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accompanied by Mrs Baps, to whom Mrs Blimber was extremely kind and
condescending. Mr Baps was a very grave gentleman, with a slow and measured
manner of speaking; and before he had stood under the lamp five minutes, he
began to talk to Toots (who had been silently comparing pumps with him)
about what you were to do with your raw materials when they came into your
ports in return for your drain of gold. Mr Toots, to whom the question
seemed perplexing, suggested 'Cook 'em.' But Mr Baps did not appear to think
that would do.
Paul now slipped away from the cushioned corner of a sofa, which had
been his post of observation, and went downstairs into the tea-room to be
ready for Florence, whom he had not seen for nearly a fortnight, as he had
remained at Doctor Blimber's on the previous Saturday and Sunday, lest he
should take cold. Presently she came: looking so beautiful in her simple
ball dress, with her fresh flowers in her hand, that when she knelt down on
the ground to take Paul round the neck and kiss him (for there was no one
there, but his friend and another young woman waiting to serve out the tea),
he could hardly make up his mind to let her go again, or to take away her
bright and loving eyes from his face.
'But what is the matter, Floy?' asked Paul, almost sure that he saw a
tear there.
'Nothing, darling; nothing,' returned Florence.
Paul touched her cheek gently with his finger - and it was a tear!
'Why, Floy!' said he.
'We'll go home together, and I'll nurse you, love,' said Florence.
'Nurse me!' echoed Paul.
Paul couldn't understand what that had to do with it, nor why the two
young women looked on so seriously, nor why Florence turned away her face
for a moment, and then turned it back, lighted up again with smiles.
'Floy,' said Paul, holding a ringlet of her dark hair in his hand.
'Tell me, dear, Do you think I have grown old-fashioned?'
His sister laughed, and fondled him, and told him 'No.'
'Because I know they say so,' returned Paul, 'and I want to know what
they mean, Floy.' But a loud double knock coming at the door, and Florence
hurrying to the table, there was no more said between them. Paul wondered
again when he saw his friend whisper to Florence, as if she were comforting
her; but a new arrival put that out of his head speedily.
It was Sir Barnet Skettles, Lady Skettles, and Master Skettles. Master
Skettles was to be a new boy after the vacation, and Fame had been busy, in
Mr Feeder's room, with his father, who was in the House of Commons, and of
whom Mr Feeder had said that when he did catch the Speaker's eye (which he
had been expected to do for three or four years), it was anticipated that he
would rather touch up the Radicals.
'And what room is this now, for instance?' said Lady Skettles to Paul's
friend, 'Melia.
'Doctor Blimber's study, Ma'am,' was the reply.
Lady Skettles took a panoramic survey of it through her glass, and said
to Sir Barnet Skettles, with a nod of approval, 'Very good.' Sir Barnet
assented, but Master Skettles looked suspicious and doubtful.
'And this little creature, now,' said Lady Skettles, turning to Paul.
'Is he one of the
'Young gentlemen, Ma'am; yes, Ma'am,' said Paul's friend.
'And what is your name, my pale child?' said Lady Skettles.
'Dombey,' answered Paul.
Sir Barnet Skettles immediately interposed, and said that he had had
the honour of meeting Paul's father at a public dinner, and that he hoped he
was very well. Then Paul heard him say to Lady Skettles, 'City - very rich -
most respectable - Doctor mentioned it.' And then he said to Paul, 'Will you
tell your good Papa that Sir Barnet Skettles rejoiced to hear that he was
very well, and sent him his best compliments?'
'Yes, Sir,' answered Paul.
'That is my brave boy,' said Sir Barnet Skettles. 'Barnet,' to Master
Skettles, who was revenging himself for the studies to come, on the
plum-cake, 'this is a young gentleman you ought to know. This is a young
gentleman you may know, Barnet,' said Sir Barnet Skettles, with an emphasis
on the permission.
'What eyes! What hair! What a lovely face!' exclaimed Lady Skettles
softly, as she looked at Florence through her glass. 'My sister,' said Paul,
presenting her.
The satisfaction of the Skettleses was now complex And as Lady Skettles
had conceived, at first sight, a liking for Paul, they all went upstairs
together: Sir Barnet Skettles taking care of Florence, and young Barnet
following.
Young Barnet did not remain long in the background after they had
reached the drawing-room, for Dr Blimber had him out in no time, dancing
with Florence. He did not appear to Paul to be particularly happy, or
particularly anything but sulky, or to care much what he was about; but as
Paul heard Lady Skettles say to Mrs Blimber, while she beat time with her
fan, that her dear boy was evidently smitten to death by that angel of a
child, Miss Dombey, it would seem that Skettles Junior was in a state of
bliss, without showing it.
Little Paul thought it a singular coincidence that nobody had occupied
his place among the pillows; and that when he came into the room again, they
should all make way for him to go back to it, remembering it was his. Nobody
stood before him either, when they observed that he liked to see Florence
dancing, but they left the space in front quite clear, so that he might
follow her with his eyes. They were so kind, too, even the strangers, of
whom there were soon a great many, that they came and spoke to him every now
and then, and asked him how he was, and if his head ached, and whether he
was tired. He was very much obliged to them for all their kindness and
attention, and reclining propped up in his corner, with Mrs Blimber and Lady
Skettles on the same sofa, and Florence coming and sitting by his side as
soon as every dance was ended, he looked on very happily indeed.
Florence would have sat by him all night, and would not have danced at
all of her own accord, but Paul made her, by telling her how much it pleased
him. And he told her the truth, too; for his small heart swelled, and his
face glowed, when he saw how much they all admired her, and how she was the
beautiful little rosebud of the room.
From his nest among the pillows, Paul could see and hear almost
everything that passed as if the whole were being done for his amusement.
Among other little incidents that he observed, he observed Mr Baps the
dancing-master get into conversation with Sir Barnet Skettles, and very soon
ask him, as he had asked Mr Toots, what you were to do with your raw
materials, when they came into your ports in return for your drain of gold -
which was such a mystery to Paul that he was quite desirous to know what
ought to be done with them. Sir Barnet Skettles had much to say upon the
question, and said it; but it did not appear to solve the question, for Mr
Baps retorted, Yes, but supposing Russia stepped in with her tallows; which
struck Sir Barnet almost dumb, for he could only shake his head after that,
and say, Why then you must fall back upon your cottons, he supposed.
Sir Barnet Skettles looked after Mr Baps when he went to cheer up Mrs
Baps (who, being quite deserted, was pretending to look over the music-book
of the gentleman who played the harp), as if he thought him a remarkable
kind of man; and shortly afterwards he said so in those words to Doctor
Blimber, and inquired if he might take the liberty of asking who he was, and
whether he had ever been in the Board of Trade. Doctor Blimber answered no,
he believed not; and that in fact he was a Professor of - '
'Of something connected with statistics, I'll swear?' observed Sir
Barnet Skettles.
'Why no, Sir Barnet,' replied Doctor Blimber, rubbing his chin. 'No,
not exactly.'
'Figures of some sort, I would venture a bet,' said Sir Barnet
Skettles.
