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!'

        CHAPTER 17.
     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
I've been at all intruding, will you?' said the Captain.
     'Not at all,' returned the other.
     'Thank'ee. My berth ain't very roomy,' said the  Captain,  turning back
again, 'but it's tolerably snug; and  if  you was to find yourself near Brig
Place, number  nine, at  any time - will  you make a note of it? - and would
come upstairs, without minding what was said by the person  at the  door,  I
should be proud to see you.
     With  that  hospitable  invitation,  the Captain  said  'Good day!' and
walked out and shut  the door; leaving Mr Carker still reclining against the
chimney-piece. In whose sly look and watchful manner; in  whose false mouth,
stretched but not laughing; in whose spotless cravat and very whiskers; even
in whose silent passing of his soft hand over his white linen and his smooth
face; there was something desperately cat-like.
     The unconscious  Captain walked out in a  state  of  self-glorification
that imparted quite a new cut to the broad blue  suit. 'Stand by, Ned!' said
the  Captain to himself. 'You've done a little  business for  the youngsters
today, my lad!'
     In his  exultation, and in  his familiarity,  present and  prospective,
with  the House,  the Captain, when  he reached the  outer office, could not
refrain from rallying Mr Perch a little,  and asking  him whether he thought
everybody was still engaged. But not to be  bitter on a man who had done his
duty, the Captain whispered in his ear, that if he felt disposed for a glass
of  rum-and-water,  and  would follow, he would be happy  to bestow the same
upon him.
     Before leaving the  premises, the Captain, somewhat to the astonishment
of the clerks, looked round from a central point of view, and took a general
survey of  the  officers part  and  parcel of a project in  which his  young
friend  was  nearly  interested.  The   strong-room  excited  his   especial
admiration; but, that he might not appear too particular, he limited himself
to an approving glance, and, with a graceful  recognition of the clerks as a
body, that was full of politeness and patronage, passed out into the  court.
Being promptly joined by Mr Perch, he conveyed that gentleman to the tavern,
and fulfilled his pledge - hastily, for Perch's time was precious.
     'I'll give you for a toast,' said the Captain, 'Wal'r!'
     'Who?' submitted Mr Perch.
     'Wal'r!' repeated the Captain, in a voice of thunder.
     Mr Perch, who seemed to remember having heard in infancy that there was
once a poet of  that name, made  no objection; but he was much astonished at
the Captain's coming  into  the City  to propose a  poet; indeed,  if he had
proposed to put a  poet's statue up  - say Shakespeare's for example  - in a
civic  thoroughfare,  he  could hardly have  done  a greater  outrage  to Mr
Perch's  experience.   On   the  whole,  he   was   such  a  mysterious  and
incomprehensible character, that Mr Perch  decided not to mention him to Mrs
Perch at all, in case of giving rise to any disagreeable consequences.
     Mysterious  and incomprehensible, the Captain,  with that lively  sense
upon him of having done a little  business  for the youngsters, remained all
day,  even to his most intimate friends; and but that  Walter attributed his
winks  and grins, and  other such  pantomimic  reliefs  of  himself, to  his
satisfaction in the success of their innocent deception  upon old Sol Gills,
he would assuredly have  betrayed himself before night.  As it was, however,
he  kept  his own  secret;  and went home  late from the  Instrument-maker's
house,  wearing the  glazed  hat  so much  on one side, and carrying  such a
beaming  expression in his eyes, that Mrs MacStinger (who  might  have  been
brought  up  at  Doctor  Blimber's, she was such  a Roman  matron) fortified
herself,  at  the  first  glimpse  of him, behind the open  street door, and
refused to come out to  the contemplation  of her blessed  infants, until he
was securely lodged in his own room.

        CHAPTER 18.
     Father and Daughter

     There is a hush through Mr Dombey's house. Servants gliding up and down
stairs  rustle,  but  make   no  sound  of  footsteps.  They  talk  together
constantly, and sit long at meals,  making much of their meat and drink, and
enjoying themselves after a grim  unholy fashion. Mrs Wickam,  with her eyes
suffused  with tears, relates melancholy  anecdotes; and  tells them how she
always said at Mrs  Pipchin's that  it would be so, and takes more table-ale
than usual, and is very sorry but sociable. Cook's state of mind is similar.
She promises  a little fry for  supper,  and struggles about equally against
her feelings and the onions. Towlinson begins to think there's a fate in it,
and wants to  know  if anybody can tell him  ofany  good that  ever came  of
living in a corner house. It seems to  all of them as having happened a long
time  ago;  though yet the child  lies, calm  and beautiful, upon his little
bed.
     After dark there come some visitors - noiseless visitors, with shoes of
felt -  who  have  been there before;  and  with them comes that bed of rest
which is so strange  a one for infant sleepers. All this time, the  bereaved
father has  not been  seen even by his  attendant; for he  sits in an  inner
corner of his own dark room when anyone is there, and never seems to move at
other  times,  except  to pace  it to  and  fro. But  in  the morning it  is
whispered among the  household  that he was heard to go upstairs in the dead
night, and that he stayed there - in the room - until the sun was shining.
