Dombey and Son
The Captain, with Florence on his arm, nodded at the auditory, and
seemed to say, “Now he’s coming out. This is what I meant when I
brought him.”
“Whereby,” proceeded the voice, “why not? If so, what odds? Can any man
say otherwise? No. Awast then!”
When it had pursued its train of argument to this point, the voice
stopped, and rested. It then proceeded very slowly, thus:
“Do I believe that this here Son and Heir’s gone down, my lads? Mayhap.
Do I say so? Which? If a skipper stands out by Sen’ George’s Channel,
making for the Downs, what’s right ahead of him? The Goodwins. He isn’t
forced to run upon the Goodwins, but he may. The bearings of this
observation lays in the application on it. That ain’t no part of my
duty. Awast then, keep a bright look-out for’ard, and good luck to
you!”
The voice here went out of the back parlour and into the street, taking
the Commander of the Cautious Clara with it, and accompanying him on
board again with all convenient expedition, where he immediately turned
in, and refreshed his mind with a nap.
The students of the sage’s precepts, left to their own application of
his wisdom—upon a principle which was the main leg of the Bunsby
tripod, as it is perchance of some other oracular stools—looked upon
one another in a little uncertainty; while Rob the Grinder, who had
taken the innocent freedom of peering in, and listening, through the
skylight in the roof, came softly down from the leads, in a state of
very dense confusion. Captain Cuttle, however, whose admiration of
Bunsby was, if possible, enhanced by the splendid manner in which he
had justified his reputation and come through this solemn reference,
proceeded to explain that Bunsby meant nothing but confidence; that
Bunsby had no misgivings; and that such an opinion as that man had
given, coming from such a mind as his, was Hope’s own anchor, with good
roads to cast it in. Florence endeavoured to believe that the Captain
was right; but the Nipper, with her arms tight folded, shook her head
in resolute denial, and had no more trust in Bunsby than in Mr Perch
himself.
The philosopher seemed to have left Uncle Sol pretty much where he had
found him, for he still went roaming about the watery world, compasses
in hand, and discovering no rest for them. It was in pursuance of a
whisper in his ear from Florence, while the old man was absorbed in
this pursuit, that Captain Cuttle laid his heavy hand upon his
shoulder.
“What cheer, Sol Gills?” cried the Captain, heartily.
“But so-so, Ned,” returned the Instrument-maker. “I have been
remembering, all this afternoon, that on the very day when my boy
entered Dombey’s House, and came home late to dinner, sitting just
there where you stand, we talked of storm and shipwreck, and I could
hardly turn him from the subject.”
But meeting the eyes of Florence, which were fixed with earnest
scrutiny upon his face, the old man stopped and smiled.
“Stand by, old friend!” cried the Captain. “Look alive! I tell you
what, Sol Gills; arter I’ve convoyed Heart’s-delight safe home,” here
the Captain kissed his hook to Florence, “I’ll come back and take you
in tow for the rest of this blessed day. You’ll come and eat your
dinner along with me, Sol, somewheres or another.”
“Not today, Ned!” said the old man quickly, and appearing to be
unaccountably startled by the proposition. “Not today. I couldn’t do
it!”
“Why not?” returned the Captain, gazing at him in astonishment.
“I—I have so much to do. I—I mean to think of, and arrange. I couldn’t
do it, Ned, indeed. I must go out again, and be alone, and turn my mind
to many things today.”
The Captain looked at the Instrument-maker, and looked at Florence, and
again at the Instrument-maker. “To-morrow, then,” he suggested, at
last.
“Yes, yes. To-morrow,” said the old man. “Think of me to-morrow. Say
to-morrow.”
“I shall come here early, mind, Sol Gills,” stipulated the Captain.
“Yes, yes. The first thing tomorrow morning,” said old Sol; “and now
good-bye, Ned Cuttle, and God bless you!”
Squeezing both the Captain’s hands, with uncommon fervour, as he said
it, the old man turned to Florence, folded hers in his own, and put
them to his lips; then hurried her out to the coach with very singular
precipitation. Altogether, he made such an effect on Captain Cuttle
that the Captain lingered behind, and instructed Rob to be particularly
gentle and attentive to his master until the morning: which injunction
he strengthened with the payment of one shilling down, and the promise
of another sixpence before noon next day. This kind office performed,
Captain Cuttle, who considered himself the natural and lawful
body-guard of Florence, mounted the box with a mighty sense of his
trust, and escorted her home. At parting, he assured her that he would
stand by Sol Gills, close and true; and once again inquired of Susan
Nipper, unable to forget her gallant words in reference to Mrs
MacStinger, “Would you, do you think my dear, though?”
When the desolate house had closed upon the two, the Captain’s thoughts
reverted to the old Instrument-maker, and he felt uncomfortable.
Therefore, instead of going home, he walked up and down the street
several times, and, eking out his leisure until evening, dined late at
a certain angular little tavern in the City, with a public parlour like
a wedge, to which glazed hats much resorted. The Captain’s principal
intention was to pass Sol Gills’s, after dark, and look in through the
window: which he did, The parlour door stood open, and he could see his
old friend writing busily and steadily at the table within, while the
little Midshipman, already sheltered from the night dews, watched him
from the counter; under which Rob the Grinder made his own bed,
preparatory to shutting the shop. Reassured by the tranquillity that
reigned within the precincts of the wooden mariner, the Captain headed
for Brig Place, resolving to weigh anchor betimes in the morning.