'Why yes,' said Doctor Blimber, yes, but not of that sort. Mr Baps is a
very worthy sort of man, Sir Barnet, and - in fact he's our Professor of
dancing.'
Paul was amazed to see that this piece of information quite altered Sir
Barnet Skettles's opinion of Mr Baps, and that Sir Barnet flew into a
perfect rage, and glowered at Mr Baps over on the other side of the room. He
even went so far as to D Mr Baps to Lady Skettles, in telling her what had
happened, and to say that it was like his most con-sum-mate and con-foun-ded
impudence.
There was another thing that Paul observed. Mr Feeder, after imbibing
several custard-cups of negus, began to enjoy himself. The dancing in
general was ceremonious, and the music rather solemn - a little like church
music in fact - but after the custard-cups, Mr Feeder told Mr Toots that he
was going to throw a little spirit into the thing. After that, Mr Feeder not
only began to dance as if he meant dancing and nothing else, but secretly to
stimulate the music to perform wild tunes. Further, he became particular in
his attentions to the ladies; and dancing with Miss Blimber, whispered to
her - whispered to her! - though not so softly but that Paul heard him say
this remarkable poetry,
'Had I a heart for falsehood framed,
I ne'er could injure You!' This, Paul heard him repeat to four young
ladies, in succession. Well might Mr Feeder say to Mr Toots, that he was
afraid he should be the 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
he 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 boy 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.'
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 he 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.
When Mr Dombey had looked at him, and told him he was young, and that
his Uncle's circumstances were not good, there had been an expression of
disdain in his face; a contemptuous and disparaging assumption that he would
be quite content to live idly on a reduced old man, which stung the boy's
generous soul. Determined to assure Mr Dombey, in so far as it was possible
to give him the assurance without expressing it in words, that indeed he
mistook his nature, Walter had been anxious to show even more cheerfulness
and activity after the West Indian interview than he had shown before: if
that were possible, in one of his quick and zealous disposition. He was too
young and inexperienced to think, that possibly this very quality in him was
not agreeable to Mr Dombey, and that it was no stepping-stone to his good
opinion to be elastic and hopeful of pleasing under the shadow of his
powerful displeasure, whether it were right or wrong. But it may have been -
it may have been- that the great man thought himself defied in this new
exposition of an honest spirit, and purposed to bring it down.
'Well! at last and at least, Uncle Sol must be told,' thought Walter,
with a sigh. And as Walter was apprehensive that his voice might perhaps
quaver a little, and that his countenance might not be quite as hopeful as
he could wish it to be, if he told the old man himself, and saw the first
effects of his communication on his wrinkled face, he resolved to avail
himself of the services of that powerful mediator, Captain Cuttle. Sunday
coming round, he set off therefore, after breakfast, once more to beat up
Captain Cuttle's quarters.
It was not unpleasant to remember, on the way thither, that Mrs
MacStinger resorted to a great distance every Sunday morning, to attend the
ministry of the Reverend Melchisedech Howler, who, having been one day
discharged from the West India Docks on a false suspicion (got up expressly
against him by the general enemy) of screwing gimlets into puncheons, and
applying his lips to the orifice, had announced the destruction of the world
for that day two years, at ten in the morning, and opened a front parlour
for the reception of ladies and gentlemen of the Ranting persuasion, upon
whom, on the first occasion of their assemblage, the admonitions of the
Reverend Melchisedech had produced so powerful an effect, that, in their
rapturous performance of a sacred jig, which closed the service, the whole
flock broke through into a kitchen below, and disabled a mangle belonging to
one of the fold.
This the Captain, in a moment of uncommon conviviality, had confided to
Walter and his Uncle, between the repetitions of lovely Peg, on the night
when Brogley the broker was paid out. The Captain himself was punctual in
his attendance at a church in his own neighbourhood, which hoisted the Union
Jack every Sunday morning; and where he was good enough - the lawful beadle
being infirm - to keep an eye upon the boys, over whom he exercised great
power, in virtue of his mysterious hook. Knowing the regularity of the
Captain's habits, Walter made all the haste he could, that he might
anticipate his going out; and he made such good speed, that he had the
pleasure, on turning into Brig Place, to behold the broad blue coat and
waistcoat hanging out of the Captain's oPen window, to air in the sun.
It appeared incredible that the coat and waistcoat could be seen by
mortal eyes without the Captain; but he certainly was not in them, otherwise
his legs - the houses in Brig Place not being lofty- would have obstructed
the street door, which was perfectly clear. Quite wondering at this
discovery, Walter gave a single knock.
'Stinger,' he distinctly heard the Captain say, up in his room, as if
that were no business of his. Therefore Walter gave two knocks.
'Cuttle,' he heard the Captain say upon that; and immediately
afterwards the Captain, in his clean shirt and braces, with his neckerchief
hanging loosely round his throat like a coil of rope, and his glazed hat on,
appeared at the window, leaning out over the broad blue coat and waistcoat.
'Wal'r!' cried the Captain, looking down upon him in amazement.
'Ay, ay, Captain Cuttle,' returned Walter, 'only me'
'What's the matter, my lad?' inquired the Captain, with great concern.
'Gills an't been and sprung nothing again?'
'No, no,' said Walter. 'My Uncle's all right, Captain Cuttle.'
The Captain expressed his gratification, and said he would come down
below and open the door, which he did.
'Though you're early, Wal'r,' said the Captain, eyeing him still
doubtfully, when they got upstairs:
'Why, the fact is, Captain Cuttle,' said Walter, sitting down, 'I was
afraid you would have gone out, and I want to benefit by your friendly
counsel.'
'So you shall,' said the Captain; 'what'll you take?'
'I want to take your opinion, Captain Cuttle,' returned Walter,
smiling. 'That's the only thing for me.'
'Come on then,' said the Captain. 'With a will, my lad!'
Walter related to him what had happened; and the difficulty in which he
felt respecting his Uncle, and the relief it would be to him if Captain
Cuttle, in his kindness, would help him to smooth it away; Captain Cuttle's
infinite consternation and astonishment at the prospect unfolded to him,
gradually swallowing that gentleman up, until it left his face quite vacant,
and the suit of blue, the glazed hat, and the hook, apparently without an
owner.
'You see, Captain Cuttle,' pursued Walter, 'for myself, I am young, as
Mr Dombey said, and not to be considered. I am to fight my way through the
world, I know; but there are two points I was thinking, as I came along,
that I should be very particular about, in respect to my Uncle. I don't mean
to say that I deserve to be the pride and delight of his life - you believe
me, I know - but I am. Now, don't you think I am?'
The Captain seemed to make an endeavour to rise from the depths of his
astonishment, and get back to his face; but the effort being ineffectual,
the glazed hat merely nodded with a mute, unutterable meaning.
'If I live and have my health,' said Walter, 'and I am not afraid of
that, still, when I leave England I can hardly hope to see my Uncle again.
He is old, Captain Cuttle; and besides, his life is a life of custom - '
'Steady, Wal'r! Of a want of custom?' said the Captain, suddenly
reappearing.
