Страница:
'The devil!' cried the driver, looking over his shoulder, 'what's the
matter?'
'Hark! What's that?'
'What?'
'That noise?'
'Ah Heaven, be quiet, cursed brigand!' to a horse who shook his bells
'What noise?'
'Behind. Is it not another carriage at a gallop? There! what's that?'
Miscreant with a Pig's head, stand still!' to another horse, who bit
another, who frightened the other two, who plunged and backed. 'There is
nothing coming.'
'Nothing.'
'No, nothing but the day yonder.'
'You are right, I think. I hear nothing now, indeed. Go on!'
The entangled equipage, half hidden in the reeking cloud from the
horses, goes on slowly at first, for the driver, checked unnecessarily in
his progress, sulkily takes out a pocket-knife, and puts a new lash to his
whip. Then 'Hallo, whoop! Hallo, hi!' Away once more, savagely.
And now the stars faded, and the day glimmered, and standing in the
carriage, looking back, he could discern the track by which he had come, and
see that there was no traveller within view, on all the heavy expanse. And
soon it was broad day, and the sun began to shine on cornfields and
vineyards; and solitary labourers, risen from little temporary huts by heaps
of stones upon the road, were, here and there, at work repairing the
highway, or eating bread. By and by, there were peasants going to their
daily labour, or to market, or lounging at the doors of poor cottages,
gazing idly at him as he passed. And then there was a postyard, ankle-deep
in mud, with steaming dunghills and vast outhouses half ruined; and looking
on this dainty prospect, an immense, old, shadeless, glaring, stone chateau,
with half its windows blinded, and green damp crawling lazily over it, from
the balustraded terrace to the taper tips of the extinguishers upon the
turrets.
Gathered up moodily in a corner of the carriage, and only intent on
going fast - except when he stood up, for a mile together, and looked back;
which he would do whenever there was a piece of open country - he went on,
still postponing thought indefinitely, and still always tormented with
thinking to no purpose.
Shame, disappointment, and discomfiture gnawed at his heart; a constant
apprehension of being overtaken, or met - for he was groundlessly afraid
even of travellers, who came towards him by the way he was going - oppressed
him heavily. The same intolerable awe and dread that had come upon him in
the night, returned unweakened in the day. The monotonous ringing of the
bells and tramping of the horses; the monotony of his anxiety, and useless
rage; the monotonous wheel of fear, regret, and passion, he kept turning
round and round; made the journey like a vision, in which nothing was quite
real but his own torment.
It was a vision of long roads, that stretched away to an horizon,
always receding and never gained; of ill-paved towns, up hill and down,
where faces came to dark doors and ill-glazed windows, and where rows of
mudbespattered cows and oxen were tied up for sale in the long narrow
streets, butting and lowing, and receiving blows on their blunt heads from
bludgeons that might have beaten them in; of bridges, crosses, churches,
postyards, new horses being put in against their wills, and the horses of
the last stage reeking, panting, and laying their drooping heads together
dolefully at stable doors; of little cemeteries with black crosses settled
sideways in the graves, and withered wreaths upon them dropping away; again
of long, long roads, dragging themselves out, up hill and down, to the
treacherous horizon.
Of morning, noon, and sunset; night, and the rising of an early moon.
Of long roads temporarily left behind, and a rough pavement reached; of
battering and clattering over it, and looking up, among house-roofs, at a
great church-tower; of getting out and eating hastily, and drinking draughts
of wine that had no cheering influence; of coming forth afoot, among a host
of beggars - blind men with quivering eyelids, led by old women holding
candles to their faces; idiot girls; the lame, the epileptic, and the
palsied - of passing through the clamour, and looking from his seat at the
upturned countenances and outstretched hands, with a hurried dread of
recognising some pursuer pressing forward - of galloping away again, upon
the long, long road, gathered up, dull and stunned, in his corner, or rising
to see where the moon shone faintly on a patch of the same endless road
miles away, or looking back to see who followed.
Of never sleeping, but sometimes dozing with unclosed eyes, and
springing up with a start, and a reply aloud to an imaginary voice. Of
cursing himself for being there, for having fled, for having let her go, for
not having confronted and defied him. Of having a deadly quarrel with the
whole world, but chiefly with himself. Of blighting everything with his
black mood as he was carried on and away.
It was a fevered vision of things past and present all confounded
together; of his life and journey blended into one. Of being madly hurried
somewhere, whither he must go. Of old scenes starting up among the novelties
through which he travelled. Of musing and brooding over what was past and
distant, and seeming to take no notice of the actual objects he encountered,
but with a wearisome exhausting consciousness of being bewildered by them,
and having their images all crowded in his hot brain after they were gone.
A vision of change upon change, and still the same monotony of bells
and wheels, and horses' feet, and no rest. Of town and country, postyards,
horses, drivers, hill and valley, light and darkness, road and pavement,
height and hollow, wet weather and dry, and still the same monotony of bells
and wheels, and horses' feet, and no rest. A vision of tending on at last,
towards the distant capital, by busier roads, and sweeping round, by old
cathedrals, and dashing through small towns and villages, less thinly
scattered on the road than formerly, and sitting shrouded in his corner,
with his cloak up to his face, as people passing by looked at him.
Of rolling on and on, always postponing thought, and always racked with
thinking; of being unable to reckon up the hours he had been upon the road,
or to comprehend the points of time and place in his journey. Of being
parched and giddy, and half mad. Of pressing on, in spite of all, as if he
could not stop, and coming into Paris, where the turbid river held its swift
course undisturbed, between two brawling streams of life and motion.
A troubled vision, then, of bridges, quays, interminable streets; of
wine-shops, water-carriers, great crowds of people, soldiers, coaches,
military drums, arcades. Of the monotony of bells and wheels and horses'
feet being at length lost in the universal din and uproar. Of the gradual
subsidence of that noise as he passed out in another carriage by a different
barrier from that by which he had entered. Of the restoration, as he
travelled on towards the seacoast, of the monotony of bells and wheels, and
horses' feet, and no rest.
Of sunset once again, and nightfall. Of long roads again, and dead of
night, and feeble lights in windows by the roadside; and still the old
monotony of bells and wheels, and horses' feet, and no rest. Of dawn, and
daybreak, and the rising of the sun. Of tolling slowly up a hill, and
feeling on its top the fresh sea-breeze; and seeing the morning light upon
the edges of the distant waves. Of coming down into a harbour when the tide
was at its full, and seeing fishing-boats float on, and glad women and
children waiting for them. Of nets and seamen's clothes spread out to dry
upon the shore; of busy saIlors, and their voices high among ships' masts
and rigging; of the buoyancy and brightness of the water, and the universal
sparkling.
Of receding from the coast, and looking back upon it from the deck when
it was a haze upon the water, with here and there a little opening of bright
land where the Sun struck. Of the swell, and flash, and murmur of the calm
sea. Of another grey line on the ocean, on the vessel's track, fast growing
clearer and higher. Of cliffs and buildings, and a windmill, and a church,
becoming more and more visible upon it. Of steaming on at last into smooth
water, and mooring to a pier whence groups of people looked down, greeting
friends on board. Of disembarking, passing among them quickly, shunning
every one; and of being at last again in England.
He had thought, in his dream, of going down into a remote country-place
he knew, and lying quiet there, while he secretly informed himself of what
transpired, and determined how to act, Still in the same stunned condition,
he remembered a certain station on the railway, where he would have to
branch off to his place of destination, and where there was a quiet Inn.
Here, he indistinctly resolved to tarry and rest.
With this purpose he slunk into a railway carriage as quickly as he
could, and lying there wrapped in his cloak as if he were asleep, was soon
borne far away from the sea, and deep into the inland green. Arrived at his
destination he looked out, and surveyed it carefully. He was not mistaken in
his impression of the place. It was a retired spot, on the borders of a
little wood. Only one house, newly-built or altered for the purpose, stood
there, surrounded by its neat garden; the small town that was nearest, was
some miles away. Here he alighted then; and going straight into the tavern,
unobserved by anyone, secured two rooms upstairs communicating with each
other, and sufficiently retired.
His object was to rest, and recover the command of himself, and the
balance of his mind. Imbecile discomfiture and rage - so that, as he walked
about his room, he ground his teeth - had complete possession of him. His
thoughts, not to be stopped or directed, still wandered where they would,
and dragged him after them. He was stupefied, and he was wearied to death.
But, as if there were a curse upon him that he should never rest again,
his drowsy senses would not lose their consciousness. He had no more
influence with them, in this regard, than if they had been another man's. It
was not that they forced him to take note of present sounds and objects, but
that they would not be diverted from the whole hurried vision of his
journey. It was constantly before him all at once. She stood there, with her
dark disdainful eyes again upon him; and he was riding on nevertheless,
through town and country, light and darkness, wet weather and dry, over road
and pavement, hill and valley, height and hollow, jaded and scared by the
monotony of bells and wheels, and horses' feet, and no rest.
'What day is this?' he asked of the waiter, who was making preparations
for his dinner.
'Day, Sir?'
'Is it Wednesday?'
'Wednesday, Sir? No, Sir. Thursday, Sir.'
'I forgot. How goes the time? My watch is unwound.'
'Wants a few minutes of five o'clock, Sir. Been travelling a long time,
Sir, perhaps?'
'Yes'
'By rail, Sir?'
'Yes'
'Very confusing, Sir. Not much in the habit of travelling by rail
myself, Sir, but gentlemen frequently say so.'
'Do many gentlemen come here?
