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his voyage and his place of destination lay; then looking round on the green
English grass and the home landscape. But he hardly once thought, even of
going away, distinctly; and seemed to put off reflection idly, from hour to
hour, and from minute to minute, while he yet went on reflecting all the
time.
Walter had left the fields behind him, and was plodding homeward in the
same abstracted mood, when he heard a shout from a man, and then a woman's
voice calling to him loudly by name. Turning quickly in his surprise, he saw
that a hackney-coach, going in the contrary direction, had stopped at no
great distance; that the coachman was looking back from his box and making
signals to him with his whip; and that a young woman inside was leaning out
of the window, and beckoning with immense energy. Running up to this coach,
he found that the young woman was Miss Nipper, and that Miss Nipper was in
such a flutter as to be almost beside herself.
'Staggs's Gardens, Mr Walter!' said Miss Nipper; 'if you please, oh
do!'
'Eh?' cried Walter; 'what is the matter?'
'Oh, Mr Walter, Staggs's Gardens, if you please!' said Susan.
'There!' cried the coachman, appealing to Walter, with a sort of
exalting despair; 'that's the way the young lady's been a goin' on for
up'ards of a mortal hour, and me continivally backing out of no
thoroughfares, where she would drive up. I've had a many fares in this
coach, first and last, but never such a fare as her.'
'Do you want to go to Staggs's Gardens, Susan?' inquired Walter.
'Ah! She wants to go there! WHERE IS IT?' growled the coachman.
'I don't know where it is!' exclaimed Susan, wildly. 'Mr Walter, I was
there once myself, along with Miss Floy and our poor darling Master Paul, on
the very day when you found Miss Floy in the City, for we lost her coming
home, Mrs Richards and me, and a mad bull, and Mrs Richards's eldest, and
though I went there afterwards, I can't remember where it is, I think it's
sunk into the ground. Oh, Mr Walter, don't desert me, Staggs's Gardens, if
you please! Miss Floy's darling - all our darlings - little, meek, meek
Master Paul! Oh Mr Walter!'
'Good God!' cried Walter. 'Is he very ill?'
'The pretty flower!' cried Susan, wringing her hands, 'has took the
fancy that he'd like to see his old nurse, and I've come to bring her to his
bedside, Mrs Staggs, of Polly Toodle's Gardens, someone pray!'
Greatly moved by what he heard, and catching Susan's earnestness
immediately, Walter, now that he understood the nature of her errand, dashed
into it with such ardour that the coachman had enough to do to follow
closely as he ran before, inquiring here and there and everywhere, the way
to Staggs's Gardens.
There was no such place as Staggs's Gardens. It had vanished from the
earth. Where the old rotten summer-houses once had stood, palaces now reared
their heads, and granite columns of gigantic girth opened a vista to the
railway world beyond. The miserable waste ground, where the refuse-matter
had been heaped of yore, was swallowed up and gone; and in its frowsy stead
were tiers of warehouses, crammed with rich goods and costly merchandise.
The old by-streets now swarmed with passengers and vehicles of every kind:
the new streets that had stopped disheartened in the mud and waggon-ruts,
formed towns within themselves, originating wholesome comforts and
conveniences belonging to themselves, and never tried nor thought of until
they sprung into existence. Bridges that had led to nothing, led to villas,
gardens, churches, healthy public walks. The carcasses of houses, and
beginnings of new thoroughfares, had started off upon the line at steam's
own speed, and shot away into the country in a monster train.'
As to the neighbourhood which had hesitated to acknowledge the railroad
in its straggling days, that had grown wise and penitent, as any Christian
might in such a case, and now boasted of its powerful and prosperous
relation. There were railway patterns in its drapers' shops, and railway
journals in the windows of its newsmen. There were railway hotels,
office-houses, lodging-houses, boarding-houses; railway plans, maps, views,
wrappers, bottles, sandwich-boxes, and time-tables; railway hackney-coach
and stands; railway omnibuses, railway streets and buildings, railway
hangers-on and parasites, and flatterers out of all calculation. There was
even railway time observed in clocks, as if the sun itself had given in.
Among the vanquished was the master chimney-sweeper, whilom incredulous at
Staggs's Gardens, who now lived in a stuccoed house three stories high, and
gave himself out, with golden flourishes upon a varnished board, as
contractor for the cleansing of railway chimneys by machinery.
To and from the heart of this great change, all day and night,
throbbing currents rushed and returned incessantly like its life's blood.
Crowds of people and mountains of goods, departing and arriving scores upon
scores of times in every four-and-twenty hours, produced a fermentation in
the place that was always in action. The very houses seemed disposed to pack
up and take trips. Wonderful Members of Parliament, who, little more than
twenty years before, had made themselves merry with the wild railroad
theories of engineers, and given them the liveliest rubs in
cross-examination, went down into the north with their watches in their
hands, and sent on messages before by the electric telegraph, to say that
they were coming. Night and day the conquering engines rumbled at their
distant work, or, advancing smoothly to their journey's end, and gliding
like tame dragons into the allotted corners grooved out to the inch for
their reception, stood bubbling and trembling there, making the walls quake,
as if they were dilating with the secret knowledge of great powers yet
unsuspected in them, and strong purposes not yet achieved.
But Staggs's Gardens had been cut up root and branch. Oh woe the day
when 'not a rood of English ground' - laid out in Staggs's Gardens - is
secure!
At last, after much fruitless inquiry, Walter, followed by the coach
and Susan, found a man who had once resided in that vanished land, and who
was no other than the master sweep before referred to, grown stout, and
knocking a double knock at his own door. He knowed Toodle, he said, well.
Belonged to the Railroad, didn't he?
'Yes' sir, yes!' cried Susan Nipper from the coach window.
Where did he live now? hastily inquired Walter.
He lived in the Company's own Buildings, second turning to the right,
down the yard, cross over, and take the second on the right again. It was
number eleven; they couldn't mistake it; but if they did, they had only to
ask for Toodle, Engine Fireman, and any one would show them which was his
house. At this unexpected stroke of success Susan Nipper dismounted from the
coach with all speed, took Walter's arm, and set off at a breathless pace on
foot; leaving the coach there to await their return.
'Has the little boy been long ill, Susan?' inquired Walter, as they
hurried on.
'Ailing for a deal of time, but no one knew how much,' said Susan;
adding, with excessive sharpness, 'Oh, them Blimbers!'
'Blimbers?' echoed Walter.
'I couldn't forgive myself at such a time as this, Mr Walter,' said
Susan, 'and when there's so much serious distress to think about, if I
rested hard on anyone, especially on them that little darling Paul speaks
well of, but I may wish that the family was set to work in a stony soil to
make new roads, and that Miss Blimber went in front, and had the pickaxe!'
Miss Nipper then took breath, and went on faster than before, as if
this extraordinary aspiration had relieved her. Walter, who had by this time
no breath of his own to spare, hurried along without asking any more
questions; and they soon, in their impatience, burst in at a little door and
came into a clean parlour full of children.
'Where's Mrs Richards?' exclaimed Susan Nipper, looking round. 'Oh Mrs
Richards, Mrs Richards, come along with me, my dear creetur!'
'Why, if it ain't Susan!' cried Polly, rising with her honest face and
motherly figure from among the group, in great surprIse.
'Yes, Mrs Richards, it's me,' said Susan, 'and I wish it wasn't, though
I may not seem to flatter when I say so, but little Master Paul is very ill,
and told his Pa today that he would like to see the face of his old nurse,
and him and Miss Floy hope you'll come along with me - and Mr Walter, Mrs
Richards - forgetting what is past, and do a kindness to the sweet dear that
is withering away. Oh, Mrs Richards, withering away!' Susan Nipper crying,
Polly shed tears to see her, and to hear what she had said; and all the
children gathered round (including numbers of new babies); and Mr Toodle,
who had just come home from Birmingham, and was eating his dinner out of a
basin, laid down his knife and fork, and put on his wife's bonnet and shawl
for her, which were hanging up behind the door; then tapped her on the back;
and said, with more fatherly feeling than eloquence, 'Polly! cut away!'
So they got back to the coach, long before the coachman expected them;
and Walter, putting Susan and Mrs Richards inside, took his seat on the box
himself that there might be no more mistakes, and deposited them safely in
the hall of Mr Dombey's house - where, by the bye, he saw a mighty nosegay
lying, which reminded him of the one Captain Cuttle had purchased in his
company that morning. He would have lingered to know more of the young
invalid, or waited any length of time to see if he could render the least
service; but, painfully sensible that such conduct would be looked upon by
Mr Dombey as presumptuous and forward, he turned slowly, sadly, anxiously,
away.
He had not gone five minutes' walk from the door, when a man came
running after him, and begged him to return. Walter retraced his steps as
quickly as he could, and entered the gloomy house with a sorrowful
foreboding.
What the Waves were always saying
Paul had never risen from his little bed. He lay there, listening to
the noises in the street, quite tranquilly; not caring much how the time
went, but watching it and watching everything about him with observing eyes.
When the sunbeams struck into his room through the rustling blinds, and
quivered on the opposite wall like golden water, he knew that evening was
coming on, and that the sky was red and beautiful. As the reflection died
away, and a gloom went creeping up the wall, he watched it deepen, deepen,
deepen, into night. Then he thought how the long streets were dotted with
lamps, and how the peaceful stars were shining overhead. His fancy had a
strange tendency to wander to the river, which he knew was flowing through
the great city; and now he thought how black it was, and how deep it would
look, reflecting the hosts of stars - and more than all, how steadily it
rolled away to meet the sea.