'Too true,' returned Walter, shaking his head: 'but I meant a life of
habit, Captain Cuttle - that sort of custom. And if (as you very truly said,
I am sure) he would have died the sooner for the loss of the stock, and all
those objects to which he has been accustomed for so many years, don't you
think he might die a little sooner for the loss of - '
'Of his Nevy,' interposed the Captain. 'Right!'
'Well then,' said Walter, trying to speak gaily, 'we must do our best
to make him believe that the separation is but a temporary one, after all;
but as I know better, or dread that I know better, Captain Cuttle, and as I
have so many reasons for regarding him with affection, and duty, and honour,
I am afraid I should make but a very poor hand at that, if I tried to
persuade him of it. That's my great reason for wishing you to break it out
to him; and that's the first point.'
'Keep her off a point or so!' observed the Captain, in a comtemplative
voice.
'What did you say, Captain Cuttle?' inquired Walter.
'Stand by!' returned the Captain, thoughtfully.
Walter paused to ascertain if the Captain had any particular
information to add to this, but as he said no more, went on.
'Now, the second point, Captain Cuttle. I am sorry to say, I am not a
favourite with Mr Dombey. I have always tried to do my best, and I have
always done it; but he does not like me. He can't help his likings and
dislikings, perhaps. I say nothing of that. I only say that I am certain he
does not like me. He does not send me to this post as a good one; he
disclaims to represent it as being better than it is; and I doubt very much
if it will ever lead me to advancement in the House - whether it does not,
on the contrary, dispose of me for ever, and put me out of the way. Now, we
must say nothing of this to my Uncle, Captain Cuttle, but must make it out
to be as favourable and promising as we can; and when I tell you what it
really is, I only do so, that in case any means should ever arise of lending
me a hand, so far off, I may have one friend at home who knows my real
situation.
'Wal'r, my boy,' replied the Captain, 'in the Proverbs of Solomon you
will find the following words, "May we never want a friend in need, nor a
bottle to give him!" When found, make a note of.'
Here the Captain stretched out his hand to Walter, with an air of
downright good faith that spoke volumes; at the same time repeating (for he
felt proud of the accuracy and pointed application of his quotation), 'When
found, make a note of.'
'Captain Cuttle,' said Walter, taking the immense fist extended to him
by the Captain in both his hands, which it completely filled, next to my
Uncle Sol, I love you. There is no one on earth in whom I can more safely
trust, I am sure. As to the mere going away, Captain Cuttle, I don't care
for that; why should I care for that! If I were free to seek my own fortune
- if I were free to go as a common sailor - if I were free to venture on my
own account to the farthest end of the world - I would gladly go! I would
have gladly gone, years ago, and taken my chance of what might come of it.
But it was against my Uncle's wishes, and against the plans he had formed
for me; and there was an end of that. But what I feel, Captain Cuttle, is
that we have been a little mistaken all along, and that, so far as any
improvement in my prospects is concerned, I am no better off now than I was
when I first entered Dombey's House - perhaps a little worse, for the House
may have been kindly inclined towards me then, and it certainly is not now.'
'Turn again, Whittington,' muttered the disconsolate Captain, after
looking at Walter for some time.
'Ay,' replied Walter, laughing, 'and turn a great many times, too,
Captain Cuttle, I'm afraid, before such fortune as his ever turns up again.
Not that I complain,' he added, in his lively, animated, energetic way. 'I
have nothing to complain of. I am provided for. I can live. When I leave my
Uncle, I leave him to you; and I can leave him to no one better, Captain
Cuttle. I haven't told you all this because I despair, not I; it's to
convince you that I can't pick and choose in Dombey's House, and that where
I am sent, there I must go, and what I am offered, that I must take. It's
better for my Uncle that I should be sent away; for Mr Dombey is a valuable
friend to him, as he proved himself, you know when, Captain Cuttle; and I am
persuaded he won't be less valuable when he hasn't me there, every day, to
awaken his dislike. So hurrah for the West Indies, Captain Cuttle! How does
that tune go that the sailors sing?
'For the Port of Barbados, Boys!
Cheerily!
Leaving old England behind us, Boys!
Cheerily!' Here the Captain roared in chorus -
'Oh cheerily, cheerily!
Oh cheer-i-ly!'
The last line reaching the quick ears of an ardent skipper not quite
sober, who lodged opposite, and who instantly sprung out of bed, threw up
his window, and joined in, across the street, at the top of his voice,
produced a fine effect. When it was impossible to sustain the concluding
note any longer, the skipper bellowed forth a terrific 'ahoy!' intended in
part as a friendly greeting, and in part to show that he was not at all
breathed. That done, he shut down his window, and went to bed again.
'And now, Captain Cuttle,' said Walter, handing him the blue coat and
waistcoat, and bustling very much, 'if you'll come and break the news to
Uncle Sol (which he ought to have known, days upon days ago, by rights),
I'll leave you at the door, you know, and walk about until the afternoon.'
The Captain, however, scarcely appeared to relish the commission, or to
be by any means confident of his powers of executing it. He had arranged the
future life and adventures of Walter so very differently, and so entirely to
his own satisfaction; he had felicitated himself so often on the sagacity
and foresight displayed in that arrangement, and had found it so complete
and perfect in all its parts; that to suffer it to go to pieces all at once,
and even to assist in breaking it up, required a great effort of his
resolution. The Captain, too, found it difficult to unload his old ideas
upon the subject, and to take a perfectly new cargo on board, with that
rapidity which the circumstances required, or without jumbling and
confounding the two. Consequently, instead of putting on his coat and
waistcoat with anything like the impetuosity that could alone have kept pace
with Walter's mood, he declined to invest himself with those garments at all
at present; and informed Walter that on such a serious matter, he must be
allowed to 'bite his nails a bit'
'It's an old habit of mine, Wal'r,' said the Captain, 'any time these
fifty year. When you see Ned Cuttle bite his nails, Wal'r, then you may know
that Ned Cuttle's aground.'
Thereupon the Captain put his iron hook between his teeth, as if it
were a hand; and with an air of wisdom and profundity that was the very
concentration and sublimation of all philosophical reflection and grave
inquiry, applied himself to the consideration of the subject in its various
branches.
'There's a friend of mine,' murmured the Captain, in an absent manner,
'but he's at present coasting round to Whitby, that would deliver such an
opinion on this subject, or any other that could be named, as would give
Parliament six and beat 'em. Been knocked overboard, that man,' said the
Captain, 'twice, and none the worse for it. Was beat in his apprenticeship,
for three weeks (off and on), about the head with a ring-bolt. And yet a
clearer-minded man don't walk.'
Despite of his respect for Captain Cuttle, Walter could not help
inwardly rejoicing at the absence of this sage, and devoutly hoping that his
limpid intellect might not be brought to bear on his difficulties until they
were quite settled.
'If you was to take and show that man the buoy at the Nore,' said
Captain Cuttle in the same tone, 'and ask him his opinion of it, Wal'r, he'd
give you an opinion that was no more like that buoy than your Uncle's
buttons are. There ain't a man that walks - certainly not on two legs - that
can come near him. Not near him!'