'Pretty well, Sir, in general. Nobody here at present. Rather slack
just now, Sir. Everything is slack, Sir.'
He made no answer; but had risen into a sitting posture on the sofa
where he had been lying, and leaned forward with an arm on each knee,
staring at the ground. He could not master his own attention for a minute
together. It rushed away where it would, but it never, for an instant, lost
itself in sleep.
He drank a quantity of wine after dinner, in vain. No such artificial
means would bring sleep to his eyes. His thoughts, more incoherent, dragged
him more unmercifully after them - as if a wretch, condemned to such
expiation, were drawn at the heels of wild horses. No oblivion, and no rest.
How long he sat, drinking and brooding, and being dragged in
imagination hither and thither, no one could have told less correctly than
he. But he knew that he had been sitting a long time by candle-light, when
he started up and listened, in a sudden terror.
For now, indeed, it was no fancy. The ground shook, the house rattled,
the fierce impetuous rush was in the air! He felt it come up, and go darting
by; and even when he had hurried to the window, and saw what it was, he
stood, shrinking from it, as if it were not safe to look.
A curse upon the fiery devil, thundering along so smoothly, tracked
through the distant valley by a glare of light and lurid smoke, and gone! He
felt as if he had been plucked out of its path, and saved from being torn
asunder. It made him shrink and shudder even now, when its faintest hum was
hushed, and when the lines of iron road he could trace in the moonlight,
running to a point, were as empty and as silent as a desert.
Unable to rest, and irresistibly attracted - or he thought so - to this
road, he went out, and lounged on the brink of it, marking the way the train
had gone, by the yet smoking cinders that were lying in its track. After a
lounge of some half hour in the direction by which it had disappeared, he
turned and walked the other way - still keeping to the brink of the road -
past the inn garden, and a long way down; looking curiously at the bridges,
signals, lamps, and wondering when another Devil would come by.
A trembling of the ground, and quick vibration in his ears; a distant
shriek; a dull light advancing, quickly changed to two red eyes, and a
fierce fire, dropping glowing coals; an irresistible bearing on of a great
roaring and dilating mass; a high wind, and a rattle - another come and
gone, and he holding to a gate, as if to save himself!
He waited for another, and for another. He walked back to his former
point, and back again to that, and still, through the wearisome vision of
his journey, looked for these approaching monsters. He loitered about the
station, waiting until one should stay to call there; and when one did, and
was detached for water, he stood parallel with it, watching its heavy wheels
and brazen front, and thinking what a cruel power and might it had. Ugh! To
see the great wheels slowly turning, and to think of being run down and
crushed!
Disordered with wine and want of rest - that want which nothing,
although he was so weary, would appease - these ideas and objects assumed a
diseased importance in his thoughts. When he went back to his room, which
was not until near midnight, they still haunted him, and he sat listening
for the coming of another.
So in his bed, whither he repaired with no hope of sleep. He still lay
listening; and when he felt the trembling and vibration, got up and went to
the window, to watch (as he could from its position) the dull light changing
to the two red eyes, and the fierce fire dropping glowing coals, and the
rush of the giant as it fled past, and the track of glare and smoke along
the valley. Then he would glance in the direction by which he intended to
depart at sunrise, as there was no rest for him there; and would lie down
again, to be troubled by the vision of his journey, and the old monotony of
bells and wheels and horses' feet, until another came. This lasted all
night. So far from resuming the mastery of himself, he seemed, if possible,
to lose it more and more, as the night crept on. When the dawn appeared, he
was still tormented with thinking, still postponing thought until he should
be in a better state; the past, present, and future all floated confusedly
before him, and he had lost all power of looking steadily at any one of
them.
'At what time,' he asked the man who had waited on hIm over-night, now
entering with a candle, 'do I leave here, did you say?'
'About a quarter after four, Sir. Express comes through at four, Sir. -
It don't stop.
He passed his hand across his throbbing head, and looked at his watch.
Nearly half-past three.
'Nobody going with you, Sir, probably,' observed the man. 'Two
gentlemen here, Sir, but they're waiting for the train to London.'
'I thought you said there was nobody here,' said Carker, turning upon
him with the ghost of his old smile, when he was angry or suspicious.
'Not then, sir. Two gentlemen came in the night by the short train that
stops here, Sir. Warm water, Sir?'
'No; and take away the candle. There's day enough for me.'
Having thrown himself upon the bed, half-dressed he was at the window
as the man left the room. The cold light of morning had succeeded to night
and there was already, in the sky, the red suffusion of the coming sun. He
bathed his head and face with water - there was no cooling influence in it
for him - hurriedly put on his clothes, paid what he owed, and went out.
The air struck chill and comfortless as it breathed upon him. There was
a heavy dew; and, hot as he was, it made him shiver. After a glance at the
place where he had walked last night, and at the signal-lights burning in
the morning, and bereft of their significance, he turned to where the sun
was rising, and beheld it, in its glory, as it broke upon the scene.
So awful, so transcendent in its beauty, so divinely solemn. As he cast
his faded eyes upon it, where it rose, tranquil and serene, unmoved by all
the wrong and wickedness on which its beams had shone since the beginning of
the world, who shall say that some weak sense of virtue upon Earth, and its
in Heaven, did not manifest itself, even to him? If ever he remembered
sister or brother with a touch of tenderness and remorse, who shall say it
was not then?
He needed some such touch then. Death was on him. He was marked off -
the living world, and going down into his grave.
He paid the money for his journey to the country-place he had thought
of; and was walking to and fro, alone, looking along the lines of iron,
across the valley in one direction, and towards a dark bridge near at hand
in the other; when, turning in his walk, where it was bounded by one end of
the wooden stage on which he paced up and down, he saw the man from whom he
had fled, emerging from the door by which he himself had entered
And their eyes met.
In the quick unsteadiness of the surprise, he staggered, and slipped on
to the road below him. But recovering his feet immediately, he stepped back
a pace or two upon that road, to interpose some wider space between them,
and looked at his pursuer, breathing short and quick.
He heard a shout - another - saw the face change from its vindictive
passion to a faint sickness and terror - felt the earth tremble - knew in a
moment that the rush was come - uttered a shriek - looked round - saw the
red eyes, bleared and dim, in the daylight, close upon him - was beaten
down, caught up, and whirled away upon a jagged mill, that spun him round
and round, and struck him limb from limb, and licked his stream of life up
with its fiery heat, and cast his mutilated fragments in the air.
When the traveller, who had been recognised, recovered from a swoon, he
saw them bringing from a distance something covered, that lay heavy and
still, upon a board, between four men, and saw that others drove some dogs
away that sniffed upon the road, and soaked his blood up, with a train of
ashes.
Several People delighted, and the Game Chicken disgusted
The Midshipman was all alive. Mr Toots and Susan had arrived at last.
Susan had run upstairs like a young woman bereft of her senses, and Mr Toots
and the Chicken had gone into the Parlour.
'Oh my own pretty darling sweet Miss Floy!' cried the Nipper, running
into Florence's room, 'to think that it should come to this and I should
find you here my own dear dove with nobody to wait upon you and no home to
call your own but never never will I go away again Miss Floy for though I
may not gather moss I'm not a rolling stone nor is my heart a stone or else
it wouldn't bust as it is busting now oh dear oh dear!'
Pouring out these words, without the faintest indication of a stop, of
any sort, Miss Nipper, on her knees beside her mistress, hugged her close.
'Oh love!' cried Susan, 'I know all that's past I know it all my tender
pet and I'm a choking give me air!'
'Susan, dear good Susan!' said Florence. 'Oh bless her! I that was her
little maid when she was a little child! and is she really, really truly
going to be married?'exclaimed Susan, in a burst of pain and pleasure, pride
and grief, and Heaven knows how many other conflicting feelings.
'Who told you so?' said Florence.
'Oh gracious me! that innocentest creetur Toots,' returned Susan
hysterically. 'I knew he must be right my dear, because he took on so. He's
the devotedest and innocentest infant! And is my darling,' pursued Susan,
with another close embrace and burst of tears, 'really really going to be
married!'
The mixture of compassion, pleasure, tenderness, protection, and regret
with which the Nipper constantly recurred to this subject, and at every such
once, raised her head to look in the young face and kiss it, and then laid
her head again upon her mistress's shoulder, caressing her and sobbing, was
as womanly and good a thing, in its way, as ever was seen in the world.
'There, there!' said the soothing voice of Florence presently. 'Now
you're quite yourself, dear Susan!'
Miss Nipper, sitting down upon the floor, at her mistress's feet,
laughing and sobbing, holding her pocket-handkerchief to her eyes with one
hand, and patting Diogenes with the other as he licked her face, confessed
to being more composed, and laughed and cried a little more in proof of it.
'I-I-I never did see such a creetur as that Toots,' said Susan, 'in all
my born days never!'
'So kind,' suggested Florence.
'And so comic!' Susan sobbed. 'The way he's been going on inside with
me with that disrespectable Chicken on the box!'
'About what, Susan?' inquired Florence, timidly.
'Oh about Lieutenant Walters, and Captain Gills, and you my dear Miss
Floy, and the silent tomb,' said Susan.
'The silent tomb!' repeated Florence.
'He says,' here Susan burst into a violent hysterical laugh, 'that
he'll go down into it now immediately and quite comfortable, but bless your
heart my dear Miss Floy he won't, he's a great deal too happy in seeing
other people happy for that, he may not be a Solomon,' pursued the Nipper,
with her usual volubility, 'nor do I say he is but this I do say a less
selfish human creature human nature never knew!' Miss Nipper being still
hysterical, laughed immoderately after making this energetic declaration,
and then informed Florence that he was waiting below to see her; which would
be a rich repayment for the trouble he had had in his late expedition.