     At the offices in the City, the  ground-glass windows are made more dim
by  shutters;  and  while  the  lighted   lamps  upon  the  desks  are  half
extinguished by the day that wanders in, the day is half extinguished by the
lamps, and an unusual gloom prevails. There  is not much business  done. The
clerks are indisposed to work; and they  make assignations  to  eat chops in
the  afternoon,  and go up the river. Perch, the messenger,  stays long upon
his errands; and finds himself in bars of public-houses, invited  thither by
friends, and holding forth on the uncertainty of human affairs. He goes home
to Ball's Pond earlier in  the evening than usual, and treats Mrs Perch to a
veal cutlet and Scotch ale. Mr Carker the Manager treats no  one; neither is
he treated;  but  alone  in his own room he  shows his teeth all day; and it
would  seem  that  there  is something gone from  Mr  Carker's  path  - some
obstacle removed - which clears his way before him.
     Now the rosy children living  opposite to Mr Dombey's house, peep  from
their nursery windows down  into the street; for there are four black horses
at  his door,  with  feathers on their  heads;  and  feathers tremble on the
carriage that they draw; and these, and  an  array  of  men with scarves and
staves,  attract a crowd. The juggler who was going to twirl the basin, puts
his  loose  coat on  again  over his fine  dress;  and  his  trudging  wife,
one-sided with her heavy baby  in her arms, loiters to see the  company come
out. But closer to her  dingy breast  she presses her  baby, when the burden
that  is  so easily carried is borne  forth;  and the  youngest of  the rosy
children at the high window opposite, needs no restraining hand to check her
in her glee, when,  pointing  with her  dimpled  finger, she  looks into her
nurse's face, and asks 'What's that?'
     And  now,  among  the  knot of  servants dressed in  mourning, and  the
weeping women, Mr Dombey passes through the hall to the  other carriage that
is  waiting to receive him. He is not 'brought down,' these observers think,
by  sorrow and  distress  of mind. His walk is as  erect, his  bearing is as
stiff as ever  it has been. He hides his face  behind  no  handkerchief, and
looks  before him. But  that his face  is something  sunk and  rigid, and is
pale, it bears the same expression as of  old. He takes his place within the
carriage, and  three other gentlemen follow. Then  the  grand funeral  moves
slowly down the  street. The feathers are yet nodding in the distance,  when
the  juggler  has  the basin  spinning on a cane,  and has the same crowd to
admire  it.  But  the juggler's  wife  is  less  alert than usual  with  the
money-box, for a child's burial  has set her thinking that perhaps  the baby
underneath her shabby shawl may not grow up to be a man, and wear a sky-blue
fillet  round his  head, and salmon-coloured  worsted drawers, and tumble in
the mud.
     The feathers wind their gloomy  way along the  streets, and come within
the sound of a church bell. In this same church, the pretty boy received all
that will soon be  left of him on earth - a  name. All of  him that is dead,
they lay there,  near the perishable  substance of his mother.  It  is well.
Their ashes lie where Florence in her walks - oh lonely, lonely walks! - may
pass them any day.
     The  service over, and  the clergyman withdrawn, Mr Dombey looks round,
demanding  in  a low voice,  whether  the  person  who has been requested to
attend to receive instructions for the tablet, is there?
     Someone comes forward, and says 'Yes.'
     Mr Dombey intimates where he would have it placed; and shows him,  with
his hand upon  the  wall, the shape  and  size; and how it  is to follow the
memorial  to  the  mother.  Then,  with   his  pencil,  he  writes  out  the
inscription, and gives it to him: adding, 'I wish to have it done at once.
     'It shall be done immediately, Sir.'
     'There is really nothing to inscribe but name and age, you see.'
     The man bows, glancing at the paper, but appears to hesitate. Mr Dombey
not observing his hesitation, turns away, and leads towards the porch.
     'I beg  your  pardon, Sir;' a touch falls gently on his mourning cloak;
'but as you wish it done immediately, and it may be  put in hand when I  get
back - '
     'Well?'
     'Will you be so good as read it over again? I think there's a mistake.'
     'Where?'
     The statuary gives him back  the paper, and points out, with his pocket
rule, the words, 'beloved and only child.'
     'It should be, "son," I think, Sir?'
     'You are right. Of course. Make the correction.'
     The father, with a hastier step, pursues his way to the coach. When the
other three, who follow closely,  take their seats, his face is  hidden  for
the first time - shaded by his cloak. Nor do they  see it any more that day.