'What's his name, Captain Cuttle?' inquired Walter, determined to be
interested in the Captain's friend.
'His name's Bunsby, said the Captain. 'But Lord, it might be anything
for the matter of that, with such a mind as his!'
The exact idea which the Captain attached to this concluding piece of
praise, he did not further elucidate; neither did Walter seek to draw it
forth. For on his beginning to review, with the vivacity natural to himself
and to his situation, the leading points in his own affairs, he soon
discovered that the Captain had relapsed into his former profound state of
mind; and that while he eyed him steadfastly from beneath his bushy
eyebrows, he evidently neither saw nor heard him, but remained immersed in
cogitation.
In fact, Captain Cuttle was labouring with such great designs, that far
from being aground, he soon got off into the deepest of water, and could
find no bottom to his penetration. By degrees it became perfectly plain to
the Captain that there was some mistake here; that it was undoubtedly much
more likely to be Walter's mistake than his; that if there were really any
West India scheme afoot, it was a very different one from what Walter, who
was young and rash, supposed; and could only be some new device for making
his fortune with unusual celerity. 'Or if there should be any little hitch
between 'em,' thought the Captain, meaning between Walter and Mr Dombey, 'it
only wants a word in season from a friend of both parties, to set it right
and smooth, and make all taut again.' Captain Cuttle's deduction from these
considerations was, that as he already enjoyed the pleasure of knowing Mr
Dombey, from having spent a very agreeable half-hour in his company at
Brighton (on the morning when they borrowed the money); and that, as a
couple of men of the world, who understood each other, and were mutually
disposed to make things comfortable, could easily arrange any little
difficulty of this sort, and come at the real facts; the friendly thing for
him to do would be, without saying anything about it to Walter at present,
just to step up to Mr Dombey's house - say to the servant 'Would ye be so
good, my lad, as report Cap'en Cuttle here?' - meet Mr Dombey in a
confidential spirit- hook him by the button-hole - talk it over - make it
all right - and come away triumphant!
As these reflections presented themselves to the Captain's mind, and by
slow degrees assumed this shape and form, his visage cleared like a doubtful
morning when it gives place to a bright noon. His eyebrows, which had been
in the highest degree portentous, smoothed their rugged bristling aspect,
and became serene; his eyes, which had been nearly closed in the severity of
his mental exercise, opened freely; a smile which had been at first but
three specks - one at the right-hand corner of his mouth, and one at the
corner of each eye - gradually overspread his whole face, and, rippling up
into his forehead, lifted the glazed hat: as if that too had been aground
with Captain Cuttle, and were now, like him, happily afloat again.
Finally, the Captain left off biting his nails, and said, 'Now, Wal'r,
my boy, you may help me on with them slops.' By which the Captain meant his
coat and waistcoat.
Walter little imagined why the Captain was so particular in the
arrangement of his cravat, as to twist the pendent ends into a sort of
pigtail, and pass them through a massive gold ring with a picture of a tomb
upon it, and a neat iron railing, and a tree, in memory of some deceased
friend. Nor why the Captain pulled up his shirt-collar to the utmost limits
allowed by the Irish linen below, and by so doing decorated himself with a
complete pair of blinkers; nor why he changed his shoes, and put on an
unparalleled pair of ankle-jacks, which he only wore on extraordinary
occasions. The Captain being at length attired to his own complete
satisfaction, and having glanced at himself from head to foot in a
shaving-glass which he removed from a nail for that purpose, took up his
knotted stick, and said he was ready.
The Captain's walk was more complacent than usual when they got out
into the street; but this Walter supposed to be the effect of the
ankle-jacks, and took little heed of. Before they had gone very far, they
encountered a woman selling flowers; when the Captain stopping short, as if
struck by a happy idea, made a purchase of the largest bundle in her basket:
a most glorious nosegay, fan-shaped, some two feet and a half round, and
composed of all the jolliest-looking flowers that blow.
Armed with this little token which he designed for Mr Dombey, Captain
Cuttle walked on with Walter until they reached the Instrument-maker's door,
before which they both paused.
'You're going in?' said Walter.
'Yes,' returned the Captain, who felt that Walter must be got rid of
before he proceeded any further, and that he had better time his projected
visit somewhat later in the day.
'And you won't forget anything?'
'No,' returned the Captain.
'I'll go upon my walk at once,' said Walter, 'and then I shall be out
of the way, Captain Cuttle.'
'Take a good long 'un, my lad!' replied the Captain, calling after him.
Walter waved his hand in assent, and went his way.
His way was nowhere in particular; but he thought he would go out into
the fields, where he could reflect upon the unknown life before him, and
resting under some tree, ponder quietly. He knew no better fields than those
near Hampstead, and no better means of getting at them than by passing Mr
Dombey's house.
It was as stately and as dark as ever, when he went by and glanced up
at its frowning front. The blinds were all pulled down, but the upper
windows stood wide open, and the pleasant air stirring those curtains and
waving them to and fro was the only sign of animation in the whole exterior.
Walter walked softly as he passed, and was glad when he had left the house a
door or two behind.
He looked back then; with the interest he had always felt for the place
since the adventure of the lost child, years ago; and looked especially at
those upper windows. While he was thus engaged, a chariot drove to the door,
and a portly gentleman in black, with a heavy watch-chain, alighted, and
went in. When he afterwards remembered this gentleman and his equipage
together, Walter had no doubt be was a physician; and then he wondered who
was ill; but the discovery did not occur to him until he had walked some
distance, thinking listlessly of other things.
Though still, of what the house had suggested to him; for Walter
pleased hImself with thinking that perhaps the time might come, when the
beautiful child who was his old friend and had always been so grateful to
him and so glad to see him since, might interest her brother in his behalf
and influence his fortunes for the better. He liked to imagine this - more,
at that moment, for the pleasure of imagining her continued remembrance of
him, than for any worldly profit he might gain: but another and more sober
fancy whispered to him that if he were alive then, he would be beyond the
sea and forgotten; she married, rich, proud, happy. There was no more reason
why she should remember him with any interest in such an altered state of
things, than any plaything she ever had. No, not so much.
Yet Walter so idealised the pretty child whom he had found wandering in
the rough streets, and so identified her with her innocent gratitude of that
night and the simplicity and truth of its expression, that he blushed for
himself as a libeller when he argued that she could ever grow proud. On the
other hand, his meditations were of that fantastic order that it seemed
hardly less libellous in him to imagine her grown a woman: to think of her
as anything but the same artless, gentle, winning little creature, that she
had been in the days of Good Mrs Brown. In a word, Walter found out that to
reason with himself about Florence at all, was to become very unreasonable
indeed; and that he could do no better than preserve her image in his mind
as something precious, unattainable, unchangeable, and indefinite -
indefinite in all but its power of giving him pleasure, and restraining him
like an angel's hand from anything unworthy.