Florence entreated Susan to beg of Mr Toots as a favour that she might
have the pleasure of thanking him for his kindness; and Susan, in a few
moments, produced that young gentleman, still very much dishevelled in
appearance, and stammering exceedingly.
'Miss Dombey,' said Mr Toots. 'To be again permitted to - to - gaze -
at least, not to gaze, but - I don't exactly know what I was going to say,
but it's of no consequence.
'I have to thank you so often,' returned Florence, giving him both her
hands, with all her innocent gratitude beaming in her face, 'that I have no
words left, and don't know how to do it.'
'Miss Dombey,' said Mr Toots, in an awful voice, 'if it was possible
that you could, consistently with your angelic nature, Curse me, you would -
if I may be allowed to say so - floor me infinitely less, than by these
undeserved expressions of kindness Their effect upon me - is - but,' said Mr
Toots, abruptly, 'this is a digression, and of no consequence at all.'
As there seemed to be no means of replying to this, but by thanking him
again, Florence thanked him again.
'I could wish,' said Mr Toots, 'to take this opportunity, Miss Dombey,
if I might, of entering into a word of explanation. I should have had the
pleasure of - of returning with Susan at an earlier period; but, in the
first place, we didn't know the name of the relation to whose house she had
gone, and, in the second, as she had left that relation's and gone to
another at a distance, I think that scarcely anything short of the sagacity
of the Chicken, would have found her out in the time.'
Florence was sure of it.
'This, however,' said Mr Toots, 'is not the point. The company of Susan
has been, I assure you, Miss Dombey, a consolation and satisfaction to me,
in my state of mind, more easily conceived than described. The journey has
been its own reward. That, however, still, is not the point. Miss Dombey, I
have before observed that I know I am not what is considered a quick person.
I am perfectly aware of that. I don't think anybody could be better
acquainted with his own - if it was not too strong an expression, I should
say with the thickness of his own head - than myself. But, Miss Dombey, I
do, notwithstanding, perceive the state of - of things - with Lieutenant
Walters. Whatever agony that state of things may have caused me (which is of
no consequence at all), I am bound to say, that Lieutenant Walters is a
person who appears to be worthy of the blessing that has fallen on his - on
his brow. May he wear it long, and appreciate it, as a very different, and
very unworthy individual, that it is of no consequence to name, would have
done! That, however, still, is not the point. Miss Dombey, Captain Gills is
a friend of mine; and during the interval that is now elapsing, I believe it
would afford Captain Gills pleasure to see me occasionally coming backwards
and forwards here. It would afford me pleasure so to come. But I cannot
forget that I once committed myself, fatally, at the corner of the Square at
Brighton; and if my presence will be, in the least degree, unpleasant to
you, I only ask you to name it to me now, and assure you that I shall
perfectly understand you. I shall not consider it at all unkind, and shall
only be too delighted and happy to be honoured with your confidence.'
'Mr Toots,' returned Florence, 'if you, who are so old and true a
friend of mine, were to stay away from this house now, you would make me
very unhappy. It can never, never, give me any feeling but pleasure to see
you.
'Miss Dombey,' said Mr Toots, taking out his pocket-handkerchief, 'if I
shed a tear, it is a tear of joy. It is of no consequence, and I am very
much obliged to you. I may be allowed to remark, after what you have so
kindly said, that it is not my intention to neglect my person any longer.'
Florence received this intimation with the prettiest expression of
perplexity possible.
'I mean,' said Mr Toots, 'that I shall consider it my duty as a
fellow-creature generally, until I am claimed by the silent tomb, to make
the best of myself, and to - to have my boots as brightly polished, as - as
-circumstances will admit of. This is the last time, Miss Dombey, of my
intruding any observation of a private and personal nature. I thank you very
much indeed. if I am not, in a general way, as sensible as my friends could
wish me to be, or as I could wish myself, I really am, upon my word and
honour, particularly sensible of what is considerate and kind. I feel,' said
Mr Toots, in an impassioned tone, 'as if I could express my feelings, at the
present moment, in a most remarkable manner, if - if - I could only get a
start.'
Appearing not to get it, after waiting a minute or two to see if it
would come, Mr Toots took a hasty leave, and went below to seek the Captain,
whom he found in the shop.
'Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, 'what is now to take place between us,
takes place under the sacred seal of confidence. It is the sequel, Captain
Gills, of what has taken place between myself and Miss Dombey, upstairs.'
'Alow and aloft, eh, my lad?' murmured the Captain.
'Exactly so, Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, whose fervour of
acquiescence was greatly heightened by his entire ignorance of the Captain's
meaning. 'Miss Dombey, I believe, Captain Gills, is to be shortly united to
Lieutenant Walters?'
'Why, ay, my lad. We're all shipmets here, - Wal'r and sweet- heart
will be jined together in the house of bondage, as soon as the askings is
over,' whispered Captain Cuttle, in his ear.
'The askings, Captain Gills!' repeated Mr Toots.
'In the church, down yonder,' said the Captain, pointing his thumb over
his shoulder.
'Oh! Yes!' returned Mr Toots.
'And then,' said the Captain, in his hoarse whisper, and tapping Mr
Toots on the chest with the back of his hand, and falling from him with a
look of infinite admiration, 'what follers? That there pretty creetur, as
delicately brought up as a foreign bird, goes away upon the roaring main
with Wal'r on a woyage to China!'
'Lord, Captain Gills!' said Mr Toots.
'Ay!' nodded the Captain. 'The ship as took him up, when he was wrecked
in the hurricane that had drove her clean out of her course, was a China
trader, and Wal'r made the woyage, and got into favour, aboard and ashore -
being as smart and good a lad as ever stepped - and so, the supercargo dying
at Canton, he got made (having acted as clerk afore), and now he's
supercargo aboard another ship, same owners. And so, you see,' repeated the
Captain, thoughtfully, 'the pretty creetur goes away upon the roaring main
with Wal'r, on a woyage to China.'
Mr Toots and Captain Cuttle heaved a sigh in concert. 'What then?' said
the Captain. 'She loves him true. He loves her true. Them as should have
loved and tended of her, treated of her like the beasts as perish. When she,
cast out of home, come here to me, and dropped upon them planks, her wownded
heart was broke. I know it. I, Ed'ard Cuttle, see it. There's nowt but true,
kind, steady love, as can ever piece it up again. If so be I didn't know
that, and didn't know as Wal'r was her true love, brother, and she his, I'd
have these here blue arms and legs chopped off, afore I'd let her go. But I
know it, and what then! Why, then, I say, Heaven go with 'em both, and so it
will! Amen!'
'Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, 'let me have the pleasure of shaking
hands You've a way of saying things, that gives me an agreeable warmth, all
up my back. I say Amen. You are aware, Captain Gills, that I, too, have
adored Miss Dombey.'
'Cheer up!' said the Captain, laying his hand on Mr Toots's shoulder.
'Stand by, boy!'
'It is my intention, Captain Gills,' returned the spirited Mr Toots,
'to cheer up. Also to standby, as much as possible. When the silent tomb
shall yawn, Captain Gills, I shall be ready for burial; not before. But not
being certain, just at present, of my power over myself, what I wish to say
to you, and what I shall take it as a particular favour if you will mention
to Lieutenant Walters, is as follows.'
'Is as follers,' echoed the Captain. 'Steady!'
'Miss Dombey being so inexpressably kind,' continued Mr Toots with
watery eyes, 'as to say that my presence is the reverse of disagreeable to
her, and you and everybody here being no less forbearing and tolerant
towards one who - who certainly,' said Mr Toots, with momentary dejection,
'would appear to have been born by mistake, I shall come backwards and
forwards of an evening, during the short time we can all be together. But
what I ask is this. If, at any moment, I find that I cannot endure the
contemplation of Lieutenant Walters's bliss, and should rush out, I hope,
Captain Gills, that you and he will both consider it as my misfortune and
not my fault, or the want of inward conflict. That you'll feel convinced I
bear no malice to any living creature-least of all to Lieutenant Walters
himself - and that you'll casually remark that I have gone out for a walk,
or probably to see what o'clock it is by the Royal Exchange. Captain Gills,
if you could enter into this arrangement, and could answer for Lieutenant
Walters, it would be a relief to my feelings that I should think cheap at
the sacrifice of a considerable portion of my property.'
'My lad,' returned the Captain, 'say no more. There ain't a colour you
can run up, as won't be made out, and answered to, by Wal'r and self.'
'Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, 'my mind is greatly relieved. I wish to
preserve the good opinion of all here. I - I - mean well, upon my honour,
however badly I may show it. You know,' said Mr Toots, 'it's as exactly as
Burgess and Co. wished to oblige a customer with a most extraordinary pair
of trousers, and could not cut out what they had in their minds.'
With this apposite illustration, of which he seemed a little Proud, Mr
Toots gave Captain Cuttle his blessing and departed.
The honest Captain, with his Heart's Delight in the house, and Susan
tending her, was a beaming and a happy man. As the days flew by, he grew
more beaming and more happy, every day. After some conferences with Susan
(for whose wisdom the Captain had a profound respect, and whose valiant
precipitation of herself on Mrs MacStinger he could never forget), he
proposed to Florence that the daughter of the elderly lady who usually sat
under the blue umbrella in Leadenhall Market, should, for prudential reasons
and considerations of privacy, be superseded in the temporary discharge of
the household duties, by someone who was not unknown to them, and in whom
they could safely confide. Susan, being present, then named, in furtherance
of a suggestion she had previously offered to the Captain, Mrs Richards.