As it grew later in the night, and footsteps in the street became so
rare that he could hear them coming, count them as they passed, and lose
them in the hollow distance, he would lie and watch the many-coloured ring
about the candle, and wait patiently for day. His only trouble was, the
swift and rapid river. He felt forced, sometimes, to try to stop it - to
stem it with his childish hands - or choke its way with sand - and when he
saw it coming on, resistless, he cried out! But a word from Florence, who
was always at his side, restored him to himself; and leaning his poor head
upon her breast, he told Floy of his dream, and smiled.
When day began to dawn again, he watched for the sun; and when its
cheerful light began to sparkle in the room, he pictured to himself -
pictured! he saw - the high church towers rising up into the morning sky,
the town reviving, waking, starting into life once more, the river
glistening as it rolled (but rolling fast as ever), and the country bright
with dew. Familiar sounds and cries came by degrees into the street below;
the servants in the house were roused and busy; faces looked in at the door,
and voices asked his attendants softly how he was. Paul always answered for
himself, 'I am better. I am a great deal better, thank you! Tell Papa so!'
By little and little, he got tired of the bustle of the day, the noise
of carriages and carts, and people passing and repassing; and would fall
asleep, or be troubled with a restless and uneasy sense again - the child
could hardly tell whether this were in his sleeping or his waking moments -
of that rushing river. 'Why, will it never stop, Floy?' he would sometimes
ask her. 'It is bearing me away, I think!'
But Floy could always soothe and reassure him; and it was his daily
delight to make her lay her head down on his pillow, and take some rest.
'You are always watching me, Floy, let me watch you, now!' They would
prop him up with cushions in a corner of his bed, and there he would recline
the while she lay beside him: bending forward oftentimes to kiss her, and
whispering to those who were near that she was tired, and how she had sat up
so many nights beside him.
Thus, the flush of the day, in its heat and light, would gradually
decline; and again the golden water would be dancing on the wall.
He was visited by as many as three grave doctors - they used to
assemble downstairs, and come up together - and the room was so quiet, and
Paul was so observant of them (though he never asked of anybody what they
said), that he even knew the difference in the sound of their watches. But
his interest centred in Sir Parker Peps, who always took his seat on the
side of the bed. For Paul had heard them say long ago, that that gentleman
had been with his Mama when she clasped Florence in her arms, and died. And
he could not forget it, now. He liked him for it. He was not afraid.
The people round him changed as unaccountably as on that first night at
Doctor Blimber's - except Florence; Florence never changed - and what had
been Sir Parker Peps, was now his father, sitting with his head upon his
hand. Old Mrs Pipchin dozing in an easy chair, often changed to Miss Tox, or
his aunt; and Paul was quite content to shut his eyes again, and see what
happened next, without emotion. But this figure with its head upon its hand
returned so often, and remained so long, and sat so still and solemn, never
speaking, never being spoken to, and rarely lifting up its face, that Paul
began to wonder languidly, if it were real; and in the night-time saw it
sitting there, with fear.
'Floy!' he said. 'What is that?'
'Where, dearest?'
'There! at the bottom of the bed.'
'There's nothing there, except Papa!'
The figure lifted up its head, and rose, and coming to the bedside,
said:
'My own boy! Don't you know me?'
Paul looked it in the face, and thought, was this his father? But the
face so altered to his thinking, thrilled while he gazed, as if it were in
pain; and before he could reach out both his hands to take it between them,
and draw it towards him, the figure turned away quickly from the little bed,
and went out at the door.
Paul looked at Florence with a fluttering heart, but he knew what she
was going to say, and stopped her with his face against her lips. The next
time he observed the figure sitting at the bottom of the bed, he called to
it.
'Don't be sorry for me, dear Papa! Indeed I am quite happy!'
His father coming and bending down to him - which he did quickly, and
without first pausing by the bedside - Paul held him round the neck, and
repeated those words to him several times, and very earnestly; and Paul
never saw him in his room again at any time, whether it were day or night,
but he called out, 'Don't be sorry for me! Indeed I am quite happy!' This
was the beginning of his always saying in the morning that he was a great
deal better, and that they were to tell his father so.
How many times the golden water danced upon the wall; how many nights
the dark, dark river rolled towards the sea in spite of him; Paul never
counted, never sought to know. If their kindness, or his sense of it, could
have increased, they were more kind, and he more grateful every day; but
whether they were many days or few, appeared of little moment now, to the
gentle boy.
One night he had been thinking of his mother, and her picture in the
drawing-room downstairs, and thought she must have loved sweet Florence
better than his father did, to have held her in her arms when she felt that
she was dying - for even he, her brother, who had such dear love for her,
could have no greater wish than that. The train of thought suggested to him
to inquire if he had ever seen his mother? for he could not remember whether
they had told him, yes or no, the river running very fast, and confusing his
mind.
'Floy, did I ever see Mama?'
'No, darling, why?'
'Did I ever see any kind face, like Mama's, looking at me when I was a
baby, Floy?'
He asked, incredulously, as if he had some vision of a face before him.
'Oh yes, dear!'
'Whose, Floy?'
'Your old nurse's. Often.'
'And where is my old nurse?' said Paul. 'Is she dead too? Floy, are we
all dead, except you?'
There was a hurry in the room, for an instant - longer, perhaps; but it
seemed no more - then all was still again; and Florence, with her face quite
colourless, but smiling, held his head upon her arm. Her arm trembled very
much.
'Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please!'
'She is not here, darling. She shall come to-morrow.'
'Thank you, Floy!'
Paul closed his eyes with those words, and fell asleep. When he awoke,
the sun was high, and the broad day was clear and He lay a little, looking
at the windows, which were open, and the curtains rustling in the air, and
waving to and fro: then he said, 'Floy, is it tomorrow? Is she come?'
Someone seemed to go in quest of her. Perhaps it was Susan. Paul
thought he heard her telling him when he had closed his eyes again, that she
would soon be back; but he did not open them to see. She kept her word -
perhaps she had never been away - but the next thing that happened was a
noise of footsteps on the stairs, and then Paul woke - woke mind and body -
and sat upright in his bed. He saw them now about him. There was no grey
mist before them, as there had been sometimes in the night. He knew them
every one, and called them by their names.
'And who is this? Is this my old nurse?' said the child, regarding with
a radiant smile, a figure coming in.
Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those tears at sight of
him, and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her own poor blighted
child. No other woman would have stooped down by his bed, and taken up his
wasted hand, and put it to her lips and breast, as one who had some right to
fondle it. No other woman would have so forgotten everybody there but him
and Floy, and been so full of tenderness and pity.
'Floy! this is a kind good face!' said Paul. 'I am glad to see it
again. Don't go away, old nurse! Stay here.'
His senses were all quickened, and he heard a name he knew.
'Who was that, who said "Walter"?' he asked, looking round. 'Someone
said Walter. Is he here? I should like to see him very much.'
Nobody replied directly; but his father soon said to Susan, 'Call him
back, then: let him come up!' Alter a short pause of expectation, during
which he looked with smiling interest and wonder, on his nurse, and saw that
she had not forgotten Floy, Walter was brought into the room. His open face
and manner, and his cheerful eyes, had always made him a favourite with
Paul; and when Paul saw him' he stretched Out his hand, and said 'Good-bye!'
'Good-bye, my child!' said Mrs Pipchin, hurrying to his bed's head.
'Not good-bye?'
For an instant, Paul looked at her with the wistful face with which he
had so often gazed upon her in his corner by the fire. 'Yes,' he said
placidly, 'good-bye! Walter dear, good-bye!' - turning his head to where he
stood, and putting out his hand again. 'Where is Papa?'
He felt his father's breath upon his cheek, before the words had parted
from his lips.
'Remember Walter, dear Papa,' he whispered, looking in his face.
'Remember Walter. I was fond of Walter!' The feeble hand waved in the air,
as if it cried 'good-bye!' to Walter once again.
'Now lay me down,' he said, 'and, Floy, come close to me, and let me
see you!'
Sister and brother wound their arms around each other, and the golden
light came streaming in, and fell upon them, locked together.
'How fast the river runs, between its green banks and the rushes,
'Floy! But it's very near the sea. I hear the waves! They always said so!'
Presently he told her the motion of the boat upon the stream was
lulling him to rest. How green the banks were now, how bright the flowers
growing on them, and how tall the rushes! Now the boat was out at sea, but
gliding smoothly on. And now there was a shore before him. Who stood on the
bank! -
He put his hands together, as he had been used to do at his prayers. He
did not remove his arms to do it; but they saw him fold them so, behind her
neck.
'Mama is like you, Floy. I know her by the face! But tell them that the
print upon the stairs at school is not divine enough. The light about the
head is shining on me as I go!'
The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred
in the room. The old, old fashion! The fashion that came in with our first
garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run its course, and the
wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, old fashion - Death!
Oh thank GOD, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of
Immortality! And look upon us, angels of young children, with regards not
quite estranged, when the swift river bears us to the ocean!
'Dear me, dear me! To think,' said Miss Tox, bursting out afresh that
night, as if her heart were broken, 'that Dombey and Son should be a
Daughter after all!'
Captain Cuttle does a little Business for the Young People
Captain Cuttle, in the exercise of that surprising talent for deep-laid
and unfathomable scheming, with which (as is not unusual in men of
transparent simplicity) he sincerely believed himself to be endowed by
nature, had gone to Mr Dombey's house on the eventful Sunday, winking all
the way as a vent for his superfluous sagacity, and had presented himself in
the full lustre of the ankle-jacks before the eyes of Towlinson. Hearing
from that individual, to his great concern, of the impending calamity,
Captain Cuttle, in his delicacy, sheered off again confounded; merely
handing in the nosegay as a small mark of his solicitude, and leaving his
respectful compliments for the family in general, which he accompanied with
an expression of his hope that they would lay their heads well to the wind
under existing circumstances, and a friendly intimation that he would 'look
up again' to-morrow.