He  alights  first, and  passes  immediately  into his own  room.  The other
mourners (who are only Mr Chick,  and two of the medical attendants) proceed
upstairs to the drawing-room, to be received by Mrs  Chick and Miss Tox. And
what the face is, in the shut-up chamber underneath: or  what  the  thoughts
are: what the heart is, what the contest or the suffering: no one knows.
     The chief thing that they know, below stairs, in  the kitchen, is  that
'it seems  like Sunday.' They can hardly persuade themselves but that  there
is something unbecoming, if not  wicked, in the conduct of the people out of
doors,  who  pursue  their  ordinary occupations,  and  wear  their everyday
attire. It is quite a novelty to have the blinds  up, and the shutters open;
and they  make  themselves dismally comfortable over bottles  of wine, which
are freely broached as on a festival. They are much inclined to moralise. Mr
Towlinson  proposes with a sigh, 'Amendment to  us all!' for  which, as Cook
says with  another  sigh, 'There's room enough,  God knows.' In the evening,
Mrs  Chick and Miss  Tox take  to needlework again. In  the evening also, Mr
Towlinson goes  out to  take  the air, accompanied by the housemaid, who has
not  yet  tried her  mourning bonnet. They are very tender to  each other at
dusky street-corners, and Towlinson has  visions  of leading an altered  and
blameless existence as a serious greengrocer in Oxford Market.
     There is  sounder sleep and deeper rest  in Mr Dombey's house  tonight,
than there has  been for  many nights.  The  morning  sun  awakens  the  old
household, settled  down  once more in  their  old ways.  The rosy  children
opposite run past with hoops. There is a splendid wedding in the church. The
juggler's wife is active with the money-box in another  quarter of the town.
The  mason  sings and  whistles  as he chips out  P-A-U-L in the marble slab
before him.
     And  can  it  be that in a world so full and busy, the loss of one weak
creature makes  a  void in any heart, so  wide and deep that nothing but the
width and depth of  vast eternity  can fill it up! Florence, in her innocent
affliction, might have  answered,  'Oh  my brother,  oh  my dearly loved and
loving  brother! Only  friend and  companion of my slighted childhood! Could
any  less idea  shed the light already  dawning on your early grave, or give
birth to the softened sorrow that is  springing into life beneath this  rain
of tears!'
     'My dear child,' said  Mrs Chick, who held  it as  a duty incumbent  on
her, to improve the occasion, 'when you are as old as I am - '
     'Which will be the prime of life,' observed Miss Tox.
     'You will then,' pursued Mrs Chick, gently squeezing Miss Tox's hand in
acknowledgment of her friendly remark, 'you will then know that all grief is
unavailing, and that it is our duty to submit.'
     'I will try, dear aunt I do try,' answered Florence, sobbing.
     'I am glad  to hear it,' said Mrs Chick, 'because; my love, as our dear
Miss  Tox  -  of  whose  sound sense and  excellent  judgment,  there cannot
possibly be two opinions - '
     'My dear Louisa, I shall really be proud, soon,' said Miss Tox
     - 'will  tell  you, and confirm  by her experience,' pursued Mrs Chick,
'we are called upon on all occasions to make an effort It is required of us.
If any - my dear,' turning to Miss Tox, 'I want a word. Mis- Mis-'
     'Demeanour?' suggested Miss Tox.
     'No, no, no,' said Mrs Chic 'How can you! Goodness me, it's on, the end
of my tongue. Mis-'
     Placed affection?' suggested Miss Tox, timidly.
     'Good gracious,  Lucretia!'  returned  Mrs Chick  'How very  monstrous!
Misanthrope, is the word  I  want. The idea!  Misplaced affection! I say, if
any misanthrope were  to  put, in my  presence, the  question  "Why  were we
born?" I should reply, "To make an effort"'
     'Very good indeed,' said Miss Tox, much impressed by the originality of
the sentiment 'Very good.'
     'Unhappily,' pursued Mrs Chick, 'we have a warning under  our own eyes.
We have but too much reason to suppose, my dear child, that if an effort had
been  made  in  time,  in  this  family,  a  train of  the  most  trying and
distressing  circumstances  might  have  been  avoided.  Nothing shall  ever
persuade  me,'  observed  the good matron, with a resolute air, 'but that if
that  effort had  been made by poor dear Fanny,  the poor dear darling child
would at least have had a stronger constitution.'
     Mrs Chick abandoned herself to her  feelings for half a moment; but, as
a  practical  illustration of her doctrine, brought herself up short, in the
middle of a sob, and went on again.
     'Therefore, Florence,  pray  let us  see that you have some strength of
mind, and do not selfishly aggravate the distress in which your poor Papa is
plunged.'
     'Dear  aunt!' said Florence, kneeling quickly down before her, that she
might the better and more earnestly look into her face. 'Tell me more  about
Papa. Pray tell me about him! Is he quite heartbroken?'
     Miss Tox was of a tender nature, and there was something in this appeal
that moved her very much. Whether she saw it in a succes