It was a long stroll in the fields that Walter took that day, listening
to the birds, and the Sunday bells, and the softened murmur of the town -
breathing sweet scents; glancing sometimes at the dim horizon beyond which
condescending. Mr Baps was a very grave gentleman, with a slow and measured
manner of speaking; and before he had stood under the lamp five minutes, he
began to talk to Toots (who had been silently comparing pumps with him)
about what you were to do with your raw materials when they came into your
ports in return for your drain of gold. Mr Toots, to whom the question
seemed perplexing, suggested 'Cook 'em.' But Mr Baps did not appear to think
that would do.
Paul now slipped away from the cushioned corner of a sofa, which had
been his post of observation, and went downstairs into the tea-room to be
ready for Florence, whom he had not seen for nearly a fortnight, as he had
remained at Doctor Blimber's on the previous Saturday and Sunday, lest he
should take cold. Presently she came: looking so beautiful in her simple
ball dress, with her fresh flowers in her hand, that when she knelt down on
the ground to take Paul round the neck and kiss him (for there was no one
there, but his friend and another young woman waiting to serve out the tea),
he could hardly make up his mind to let her go again, or to take away her
bright and loving eyes from his face.
'But what is the matter, Floy?' asked Paul, almost sure that he saw a
tear there.
'Nothing, darling; nothing,' returned Florence.
Paul touched her cheek gently with his finger - and it was a tear!
'Why, Floy!' said he.
'We'll go home together, and I'll nurse you, love,' said Florence.
'Nurse me!' echoed Paul.
Paul couldn't understand what that had to do with it, nor why the two
young women looked on so seriously, nor why Florence turned away her face
for a moment, and then turned it back, lighted up again with smiles.
'Floy,' said Paul, holding a ringlet of her dark hair in his hand.
'Tell me, dear, Do you think I have grown old-fashioned?'
His sister laughed, and fondled him, and told him 'No.'
'Because I know they say so,' returned Paul, 'and I want to know what
they mean, Floy.' But a loud double knock coming at the door, and Florence
hurrying to the table, there was no more said between them. Paul wondered
again when he saw his friend whisper to Florence, as if she were comforting
her; but a new arrival put that out of his head speedily.
It was Sir Barnet Skettles, Lady Skettles, and Master Skettles. Master
Skettles was to be a new boy after the vacation, and Fame had been busy, in
Mr Feeder's room, with his father, who was in the House of Commons, and of
whom Mr Feeder had said that when he did catch the Speaker's eye (which he
had been expected to do for three or four years), it was anticipated that he
would rather touch up the Radicals.
'And what room is this now, for instance?' said Lady Skettles to Paul's
friend, 'Melia.
'Doctor Blimber's study, Ma'am,' was the reply.
Lady Skettles took a panoramic survey of it through her glass, and said
to Sir Barnet Skettles, with a nod of approval, 'Very good.' Sir Barnet
assented, but Master Skettles looked suspicious and doubtful.
'And this little creature, now,' said Lady Skettles, turning to Paul.
'Is he one of the
'Young gentlemen, Ma'am; yes, Ma'am,' said Paul's friend.
'And what is your name, my pale child?' said Lady Skettles.
'Dombey,' answered Paul.
Sir Barnet Skettles immediately interposed, and said that he had had
the honour of meeting Paul's father at a public dinner, and that he hoped he
was very well. Then Paul heard him say to Lady Skettles, 'City - very rich -
most respectable - Doctor mentioned it.' And then he said to Paul, 'Will you
tell your good Papa that Sir Barnet Skettles rejoiced to hear that he was
very well, and sent him his best compliments?'
'Yes, Sir,' answered Paul.
'That is my brave boy,' said Sir Barnet Skettles. 'Barnet,' to Master
Skettles, who was revenging himself for the studies to come, on the
plum-cake, 'this is a young gentleman you ought to know. This is a young
gentleman you may know, Barnet,' said Sir Barnet Skettles, with an emphasis
on the permission.
'What eyes! What hair! What a lovely face!' exclaimed Lady Skettles
softly, as she looked at Florence through her glass. 'My sister,' said Paul,
presenting her.
The satisfaction of the Skettleses was now complex And as Lady Skettles
had conceived, at first sight, a liking for Paul, they all went upstairs
together: Sir Barnet Skettles taking care of Florence, and young Barnet
following.
Young Barnet did not remain long in the background after they had
reached the drawing-room, for Dr Blimber had him out in no time, dancing
with Florence. He did not appear to Paul to be particularly happy, or
particularly anything but sulky, or to care much what he was about; but as
Paul heard Lady Skettles say to Mrs Blimber, while she beat time with her
fan, that her dear boy was evidently smitten to death by that angel of a
child, Miss Dombey, it would seem that Skettles Junior was in a state of
bliss, without showing it.
Little Paul thought it a singular coincidence that nobody had occupied
his place among the pillows; and that when he came into the room again, they
should all make way for him to go back to it, remembering it was his. Nobody
stood before him either, when they observed that he liked to see Florence
dancing, but they left the space in front quite clear, so that he might
follow her with his eyes. They were so kind, too, even the strangers, of
whom there were soon a great many, that they came and spoke to him every now
and then, and asked him how he was, and if his head ached, and whether he
was tired. He was very much obliged to them for all their kindness and
attention, and reclining propped up in his corner, with Mrs Blimber and Lady
Skettles on the same sofa, and Florence coming and sitting by his side as
soon as every dance was ended, he looked on very happily indeed.
Florence would have sat by him all night, and would not have danced at
all of her own accord, but Paul made her, by telling her how much it pleased
him. And he told her the truth, too; for his small heart swelled, and his
face glowed, when he saw how much they all admired her, and how she was the
beautiful little rosebud of the room.
From his nest among the pillows, Paul could see and hear almost
everything that passed as if the whole were being done for his amusement.
Among other little incidents that he observed, he observed Mr Baps the
dancing-master get into conversation with Sir Barnet Skettles, and very soon
ask him, as he had asked Mr Toots, what you were to do with your raw
materials, when they came into your ports in return for your drain of gold -
which was such a mystery to Paul that he was quite desirous to know what
ought to be done with them. Sir Barnet Skettles had much to say upon the
question, and said it; but it did not appear to solve the question, for Mr
Baps retorted, Yes, but supposing Russia stepped in with her tallows; which
struck Sir Barnet almost dumb, for he could only shake his head after that,
and say, Why then you must fall back upon your cottons, he supposed.
Sir Barnet Skettles looked after Mr Baps when he went to cheer up Mrs
Baps (who, being quite deserted, was pretending to look over the music-book
of the gentleman who played the harp), as if he thought him a remarkable
kind of man; and shortly afterwards he said so in those words to Doctor
Blimber, and inquired if he might take the liberty of asking who he was, and
whether he had ever been in the Board of Trade. Doctor Blimber answered no,
he believed not; and that in fact he was a Professor of - '
'Of something connected with statistics, I'll swear?' observed Sir
Barnet Skettles.
'Why no, Sir Barnet,' replied Doctor Blimber, rubbing his chin. 'No,
not exactly.'
'Figures of some sort, I would venture a bet,' said Sir Barnet
Skettles.