The Captain's compliments were never heard of any more. The Captain's
nosegay, after lying in the hall all night, was swept into the dust-bin next
morning; and the Captain's sly arrangement, involved in one catastrophe with
greater hopes and loftier designs, was crushed to pieces. So, when an
avalanche bears down a mountain-forest, twigs and bushes suffer with the
trees, and all perish together.
When Walter returned home on the Sunday evening from his long walk, and
its memorable close, he was too much occupied at first by the tidings he had
to give them, and by the emotions naturally awakened in his breast by the
scene through which he had passed, to observe either that his Uncle was
evidently unacquainted with the intelligence the Captain had undertaken to
impart, or that the Captain made signals with his hook, warning him to avoid
the subject. Not that the Captain's signals were calculated to have proved
very comprehensible, however attentively observed; for, like those Chinese
sages who are said in their conferences to write certain learned words in
the air that are wholly impossible of pronunciation, the Captain made such
waves and flourishes as nobody without a previous knowledge of his mystery,
would have been at all likely to understand.
Captain Cuttle, however, becoming cognisant of what had happened,
relinquished these attempts, as he perceived the slender chance that now
existed of his being able to obtain a little easy chat with Mr Dombey before
the period of Walter's departure. But in admitting to himself, with a
disappointed and crestfallen countenance, that Sol Gills must be told, and
that Walter must go - taking the case for the present as he found it, and
not having it enlightened or improved beforehand by the knowing management
of a friend - the Captain still felt an unabated confidence that he, Ned
Cuttle, was the man for Mr Dombey; and that, to set Walter's fortunes quite
square, nothing was wanted but that they two should come together. For the
Captain never could forget how well he and Mr Dombey had got on at Brighton;
with what nicety each of them had put in a word when it was wanted; how
exactly they had taken one another's measure; nor how Ned Cuttle had pointed
out that resources in the first extremity, and had brought the interview to
the desired termination. On all these grounds the Captain soothed himself
with thinking that though Ned Cuttle was forced by the pressure of events to
'stand by' almost useless for the present, Ned would fetch up with a wet
sail in good time, and carry all before him.
Under the influence of this good-natured delusion, Captain Cuttle even
went so far as to revolve in his own bosom, while he sat looking at Walter
and listening with a tear on his shirt-collar to what he related, whether it
might not be at once genteel and politic to give Mr Dombey a verbal
invitation, whenever they should meet, to come and cut his mutton in Brig
Place on some day of his own naming, and enter on the question of his young
friend's prospects over a social glass. But the uncertain temper of Mrs
MacStinger, and the possibility of her setting up her rest in the passage
during such an entertainment, and there delivering some homily of an
uncomplimentary nature, operated as a check on the Captain's hospitable
thoughts, and rendered him timid of giving them encouragement.
One fact was quite clear to the Captain, as Walter, sitting
thoughtfully over his untasted dinner, dwelt on all that had happened;
namely, that however Walter's modesty might stand in the way of his
perceiving it himself, he was, as one might say, a member of Mr Dombey's
family. He had been, in his own person, connected with the incident he so
pathetically described; he had been by name remembered and commended in
close association with it; and his fortunes must have a particular interest
in his employer's eyes. If the Captain had any lurking doubt whatever of his
own conclusions, he had not the least doubt that they were good conclusions
for the peace of mind of the Instrument-maker. Therefore he availed himself
of so favourable a moment for breaking the West Indian intelligence to his
friend, as a piece of extraordinary preferment; declaring that for his part
he would freely give a hundred thousand pounds (if he had it) for Walter's
gain in the long-run, and that he had no doubt such an investment would
yield a handsome premium.
Solomon Gills was at first stunned by the communication, which fell
upon the little back-parlour like a thunderbolt, and tore up the hearth
savagely. But the Captain flashed such golden prospects before his dim
sight: hinted so mysteriously at 'Whittingtonian consequences; laid such
emphasis on what Walter had just now told them: and appealed to it so
confidently as a corroboration of his predictions, and a great advance
towards the realisation of the romantic legend of Lovely Peg: that he
bewildered the old man. Walter, for his part, feigned to be so full of hope
and ardour, and so sure of coming home again soon, and backed up the Captain
with such expressive shakings of his head and rubbings of his hands, that
Solomon, looking first at him then at Captain Cuttle, began to think he
ought to be transported with joy.
'But I'm behind the time, you understand,' he observed in apology,
passing his hand nervously down the whole row of bright buttons on his coat,
and then up again, as if they were beads and he were telling them twice
over: 'and I would rather have my dear boy here. It's an old-fashioned
notion, I daresay. He was always fond of the sea He's' - and he looked
wistfully at Walter - 'he's glad to go.'
'Uncle Sol!' cried Walter, quickly, 'if you say that, I won't go. No,
Captain Cuttle, I won't. If my Uncle thinks I could be glad to leave him,
though I was going to be made Governor of all the Islands in the West
Indies, that's enough. I'm a fixture.'
'Wal'r, my lad,' said the Captain. 'Steady! Sol Gills, take an
observation of your nevy.
Following with his eyes the majestic action of the Captain's hook, the
old man looked at Walter.
'Here is a certain craft,' said the Captain, with a magnificent sense
of the allegory into which he was soaring, 'a-going to put out on a certain
voyage. What name is wrote upon that craft indelibly? Is it The Gay? or,'
said the Captain, raising his voice as much as to say, observe the point of
this, 'is it The Gills?'
'Ned,' said the old man, drawing Walter to his side, and taking his arm
tenderly through his, 'I know. I know. Of course I know that Wally considers
me more than himself always. That's in my mind. When I say he is glad to go,
I mean I hope he is. Eh? look you, Ned and you too, Wally, my dear, this is
new and unexpected to me; and I'm afraid my being behind the time, and poor,
is at the bottom of it. Is it really good fortune for him, do you tell me,
now?' said the old man, looking anxiously from one to the other. 'Really and
truly? Is it? I can reconcile myself to almost anything that advances Wally,
but I won't have Wally putting himself at any disadvantage for me, or
keeping anything from me. You, Ned Cuttle!' said the old man, fastening on
the Captain, to the manifest confusion of that diplomatist; 'are you dealing
plainly by your old friend? Speak out, Ned Cuttle. Is there anything behind?
Ought he to go? How do you know it first, and why?'
As it was a contest of affection and self-denial, Walter struck in with
infinite effect, to the Captain's relief; and between them they tolerably
reconciled old Sol Gills, by continued talking, to the project; or rather so
confused him, that nothing, not even the pain of separation, was distinctly
clear to his mind.
He had not much time to balance the matter; for on the very next day,
Walter received from Mr Carker the Manager, the necessary credentials for
his passage and outfit, together with the information that the Son and Heir
would sail in a fortnight, or within a day or two afterwards at latest. In
the hurry of preparation: which Walter purposely enhanced as much as
possible: the old man lost what little selfpossession he ever had; and so
the time of departure drew on rapidly.
The Captain, who did not fail to make himself acquainted with all that
passed, through inquiries of Walter from day to day, found the time still
tending on towards his going away, without any occasion offering itself, or
seeming likely to offer itself, for a better understanding of his position.
It was after much consideration of this fact, and much pondering over such
an unfortunate combination of circumstances, that a bright idea occurred to
the Captain. Suppose he made a call on Mr Carker, and tried to find out from
him how the land really lay!
Captain Cuttle liked this idea very much. It came upon him in a moment
of inspiration, as he was smoking an early pipe in Brig Place after
breakfast; and it was worthy of the tobacco. It would quiet his conscience,
which was an honest one, and was made a little uneasy by what Walter had
confided to him, and what Sol Gills had said; and it would be a deep, shrewd
act of friendship. He would sound Mr Carker carefully, and say much or
little, just as he read that gentleman's character, and discovered that they
got on well together or the reverse.
Accordingly, without the fear of Walter before his eyes (who he knew
was at home packing), Captain Cuttle again assumed his ankle-jacks and
mourning brooch, and issued forth on this second expedition. He purchased no
propitiatory nosegay on the present occasion, as he was going to a place of
business; but he put a small sunflower in his button-hole to give himself an
agreeable relish of the country; and with this, and the knobby stick, and
the glazed hat, bore down upon the offices of Dombey and Son.
After taking a glass of warm rum-and-water at a tavern close by, to
collect his thoughts, the Captain made a rush down the court, lest its good
effects should evaporate, and appeared suddenly to Mr Perch.
'Matey,' said the Captain, in persuasive accents. 'One of your
Governors is named Carker.' Mr Perch admitted it; but gave him to
understand, as in official duty bound, that all his Governors were engaged,
and never expected to be disengaged any more.
'Look'ee here, mate,' said the Captain in his ear; 'my name's Cap'en
Cuttle.'
The Captain would have hooked Perch gently to him, but Mr Perch eluded
the attempt; not so much in design, as in starting at the sudden thought
that such a weapon unexpectedly exhibited to Mrs Perch might, in her then
condition, be destructive to that lady's hopes.
'If you'll be so good as just report Cap'en Cuttle here, when you get a
chance,' said the Captain, 'I'll wait.'