Florence brightened at the name. And Susan, setting off that very afternoon
to the Toodle domicile, to sound Mrs Richards, returned in triumph the same
evening, accompanied by the identical rosy-cheeked apple-faced Polly, whose
demonstrations, when brought into Florence's presence, were hardly less
affectionate than those of Susan Nipper herself.
This piece of generalship accomplished; from which the Captain derived
uncommon satisfaction, as he did, indeed, from everything else that was
done, whatever it happened to be; Florence had next to prepare Susan for
their approaching separation. This was a much more difficult task, as Miss
Nipper was of a resolute disposition, and had fully made up her mind that
she had come back never to be parted from her old mistress any more.
'As to wages dear Miss Floy,' she said, 'you wouldn't hint and wrong me
so as think of naming them, for I've put money by and wouldn't sell my love
and duty at a time like this even if the Savings' Banks and me were total
strangers or the Banks were broke to pieces, but you've never been without
me darling from the time your poor dear Ma was took away, and though I'm
nothing to be boasted of you're used to me and oh my own dear mistress
through so many years don't think of going anywhere without me, for it
mustn't and can't be!'
'Dear Susan, I am going on a long, long voyage.'
'Well Miss Floy, and what of that? the more you'll want me. Lengths of
voyages ain't an object in my eyes, thank God!' said the impetuous Susan
Nipper.
'But, Susan, I am going with Walter, and I would go with Walter
anywhere - everywhere! Walter is poor, and I am very poor, and I must learn,
now, both to help myself, and help him.'
'Dear Miss Floy!' cried Susan, bursting out afresh, and shaking her
head violently, 'it's nothing new to you to help yourself and others too and
be the patientest and truest of noble hearts, but let me talk to Mr Walter
Gay and settle it with him, for suffer you to go away across the world alone
I cannot, and I won't.'
'Alone, Susan?' returned Florence. 'Alone? and Walter taking me with
him!' Ah, what a bright, amazed, enraptured smile was on her face! - He
should have seen it. 'I am sure you will not speak to Walter if I ask you
not,' she added tenderly; 'and pray don't, dear.'
Susan sobbed 'Why not, Miss Floy?'
'Because,' said Florence, 'I am going to be his wife, to give him up my
whole heart, and to live with him and die with him. He might think, if you
said to him what you have said to me, that I am afraid of what is before me,
or that you have some cause to be afraid for me. Why, Susan, dear, I love
him!'
Miss Nipper was so much affected by the quiet fervour of these words,
and the simple, heartfelt, all-pervading earnestness expressed in them, and
making the speaker's face more beautiful and pure than ever, that she could
only cling to her again, crying. Was her little mistress really, really
going to be married, and pitying, caressing, and protecting her, as she had
done before. But the Nipper, though susceptible of womanly weaknesses, was
almost as capable of putting constraint upon herself as of attacking the
redoubtable MacStinger. From that time, she never returned to the subject,
but was always cheerful, active, bustling, and hopeful. She did, indeed,
inform Mr Toots privately, that she was only 'keeping up' for the time, and
that when it was all over, and Miss Dombey was gone, she might be expected
to become a spectacle distressful; and Mr Toots did also express that it was
his case too, and that they would mingle their tears together; but she never
otherwise indulged her private feelings in the presence of Florence or
within the precincts of the Midshipman.
Limited and plain as Florence's wardrobe was - what a contrast to that
prepared for the last marriage in which she had taken part! - there was a
good deal to do in getting it ready, and Susan Nipper worked away at her
side, all day, with the concentrated zeal of fifty sempstresses. The
wonderful contributions Captain Cuttle would have made to this branch of the
outfit, if he had been permitted - as pink parasols, tinted silk stockings,
blue shoes, and other articles no less necessary on shipboard - would occupy
some space in the recital. He was induced, however, by various fraudulent
representations, to limit his contributions to a work-box and dressing case,
of each of which he purchased the very largest specimen that could be got
for money. For ten days or a fortnight afterwards, he generally sat, during
the greater part of the day, gazing at these boxes; divided between extreme
admiration of them, and dejected misgivings that they were not gorgeous
enough, and frequently diving out into the street to purchase some wild
article that he deemed necessary to their completeness. But his
master-stroke was, the bearing of them both off, suddenly, one morning, and
getting the two words FLORENCE GAY engraved upon a brass heart inlaid over
the lid of each. After this, he smoked four pipes successively in the little
parlour by himself, and was discovered chuckling, at the expiration of as
many hours.
Walter was busy and away all day, but came there every morning early to
see Florence, and always passed the evening with her. Florence never left
her high rooms but to steal downstairs to wait for him when it was his time
to come, or, sheltered by his proud, encircling arm, to bear him company to
the door again, and sometimes peep into the street. In the twilight they
were always together. Oh blessed time! Oh wandering heart at rest! Oh deep,
exhaustless, mighty well of love, in which so much was sunk!
The cruel mark was on her bosom yet. It rose against her father with
the breath she drew, it lay between her and her lover when he pressed her to
his heart. But she forgot it. In the beating of that heart for her, and in
the beating of her own for him, all harsher music was unheard, all stern
unloving hearts forgotten. Fragile and delicate she was, but with a might of
love within her that could, and did, create a world to fly to, and to rest
in, out of his one image.
How often did the great house, and the old days, come before her in the
twilight time, when she was sheltered by the arm, so proud, so fond, and,
creeping closer to him, shrunk within it at the recollection! How often,
from remembering the night when she went down to that room and met the
never-to-be forgotten look, did she raise her eyes to those that watched her
with such loving earnestness, and weep with happiness in such a refuge! The
more she clung to it, the more the dear dead child was in her thoughts: but
as if the last time she had seen her father, had been when he was sleeping
and she kissed his face, she always left him so, and never, in her fancy,
passed that hour.
'Walter, dear,' said Florence, one evening, when it was almost dark.'Do
you know what I have been thinking to-day?'
'Thinking how the time is flying on, and how soon we shall be upon the
sea, sweet Florence?'
'I don't mean that, Walter, though I think of that too. I have been
thinking what a charge I am to you.
'A precious, sacred charge, dear heart! Why, I think that sometimes.'
'You are laughing, Walter. I know that's much more in your thoughts
than mine. But I mean a cost.
'A cost, my own?'
'In money, dear. All these preparations that Susan and I are so busy
with - I have been able to purchase very little for myself. You were poor
before. But how much poorer I shall make you, Walter!'
'And how much richer, Florence!'
Florence laughed, and shook her head.
'Besides,' said Walter, 'long ago - before I went to sea - I had a
little purse presented to me, dearest, which had money in it.'
'Ah!' returned Florence, laughing sorrowfully, 'very little! very
little, Walter! But, you must not think,' and here she laid her light hand
on his shoulder, and looked into his face, 'that I regret to be this burden
on you. No, dear love, I am glad of it. I am happy in it. I wouldn't have it
otherwise for all the world!'
'Nor I, indeed, dear Florence.'
'Ay! but, Walter, you can never feel it as I do. I am so proud of you!
It makes my heart swell with such delight to know that those who speak of
you must say you married a poor disowned girl, who had taken shelter here;
who had no other home, no other friends; who had nothing - nothing! Oh,
Walter, if I could have brought you millions, I never could have been so
happy for your sake, as I am!'
'And you, dear Florence? are you nothing?' he returned.
'No, nothing, Walter. Nothing but your wife.' The light hand stole
about his neck, and the voice came nearer - nearer. 'I am nothing any more,
that is not you. I have no earthly hope any more, that is not you. I have
nothing dear to me any more, that is not you.
Oh! well might Mr Toots leave the little company that evening, and
twice go out to correct his watch by the Royal Exchange, and once to keep an
appointment with a banker which he suddenly remembered, and once to take a
little turn to Aldgate Pump and back!
But before he went upon these expeditions, or indeed before he came,
and before lights were brought, Walter said:
'Florence, love, the lading of our ship is nearly finished, and
probably on the very day of our marriage she will drop down the river. Shall
we go away that morning, and stay in Kent until we go on board at Gravesend
within a week?'
'If you please, Walter. I shall be happy anywhere. But - '
'Yes, my life?'
'You know,' said Florence, 'that we shall have no marriage party, and
that nobody will distinguish us by our dress from other people. As we leave
the same day, will you - will you take me somewhere that morning, Walter -
early - before we go to church?'
Walter seemed to understand her, as so true a lover so truly loved
should, and confirmed his ready promise with a kiss - with more than one
perhaps, or two or threes or five or six; and in the grave, peaceful
evening, Florence was very happy.
Then into the quiet room came Susan Nipper and the candles; shortly
afterwards, the tea, the Captain, and the excursive Mr Toots, who, as above
mentioned, was frequently on the move afterwards, and passed but a restless
evening. This, however, was not his habit: for he generally got on very
well, by dint of playing at cribbage with the Captain under the advice and
guidance of Miss Nipper, and distracting his mind with the calculations
incidental to the game; which he found to be a very effectual means of
utterly confounding himself.
The Captain's visage on these occasions presented one of the finest
examples of combination and succession of expression ever observed. His
instinctive delicacy and his chivalrous feeling towards Florence, taught him
that it was not a time for any boisterous jollity, or violent display of
matter?'
