of a yearning in Miss Nipper to favour that gentleman with a piece of
her mind. But she never explained it; and it had, in consequence, the
charm of mystery, in addition to the advantage of the sharpest
expression.
“How long it is before we have any news of Walter, Susan!” observed
Florence, after a moment’s silence.
“Long indeed, Miss Floy!” replied her maid. “And Perch said, when he
came just now to see for letters—but what signifies what he says!”
exclaimed Susan, reddening and breaking off. “Much he knows about it!”
Florence raised her eyes quickly, and a flush overspread her face.
“If I hadn’t,” said Susan Nipper, evidently struggling with some latent
anxiety and alarm, and looking full at her young mistress, while
endeavouring to work herself into a state of resentment with the
unoffending Mr Perch’s image, “if I hadn’t more manliness than that
insipidest of his sex, I’d never take pride in my hair again, but turn
it up behind my ears, and wear coarse caps, without a bit of border,
until death released me from my insignificance. I may not be a Amazon,
Miss Floy, and wouldn’t so demean myself by such disfigurement, but
anyways I’m not a giver up, I hope.”
“Give up! What?” cried Florence, with a face of terror.
“Why, nothing, Miss,” said Susan. “Good gracious, nothing! It’s only
that wet curl-paper of a man, Perch, that anyone might almost make away
with, with a touch, and really it would be a blessed event for all
parties if someone would take pity on him, and would have the
goodness!”
“Does he give up the ship, Susan?” inquired Florence, very pale.
“No, Miss,” returned Susan, “I should like to see him make so bold as
do it to my face! No, Miss, but he goes on about some bothering ginger
that Mr Walter was to send to Mrs Perch, and shakes his dismal head,
and says he hopes it may be coming; anyhow, he says, it can’t come now
in time for the intended occasion, but may do for next, which really,”
said Miss Nipper, with aggravated scorn, “puts me out of patience with
the man, for though I can bear a great deal, I am not a camel, neither
am I,” added Susan, after a moment’s consideration, “if I know myself,
a dromedary neither.”
“What else does he say, Susan?” inquired Florence, earnestly. “Won’t
you tell me?”
“As if I wouldn’t tell you anything, Miss Floy, and everything!” said
Susan. “Why, nothing Miss, he says that there begins to be a general
talk about the ship, and that they have never had a ship on that voyage
half so long unheard of, and that the Captain’s wife was at the office
yesterday, and seemed a little put out about it, but anyone could say
that, we knew nearly that before.”
“I must visit Walter’s uncle,” said Florence, hurriedly, “before I
leave home. I will go and see him this morning. Let us walk there,
directly, Susan.”
Miss Nipper having nothing to urge against the proposal, but being
perfectly acquiescent, they were soon equipped, and in the streets, and
on their way towards the little Midshipman.
The state of mind in which poor Walter had gone to Captain Cuttle’s, on
the day when Brogley the broker came into possession, and when there
seemed to him to be an execution in the very steeples, was pretty much
the same as that in which Florence now took her way to Uncle Sol’s;
with this difference, that Florence suffered the added pain of thinking
that she had been, perhaps, the innocent occasion of involving Walter
in peril, and all to whom he was dear, herself included, in an agony of
suspense. For the rest, uncertainty and danger seemed written upon
everything. The weathercocks on spires and housetops were mysterious
with hints of stormy wind, and pointed, like so many ghostly fingers,
out to dangerous seas, where fragments of great wrecks were drifting,
perhaps, and helpless men were rocked upon them into a sleep as deep as
the unfathomable waters. When Florence came into the City, and passed
gentlemen who were talking together, she dreaded to hear them speaking
of the ship, and saying it was lost. Pictures and prints of vessels
fighting with the rolling waves filled her with alarm. The smoke and
clouds, though moving gently, moved too fast for her apprehensions, and
made her fear there was a tempest blowing at that moment on the ocean.
Susan Nipper may or may not have been affected similarly, but having
her attention much engaged in struggles with boys, whenever there was
any press of people—for, between that grade of human kind and herself,
there was some natural animosity that invariably broke out, whenever
they came together—it would seem that she had not much leisure on the
road for intellectual operations.