'Why yes,' said Doctor Blimber, yes, but not of that sort. Mr Baps is a
very worthy sort of man, Sir Barnet, and - in fact he's our Professor of
dancing.'
Paul was amazed to see that this piece of information quite altered Sir
Barnet Skettles's opinion of Mr Baps, and that Sir Barnet flew into a
perfect rage, and glowered at Mr Baps over on the other side of the room. He
even went so far as to D Mr Baps to Lady Skettles, in telling her what had
happened, and to say that it was like his most con-sum-mate and con-foun-ded
impudence.
There was another thing that Paul observed. Mr Feeder, after imbibing
several custard-cups of negus, began to enjoy himself. The dancing in
general was ceremonious, and the music rather solemn - a little like church
music in fact - but after the custard-cups, Mr Feeder told Mr Toots that he
was going to throw a little spirit into the thing. After that, Mr Feeder not
only began to dance as if he meant dancing and nothing else, but secretly to
stimulate the music to perform wild tunes. Further, he became particular in
his attentions to the ladies; and dancing with Miss Blimber, whispered to
her - whispered to her! - though not so softly but that Paul heard him say
this remarkable poetry,
'Had I a heart for falsehood framed,
I ne'er could injure You!' This, Paul heard him repeat to four young
ladies, in succession. Well might Mr Feeder say to Mr Toots, that he was
afraid he should be the 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
he 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 boy 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.'
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 he 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.
When Mr Dombey had looked at him, and told him he was young, and that
his Uncle's circumstances were not good, there had been an expression of
disdain in his face; a contemptuous and disparaging assumption that he would
be quite content to live idly on a reduced old man, which stung the boy's
generous soul. Determined to assure Mr Dombey, in so far as it was possible
to give him the assurance without expressing it in words, that indeed he
mistook his nature, Walter had been anxious to show even more cheerfulness
and activity after the West Indian interview than he had shown before: if
that were possible, in one of his quick and zealous disposition. He was too
young and inexperienced to think, that possibly this very quality in him was
not agreeable to Mr Dombey, and that it was no stepping-stone to his good
opinion to be elastic and hopeful of pleasing under the shadow of his
powerful displeasure, whether it were right or wrong. But it may have been -
it may have been- that the great man thought himself defied in this new
exposition of an honest spirit, and purposed to bring it down.
'Well! at last and at least, Uncle Sol must be told,' thought Walter,
with a sigh. And as Walter was apprehensive that his voice might perhaps
quaver a little, and that his countenance might not be quite as hopeful as
he could wish it to be, if he told the old man himself, and saw the first
effects of his communication on his wrinkled face, he resolved to avail
himself of the services of that powerful mediator, Captain Cuttle. Sunday
coming round, he set off therefore, after breakfast, once more to beat up
Captain Cuttle's quarters.
It was not unpleasant to remember, on the way thither, that Mrs
MacStinger resorted to a great distance every Sunday morning, to attend the
ministry of the Reverend Melchisedech Howler, who, having been one day
discharged from the West India Docks on a false suspicion (got up expressly
against him by the general enemy) of screwing gimlets into puncheons, and
applying his lips to the orifice, had announced the destruction of the world
for that day two years, at ten in the morning, and opened a front parlour
for the reception of ladies and gentlemen of the Ranting persuasion, upon
whom, on the first occasion of their assemblage, the admonitions of the
Reverend Melchisedech had produced so powerful an effect, that, in their
rapturous performance of a sacred jig, which closed the service, the whole
flock broke through into a kitchen below, and disabled a mangle belonging to
one of the fold.
This the Captain, in a moment of uncommon conviviality, had confided to
Walter and his Uncle, between the repetitions of lovely Peg, on the night
when Brogley the broker was paid out. The Captain himself was punctual in
his attendance at a church in his own neighbourhood, which hoisted the Union
Jack every Sunday morning; and where he was good enough - the lawful beadle
being infirm - to keep an eye upon the boys, over whom he exercised great
power, in virtue of his mysterious hook. Knowing the regularity of the
Captain's habits, Walter made all the haste he could, that he might
anticipate his going out; and he made such good speed, that he had the
pleasure, on turning into Brig Place, to behold the broad blue coat and
waistcoat hanging out of the Captain's oPen window, to air in the sun.
It appeared incredible that the coat and waistcoat could be seen by
mortal eyes without the Captain; but he certainly was not in them, otherwise
his legs - the houses in Brig Place not being lofty- would have obstructed
the street door, which was perfectly clear. Quite wondering at this
discovery, Walter gave a single knock.
'Stinger,' he distinctly heard the Captain say, up in his room, as if
that were no business of his. Therefore Walter gave two knocks.
'Cuttle,' he heard the Captain say upon that; and immediately
afterwards the Captain, in his clean shirt and braces, with his neckerchief
hanging loosely round his throat like a coil of rope, and his glazed hat on,
appeared at the window, leaning out over the broad blue coat and waistcoat.
'Wal'r!' cried the Captain, looking down upon him in amazement.
'Ay, ay, Captain Cuttle,' returned Walter, 'only me'
'What's the matter, my lad?' inquired the Captain, with great concern.
'Gills an't been and sprung nothing again?'
'No, no,' said Walter. 'My Uncle's all right, Captain Cuttle.'
The Captain expressed his gratification, and said he would come down
below and open the door, which he did.
'Though you're early, Wal'r,' said the Captain, eyeing him still
doubtfully, when they got upstairs:
'Why, the fact is, Captain Cuttle,' said Walter, sitting down, 'I was
afraid you would have gone out, and I want to benefit by your friendly
counsel.'
'So you shall,' said the Captain; 'what'll you take?'
'I want to take your opinion, Captain Cuttle,' returned Walter,
smiling. 'That's the only thing for me.'
'Come on then,' said the Captain. 'With a will, my lad!'
Walter related to him what had happened; and the difficulty in which he
felt respecting his Uncle, and the relief it would be to him if Captain
Cuttle, in his kindness, would help him to smooth it away; Captain Cuttle's
infinite consternation and astonishment at the prospect unfolded to him,
gradually swallowing that gentleman up, until it left his face quite vacant,
and the suit of blue, the glazed hat, and the hook, apparently without an
owner.
'You see, Captain Cuttle,' pursued Walter, 'for myself, I am young, as
Mr Dombey said, and not to be considered. I am to fight my way through the
world, I know; but there are two points I was thinking, as I came along,
that I should be very particular about, in respect to my Uncle. I don't mean
to say that I deserve to be the pride and delight of his life - you believe
me, I know - but I am. Now, don't you think I am?'
The Captain seemed to make an endeavour to rise from the depths of his
astonishment, and get back to his face; but the effort being ineffectual,
the glazed hat merely nodded with a mute, unutterable meaning.
'If I live and have my health,' said Walter, 'and I am not afraid of
that, still, when I leave England I can hardly hope to see my Uncle again.
He is old, Captain Cuttle; and besides, his life is a life of custom - '
'Steady, Wal'r! Of a want of custom?' said the Captain, suddenly
reappearing.