'Hark! What's that?'
'What?'
'That noise?'
'Ah Heaven, be quiet, cursed brigand!' to a horse who shook his bells
'What noise?'
'Behind. Is it not another carriage at a gallop? There! what's that?'
Miscreant with a Pig's head, stand still!' to another horse, who bit
another, who frightened the other two, who plunged and backed. 'There is
nothing coming.'
'Nothing.'
'No, nothing but the day yonder.'
'You are right, I think. I hear nothing now, indeed. Go on!'
The entangled equipage, half hidden in the reeking cloud from the
horses, goes on slowly at first, for the driver, checked unnecessarily in
his progress, sulkily takes out a pocket-knife, and puts a new lash to his
whip. Then 'Hallo, whoop! Hallo, hi!' Away once more, savagely.
And now the stars faded, and the day glimmered, and standing in the
carriage, looking back, he could discern the track by which he had come, and
see that there was no traveller within view, on all the heavy expanse. And
soon it was broad day, and the sun began to shine on cornfields and
vineyards; and solitary labourers, risen from little temporary huts by heaps
of stones upon the road, were, here and there, at work repairing the
highway, or eating bread. By and by, there were peasants going to their
daily labour, or to market, or lounging at the doors of poor cottages,
gazing idly at him as he passed. And then there was a postyard, ankle-deep
in mud, with steaming dunghills and vast outhouses half ruined; and looking
on this dainty prospect, an immense, old, shadeless, glaring, stone chateau,
with half its windows blinded, and green damp crawling lazily over it, from
the balustraded terrace to the taper tips of the extinguishers upon the
turrets.
Gathered up moodily in a corner of the carriage, and only intent on
going fast - except when he stood up, for a mile together, and looked back;
which he would do whenever there was a piece of open country - he went on,
still postponing thought indefinitely, and still always tormented with
thinking to no purpose.
Shame, disappointment, and discomfiture gnawed at his heart; a constant
apprehension of being overtaken, or met - for he was groundlessly afraid
even of travellers, who came towards him by the way he was going - oppressed
him heavily. The same intolerable awe and dread that had come upon him in
the night, returned unweakened in the day. The monotonous ringing of the
bells and tramping of the horses; the monotony of his anxiety, and useless
rage; the monotonous wheel of fear, regret, and passion, he kept turning
round and round; made the journey like a vision, in which nothing was quite
real but his own torment.
It was a vision of long roads, that stretched away to an horizon,
always receding and never gained; of ill-paved towns, up hill and down,
where faces came to dark doors and ill-glazed windows, and where rows of
mudbespattered cows and oxen were tied up for sale in the long narrow
streets, butting and lowing, and receiving blows on their blunt heads from
bludgeons that might have beaten them in; of bridges, crosses, churches,
postyards, new horses being put in against their wills, and the horses of
the last stage reeking, panting, and laying their drooping heads together
dolefully at stable doors; of little cemeteries with black crosses settled
sideways in the graves, and withered wreaths upon them dropping away; again
of long, long roads, dragging themselves out, up hill and down, to the
treacherous horizon.
Of morning, noon, and sunset; night, and the rising of an early moon.
Of long roads temporarily left behind, and a rough pavement reached; of
battering and clattering over it, and looking up, among house-roofs, at a
great church-tower; of getting out and eating hastily, and drinking draughts
of wine that had no cheering influence; of coming forth afoot, among a host
of beggars - blind men with quivering eyelids, led by old women holding
candles to their faces; idiot girls; the lame, the epileptic, and the
palsied - of passing through the clamour, and looking from his seat at the
upturned countenances and outstretched hands, with a hurried dread of
recognising some pursuer pressing forward - of galloping away again, upon
the long, long road, gathered up, dull and stunned, in his corner, or rising
to see where the moon shone faintly on a patch of the same endless road
miles away, or looking back to see who followed.
Of never sleeping, but sometimes dozing with unclosed eyes, and
springing up with a start, and a reply aloud to an imaginary voice. Of
cursing himself for being there, for having fled, for having let her go, for
not having confronted and defied him. Of having a deadly quarrel with the
whole world, but chiefly with himself. Of blighting everything with his
black mood as he was carried on and away.
It was a fevered vision of things past and present all confounded
together; of his life and journey blended into one. Of being madly hurried
somewhere, whither he must go. Of old scenes starting up among the novelties
through which he travelled. Of musing and brooding over what was past and
distant, and seeming to take no notice of the actual objects he encountered,
but with a wearisome exhausting consciousness of being bewildered by them,
and having their images all crowded in his hot brain after they were gone.
A vision of change upon change, and still the same monotony of bells
and wheels, and horses' feet, and no rest. Of town and country, postyards,
horses, drivers, hill and valley, light and darkness, road and pavement,
height and hollow, wet weather and dry, and still the same monotony of bells
and wheels, and horses' feet, and no rest. A vision of tending on at last,
towards the distant capital, by busier roads, and sweeping round, by old
cathedrals, and dashing through small towns and villages, less thinly
scattered on the road than formerly, and sitting shrouded in his corner,
with his cloak up to his face, as people passing by looked at him.
Of rolling on and on, always postponing thought, and always racked with
thinking; of being unable to reckon up the hours he had been upon the road,
or to comprehend the points of time and place in his journey. Of being
parched and giddy, and half mad. Of pressing on, in spite of all, as if he
could not stop, and coming into Paris, where the turbid river held its swift
course undisturbed, between two brawling streams of life and motion.
A troubled vision, then, of bridges, quays, interminable streets; of
wine-shops, water-carriers, great crowds of people, soldiers, coaches,
military drums, arcades. Of the monotony of bells and wheels and horses'
feet being at length lost in the universal din and uproar. Of the gradual
subsidence of that noise as he passed out in another carriage by a different
barrier from that by which he had entered. Of the restoration, as he
travelled on towards the seacoast, of the monotony of bells and wheels, and
horses' feet, and no rest.
Of sunset once again, and nightfall. Of long roads again, and dead of
night, and feeble lights in windows by the roadside; and still the old
monotony of bells and wheels, and horses' feet, and no rest. Of dawn, and
daybreak, and the rising of the sun. Of tolling slowly up a hill, and
feeling on its top the fresh sea-breeze; and seeing the morning light upon
the edges of the distant waves. Of coming down into a harbour when the tide
was at its full, and seeing fishing-boats float on, and glad women and
children waiting for them. Of nets and seamen's clothes spread out to dry
upon the shore; of busy saIlors, and their voices high among ships' masts
and rigging; of the buoyancy and brightness of the water, and the universal
sparkling.
Of receding from the coast, and looking back upon it from the deck when
it was a haze upon the water, with here and there a little opening of bright
land where the Sun struck. Of the swell, and flash, and murmur of the calm
sea. Of another grey line on the ocean, on the vessel's track, fast growing
clearer and higher. Of cliffs and buildings, and a windmill, and a church,
becoming more and more visible upon it. Of steaming on at last into smooth
water, and mooring to a pier whence groups of people looked down, greeting
friends on board. Of disembarking, passing among them quickly, shunning
every one; and of being at last again in England.
He had thought, in his dream, of going down into a remote country-place
he knew, and lying quiet there, while he secretly informed himself of what
transpired, and determined how to act, Still in the same stunned condition,
he remembered a certain station on the railway, where he would have to
branch off to his place of destination, and where there was a quiet Inn.
Here, he indistinctly resolved to tarry and rest.
With this purpose he slunk into a railway carriage as quickly as he
could, and lying there wrapped in his cloak as if he were asleep, was soon
borne far away from the sea, and deep into the inland green. Arrived at his
destination he looked out, and surveyed it carefully. He was not mistaken in
his impression of the place. It was a retired spot, on the borders of a
little wood. Only one house, newly-built or altered for the purpose, stood
there, surrounded by its neat garden; the small town that was nearest, was
some miles away. Here he alighted then; and going straight into the tavern,
unobserved by anyone, secured two rooms upstairs communicating with each
other, and sufficiently retired.
His object was to rest, and recover the command of himself, and the
balance of his mind. Imbecile discomfiture and rage - so that, as he walked
about his room, he ground his teeth - had complete possession of him. His
thoughts, not to be stopped or directed, still wandered where they would,
and dragged him after them. He was stupefied, and he was wearied to death.
But, as if there were a curse upon him that he should never rest again,
his drowsy senses would not lose their consciousness. He had no more
influence with them, in this regard, than if they had been another man's. It
was not that they forced him to take note of present sounds and objects, but
that they would not be diverted from the whole hurried vision of his
journey. It was constantly before him all at once. She stood there, with her
dark disdainful eyes again upon him; and he was riding on nevertheless,
through town and country, light and darkness, wet weather and dry, over road
and pavement, hill and valley, height and hollow, jaded and scared by the
monotony of bells and wheels, and horses' feet, and no rest.
'What day is this?' he asked of the waiter, who was making preparations
for his dinner.
'Day, Sir?'
'Is it Wednesday?'
'Wednesday, Sir? No, Sir. Thursday, Sir.'
'I forgot. How goes the time? My watch is unwound.'
'Wants a few minutes of five o'clock, Sir. Been travelling a long time,
Sir, perhaps?'
'Yes'
'By rail, Sir?'
'Yes'
'Very confusing, Sir. Not much in the habit of travelling by rail
myself, Sir, but gentlemen frequently say so.'
'Do many gentlemen come here?