Saying which, the Captain took his seat on Mr Perch's bracket, and
drawing out his handkerchief from the crown of the glazed hat which he
jammed between his knees (without injury to its shape, for nothing human
could bend it), rubbed his head well all over, and appeared refreshed. He
subsequently arranged his hair with his hook, and sat looking round the
office, contemplating the clerks with a serene respect.
The Captain's equanimity was so impenetrable, and he was altogether so
mysterious a being, that Perch the messenger was daunted.
'What name was it you said?' asked Mr Perch, bending down over him as
he sat on the bracket.
'Cap'en,' in a deep hoarse whisper.
'Yes,' said Mr Perch, keeping time with his head.
'Cuttle.'
'Oh!' said Mr Perch, in the same tone, for he caught it, and couldn't
help it; the Captain, in his diplomacy, was so impressive. 'I'll see if he's
disengaged now. I don't know. Perhaps he may be for a minute.'
'Ay, ay, my lad, I won't detain him longer than a minute,' said the
Captain, nodding with all the weighty importance that he felt within him.
Perch, soon returning, said, 'Will Captain Cuttle walk this way?'
Mr Carker the Manager, standing on the hearth-rug before the empty
fireplace, which was ornamented with a castellated sheet of brown paper,
looked at the Captain as he came in, with no very special encouragement.
'Mr Carker?' said Captain Cuttle.
'I believe so,' said Mr Carker, showing all his teeth.
The Captain liked his answering with a smile; it looked pleasant. 'You
see,' began the Captain, rolling his eyes slowly round the little room, and
taking in as much of it as his shirt-collar permitted; 'I'm a seafaring man
myself, Mr Carker, and Wal'r, as is on your books here, is almost a son of
mine.'
'Walter Gay?' said Mr Carker, showing all his teeth again.
'Wal'r Gay it is,' replied the Captain, 'right!' The Captain's manner
expressed a warm approval of Mr Carker's quickness of perception. 'I'm a
intimate friend of his and his Uncle's. Perhaps,' said the Captain, 'you may
have heard your head Governor mention my name? - Captain Cuttle.'
'No!' said Mr Carker, with a still wider demonstration than before.
'Well,' resumed the Captain, 'I've the pleasure of his acquaintance. I
waited upon him down on the Sussex coast there, with my young friend Wal'r,
when - in short, when there was a little accommodation wanted.' The Captain
nodded his head in a manner that was at once comfortable, easy, and
expressive. 'You remember, I daresay?'
'I think,' said Mr Carker, 'I had the honour of arranging the
business.'
'To be sure!' returned the Captain. 'Right again! you had. Now I've
took the liberty of coming here -
'Won't you sit down?' said Mr Carker, smiling.
'Thank'ee,' returned the Captain, availing himself of the offer. 'A man
does get more way upon himself, perhaps, in his conversation, when he sits
down. Won't you take a cheer yourself?'
'No thank you,' said the Manager, standing, perhaps from the force of
winter habit, with his back against the chimney-piece, and looking down upon
the Captain with an eye in every tooth and gum. 'You have taken the liberty,
you were going to say - though it's none - '
'Thank'ee kindly, my lad,' returned the Captain: 'of coming here, on
account of my friend Wal'r. Sol Gills, his Uncle, is a man of science, and
in science he may be considered a clipper; but he ain't what I should
altogether call a able seaman - not man of practice. Wal'r is as trim a lad
as ever stepped; but he's a little down by the head in one respect, and that
is, modesty. Now what I should wish to put to you,' said the Captain,
lowering his voice, and speaking in a kind of confidential growl, 'in a
friendly way, entirely between you and me, and for my own private reckoning,
'till your head Governor has wore round a bit, and I can come alongside of
him, is this - Is everything right and comfortable here, and is Wal'r
out'ard bound with a pretty fair wind?'
'What do you think now, Captain Cuttle?' returned Carker, gathering up
his skirts and settling himself in his position. 'You are a practical man;
what do you think?'
The acuteness and the significance of the Captain's eye as he cocked it
in reply, no words short of those unutterable Chinese words before referred
to could describe.
'Come!' said the Captain, unspeakably encouraged, 'what do you say? Am
I right or wrong?'
So much had the Captain expressed in his eye, emboldened and incited by
Mr Carker's smiling urbanity, that he felt himself in as fair a condition to
put the question, as if he had expressed his sentiments with the utmost
elaboration.
'Right,' said Mr Carker, 'I have no doubt.'
'Out'ard bound with fair weather, then, I say,' cried Captain Cuttle.
Mr Carker smiled assent.
'Wind right astarn, and plenty of it,' pursued the Captain.
Mr Carker smiled assent again.
'Ay, ay!' said Captain Cuttle, greatly relieved and pleased. 'I know'd
how she headed, well enough; I told Wal'r so. Thank'ee, thank'ee.'
'Gay has brilliant prospects,' observed Mr Carker, stretching his mouth
wider yet: 'all the world before him.'
'All the world and his wife too, as the saying is,' returned the
delighted Captain.
At the word 'wife' (which he had uttered without design), the Captain
stopped, cocked his eye again, and putting the glazed hat on the top of the
knobby stick, gave it a twirl, and looked sideways at his always smiling
friend.
'I'd bet a gill of old Jamaica,' said the Captain, eyeing him
attentively, 'that I know what you're a smiling at.'
Mr Carker took his cue, and smiled the more.
'It goes no farther?' said the Captain, making a poke at the door with
the knobby stick to assure himself that it was shut.
'Not an inch,' said Mr Carker.
'You're thinking of a capital F perhaps?' said the Captain.
Mr Carker didn't deny it.
'Anything about a L,' said the Captain, 'or a O?'
Mr Carker still smiled.
'Am I right, again?' inquired the Captain in a whisper, with the
scarlet circle on his forehead swelling in his triumphant joy.
Mr Carker, in reply, still smiling, and now nodding assent, Captain
Cuttle rose and squeezed him by the hand, assuring him, warmly, that they
were on the same tack, and that as for him (Cuttle) he had laid his course
that way all along. 'He know'd her first,' said the Captain, with all the
secrecy and gravity that the subject demanded, 'in an uncommon manner - you
remember his finding her in the street when she was a'most a babby - he has
liked her ever since, and she him, as much as two youngsters can. We've
always said, Sol Gills and me, that they was cut out for each other.'
A cat, or a monkey, or a hyena, or a death's-head, could not have shown
the Captain more teeth at one time, than Mr Carker showed him at this period
of their interview.
'There's a general indraught that way,' observed the happy Captain.
'Wind and water sets in that direction, you see. Look at his being present
t'other day!'
'Most favourable to his hopes,' said Mr Carker.
'Look at his being towed along in the wake of that day!' pursued the
Captain. 'Why what can cut him adrift now?'
'Nothing,' replied Mr Carker.
'You're right again,' returned the Captain, giving his hand another
squeeze. 'Nothing it is. So! steady! There's a son gone: pretty little
creetur. Ain't there?'
'Yes, there's a son gone,' said the acquiescent Carker.
'Pass the word, and there's another ready for you,' quoth the Captain.
'Nevy of a scientific Uncle! Nevy of Sol Gills! Wal'r! Wal'r, as is already
in your business! And' - said the Captain, rising gradually to a quotation
he was preparing for a final burst, 'who - comes from Sol Gills's daily, to
your business, and your buzzums.' The Captain's complacency as he gently
jogged Mr Carker with his elbow, on concluding each of the foregoing short
sentences, could be surpassed by nothing but the exultation with which he
fell back and eyed him when he had finished this brilliant display of
eloquence and sagacity; his great blue waistcoat heaving with the throes of
such a masterpiece, and his nose in a state of violent inflammation from the
same cause.
'Am I right?' said the Captain.
'Captain Cuttle,' said Mr Carker, bending down at the knees, for a
moment, in an odd manner, as if he were falling together to hug the whole of
himself at once, 'your views in reference to Walter Gay are thoroughly and
accurately right. I understand that we speak together in confidence.
'Honour!' interposed the Captain. 'Not a word.'
'To him or anyone?' pursued the Manager.
Captain Cuttle frowned and shook his head.
'But merely for your own satisfaction and guidance - and guidance, of
course,' repeated Mr Carker, 'with a view to your future proceedings.'
'Thank'ee kindly, I am sure,' said the Captain, listening with great
attention.
'I have no hesitation in saying, that's the fact. You have hit the
probabilities exactly.'
'And with regard to your head Governor,' said the Captain, 'why an
interview had better come about nat'ral between us. There's time enough.'
Mr Carker, with his mouth from ear to ear, repeated, 'Time enough.' Not
articulating the words, but bowing his head affably, and forming them with
his tongue and lips.
'And as I know - it's what I always said- that Wal'r's in a way to make
his fortune,' said the Captain.
'To make his fortune,' Mr Carker repeated, in the same dumb manner.
'And as Wal'r's going on this little voyage is, as I may say, in his
day's work, and a part of his general expectations here,' said the Captain.
'Of his general expectations here,' assented Mr Carker, dumbly as
before.
'Why, so long as I know that,' pursued the Captain, 'there's no hurry,
and my mind's at ease.
Mr Carker still blandly assenting in the same voiceless manner, Captain
Cuttle was strongly confirmed in his opinion that he was one of the most
agreeable men he had ever met, and that even Mr Dombey might improve himself
on such a model. With great heartiness, therefore, the Captain once again
extended his enormous hand (not unlike an old block in colour), and gave him
a grip that left upon his smoother flesh a proof impression of the chinks
and crevices with which the Captain's palm was liberally tattooed.