'Too true,' returned Walter, shaking his head: 'but I meant a life of
habit, Captain Cuttle - that sort of custom. And if (as you very truly said,
I am sure) he would have died the sooner for the loss of the stock, and all
those objects to which he has been accustomed for so many years, don't you
think he might die a little sooner for the loss of - '
'Of his Nevy,' interposed the Captain. 'Right!'
'Well then,' said Walter, trying to speak gaily, 'we must do our best
to make him believe that the separation is but a temporary one, after all;
but as I know better, or dread that I know better, Captain Cuttle, and as I
have so many reasons for regarding him with affection, and duty, and honour,
I am afraid I should make but a very poor hand at that, if I tried to
persuade him of it. That's my great reason for wishing you to break it out
to him; and that's the first point.'
'Keep her off a point or so!' observed the Captain, in a comtemplative
voice.
'What did you say, Captain Cuttle?' inquired Walter.
'Stand by!' returned the Captain, thoughtfully.
Walter paused to ascertain if the Captain had any particular
information to add to this, but as he said no more, went on.
'Now, the second point, Captain Cuttle. I am sorry to say, I am not a
favourite with Mr Dombey. I have always tried to do my best, and I have
always done it; but he does not like me. He can't help his likings and
dislikings, perhaps. I say nothing of that. I only say that I am certain he
does not like me. He does not send me to this post as a good one; he
disclaims to represent it as being better than it is; and I doubt very much
if it will ever lead me to advancement in the House - whether it does not,
on the contrary, dispose of me for ever, and put me out of the way. Now, we
must say nothing of this to my Uncle, Captain Cuttle, but must make it out
to be as favourable and promising as we can; and when I tell you what it
really is, I only do so, that in case any means should ever arise of lending
me a hand, so far off, I may have one friend at home who knows my real
situation.
'Wal'r, my boy,' replied the Captain, 'in the Proverbs of Solomon you
will find the following words, "May we never want a friend in need, nor a
bottle to give him!" When found, make a note of.'
Here the Captain stretched out his hand to Walter, with an air of
downright good faith that spoke volumes; at the same time repeating (for he
felt proud of the accuracy and pointed application of his quotation), 'When
found, make a note of.'
'Captain Cuttle,' said Walter, taking the immense fist extended to him
by the Captain in both his hands, which it completely filled, next to my
Uncle Sol, I love you. There is no one on earth in whom I can more safely
trust, I am sure. As to the mere going away, Captain Cuttle, I don't care
for that; why should I care for that! If I were free to seek my own fortune
- if I were free to go as a common sailor - if I were free to venture on my
own account to the farthest end of the world - I would gladly go! I would
have gladly gone, years ago, and taken my chance of what might come of it.
But it was against my Uncle's wishes, and against the plans he had formed
for me; and there was an end of that. But what I feel, Captain Cuttle, is
that we have been a little mistaken all along, and that, so far as any
improvement in my prospects is concerned, I am no better off now than I was
when I first entered Dombey's House - perhaps a little worse, for the House
may have been kindly inclined towards me then, and it certainly is not now.'
'Turn again, Whittington,' muttered the disconsolate Captain, after
looking at Walter for some time.
'Ay,' replied Walter, laughing, 'and turn a great many times, too,
Captain Cuttle, I'm afraid, before such fortune as his ever turns up again.
Not that I complain,' he added, in his lively, animated, energetic way. 'I
have nothing to complain of. I am provided for. I can live. When I leave my
Uncle, I leave him to you; and I can leave him to no one better, Captain
Cuttle. I haven't told you all this because I despair, not I; it's to
convince you that I can't pick and choose in Dombey's House, and that where
I am sent, there I must go, and what I am offered, that I must take. It's
better for my Uncle that I should be sent away; for Mr Dombey is a valuable
friend to him, as he proved himself, you know when, Captain Cuttle; and I am
persuaded he won't be less valuable when he hasn't me there, every day, to
awaken his dislike. So hurrah for the West Indies, Captain Cuttle! How does
that tune go that the sailors sing?
'For the Port of Barbados, Boys!
Cheerily!
Leaving old England behind us, Boys!
Cheerily!' Here the Captain roared in chorus -
'Oh cheerily, cheerily!
Oh cheer-i-ly!'
The last line reaching the quick ears of an ardent skipper not quite
sober, who lodged opposite, and who instantly sprung out of bed, threw up
his window, and joined in, across the street, at the top of his voice,
produced a fine effect. When it was impossible to sustain the concluding
note any longer, the skipper bellowed forth a terrific 'ahoy!' intended in
part as a friendly greeting, and in part to show that he was not at all
breathed. That done, he shut down his window, and went to bed again.
'And now, Captain Cuttle,' said Walter, handing him the blue coat and
waistcoat, and bustling very much, 'if you'll come and break the news to
Uncle Sol (which he ought to have known, days upon days ago, by rights),
I'll leave you at the door, you know, and walk about until the afternoon.'
The Captain, however, scarcely appeared to relish the commission, or to
be by any means confident of his powers of executing it. He had arranged the
future life and adventures of Walter so very differently, and so entirely to
his own satisfaction; he had felicitated himself so often on the sagacity
and foresight displayed in that arrangement, and had found it so complete
and perfect in all its parts; that to suffer it to go to pieces all at once,
and even to assist in breaking it up, required a great effort of his
resolution. The Captain, too, found it difficult to unload his old ideas
upon the subject, and to take a perfectly new cargo on board, with that
rapidity which the circumstances required, or without jumbling and
confounding the two. Consequently, instead of putting on his coat and
waistcoat with anything like the impetuosity that could alone have kept pace
with Walter's mood, he declined to invest himself with those garments at all
at present; and informed Walter that on such a serious matter, he must be
allowed to 'bite his nails a bit'
'It's an old habit of mine, Wal'r,' said the Captain, 'any time these
fifty year. When you see Ned Cuttle bite his nails, Wal'r, then you may know
that Ned Cuttle's aground.'
Thereupon the Captain put his iron hook between his teeth, as if it
were a hand; and with an air of wisdom and profundity that was the very
concentration and sublimation of all philosophical reflection and grave
inquiry, applied himself to the consideration of the subject in its various
branches.
'There's a friend of mine,' murmured the Captain, in an absent manner,
'but he's at present coasting round to Whitby, that would deliver such an
opinion on this subject, or any other that could be named, as would give
Parliament six and beat 'em. Been knocked overboard, that man,' said the
Captain, 'twice, and none the worse for it. Was beat in his apprenticeship,
for three weeks (off and on), about the head with a ring-bolt. And yet a
clearer-minded man don't walk.'
Despite of his respect for Captain Cuttle, Walter could not help
inwardly rejoicing at the absence of this sage, and devoutly hoping that his
limpid intellect might not be brought to bear on his difficulties until they
were quite settled.
'If you was to take and show that man the buoy at the Nore,' said
Captain Cuttle in the same tone, 'and ask him his opinion of it, Wal'r, he'd
give you an opinion that was no more like that buoy than your Uncle's
buttons are. There ain't a man that walks - certainly not on two legs - that
can come near him. Not near him!'