Arriving in good time abreast of the wooden Midshipman on the opposite
side of the way, and waiting for an opportunity to cross the street,
they were a little surprised at first to see, at the Instrument-maker’s
door, a round-headed lad, with his chubby face addressed towards the
sky, who, as they looked at him, suddenly thrust into his capacious
mouth two fingers of each hand, and with the assistance of that
machinery whistled, with astonishing shrillness, to some pigeons at a
considerable elevation in the air.
“Mrs Richards’s eldest, Miss!” said Susan, “and the worrit of Mrs
Richards’s life!”
As Polly had been to tell Florence of the resuscitated prospects of her
son and heir, Florence was prepared for the meeting: so, a favourable
moment presenting itself, they both hastened across, without any
further contemplation of Mrs Richards’s bane. That sporting character,
unconscious of their approach, again whistled with his utmost might,
and then yelled in a rapture of excitement, “Strays! Whoo-oop! Strays!”
which identification had such an effect upon the conscience-stricken
pigeons, that instead of going direct to some town in the North of
England, as appeared to have been their original intention, they began
to wheel and falter; whereupon Mrs Richards’s first born pierced them
with another whistle, and again yelled, in a voice that rose above the
turmoil of the street, “Strays! Whoo-oop! Strays!”
From this transport, he was abruptly recalled to terrestrial objects,
by a poke from Miss Nipper, which sent him into the shop.
“Is this the way you show your penitence, when Mrs Richards has been
fretting for you months and months?” said Susan, following the poke.
“Where’s Mr Gills?”
Rob, who smoothed his first rebellious glance at Miss Nipper when he
saw Florence following, put his knuckles to his hair, in honour of the
latter, and said to the former, that Mr Gills was out.”
“Fetch him home,” said Miss Nipper, with authority, “and say that my
young lady’s here.”
“I don’t know where he’s gone,” said Rob.
“Is that your penitence?” cried Susan, with stinging sharpness.
“Why how can I go and fetch him when I don’t know where to go?”
whimpered the baited Rob. “How can you be so unreasonable?”
“Did Mr Gills say when he should be home?” asked Florence.
“Yes, Miss,” replied Rob, with another application of his knuckles to
his hair. “He said he should be home early in the afternoon; in about a
couple of hours from now, Miss.”
“Is he very anxious about his nephew?” inquired Susan.
“Yes, Miss,” returned Rob, preferring to address himself to Florence
and slighting Nipper; “I should say he was, very much so. He ain’t
indoors, Miss, not a quarter of an hour together. He can’t settle in
one place five minutes. He goes about, like a—just like a stray,” said
Rob, stooping to get a glimpse of the pigeons through the window, and
checking himself, with his fingers half-way to his mouth, on the verge
of another whistle.
“Do you know a friend of Mr Gills, called Captain Cuttle?” inquired
Florence, after a moment’s reflection.
“Him with a hook, Miss?” rejoined Rob, with an illustrative twist of
his left hand. Yes, Miss. He was here the day before yesterday.”
“Has he not been here since?” asked Susan.
“No, Miss,” returned Rob, still addressing his reply to Florence.
“Perhaps Walter’s Uncle has gone there, Susan,” observed Florence,
turning to her.
“To Captain Cuttle’s, Miss?” interposed Rob; “no, he’s not gone there,
Miss. Because he left particular word that if Captain Cuttle called, I
should tell him how surprised he was, not to have seen him yesterday,
and should make him stop till he came back.”
“Do you know where Captain Cuttle lives?” asked Florence.
Rob replied in the affirmative, and turning to a greasy parchment book
on the shop desk, read the address aloud.
Florence again turned to her maid and took counsel with her in a low
voice, while Rob the round-eyed, mindful of his patron’s secret charge,
looked on and listened. Florence proposed that they could go to Captain
Cuttle’s house; hear from his own lips, what he thought of the absence
of any tidings of the Son and Heir; and bring him, if they could, to
comfort Uncle Sol. Susan at first objected slightly, on the score of
distance; but a hackney-coach being mentioned by her mistress, withdrew
that opposition, and gave in her assent. There were some minutes of
discussion between them before they came to this conclusion, during
which the staring Rob paid close attention to both speakers, and
inclined his ear to each by turns, as if he were appointed arbitrator
of the argument.
In time, Rob was despatched for a coach, the visitors keeping shop
meanwhile; and when he brought it, they got into it, leaving word for
Uncle Sol that they would be sure to call again, on their way back. Rob
having stared after the coach until it was as invisible as the pigeons
had now become, sat down behind the desk with a most assiduous