'Farewell!' said the Captain. 'I ain't a man of many words, but I take
it very kind of you to be so friendly, and above-board. You'll excuse me if
English grass and the home landscape. But he hardly once thought, even of
going away, distinctly; and seemed to put off reflection idly, from hour to
hour, and from minute to minute, while he yet went on reflecting all the
time.
Walter had left the fields behind him, and was plodding homeward in the
same abstracted mood, when he heard a shout from a man, and then a woman's
voice calling to him loudly by name. Turning quickly in his surprise, he saw
that a hackney-coach, going in the contrary direction, had stopped at no
great distance; that the coachman was looking back from his box and making
signals to him with his whip; and that a young woman inside was leaning out
of the window, and beckoning with immense energy. Running up to this coach,
he found that the young woman was Miss Nipper, and that Miss Nipper was in
such a flutter as to be almost beside herself.
'Staggs's Gardens, Mr Walter!' said Miss Nipper; 'if you please, oh
do!'
'Eh?' cried Walter; 'what is the matter?'
'Oh, Mr Walter, Staggs's Gardens, if you please!' said Susan.
'There!' cried the coachman, appealing to Walter, with a sort of
exalting despair; 'that's the way the young lady's been a goin' on for
up'ards of a mortal hour, and me continivally backing out of no
thoroughfares, where she would drive up. I've had a many fares in this
coach, first and last, but never such a fare as her.'
'Do you want to go to Staggs's Gardens, Susan?' inquired Walter.
'Ah! She wants to go there! WHERE IS IT?' growled the coachman.
'I don't know where it is!' exclaimed Susan, wildly. 'Mr Walter, I was
there once myself, along with Miss Floy and our poor darling Master Paul, on
the very day when you found Miss Floy in the City, for we lost her coming
home, Mrs Richards and me, and a mad bull, and Mrs Richards's eldest, and
though I went there afterwards, I can't remember where it is, I think it's
sunk into the ground. Oh, Mr Walter, don't desert me, Staggs's Gardens, if
you please! Miss Floy's darling - all our darlings - little, meek, meek
Master Paul! Oh Mr Walter!'
'Good God!' cried Walter. 'Is he very ill?'
'The pretty flower!' cried Susan, wringing her hands, 'has took the
fancy that he'd like to see his old nurse, and I've come to bring her to his
bedside, Mrs Staggs, of Polly Toodle's Gardens, someone pray!'
Greatly moved by what he heard, and catching Susan's earnestness
immediately, Walter, now that he understood the nature of her errand, dashed
into it with such ardour that the coachman had enough to do to follow
closely as he ran before, inquiring here and there and everywhere, the way
to Staggs's Gardens.
There was no such place as Staggs's Gardens. It had vanished from the
earth. Where the old rotten summer-houses once had stood, palaces now reared
their heads, and granite columns of gigantic girth opened a vista to the
railway world beyond. The miserable waste ground, where the refuse-matter
had been heaped of yore, was swallowed up and gone; and in its frowsy stead
were tiers of warehouses, crammed with rich goods and costly merchandise.
The old by-streets now swarmed with passengers and vehicles of every kind:
the new streets that had stopped disheartened in the mud and waggon-ruts,
formed towns within themselves, originating wholesome comforts and
conveniences belonging to themselves, and never tried nor thought of until
they sprung into existence. Bridges that had led to nothing, led to villas,
gardens, churches, healthy public walks. The carcasses of houses, and
beginnings of new thoroughfares, had started off upon the line at steam's
own speed, and shot away into the country in a monster train.'
As to the neighbourhood which had hesitated to acknowledge the railroad
in its straggling days, that had grown wise and penitent, as any Christian
might in such a case, and now boasted of its powerful and prosperous
relation. There were railway patterns in its drapers' shops, and railway
journals in the windows of its newsmen. There were railway hotels,
office-houses, lodging-houses, boarding-houses; railway plans, maps, views,
wrappers, bottles, sandwich-boxes, and time-tables; railway hackney-coach
and stands; railway omnibuses, railway streets and buildings, railway
hangers-on and parasites, and flatterers out of all calculation. There was
even railway time observed in clocks, as if the sun itself had given in.
Among the vanquished was the master chimney-sweeper, whilom incredulous at
Staggs's Gardens, who now lived in a stuccoed house three stories high, and
gave himself out, with golden flourishes upon a varnished board, as
contractor for the cleansing of railway chimneys by machinery.
To and from the heart of this great change, all day and night,
throbbing currents rushed and returned incessantly like its life's blood.
Crowds of people and mountains of goods, departing and arriving scores upon
scores of times in every four-and-twenty hours, produced a fermentation in
the place that was always in action. The very houses seemed disposed to pack
up and take trips. Wonderful Members of Parliament, who, little more than
twenty years before, had made themselves merry with the wild railroad
theories of engineers, and given them the liveliest rubs in
cross-examination, went down into the north with their watches in their
hands, and sent on messages before by the electric telegraph, to say that
they were coming. Night and day the conquering engines rumbled at their
distant work, or, advancing smoothly to their journey's end, and gliding
like tame dragons into the allotted corners grooved out to the inch for
their reception, stood bubbling and trembling there, making the walls quake,
as if they were dilating with the secret knowledge of great powers yet
unsuspected in them, and strong purposes not yet achieved.
But Staggs's Gardens had been cut up root and branch. Oh woe the day
when 'not a rood of English ground' - laid out in Staggs's Gardens - is
secure!
At last, after much fruitless inquiry, Walter, followed by the coach
and Susan, found a man who had once resided in that vanished land, and who
was no other than the master sweep before referred to, grown stout, and
knocking a double knock at his own door. He knowed Toodle, he said, well.
Belonged to the Railroad, didn't he?
'Yes' sir, yes!' cried Susan Nipper from the coach window.
Where did he live now? hastily inquired Walter.
He lived in the Company's own Buildings, second turning to the right,
down the yard, cross over, and take the second on the right again. It was
number eleven; they couldn't mistake it; but if they did, they had only to
ask for Toodle, Engine Fireman, and any one would show them which was his
house. At this unexpected stroke of success Susan Nipper dismounted from the
coach with all speed, took Walter's arm, and set off at a breathless pace on
foot; leaving the coach there to await their return.
'Has the little boy been long ill, Susan?' inquired Walter, as they
hurried on.
'Ailing for a deal of time, but no one knew how much,' said Susan;
adding, with excessive sharpness, 'Oh, them Blimbers!'
'Blimbers?' echoed Walter.
'I couldn't forgive myself at such a time as this, Mr Walter,' said
Susan, 'and when there's so much serious distress to think about, if I
rested hard on anyone, especially on them that little darling Paul speaks
well of, but I may wish that the family was set to work in a stony soil to
make new roads, and that Miss Blimber went in front, and had the pickaxe!'
Miss Nipper then took breath, and went on faster than before, as if
this extraordinary aspiration had relieved her. Walter, who had by this time
no breath of his own to spare, hurried along without asking any more
questions; and they soon, in their impatience, burst in at a little door and
came into a clean parlour full of children.
'Where's Mrs Richards?' exclaimed Susan Nipper, looking round. 'Oh Mrs
Richards, Mrs Richards, come along with me, my dear creetur!'
'Why, if it ain't Susan!' cried Polly, rising with her honest face and
motherly figure from among the group, in great surprIse.
'Yes, Mrs Richards, it's me,' said Susan, 'and I wish it wasn't, though
I may not seem to flatter when I say so, but little Master Paul is very ill,
and told his Pa today that he would like to see the face of his old nurse,
and him and Miss Floy hope you'll come along with me - and Mr Walter, Mrs
Richards - forgetting what is past, and do a kindness to the sweet dear that
is withering away. Oh, Mrs Richards, withering away!' Susan Nipper crying,
Polly shed tears to see her, and to hear what she had said; and all the
children gathered round (including numbers of new babies); and Mr Toodle,
who had just come home from Birmingham, and was eating his dinner out of a
basin, laid down his knife and fork, and put on his wife's bonnet and shawl
for her, which were hanging up behind the door; then tapped her on the back;
and said, with more fatherly feeling than eloquence, 'Polly! cut away!'
So they got back to the coach, long before the coachman expected them;
and Walter, putting Susan and Mrs Richards inside, took his seat on the box
himself that there might be no more mistakes, and deposited them safely in
the hall of Mr Dombey's house - where, by the bye, he saw a mighty nosegay
lying, which reminded him of the one Captain Cuttle had purchased in his
company that morning. He would have lingered to know more of the young
invalid, or waited any length of time to see if he could render the least
service; but, painfully sensible that such conduct would be looked upon by
Mr Dombey as presumptuous and forward, he turned slowly, sadly, anxiously,
away.
He had not gone five minutes' walk from the door, when a man came
running after him, and begged him to return. Walter retraced his steps as
quickly as he could, and entered the gloomy house with a sorrowful
foreboding.
What the Waves were always saying
Paul had never risen from his little bed. He lay there, listening to
the noises in the street, quite tranquilly; not caring much how the time
went, but watching it and watching everything about him with observing eyes.
When the sunbeams struck into his room through the rustling blinds, and
quivered on the opposite wall like golden water, he knew that evening was
coming on, and that the sky was red and beautiful. As the reflection died
away, and a gloom went creeping up the wall, he watched it deepen, deepen,
deepen, into night. Then he thought how the long streets were dotted with
lamps, and how the peaceful stars were shining overhead. His fancy had a
strange tendency to wander to the river, which he knew was flowing through
the great city; and now he thought how black it was, and how deep it would
look, reflecting the hosts of stars - and more than all, how steadily it
rolled away to meet the sea.