'Pretty well, Sir, in general. Nobody here at present. Rather slack
just now, Sir. Everything is slack, Sir.'
He made no answer; but had risen into a sitting posture on the sofa
where he had been lying, and leaned forward with an arm on each knee,
staring at the ground. He could not master his own attention for a minute
together. It rushed away where it would, but it never, for an instant, lost
itself in sleep.
He drank a quantity of wine after dinner, in vain. No such artificial
means would bring sleep to his eyes. His thoughts, more incoherent, dragged
him more unmercifully after them - as if a wretch, condemned to such
expiation, were drawn at the heels of wild horses. No oblivion, and no rest.
How long he sat, drinking and brooding, and being dragged in
imagination hither and thither, no one could have told less correctly than
he. But he knew that he had been sitting a long time by candle-light, when
he started up and listened, in a sudden terror.
For now, indeed, it was no fancy. The ground shook, the house rattled,
the fierce impetuous rush was in the air! He felt it come up, and go darting
by; and even when he had hurried to the window, and saw what it was, he
stood, shrinking from it, as if it were not safe to look.
A curse upon the fiery devil, thundering along so smoothly, tracked
through the distant valley by a glare of light and lurid smoke, and gone! He
felt as if he had been plucked out of its path, and saved from being torn
asunder. It made him shrink and shudder even now, when its faintest hum was
hushed, and when the lines of iron road he could trace in the moonlight,
running to a point, were as empty and as silent as a desert.
Unable to rest, and irresistibly attracted - or he thought so - to this
road, he went out, and lounged on the brink of it, marking the way the train
had gone, by the yet smoking cinders that were lying in its track. After a
lounge of some half hour in the direction by which it had disappeared, he
turned and walked the other way - still keeping to the brink of the road -
past the inn garden, and a long way down; looking curiously at the bridges,
signals, lamps, and wondering when another Devil would come by.
A trembling of the ground, and quick vibration in his ears; a distant
shriek; a dull light advancing, quickly changed to two red eyes, and a
fierce fire, dropping glowing coals; an irresistible bearing on of a great
roaring and dilating mass; a high wind, and a rattle - another come and
gone, and he holding to a gate, as if to save himself!
He waited for another, and for another. He walked back to his former
point, and back again to that, and still, through the wearisome vision of
his journey, looked for these approaching monsters. He loitered about the
station, waiting until one should stay to call there; and when one did, and
was detached for water, he stood parallel with it, watching its heavy wheels
and brazen front, and thinking what a cruel power and might it had. Ugh! To
see the great wheels slowly turning, and to think of being run down and
crushed!
Disordered with wine and want of rest - that want which nothing,
although he was so weary, would appease - these ideas and objects assumed a
diseased importance in his thoughts. When he went back to his room, which
was not until near midnight, they still haunted him, and he sat listening
for the coming of another.
So in his bed, whither he repaired with no hope of sleep. He still lay
listening; and when he felt the trembling and vibration, got up and went to
the window, to watch (as he could from its position) the dull light changing
to the two red eyes, and the fierce fire dropping glowing coals, and the
rush of the giant as it fled past, and the track of glare and smoke along
the valley. Then he would glance in the direction by which he intended to
depart at sunrise, as there was no rest for him there; and would lie down
again, to be troubled by the vision of his journey, and the old monotony of
bells and wheels and horses' feet, until another came. This lasted all
night. So far from resuming the mastery of himself, he seemed, if possible,
to lose it more and more, as the night crept on. When the dawn appeared, he
was still tormented with thinking, still postponing thought until he should
be in a better state; the past, present, and future all floated confusedly
before him, and he had lost all power of looking steadily at any one of
them.
'At what time,' he asked the man who had waited on hIm over-night, now
entering with a candle, 'do I leave here, did you say?'
'About a quarter after four, Sir. Express comes through at four, Sir. -
It don't stop.
He passed his hand across his throbbing head, and looked at his watch.
Nearly half-past three.
'Nobody going with you, Sir, probably,' observed the man. 'Two
gentlemen here, Sir, but they're waiting for the train to London.'
'I thought you said there was nobody here,' said Carker, turning upon
him with the ghost of his old smile, when he was angry or suspicious.
'Not then, sir. Two gentlemen came in the night by the short train that
stops here, Sir. Warm water, Sir?'
'No; and take away the candle. There's day enough for me.'
Having thrown himself upon the bed, half-dressed he was at the window
as the man left the room. The cold light of morning had succeeded to night
and there was already, in the sky, the red suffusion of the coming sun. He
bathed his head and face with water - there was no cooling influence in it
for him - hurriedly put on his clothes, paid what he owed, and went out.
The air struck chill and comfortless as it breathed upon him. There was
a heavy dew; and, hot as he was, it made him shiver. After a glance at the
place where he had walked last night, and at the signal-lights burning in
the morning, and bereft of their significance, he turned to where the sun
was rising, and beheld it, in its glory, as it broke upon the scene.
So awful, so transcendent in its beauty, so divinely solemn. As he cast
his faded eyes upon it, where it rose, tranquil and serene, unmoved by all
the wrong and wickedness on which its beams had shone since the beginning of
the world, who shall say that some weak sense of virtue upon Earth, and its
in Heaven, did not manifest itself, even to him? If ever he remembered
sister or brother with a touch of tenderness and remorse, who shall say it
was not then?
He needed some such touch then. Death was on him. He was marked off -
the living world, and going down into his grave.
He paid the money for his journey to the country-place he had thought
of; and was walking to and fro, alone, looking along the lines of iron,
across the valley in one direction, and towards a dark bridge near at hand
in the other; when, turning in his walk, where it was bounded by one end of
the wooden stage on which he paced up and down, he saw the man from whom he
had fled, emerging from the door by which he himself had entered
And their eyes met.
In the quick unsteadiness of the surprise, he staggered, and slipped on
to the road below him. But recovering his feet immediately, he stepped back
a pace or two upon that road, to interpose some wider space between them,
and looked at his pursuer, breathing short and quick.
He heard a shout - another - saw the face change from its vindictive
passion to a faint sickness and terror - felt the earth tremble - knew in a
moment that the rush was come - uttered a shriek - looked round - saw the
red eyes, bleared and dim, in the daylight, close upon him - was beaten
down, caught up, and whirled away upon a jagged mill, that spun him round
and round, and struck him limb from limb, and licked his stream of life up
with its fiery heat, and cast his mutilated fragments in the air.
When the traveller, who had been recognised, recovered from a swoon, he
saw them bringing from a distance something covered, that lay heavy and
still, upon a board, between four men, and saw that others drove some dogs
away that sniffed upon the road, and soaked his blood up, with a train of
ashes.
Several People delighted, and the Game Chicken disgusted
The Midshipman was all alive. Mr Toots and Susan had arrived at last.
Susan had run upstairs like a young woman bereft of her senses, and Mr Toots
and the Chicken had gone into the Parlour.
'Oh my own pretty darling sweet Miss Floy!' cried the Nipper, running
into Florence's room, 'to think that it should come to this and I should
find you here my own dear dove with nobody to wait upon you and no home to
call your own but never never will I go away again Miss Floy for though I
may not gather moss I'm not a rolling stone nor is my heart a stone or else
it wouldn't bust as it is busting now oh dear oh dear!'
Pouring out these words, without the faintest indication of a stop, of
any sort, Miss Nipper, on her knees beside her mistress, hugged her close.
'Oh love!' cried Susan, 'I know all that's past I know it all my tender
pet and I'm a choking give me air!'
'Susan, dear good Susan!' said Florence. 'Oh bless her! I that was her
little maid when she was a little child! and is she really, really truly
going to be married?'exclaimed Susan, in a burst of pain and pleasure, pride
and grief, and Heaven knows how many other conflicting feelings.
'Who told you so?' said Florence.
'Oh gracious me! that innocentest creetur Toots,' returned Susan
hysterically. 'I knew he must be right my dear, because he took on so. He's
the devotedest and innocentest infant! And is my darling,' pursued Susan,
with another close embrace and burst of tears, 'really really going to be
married!'
The mixture of compassion, pleasure, tenderness, protection, and regret
with which the Nipper constantly recurred to this subject, and at every such
once, raised her head to look in the young face and kiss it, and then laid
her head again upon her mistress's shoulder, caressing her and sobbing, was
as womanly and good a thing, in its way, as ever was seen in the world.
'There, there!' said the soothing voice of Florence presently. 'Now
you're quite yourself, dear Susan!'
Miss Nipper, sitting down upon the floor, at her mistress's feet,
laughing and sobbing, holding her pocket-handkerchief to her eyes with one
hand, and patting Diogenes with the other as he licked her face, confessed
to being more composed, and laughed and cried a little more in proof of it.
'I-I-I never did see such a creetur as that Toots,' said Susan, 'in all
my born days never!'
'So kind,' suggested Florence.
'And so comic!' Susan sobbed. 'The way he's been going on inside with
me with that disrespectable Chicken on the box!'
'About what, Susan?' inquired Florence, timidly.
'Oh about Lieutenant Walters, and Captain Gills, and you my dear Miss
Floy, and the silent tomb,' said Susan.
'The silent tomb!' repeated Florence.
'He says,' here Susan burst into a violent hysterical laugh, 'that
he'll go down into it now immediately and quite comfortable, but bless your
heart my dear Miss Floy he won't, he's a great deal too happy in seeing
other people happy for that, he may not be a Solomon,' pursued the Nipper,
with her usual volubility, 'nor do I say he is but this I do say a less
selfish human creature human nature never knew!' Miss Nipper being still
hysterical, laughed immoderately after making this energetic declaration,
and then informed Florence that he was waiting below to see her; which would
be a rich repayment for the trouble he had had in his late expedition.