CHAPTER XXIV.
The Study of a Loving Heart
Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles, very good people, resided in a pretty
villa at Fulham, on the banks of the Thames; which was one of the most
desirable residences in the world when a rowing-match happened to be
going past, but had its little inconveniences at other times, among
which may be enumerated the occasional appearance of the river in the
drawing-room, and the contemporaneous disappearance of the lawn and
shrubbery.
Sir Barnet Skettles expressed his personal consequence chiefly through
an antique gold snuffbox, and a ponderous silk pocket-kerchief, which
he had an imposing manner of drawing out of his pocket like a banner
and using with both hands at once. Sir Barnet’s object in life was
constantly to extend the range of his acquaintance. Like a heavy body
dropped into water—not to disparage so worthy a gentleman by the
comparison—it was in the nature of things that Sir Barnet must spread
an ever widening circle about him, until there was no room left. Or,
like a sound in air, the vibration of which, according to the
speculation of an ingenious modern philosopher, may go on travelling
for ever through the interminable fields of space, nothing but coming
to the end of his moral tether could stop Sir Barnet Skettles in his
voyage of discovery through the social system.
Sir Barnet was proud of making people acquainted with people. He liked
the thing for its own sake, and it advanced his favourite object too.
For example, if Sir Barnet had the good fortune to get hold of a law
recruit, or a country gentleman, and ensnared him to his hospitable
villa, Sir Barnet would say to him, on the morning after his arrival,
“Now, my dear Sir, is there anybody you would like to know? Who is
there you would wish to meet? Do you take any interest in writing
people, or in painting or sculpturing people, or in acting people, or
in anything of that sort?” Possibly the patient answered yes, and
mentioned somebody, of whom Sir Barnet had no more personal knowledge
than of Ptolemy the Great. Sir Barnet replied, that nothing on earth
was easier, as he knew him very well: immediately called on the
aforesaid somebody, left his card, wrote a short note,—“My dear
Sir—penalty of your eminent position—friend at my house naturally
desirous—Lady Skettles and myself participate—trust that genius being
superior to ceremonies, you will do us the distinguished favour of
giving us the pleasure,” etc, etc.—and so killed a brace of birds with
one stone, dead as door-nails.
With the snuff-box and banner in full force, Sir Barnet Skettles
propounded his usual inquiry to Florence on the first morning of her
visit. When Florence thanked him, and said there was no one in
particular whom she desired to see, it was natural she should think
with a pang, of poor lost Walter. When Sir Barnet Skettles, urging his
kind offer, said, “My dear Miss Dombey, are you sure you can remember
no one whom your good Papa—to whom I beg you present the best
compliments of myself and Lady Skettles when you write—might wish you
to know?” it was natural, perhaps, that her poor head should droop a
little, and that her voice should tremble as it softly answered in the
negative.
Skettles Junior, much stiffened as to his cravat, and sobered down as
to his spirits, was at home for the holidays, and appeared to feel
himself aggrieved by the solicitude of his excellent mother that he
should be attentive to Florence. Another and a deeper injury under
which the soul of young Barnet chafed, was the company of Dr and Mrs
Blimber, who had been invited on a visit to the paternal roof-tree, and
of whom the young gentleman often said he would have preferred their
passing the vacation at Jericho.
“Is there anybody you can suggest now, Doctor Blimber?” said Sir Barnet
Skettles, turning to that gentleman.
“You are very kind, Sir Barnet,” returned Doctor Blimber. “Really I am
not aware that there is, in particular. I like to know my fellow-men in
general, Sir Barnet. What does Terence say? Anyone who is the parent of
a son is interesting to me.”
“Has Mrs Blimber any wish to see any remarkable person?” asked Sir
Barnet, courteously.
Mrs Blimber replied, with a sweet smile and a shake of her sky-blue
cap, that if Sir Barnet could have made her known to Cicero, she would
have troubled him; but such an introduction not being feasible, and she
already enjoying the friendship of himself and his amiable lady, and
possessing with the Doctor her husband their joint confidence in regard
to their dear son—here young Barnet was observed to curl his nose—she
asked no more.
Sir Barnet was fain, under these circumstances, to content himself for
the time with the company assembled. Florence was glad of that; for she
had a study to pursue among them, and it lay too near her heart, and
was too precious and momentous, to yield to any other interest.
There were some children staying in the house. Children who were as
frank and happy with fathers and with mothers as those rosy faces
opposite home. Children who had no restraint upon their love, and
freely showed it. Florence sought to learn their secret; sought to find
out what it was she had missed; what simple art they knew, and she knew
not; how she could be taught by them to show her father that she loved
him, and to win his love again.
Many a day did Florence thoughtfully observe these children. On many a
bright morning did she leave her bed when the glorious sun rose, and
walking up and down upon the river’s bank, before anyone in the house
was stirring, look up at the windows of their rooms, and think of them,
asleep, so gently tended and affectionately thought of. Florence would
feel more lonely then, than in the great house all alone; and would