As it grew later in the night, and footsteps in the street became so
rare that he could hear them coming, count them as they passed, and lose
them in the hollow distance, he would lie and watch the many-coloured ring
about the candle, and wait patiently for day. His only trouble was, the
swift and rapid river. He felt forced, sometimes, to try to stop it - to
stem it with his childish hands - or choke its way with sand - and when he
saw it coming on, resistless, he cried out! But a word from Florence, who
was always at his side, restored him to himself; and leaning his poor head
upon her breast, he told Floy of his dream, and smiled.
When day began to dawn again, he watched for the sun; and when its
cheerful light began to sparkle in the room, he pictured to himself -
pictured! he saw - the high church towers rising up into the morning sky,
the town reviving, waking, starting into life once more, the river
glistening as it rolled (but rolling fast as ever), and the country bright
with dew. Familiar sounds and cries came by degrees into the street below;
the servants in the house were roused and busy; faces looked in at the door,
and voices asked his attendants softly how he was. Paul always answered for
himself, 'I am better. I am a great deal better, thank you! Tell Papa so!'
By little and little, he got tired of the bustle of the day, the noise
of carriages and carts, and people passing and repassing; and would fall
asleep, or be troubled with a restless and uneasy sense again - the child
could hardly tell whether this were in his sleeping or his waking moments -
of that rushing river. 'Why, will it never stop, Floy?' he would sometimes
ask her. 'It is bearing me away, I think!'
But Floy could always soothe and reassure him; and it was his daily
delight to make her lay her head down on his pillow, and take some rest.
'You are always watching me, Floy, let me watch you, now!' They would
prop him up with cushions in a corner of his bed, and there he would recline
the while she lay beside him: bending forward oftentimes to kiss her, and
whispering to those who were near that she was tired, and how she had sat up
so many nights beside him.
Thus, the flush of the day, in its heat and light, would gradually
decline; and again the golden water would be dancing on the wall.
He was visited by as many as three grave doctors - they used to
assemble downstairs, and come up together - and the room was so quiet, and
Paul was so observant of them (though he never asked of anybody what they
said), that he even knew the difference in the sound of their watches. But
his interest centred in Sir Parker Peps, who always took his seat on the
side of the bed. For Paul had heard them say long ago, that that gentleman
had been with his Mama when she clasped Florence in her arms, and died. And
he could not forget it, now. He liked him for it. He was not afraid.
The people round him changed as unaccountably as on that first night at
Doctor Blimber's - except Florence; Florence never changed - and what had
been Sir Parker Peps, was now his father, sitting with his head upon his
hand. Old Mrs Pipchin dozing in an easy chair, often changed to Miss Tox, or
his aunt; and Paul was quite content to shut his eyes again, and see what
happened next, without emotion. But this figure with its head upon its hand
returned so often, and remained so long, and sat so still and solemn, never
speaking, never being spoken to, and rarely lifting up its face, that Paul
began to wonder languidly, if it were real; and in the night-time saw it
sitting there, with fear.
'Floy!' he said. 'What is that?'
'Where, dearest?'
'There! at the bottom of the bed.'
'There's nothing there, except Papa!'
The figure lifted up its head, and rose, and coming to the bedside,
said:
'My own boy! Don't you know me?'
Paul looked it in the face, and thought, was this his father? But the
face so altered to his thinking, thrilled while he gazed, as if it were in
pain; and before he could reach out both his hands to take it between them,
and draw it towards him, the figure turned away quickly from the little bed,
and went out at the door.
Paul looked at Florence with a fluttering heart, but he knew what she
was going to say, and stopped her with his face against her lips. The next
time he observed the figure sitting at the bottom of the bed, he called to
it.
'Don't be sorry for me, dear Papa! Indeed I am quite happy!'
His father coming and bending down to him - which he did quickly, and
without first pausing by the bedside - Paul held him round the neck, and
repeated those words to him several times, and very earnestly; and Paul
never saw him in his room again at any time, whether it were day or night,
but he called out, 'Don't be sorry for me! Indeed I am quite happy!' This
was the beginning of his always saying in the morning that he was a great
deal better, and that they were to tell his father so.
How many times the golden water danced upon the wall; how many nights
the dark, dark river rolled towards the sea in spite of him; Paul never
counted, never sought to know. If their kindness, or his sense of it, could
have increased, they were more kind, and he more grateful every day; but
whether they were many days or few, appeared of little moment now, to the
gentle boy.
One night he had been thinking of his mother, and her picture in the
drawing-room downstairs, and thought she must have loved sweet Florence
better than his father did, to have held her in her arms when she felt that
she was dying - for even he, her brother, who had such dear love for her,
could have no greater wish than that. The train of thought suggested to him
to inquire if he had ever seen his mother? for he could not remember whether
they had told him, yes or no, the river running very fast, and confusing his
mind.
'Floy, did I ever see Mama?'
'No, darling, why?'
'Did I ever see any kind face, like Mama's, looking at me when I was a
baby, Floy?'
He asked, incredulously, as if he had some vision of a face before him.
'Oh yes, dear!'
'Whose, Floy?'
'Your old nurse's. Often.'
'And where is my old nurse?' said Paul. 'Is she dead too? Floy, are we
all dead, except you?'
There was a hurry in the room, for an instant - longer, perhaps; but it
seemed no more - then all was still again; and Florence, with her face quite
colourless, but smiling, held his head upon her arm. Her arm trembled very
much.
'Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please!'
'She is not here, darling. She shall come to-morrow.'
'Thank you, Floy!'
Paul closed his eyes with those words, and fell asleep. When he awoke,
the sun was high, and the broad day was clear and He lay a little, looking
at the windows, which were open, and the curtains rustling in the air, and
waving to and fro: then he said, 'Floy, is it tomorrow? Is she come?'
Someone seemed to go in quest of her. Perhaps it was Susan. Paul
thought he heard her telling him when he had closed his eyes again, that she
would soon be back; but he did not open them to see. She kept her word -
perhaps she had never been away - but the next thing that happened was a
noise of footsteps on the stairs, and then Paul woke - woke mind and body -
and sat upright in his bed. He saw them now about him. There was no grey
mist before them, as there had been sometimes in the night. He knew them
every one, and called them by their names.
'And who is this? Is this my old nurse?' said the child, regarding with
a radiant smile, a figure coming in.
Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those tears at sight of
him, and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her own poor blighted
child. No other woman would have stooped down by his bed, and taken up his
wasted hand, and put it to her lips and breast, as one who had some right to
fondle it. No other woman would have so forgotten everybody there but him
and Floy, and been so full of tenderness and pity.
'Floy! this is a kind good face!' said Paul. 'I am glad to see it
again. Don't go away, old nurse! Stay here.'
His senses were all quickened, and he heard a name he knew.
'Who was that, who said "Walter"?' he asked, looking round. 'Someone
said Walter. Is he here? I should like to see him very much.'
Nobody replied directly; but his father soon said to Susan, 'Call him
back, then: let him come up!' Alter a short pause of expectation, during
which he looked with smiling interest and wonder, on his nurse, and saw that
she had not forgotten Floy, Walter was brought into the room. His open face
and manner, and his cheerful eyes, had always made him a favourite with
Paul; and when Paul saw him' he stretched Out his hand, and said 'Good-bye!'
'Good-bye, my child!' said Mrs Pipchin, hurrying to his bed's head.
'Not good-bye?'
For an instant, Paul looked at her with the wistful face with which he
had so often gazed upon her in his corner by the fire. 'Yes,' he said
placidly, 'good-bye! Walter dear, good-bye!' - turning his head to where he
stood, and putting out his hand again. 'Where is Papa?'
He felt his father's breath upon his cheek, before the words had parted
from his lips.
'Remember Walter, dear Papa,' he whispered, looking in his face.
'Remember Walter. I was fond of Walter!' The feeble hand waved in the air,
as if it cried 'good-bye!' to Walter once again.
'Now lay me down,' he said, 'and, Floy, come close to me, and let me
see you!'
Sister and brother wound their arms around each other, and the golden
light came streaming in, and fell upon them, locked together.
'How fast the river runs, between its green banks and the rushes,
'Floy! But it's very near the sea. I hear the waves! They always said so!'
Presently he told her the motion of the boat upon the stream was
lulling him to rest. How green the banks were now, how bright the flowers
growing on them, and how tall the rushes! Now the boat was out at sea, but
gliding smoothly on. And now there was a shore before him. Who stood on the
bank! -
He put his hands together, as he had been used to do at his prayers. He
did not remove his arms to do it; but they saw him fold them so, behind her
neck.
'Mama is like you, Floy. I know her by the face! But tell them that the
print upon the stairs at school is not divine enough. The light about the
head is shining on me as I go!'
The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred
in the room. The old, old fashion! The fashion that came in with our first
garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run its course, and the
wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, old fashion - Death!
Oh thank GOD, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of
Immortality! And look upon us, angels of young children, with regards not
quite estranged, when the swift river bears us to the ocean!
'Dear me, dear me! To think,' said Miss Tox, bursting out afresh that
night, as if her heart were broken, 'that Dombey and Son should be a
Daughter after all!'
Captain Cuttle does a little Business for the Young People
Captain Cuttle, in the exercise of that surprising talent for deep-laid
and unfathomable scheming, with which (as is not unusual in men of
transparent simplicity) he sincerely believed himself to be endowed by
nature, had gone to Mr Dombey's house on the eventful Sunday, winking all
the way as a vent for his superfluous sagacity, and had presented himself in
the full lustre of the ankle-jacks before the eyes of Towlinson. Hearing
from that individual, to his great concern, of the impending calamity,
Captain Cuttle, in his delicacy, sheered off again confounded; merely
handing in the nosegay as a small mark of his solicitude, and leaving his
respectful compliments for the family in general, which he accompanied with
an expression of his hope that they would lay their heads well to the wind
under existing circumstances, and a friendly intimation that he would 'look
up again' to-morrow.