Florence entreated Susan to beg of Mr Toots as a favour that she might
have the pleasure of thanking him for his kindness; and Susan, in a few
moments, produced that young gentleman, still very much dishevelled in
appearance, and stammering exceedingly.
'Miss Dombey,' said Mr Toots. 'To be again permitted to - to - gaze -
at least, not to gaze, but - I don't exactly know what I was going to say,
but it's of no consequence.
'I have to thank you so often,' returned Florence, giving him both her
hands, with all her innocent gratitude beaming in her face, 'that I have no
words left, and don't know how to do it.'
'Miss Dombey,' said Mr Toots, in an awful voice, 'if it was possible
that you could, consistently with your angelic nature, Curse me, you would -
if I may be allowed to say so - floor me infinitely less, than by these
undeserved expressions of kindness Their effect upon me - is - but,' said Mr
Toots, abruptly, 'this is a digression, and of no consequence at all.'
As there seemed to be no means of replying to this, but by thanking him
again, Florence thanked him again.
'I could wish,' said Mr Toots, 'to take this opportunity, Miss Dombey,
if I might, of entering into a word of explanation. I should have had the
pleasure of - of returning with Susan at an earlier period; but, in the
first place, we didn't know the name of the relation to whose house she had
gone, and, in the second, as she had left that relation's and gone to
another at a distance, I think that scarcely anything short of the sagacity
of the Chicken, would have found her out in the time.'
Florence was sure of it.
'This, however,' said Mr Toots, 'is not the point. The company of Susan
has been, I assure you, Miss Dombey, a consolation and satisfaction to me,
in my state of mind, more easily conceived than described. The journey has
been its own reward. That, however, still, is not the point. Miss Dombey, I
have before observed that I know I am not what is considered a quick person.
I am perfectly aware of that. I don't think anybody could be better
acquainted with his own - if it was not too strong an expression, I should
say with the thickness of his own head - than myself. But, Miss Dombey, I
do, notwithstanding, perceive the state of - of things - with Lieutenant
Walters. Whatever agony that state of things may have caused me (which is of
no consequence at all), I am bound to say, that Lieutenant Walters is a
person who appears to be worthy of the blessing that has fallen on his - on
his brow. May he wear it long, and appreciate it, as a very different, and
very unworthy individual, that it is of no consequence to name, would have
done! That, however, still, is not the point. Miss Dombey, Captain Gills is
a friend of mine; and during the interval that is now elapsing, I believe it
would afford Captain Gills pleasure to see me occasionally coming backwards
and forwards here. It would afford me pleasure so to come. But I cannot
forget that I once committed myself, fatally, at the corner of the Square at
Brighton; and if my presence will be, in the least degree, unpleasant to
you, I only ask you to name it to me now, and assure you that I shall
perfectly understand you. I shall not consider it at all unkind, and shall
only be too delighted and happy to be honoured with your confidence.'
'Mr Toots,' returned Florence, 'if you, who are so old and true a
friend of mine, were to stay away from this house now, you would make me
very unhappy. It can never, never, give me any feeling but pleasure to see
you.
'Miss Dombey,' said Mr Toots, taking out his pocket-handkerchief, 'if I
shed a tear, it is a tear of joy. It is of no consequence, and I am very
much obliged to you. I may be allowed to remark, after what you have so
kindly said, that it is not my intention to neglect my person any longer.'
Florence received this intimation with the prettiest expression of
perplexity possible.
'I mean,' said Mr Toots, 'that I shall consider it my duty as a
fellow-creature generally, until I am claimed by the silent tomb, to make
the best of myself, and to - to have my boots as brightly polished, as - as
-circumstances will admit of. This is the last time, Miss Dombey, of my
intruding any observation of a private and personal nature. I thank you very
much indeed. if I am not, in a general way, as sensible as my friends could
wish me to be, or as I could wish myself, I really am, upon my word and
honour, particularly sensible of what is considerate and kind. I feel,' said
Mr Toots, in an impassioned tone, 'as if I could express my feelings, at the
present moment, in a most remarkable manner, if - if - I could only get a
start.'
Appearing not to get it, after waiting a minute or two to see if it
would come, Mr Toots took a hasty leave, and went below to seek the Captain,
whom he found in the shop.
'Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, 'what is now to take place between us,
takes place under the sacred seal of confidence. It is the sequel, Captain
Gills, of what has taken place between myself and Miss Dombey, upstairs.'
'Alow and aloft, eh, my lad?' murmured the Captain.
'Exactly so, Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, whose fervour of
acquiescence was greatly heightened by his entire ignorance of the Captain's
meaning. 'Miss Dombey, I believe, Captain Gills, is to be shortly united to
Lieutenant Walters?'
'Why, ay, my lad. We're all shipmets here, - Wal'r and sweet- heart
will be jined together in the house of bondage, as soon as the askings is
over,' whispered Captain Cuttle, in his ear.
'The askings, Captain Gills!' repeated Mr Toots.
'In the church, down yonder,' said the Captain, pointing his thumb over
his shoulder.
'Oh! Yes!' returned Mr Toots.
'And then,' said the Captain, in his hoarse whisper, and tapping Mr
Toots on the chest with the back of his hand, and falling from him with a
look of infinite admiration, 'what follers? That there pretty creetur, as
delicately brought up as a foreign bird, goes away upon the roaring main
with Wal'r on a woyage to China!'
'Lord, Captain Gills!' said Mr Toots.
'Ay!' nodded the Captain. 'The ship as took him up, when he was wrecked
in the hurricane that had drove her clean out of her course, was a China
trader, and Wal'r made the woyage, and got into favour, aboard and ashore -
being as smart and good a lad as ever stepped - and so, the supercargo dying
at Canton, he got made (having acted as clerk afore), and now he's
supercargo aboard another ship, same owners. And so, you see,' repeated the
Captain, thoughtfully, 'the pretty creetur goes away upon the roaring main
with Wal'r, on a woyage to China.'
Mr Toots and Captain Cuttle heaved a sigh in concert. 'What then?' said
the Captain. 'She loves him true. He loves her true. Them as should have
loved and tended of her, treated of her like the beasts as perish. When she,
cast out of home, come here to me, and dropped upon them planks, her wownded
heart was broke. I know it. I, Ed'ard Cuttle, see it. There's nowt but true,
kind, steady love, as can ever piece it up again. If so be I didn't know
that, and didn't know as Wal'r was her true love, brother, and she his, I'd
have these here blue arms and legs chopped off, afore I'd let her go. But I
know it, and what then! Why, then, I say, Heaven go with 'em both, and so it
will! Amen!'
'Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, 'let me have the pleasure of shaking
hands You've a way of saying things, that gives me an agreeable warmth, all
up my back. I say Amen. You are aware, Captain Gills, that I, too, have
adored Miss Dombey.'
'Cheer up!' said the Captain, laying his hand on Mr Toots's shoulder.
'Stand by, boy!'
'It is my intention, Captain Gills,' returned the spirited Mr Toots,
'to cheer up. Also to standby, as much as possible. When the silent tomb
shall yawn, Captain Gills, I shall be ready for burial; not before. But not
being certain, just at present, of my power over myself, what I wish to say
to you, and what I shall take it as a particular favour if you will mention
to Lieutenant Walters, is as follows.'
'Is as follers,' echoed the Captain. 'Steady!'
'Miss Dombey being so inexpressably kind,' continued Mr Toots with
watery eyes, 'as to say that my presence is the reverse of disagreeable to
her, and you and everybody here being no less forbearing and tolerant
towards one who - who certainly,' said Mr Toots, with momentary dejection,
'would appear to have been born by mistake, I shall come backwards and
forwards of an evening, during the short time we can all be together. But
what I ask is this. If, at any moment, I find that I cannot endure the
contemplation of Lieutenant Walters's bliss, and should rush out, I hope,
Captain Gills, that you and he will both consider it as my misfortune and
not my fault, or the want of inward conflict. That you'll feel convinced I
bear no malice to any living creature-least of all to Lieutenant Walters
himself - and that you'll casually remark that I have gone out for a walk,
or probably to see what o'clock it is by the Royal Exchange. Captain Gills,
if you could enter into this arrangement, and could answer for Lieutenant
Walters, it would be a relief to my feelings that I should think cheap at
the sacrifice of a considerable portion of my property.'
'My lad,' returned the Captain, 'say no more. There ain't a colour you
can run up, as won't be made out, and answered to, by Wal'r and self.'
'Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, 'my mind is greatly relieved. I wish to
preserve the good opinion of all here. I - I - mean well, upon my honour,
however badly I may show it. You know,' said Mr Toots, 'it's as exactly as
Burgess and Co. wished to oblige a customer with a most extraordinary pair
of trousers, and could not cut out what they had in their minds.'
With this apposite illustration, of which he seemed a little Proud, Mr
Toots gave Captain Cuttle his blessing and departed.
The honest Captain, with his Heart's Delight in the house, and Susan
tending her, was a beaming and a happy man. As the days flew by, he grew
more beaming and more happy, every day. After some conferences with Susan
(for whose wisdom the Captain had a profound respect, and whose valiant
precipitation of herself on Mrs MacStinger he could never forget), he
proposed to Florence that the daughter of the elderly lady who usually sat
under the blue umbrella in Leadenhall Market, should, for prudential reasons
and considerations of privacy, be superseded in the temporary discharge of
the household duties, by someone who was not unknown to them, and in whom
they could safely confide. Susan, being present, then named, in furtherance
of a suggestion she had previously offered to the Captain, Mrs Richards.