'What's his name, Captain Cuttle?' inquired Walter, determined to be
interested in the Captain's friend.
'His name's Bunsby, said the Captain. 'But Lord, it might be anything
for the matter of that, with such a mind as his!'
The exact idea which the Captain attached to this concluding piece of
praise, he did not further elucidate; neither did Walter seek to draw it
forth. For on his beginning to review, with the vivacity natural to himself
and to his situation, the leading points in his own affairs, he soon
discovered that the Captain had relapsed into his former profound state of
mind; and that while he eyed him steadfastly from beneath his bushy
eyebrows, he evidently neither saw nor heard him, but remained immersed in
cogitation.
In fact, Captain Cuttle was labouring with such great designs, that far
from being aground, he soon got off into the deepest of water, and could
find no bottom to his penetration. By degrees it became perfectly plain to
the Captain that there was some mistake here; that it was undoubtedly much
more likely to be Walter's mistake than his; that if there were really any
West India scheme afoot, it was a very different one from what Walter, who
was young and rash, supposed; and could only be some new device for making
his fortune with unusual celerity. 'Or if there should be any little hitch
between 'em,' thought the Captain, meaning between Walter and Mr Dombey, 'it
only wants a word in season from a friend of both parties, to set it right
and smooth, and make all taut again.' Captain Cuttle's deduction from these
considerations was, that as he already enjoyed the pleasure of knowing Mr
Dombey, from having spent a very agreeable half-hour in his company at
Brighton (on the morning when they borrowed the money); and that, as a
couple of men of the world, who understood each other, and were mutually
disposed to make things comfortable, could easily arrange any little
difficulty of this sort, and come at the real facts; the friendly thing for
him to do would be, without saying anything about it to Walter at present,
just to step up to Mr Dombey's house - say to the servant 'Would ye be so
good, my lad, as report Cap'en Cuttle here?' - meet Mr Dombey in a
confidential spirit- hook him by the button-hole - talk it over - make it
all right - and come away triumphant!
As these reflections presented themselves to the Captain's mind, and by
slow degrees assumed this shape and form, his visage cleared like a doubtful
morning when it gives place to a bright noon. His eyebrows, which had been
in the highest degree portentous, smoothed their rugged bristling aspect,
and became serene; his eyes, which had been nearly closed in the severity of
his mental exercise, opened freely; a smile which had been at first but
three specks - one at the right-hand corner of his mouth, and one at the
corner of each eye - gradually overspread his whole face, and, rippling up
into his forehead, lifted the glazed hat: as if that too had been aground
with Captain Cuttle, and were now, like him, happily afloat again.
Finally, the Captain left off biting his nails, and said, 'Now, Wal'r,
my boy, you may help me on with them slops.' By which the Captain meant his
coat and waistcoat.
Walter little imagined why the Captain was so particular in the
arrangement of his cravat, as to twist the pendent ends into a sort of
pigtail, and pass them through a massive gold ring with a picture of a tomb
upon it, and a neat iron railing, and a tree, in memory of some deceased
friend. Nor why the Captain pulled up his shirt-collar to the utmost limits
allowed by the Irish linen below, and by so doing decorated himself with a
complete pair of blinkers; nor why he changed his shoes, and put on an
unparalleled pair of ankle-jacks, which he only wore on extraordinary
occasions. The Captain being at length attired to his own complete
satisfaction, and having glanced at himself from head to foot in a
shaving-glass which he removed from a nail for that purpose, took up his
knotted stick, and said he was ready.
The Captain's walk was more complacent than usual when they got out
into the street; but this Walter supposed to be the effect of the
ankle-jacks, and took little heed of. Before they had gone very far, they
encountered a woman selling flowers; when the Captain stopping short, as if
struck by a happy idea, made a purchase of the largest bundle in her basket:
a most glorious nosegay, fan-shaped, some two feet and a half round, and
composed of all the jolliest-looking flowers that blow.
Armed with this little token which he designed for Mr Dombey, Captain
Cuttle walked on with Walter until they reached the Instrument-maker's door,
before which they both paused.
'You're going in?' said Walter.
'Yes,' returned the Captain, who felt that Walter must be got rid of
before he proceeded any further, and that he had better time his projected
visit somewhat later in the day.
'And you won't forget anything?'
'No,' returned the Captain.
'I'll go upon my walk at once,' said Walter, 'and then I shall be out
of the way, Captain Cuttle.'
'Take a good long 'un, my lad!' replied the Captain, calling after him.
Walter waved his hand in assent, and went his way.
His way was nowhere in particular; but he thought he would go out into
the fields, where he could reflect upon the unknown life before him, and
resting under some tree, ponder quietly. He knew no better fields than those
near Hampstead, and no better means of getting at them than by passing Mr
Dombey's house.
It was as stately and as dark as ever, when he went by and glanced up
at its frowning front. The blinds were all pulled down, but the upper
windows stood wide open, and the pleasant air stirring those curtains and
waving them to and fro was the only sign of animation in the whole exterior.
Walter walked softly as he passed, and was glad when he had left the house a
door or two behind.
He looked back then; with the interest he had always felt for the place
since the adventure of the lost child, years ago; and looked especially at
those upper windows. While he was thus engaged, a chariot drove to the door,
and a portly gentleman in black, with a heavy watch-chain, alighted, and
went in. When he afterwards remembered this gentleman and his equipage
together, Walter had no doubt be was a physician; and then he wondered who
was ill; but the discovery did not occur to him until he had walked some
distance, thinking listlessly of other things.
Though still, of what the house had suggested to him; for Walter
pleased hImself with thinking that perhaps the time might come, when the
beautiful child who was his old friend and had always been so grateful to
him and so glad to see him since, might interest her brother in his behalf
and influence his fortunes for the better. He liked to imagine this - more,
at that moment, for the pleasure of imagining her continued remembrance of
him, than for any worldly profit he might gain: but another and more sober
fancy whispered to him that if he were alive then, he would be beyond the
sea and forgotten; she married, rich, proud, happy. There was no more reason
why she should remember him with any interest in such an altered state of
things, than any plaything she ever had. No, not so much.
Yet Walter so idealised the pretty child whom he had found wandering in
the rough streets, and so identified her with her innocent gratitude of that
night and the simplicity and truth of its expression, that he blushed for
himself as a libeller when he argued that she could ever grow proud. On the
other hand, his meditations were of that fantastic order that it seemed
hardly less libellous in him to imagine her grown a woman: to think of her
as anything but the same artless, gentle, winning little creature, that she
had been in the days of Good Mrs Brown. In a word, Walter found out that to
reason with himself about Florence at all, was to become very unreasonable
indeed; and that he could do no better than preserve her image in his mind
as something precious, unattainable, unchangeable, and indefinite -
indefinite in all but its power of giving him pleasure, and restraining him
like an angel's hand from anything unworthy.
It was a long stroll in the fields that Walter took that day, listening
to the birds, and the Sunday bells, and the softened murmur of the town -
breathing sweet scents; glancing sometimes at the dim horizon beyond which