The Captain's compliments were never heard of any more. The Captain's
nosegay, after lying in the hall all night, was swept into the dust-bin next
morning; and the Captain's sly arrangement, involved in one catastrophe with
greater hopes and loftier designs, was crushed to pieces. So, when an
avalanche bears down a mountain-forest, twigs and bushes suffer with the
trees, and all perish together.
When Walter returned home on the Sunday evening from his long walk, and
its memorable close, he was too much occupied at first by the tidings he had
to give them, and by the emotions naturally awakened in his breast by the
scene through which he had passed, to observe either that his Uncle was
evidently unacquainted with the intelligence the Captain had undertaken to
impart, or that the Captain made signals with his hook, warning him to avoid
the subject. Not that the Captain's signals were calculated to have proved
very comprehensible, however attentively observed; for, like those Chinese
sages who are said in their conferences to write certain learned words in
the air that are wholly impossible of pronunciation, the Captain made such
waves and flourishes as nobody without a previous knowledge of his mystery,
would have been at all likely to understand.
Captain Cuttle, however, becoming cognisant of what had happened,
relinquished these attempts, as he perceived the slender chance that now
existed of his being able to obtain a little easy chat with Mr Dombey before
the period of Walter's departure. But in admitting to himself, with a
disappointed and crestfallen countenance, that Sol Gills must be told, and
that Walter must go - taking the case for the present as he found it, and
not having it enlightened or improved beforehand by the knowing management
of a friend - the Captain still felt an unabated confidence that he, Ned
Cuttle, was the man for Mr Dombey; and that, to set Walter's fortunes quite
square, nothing was wanted but that they two should come together. For the
Captain never could forget how well he and Mr Dombey had got on at Brighton;
with what nicety each of them had put in a word when it was wanted; how
exactly they had taken one another's measure; nor how Ned Cuttle had pointed
out that resources in the first extremity, and had brought the interview to
the desired termination. On all these grounds the Captain soothed himself
with thinking that though Ned Cuttle was forced by the pressure of events to
'stand by' almost useless for the present, Ned would fetch up with a wet
sail in good time, and carry all before him.
Under the influence of this good-natured delusion, Captain Cuttle even
went so far as to revolve in his own bosom, while he sat looking at Walter
and listening with a tear on his shirt-collar to what he related, whether it
might not be at once genteel and politic to give Mr Dombey a verbal
invitation, whenever they should meet, to come and cut his mutton in Brig
Place on some day of his own naming, and enter on the question of his young
friend's prospects over a social glass. But the uncertain temper of Mrs
MacStinger, and the possibility of her setting up her rest in the passage
during such an entertainment, and there delivering some homily of an
uncomplimentary nature, operated as a check on the Captain's hospitable
thoughts, and rendered him timid of giving them encouragement.
One fact was quite clear to the Captain, as Walter, sitting
thoughtfully over his untasted dinner, dwelt on all that had happened;
namely, that however Walter's modesty might stand in the way of his
perceiving it himself, he was, as one might say, a member of Mr Dombey's
family. He had been, in his own person, connected with the incident he so
pathetically described; he had been by name remembered and commended in
close association with it; and his fortunes must have a particular interest
in his employer's eyes. If the Captain had any lurking doubt whatever of his
own conclusions, he had not the least doubt that they were good conclusions
for the peace of mind of the Instrument-maker. Therefore he availed himself
of so favourable a moment for breaking the West Indian intelligence to his
friend, as a piece of extraordinary preferment; declaring that for his part
he would freely give a hundred thousand pounds (if he had it) for Walter's
gain in the long-run, and that he had no doubt such an investment would
yield a handsome premium.
Solomon Gills was at first stunned by the communication, which fell
upon the little back-parlour like a thunderbolt, and tore up the hearth
savagely. But the Captain flashed such golden prospects before his dim
sight: hinted so mysteriously at 'Whittingtonian consequences; laid such
emphasis on what Walter had just now told them: and appealed to it so
confidently as a corroboration of his predictions, and a great advance
towards the realisation of the romantic legend of Lovely Peg: that he
bewildered the old man. Walter, for his part, feigned to be so full of hope
and ardour, and so sure of coming home again soon, and backed up the Captain
with such expressive shakings of his head and rubbings of his hands, that
Solomon, looking first at him then at Captain Cuttle, began to think he
ought to be transported with joy.
'But I'm behind the time, you understand,' he observed in apology,
passing his hand nervously down the whole row of bright buttons on his coat,
and then up again, as if they were beads and he were telling them twice
over: 'and I would rather have my dear boy here. It's an old-fashioned
notion, I daresay. He was always fond of the sea He's' - and he looked
wistfully at Walter - 'he's glad to go.'
'Uncle Sol!' cried Walter, quickly, 'if you say that, I won't go. No,
Captain Cuttle, I won't. If my Uncle thinks I could be glad to leave him,
though I was going to be made Governor of all the Islands in the West
Indies, that's enough. I'm a fixture.'
'Wal'r, my lad,' said the Captain. 'Steady! Sol Gills, take an
observation of your nevy.
Following with his eyes the majestic action of the Captain's hook, the
old man looked at Walter.
'Here is a certain craft,' said the Captain, with a magnificent sense
of the allegory into which he was soaring, 'a-going to put out on a certain
voyage. What name is wrote upon that craft indelibly? Is it The Gay? or,'
said the Captain, raising his voice as much as to say, observe the point of
this, 'is it The Gills?'
'Ned,' said the old man, drawing Walter to his side, and taking his arm
tenderly through his, 'I know. I know. Of course I know that Wally considers
me more than himself always. That's in my mind. When I say he is glad to go,
I mean I hope he is. Eh? look you, Ned and you too, Wally, my dear, this is
new and unexpected to me; and I'm afraid my being behind the time, and poor,
is at the bottom of it. Is it really good fortune for him, do you tell me,
now?' said the old man, looking anxiously from one to the other. 'Really and
truly? Is it? I can reconcile myself to almost anything that advances Wally,
but I won't have Wally putting himself at any disadvantage for me, or
keeping anything from me. You, Ned Cuttle!' said the old man, fastening on
the Captain, to the manifest confusion of that diplomatist; 'are you dealing
plainly by your old friend? Speak out, Ned Cuttle. Is there anything behind?
Ought he to go? How do you know it first, and why?'
As it was a contest of affection and self-denial, Walter struck in with
infinite effect, to the Captain's relief; and between them they tolerably
reconciled old Sol Gills, by continued talking, to the project; or rather so
confused him, that nothing, not even the pain of separation, was distinctly
clear to his mind.
He had not much time to balance the matter; for on the very next day,
Walter received from Mr Carker the Manager, the necessary credentials for
his passage and outfit, together with the information that the Son and Heir
would sail in a fortnight, or within a day or two afterwards at latest. In
the hurry of preparation: which Walter purposely enhanced as much as
possible: the old man lost what little selfpossession he ever had; and so
the time of departure drew on rapidly.
The Captain, who did not fail to make himself acquainted with all that
passed, through inquiries of Walter from day to day, found the time still
tending on towards his going away, without any occasion offering itself, or
seeming likely to offer itself, for a better understanding of his position.
It was after much consideration of this fact, and much pondering over such
an unfortunate combination of circumstances, that a bright idea occurred to
the Captain. Suppose he made a call on Mr Carker, and tried to find out from
him how the land really lay!
Captain Cuttle liked this idea very much. It came upon him in a moment
of inspiration, as he was smoking an early pipe in Brig Place after
breakfast; and it was worthy of the tobacco. It would quiet his conscience,
which was an honest one, and was made a little uneasy by what Walter had
confided to him, and what Sol Gills had said; and it would be a deep, shrewd
act of friendship. He would sound Mr Carker carefully, and say much or
little, just as he read that gentleman's character, and discovered that they
got on well together or the reverse.
Accordingly, without the fear of Walter before his eyes (who he knew
was at home packing), Captain Cuttle again assumed his ankle-jacks and
mourning brooch, and issued forth on this second expedition. He purchased no
propitiatory nosegay on the present occasion, as he was going to a place of
business; but he put a small sunflower in his button-hole to give himself an
agreeable relish of the country; and with this, and the knobby stick, and
the glazed hat, bore down upon the offices of Dombey and Son.
After taking a glass of warm rum-and-water at a tavern close by, to
collect his thoughts, the Captain made a rush down the court, lest its good
effects should evaporate, and appeared suddenly to Mr Perch.
'Matey,' said the Captain, in persuasive accents. 'One of your
Governors is named Carker.' Mr Perch admitted it; but gave him to
understand, as in official duty bound, that all his Governors were engaged,
and never expected to be disengaged any more.
'Look'ee here, mate,' said the Captain in his ear; 'my name's Cap'en
Cuttle.'
The Captain would have hooked Perch gently to him, but Mr Perch eluded
the attempt; not so much in design, as in starting at the sudden thought
that such a weapon unexpectedly exhibited to Mrs Perch might, in her then
condition, be destructive to that lady's hopes.
'If you'll be so good as just report Cap'en Cuttle here, when you get a
chance,' said the Captain, 'I'll wait.'