Florence brightened at the name. And Susan, setting off that very afternoon
to the Toodle domicile, to sound Mrs Richards, returned in triumph the same
evening, accompanied by the identical rosy-cheeked apple-faced Polly, whose
demonstrations, when brought into Florence's presence, were hardly less
affectionate than those of Susan Nipper herself.
This piece of generalship accomplished; from which the Captain derived
uncommon satisfaction, as he did, indeed, from everything else that was
done, whatever it happened to be; Florence had next to prepare Susan for
their approaching separation. This was a much more difficult task, as Miss
Nipper was of a resolute disposition, and had fully made up her mind that
she had come back never to be parted from her old mistress any more.
'As to wages dear Miss Floy,' she said, 'you wouldn't hint and wrong me
so as think of naming them, for I've put money by and wouldn't sell my love
and duty at a time like this even if the Savings' Banks and me were total
strangers or the Banks were broke to pieces, but you've never been without
me darling from the time your poor dear Ma was took away, and though I'm
nothing to be boasted of you're used to me and oh my own dear mistress
through so many years don't think of going anywhere without me, for it
mustn't and can't be!'
'Dear Susan, I am going on a long, long voyage.'
'Well Miss Floy, and what of that? the more you'll want me. Lengths of
voyages ain't an object in my eyes, thank God!' said the impetuous Susan
Nipper.
'But, Susan, I am going with Walter, and I would go with Walter
anywhere - everywhere! Walter is poor, and I am very poor, and I must learn,
now, both to help myself, and help him.'
'Dear Miss Floy!' cried Susan, bursting out afresh, and shaking her
head violently, 'it's nothing new to you to help yourself and others too and
be the patientest and truest of noble hearts, but let me talk to Mr Walter
Gay and settle it with him, for suffer you to go away across the world alone
I cannot, and I won't.'
'Alone, Susan?' returned Florence. 'Alone? and Walter taking me with
him!' Ah, what a bright, amazed, enraptured smile was on her face! - He
should have seen it. 'I am sure you will not speak to Walter if I ask you
not,' she added tenderly; 'and pray don't, dear.'
Susan sobbed 'Why not, Miss Floy?'
'Because,' said Florence, 'I am going to be his wife, to give him up my
whole heart, and to live with him and die with him. He might think, if you
said to him what you have said to me, that I am afraid of what is before me,
or that you have some cause to be afraid for me. Why, Susan, dear, I love
him!'
Miss Nipper was so much affected by the quiet fervour of these words,
and the simple, heartfelt, all-pervading earnestness expressed in them, and
making the speaker's face more beautiful and pure than ever, that she could
only cling to her again, crying. Was her little mistress really, really
going to be married, and pitying, caressing, and protecting her, as she had
done before. But the Nipper, though susceptible of womanly weaknesses, was
almost as capable of putting constraint upon herself as of attacking the
redoubtable MacStinger. From that time, she never returned to the subject,
but was always cheerful, active, bustling, and hopeful. She did, indeed,
inform Mr Toots privately, that she was only 'keeping up' for the time, and
that when it was all over, and Miss Dombey was gone, she might be expected
to become a spectacle distressful; and Mr Toots did also express that it was
his case too, and that they would mingle their tears together; but she never
otherwise indulged her private feelings in the presence of Florence or
within the precincts of the Midshipman.
Limited and plain as Florence's wardrobe was - what a contrast to that
prepared for the last marriage in which she had taken part! - there was a
good deal to do in getting it ready, and Susan Nipper worked away at her
side, all day, with the concentrated zeal of fifty sempstresses. The
wonderful contributions Captain Cuttle would have made to this branch of the
outfit, if he had been permitted - as pink parasols, tinted silk stockings,
blue shoes, and other articles no less necessary on shipboard - would occupy
some space in the recital. He was induced, however, by various fraudulent
representations, to limit his contributions to a work-box and dressing case,
of each of which he purchased the very largest specimen that could be got
for money. For ten days or a fortnight afterwards, he generally sat, during
the greater part of the day, gazing at these boxes; divided between extreme
admiration of them, and dejected misgivings that they were not gorgeous
enough, and frequently diving out into the street to purchase some wild
article that he deemed necessary to their completeness. But his
master-stroke was, the bearing of them both off, suddenly, one morning, and
getting the two words FLORENCE GAY engraved upon a brass heart inlaid over
the lid of each. After this, he smoked four pipes successively in the little
parlour by himself, and was discovered chuckling, at the expiration of as
many hours.
Walter was busy and away all day, but came there every morning early to
see Florence, and always passed the evening with her. Florence never left
her high rooms but to steal downstairs to wait for him when it was his time
to come, or, sheltered by his proud, encircling arm, to bear him company to
the door again, and sometimes peep into the street. In the twilight they
were always together. Oh blessed time! Oh wandering heart at rest! Oh deep,
exhaustless, mighty well of love, in which so much was sunk!
The cruel mark was on her bosom yet. It rose against her father with
the breath she drew, it lay between her and her lover when he pressed her to
his heart. But she forgot it. In the beating of that heart for her, and in
the beating of her own for him, all harsher music was unheard, all stern
unloving hearts forgotten. Fragile and delicate she was, but with a might of
love within her that could, and did, create a world to fly to, and to rest
in, out of his one image.
How often did the great house, and the old days, come before her in the
twilight time, when she was sheltered by the arm, so proud, so fond, and,
creeping closer to him, shrunk within it at the recollection! How often,
from remembering the night when she went down to that room and met the
never-to-be forgotten look, did she raise her eyes to those that watched her
with such loving earnestness, and weep with happiness in such a refuge! The
more she clung to it, the more the dear dead child was in her thoughts: but
as if the last time she had seen her father, had been when he was sleeping
and she kissed his face, she always left him so, and never, in her fancy,
passed that hour.
'Walter, dear,' said Florence, one evening, when it was almost dark.'Do
you know what I have been thinking to-day?'
'Thinking how the time is flying on, and how soon we shall be upon the
sea, sweet Florence?'
'I don't mean that, Walter, though I think of that too. I have been
thinking what a charge I am to you.
'A precious, sacred charge, dear heart! Why, I think that sometimes.'
'You are laughing, Walter. I know that's much more in your thoughts
than mine. But I mean a cost.
'A cost, my own?'
'In money, dear. All these preparations that Susan and I are so busy
with - I have been able to purchase very little for myself. You were poor
before. But how much poorer I shall make you, Walter!'
'And how much richer, Florence!'
Florence laughed, and shook her head.
'Besides,' said Walter, 'long ago - before I went to sea - I had a
little purse presented to me, dearest, which had money in it.'
'Ah!' returned Florence, laughing sorrowfully, 'very little! very
little, Walter! But, you must not think,' and here she laid her light hand
on his shoulder, and looked into his face, 'that I regret to be this burden
on you. No, dear love, I am glad of it. I am happy in it. I wouldn't have it
otherwise for all the world!'
'Nor I, indeed, dear Florence.'
'Ay! but, Walter, you can never feel it as I do. I am so proud of you!
It makes my heart swell with such delight to know that those who speak of
you must say you married a poor disowned girl, who had taken shelter here;
who had no other home, no other friends; who had nothing - nothing! Oh,
Walter, if I could have brought you millions, I never could have been so
happy for your sake, as I am!'
'And you, dear Florence? are you nothing?' he returned.
'No, nothing, Walter. Nothing but your wife.' The light hand stole
about his neck, and the voice came nearer - nearer. 'I am nothing any more,
that is not you. I have no earthly hope any more, that is not you. I have
nothing dear to me any more, that is not you.
Oh! well might Mr Toots leave the little company that evening, and
twice go out to correct his watch by the Royal Exchange, and once to keep an
appointment with a banker which he suddenly remembered, and once to take a
little turn to Aldgate Pump and back!
But before he went upon these expeditions, or indeed before he came,
and before lights were brought, Walter said:
'Florence, love, the lading of our ship is nearly finished, and
probably on the very day of our marriage she will drop down the river. Shall
we go away that morning, and stay in Kent until we go on board at Gravesend
within a week?'
'If you please, Walter. I shall be happy anywhere. But - '
'Yes, my life?'
'You know,' said Florence, 'that we shall have no marriage party, and
that nobody will distinguish us by our dress from other people. As we leave
the same day, will you - will you take me somewhere that morning, Walter -
early - before we go to church?'
Walter seemed to understand her, as so true a lover so truly loved
should, and confirmed his ready promise with a kiss - with more than one
perhaps, or two or threes or five or six; and in the grave, peaceful
evening, Florence was very happy.
Then into the quiet room came Susan Nipper and the candles; shortly
afterwards, the tea, the Captain, and the excursive Mr Toots, who, as above
mentioned, was frequently on the move afterwards, and passed but a restless
evening. This, however, was not his habit: for he generally got on very
well, by dint of playing at cribbage with the Captain under the advice and
guidance of Miss Nipper, and distracting his mind with the calculations
incidental to the game; which he found to be a very effectual means of
utterly confounding himself.
The Captain's visage on these occasions presented one of the finest
examples of combination and succession of expression ever observed. His
instinctive delicacy and his chivalrous feeling towards Florence, taught him
that it was not a time for any boisterous jollity, or violent display of