Saying which, the Captain took his seat on Mr Perch's bracket, and
drawing out his handkerchief from the crown of the glazed hat which he
jammed between his knees (without injury to its shape, for nothing human
could bend it), rubbed his head well all over, and appeared refreshed. He
subsequently arranged his hair with his hook, and sat looking round the
office, contemplating the clerks with a serene respect.
The Captain's equanimity was so impenetrable, and he was altogether so
mysterious a being, that Perch the messenger was daunted.
'What name was it you said?' asked Mr Perch, bending down over him as
he sat on the bracket.
'Cap'en,' in a deep hoarse whisper.
'Yes,' said Mr Perch, keeping time with his head.
'Cuttle.'
'Oh!' said Mr Perch, in the same tone, for he caught it, and couldn't
help it; the Captain, in his diplomacy, was so impressive. 'I'll see if he's
disengaged now. I don't know. Perhaps he may be for a minute.'
'Ay, ay, my lad, I won't detain him longer than a minute,' said the
Captain, nodding with all the weighty importance that he felt within him.
Perch, soon returning, said, 'Will Captain Cuttle walk this way?'
Mr Carker the Manager, standing on the hearth-rug before the empty
fireplace, which was ornamented with a castellated sheet of brown paper,
looked at the Captain as he came in, with no very special encouragement.
'Mr Carker?' said Captain Cuttle.
'I believe so,' said Mr Carker, showing all his teeth.
The Captain liked his answering with a smile; it looked pleasant. 'You
see,' began the Captain, rolling his eyes slowly round the little room, and
taking in as much of it as his shirt-collar permitted; 'I'm a seafaring man
myself, Mr Carker, and Wal'r, as is on your books here, is almost a son of
mine.'
'Walter Gay?' said Mr Carker, showing all his teeth again.
'Wal'r Gay it is,' replied the Captain, 'right!' The Captain's manner
expressed a warm approval of Mr Carker's quickness of perception. 'I'm a
intimate friend of his and his Uncle's. Perhaps,' said the Captain, 'you may
have heard your head Governor mention my name? - Captain Cuttle.'
'No!' said Mr Carker, with a still wider demonstration than before.
'Well,' resumed the Captain, 'I've the pleasure of his acquaintance. I
waited upon him down on the Sussex coast there, with my young friend Wal'r,
when - in short, when there was a little accommodation wanted.' The Captain
nodded his head in a manner that was at once comfortable, easy, and
expressive. 'You remember, I daresay?'
'I think,' said Mr Carker, 'I had the honour of arranging the
business.'
'To be sure!' returned the Captain. 'Right again! you had. Now I've
took the liberty of coming here -
'Won't you sit down?' said Mr Carker, smiling.
'Thank'ee,' returned the Captain, availing himself of the offer. 'A man
does get more way upon himself, perhaps, in his conversation, when he sits
down. Won't you take a cheer yourself?'
'No thank you,' said the Manager, standing, perhaps from the force of
winter habit, with his back against the chimney-piece, and looking down upon
the Captain with an eye in every tooth and gum. 'You have taken the liberty,
you were going to say - though it's none - '
'Thank'ee kindly, my lad,' returned the Captain: 'of coming here, on
account of my friend Wal'r. Sol Gills, his Uncle, is a man of science, and
in science he may be considered a clipper; but he ain't what I should
altogether call a able seaman - not man of practice. Wal'r is as trim a lad
as ever stepped; but he's a little down by the head in one respect, and that
is, modesty. Now what I should wish to put to you,' said the Captain,
lowering his voice, and speaking in a kind of confidential growl, 'in a
friendly way, entirely between you and me, and for my own private reckoning,
'till your head Governor has wore round a bit, and I can come alongside of
him, is this - Is everything right and comfortable here, and is Wal'r
out'ard bound with a pretty fair wind?'
'What do you think now, Captain Cuttle?' returned Carker, gathering up
his skirts and settling himself in his position. 'You are a practical man;
what do you think?'
The acuteness and the significance of the Captain's eye as he cocked it
in reply, no words short of those unutterable Chinese words before referred
to could describe.
'Come!' said the Captain, unspeakably encouraged, 'what do you say? Am
I right or wrong?'
So much had the Captain expressed in his eye, emboldened and incited by
Mr Carker's smiling urbanity, that he felt himself in as fair a condition to
put the question, as if he had expressed his sentiments with the utmost
elaboration.
'Right,' said Mr Carker, 'I have no doubt.'
'Out'ard bound with fair weather, then, I say,' cried Captain Cuttle.
Mr Carker smiled assent.
'Wind right astarn, and plenty of it,' pursued the Captain.
Mr Carker smiled assent again.
'Ay, ay!' said Captain Cuttle, greatly relieved and pleased. 'I know'd
how she headed, well enough; I told Wal'r so. Thank'ee, thank'ee.'
'Gay has brilliant prospects,' observed Mr Carker, stretching his mouth
wider yet: 'all the world before him.'
'All the world and his wife too, as the saying is,' returned the
delighted Captain.
At the word 'wife' (which he had uttered without design), the Captain
stopped, cocked his eye again, and putting the glazed hat on the top of the
knobby stick, gave it a twirl, and looked sideways at his always smiling
friend.
'I'd bet a gill of old Jamaica,' said the Captain, eyeing him
attentively, 'that I know what you're a smiling at.'
Mr Carker took his cue, and smiled the more.
'It goes no farther?' said the Captain, making a poke at the door with
the knobby stick to assure himself that it was shut.
'Not an inch,' said Mr Carker.
'You're thinking of a capital F perhaps?' said the Captain.
Mr Carker didn't deny it.
'Anything about a L,' said the Captain, 'or a O?'
Mr Carker still smiled.
'Am I right, again?' inquired the Captain in a whisper, with the
scarlet circle on his forehead swelling in his triumphant joy.
Mr Carker, in reply, still smiling, and now nodding assent, Captain
Cuttle rose and squeezed him by the hand, assuring him, warmly, that they
were on the same tack, and that as for him (Cuttle) he had laid his course
that way all along. 'He know'd her first,' said the Captain, with all the
secrecy and gravity that the subject demanded, 'in an uncommon manner - you
remember his finding her in the street when she was a'most a babby - he has
liked her ever since, and she him, as much as two youngsters can. We've
always said, Sol Gills and me, that they was cut out for each other.'
A cat, or a monkey, or a hyena, or a death's-head, could not have shown
the Captain more teeth at one time, than Mr Carker showed him at this period
of their interview.
'There's a general indraught that way,' observed the happy Captain.
'Wind and water sets in that direction, you see. Look at his being present
t'other day!'
'Most favourable to his hopes,' said Mr Carker.
'Look at his being towed along in the wake of that day!' pursued the
Captain. 'Why what can cut him adrift now?'
'Nothing,' replied Mr Carker.
'You're right again,' returned the Captain, giving his hand another
squeeze. 'Nothing it is. So! steady! There's a son gone: pretty little
creetur. Ain't there?'
'Yes, there's a son gone,' said the acquiescent Carker.
'Pass the word, and there's another ready for you,' quoth the Captain.
'Nevy of a scientific Uncle! Nevy of Sol Gills! Wal'r! Wal'r, as is already
in your business! And' - said the Captain, rising gradually to a quotation
he was preparing for a final burst, 'who - comes from Sol Gills's daily, to
your business, and your buzzums.' The Captain's complacency as he gently
jogged Mr Carker with his elbow, on concluding each of the foregoing short
sentences, could be surpassed by nothing but the exultation with which he
fell back and eyed him when he had finished this brilliant display of
eloquence and sagacity; his great blue waistcoat heaving with the throes of
such a masterpiece, and his nose in a state of violent inflammation from the
same cause.
'Am I right?' said the Captain.
'Captain Cuttle,' said Mr Carker, bending down at the knees, for a
moment, in an odd manner, as if he were falling together to hug the whole of
himself at once, 'your views in reference to Walter Gay are thoroughly and
accurately right. I understand that we speak together in confidence.
'Honour!' interposed the Captain. 'Not a word.'
'To him or anyone?' pursued the Manager.
Captain Cuttle frowned and shook his head.
'But merely for your own satisfaction and guidance - and guidance, of
course,' repeated Mr Carker, 'with a view to your future proceedings.'
'Thank'ee kindly, I am sure,' said the Captain, listening with great
attention.
'I have no hesitation in saying, that's the fact. You have hit the
probabilities exactly.'
'And with regard to your head Governor,' said the Captain, 'why an
interview had better come about nat'ral between us. There's time enough.'
Mr Carker, with his mouth from ear to ear, repeated, 'Time enough.' Not
articulating the words, but bowing his head affably, and forming them with
his tongue and lips.
'And as I know - it's what I always said- that Wal'r's in a way to make
his fortune,' said the Captain.
'To make his fortune,' Mr Carker repeated, in the same dumb manner.
'And as Wal'r's going on this little voyage is, as I may say, in his
day's work, and a part of his general expectations here,' said the Captain.
'Of his general expectations here,' assented Mr Carker, dumbly as
before.
'Why, so long as I know that,' pursued the Captain, 'there's no hurry,
and my mind's at ease.
Mr Carker still blandly assenting in the same voiceless manner, Captain
Cuttle was strongly confirmed in his opinion that he was one of the most
agreeable men he had ever met, and that even Mr Dombey might improve himself
on such a model. With great heartiness, therefore, the Captain once again
extended his enormous hand (not unlike an old block in colour), and gave him
a grip that left upon his smoother flesh a proof impression of the chinks
and crevices with which the Captain's palm was liberally tattooed.
'Farewell!' said the Captain. 'I ain't a man of many words, but I take
it very kind of you to be so friendly, and above-board. You'll excuse me if