through the streets; and, as they pass along, a
thousand heads are turned to look at them, and a
thousand sober moralists revenge themselves for



DOMBEY AND SON. 239

not being married too, that morning, by reflecting
that these people little think such happiness can't
last.

Miss Tox emerges from behind the cherubim's leg
when all is quiet, and comes slowly down from the
gallery. Miss Tox's eyes are red, and her pocket-
handkerchief is damp. She is wounded, but not
exasperated, and she hopes they may be happy. She
quite admits to herself the beauty of the bride, and
her own comparatively feeble and faded attractions ;
but the stately image of Mr. Dombey, in his lilac
waistcoat and his fawn-colored pantaloons, is present
to her mind, and Miss Tox weeps afresh, behind her
veil, on her way home to Princess's Place. Captain
Cuttle, having joined in all the amens and responses
with a devout growl, feels much improved by his
religious exercises ; and, in a peaceful frame of
mind, pervades the body of the church, glazed hat
in hand, and reads the tablet to the memory of little
Paul. The gallant Mr. Toots, attended by the faith-
ful Chicken, leaves the building in torments of love.
The Chicken is as yet unable to elaborate a scheme
for winning Florence, but his first idea has gained
possession of him, and he thinks the doubling up of
Mr. Dombey would be a move in the right direction.
Mr. Dombey's servants come out of their hiding-
places, and prepare to rush to Brook Street, when
they are delayed by symptoms of indisposition on
the part of Mrs. Perch, who entreats a glass of
water and becomes alarming; Mrs. Perch gets better
soon, however, and is borne away ; and Mrs. Miff,
and Mr. Sownds the beadle, sit upon the steps to
count what they have gained by the affair, and talk
it over, while the sexton tolls a funeral.



240 DOMBEY AND SON.

Now, the carriages arrive at the bride's residence,
and the players on the bells begin to jingle, and the
band strikes up, and Mr. Punch, that model of connu-
bial bliss, salutes his wife. Now, the people run
and push, and press round in a gaping throng, while
Mr. Dombey, leading Mrs. Dombey by the hand,
advances solemnly into the Feenix halls. Now, the
rest of the wedding-party alight, and enter after
them. And why does Mr. Carker, passing through
the people to the hall-door, think of the old woman
who called to him in the grove that morning ? Or
why does Florence, as she passes, think, with a
tremble, of her childhood ; when she was lost, and
of the visage of Good Mrs. Brown ?

Now, there are more congratulations on this hap-
piest of days, and more company, though not much ;
and now they leave the drawing-room, and range
themselves at table in the dark brown dining-room,
which no confectioner can brighten up, let him gar-
nish the exhausted negroes with as many flowers and
love-knots as he will.

The pastrycook has done his duty like a man,
though, and a rich breakfast is set forth. Mr. and
Mrs. Chick have joined the party, among others.
Mrs. Chick admires that Edith should be, by nature,
such a perfect Dombey ; and is affable and confiden-
tial to Mrs. Skewton, whose mind is relieved of a
great load, and who takes her share of the cham-
pagne. The very tall young man, who suffered
from excitement early, is better ; but a vague senti-
ment of repentance has seized upon him, and he
hates the other very tall young man, and wrests
dishes from him by violence, and takes a grim
delight in disobliging the company. The company



iHtn^iiit''




DO^rBET A>'D SOX. 241

are cool and calm^ and do not outrage the black
hatchments of pictures looking down upon them by
any excess of mirth. Cousin Feenix and the major
are the gayest there ; but Mr. Carker has a smile for
the whole table. He has an especial smile for the
bride, who very, very seldom meets it.

Cousin Feenix. rises when the company have
breakfasted, and the servants have left the room ;
and wonderfully young he looks with his white
wristbands almost covering his hands (otherwise
rather bony), and the bloom of the champagne in
his cheeks.

'•' Upon my honor," says Cousin Feenix, '•' although
it's an unusual sort of thing in a private gentleman's
house, I must beg leave to call upon you to drink
what is usually called a — in fact, a toast."

The major very hoarsely indicates his appro vaL
Mr. Carker, bending his head forward over the table
in the direction of Cousin Feenix, smiles and nods
a great many times.

"A — in fact, it^s not a — " C : • - : r. F : ? : . : :: "' . ' ::-
ning again, thus, comes "- " V - :â– .

'•Hear, hear!** says ;_- : - ;-: in a tone of
conviction.

Mr. Carker softly claps his hands, and bending for-
ward over the table again, smiles and nods a great
many more times than before, as if he were particu-
larly struck by this last observation, and desired
personally to express his sense of the good it has
done him.

'' It is," says Cousin Feenix, *•' an occasion, in fact,
when the general usages of life may be a lirtle
departed from without impropriety ; and although I
never was an orator in mv life, and when I was in

VOL, IL-16.



242 DOMBEY AND SON.

the House of Commons, and had the honor of sec-
onding the address, was — in fact, was laid up for a
fortnight with the consciousness of failure — "

The major and Mr. Carker are so much delighted
by this fragment of personal history, that Cousin
Feenix laughs, and, addressing them individually,
goes on to say, —

" And, in point of fact, when I was devilish ill —
still, you know, I feel that a duty devolves upon
me. And when a duty devolves upon an English-
man, he is bound to get out of it, in my opinion, in
the best way he can. Well ! our family has had the
gratification, to-day, of connecting itself, in the
person of my lovely and accomplished relative,
whom I now see — in point of fact, present — "

Here there is general applause.

" Present," repeats Cousin Feenix, feeling that it
is a neat point which will bear repetition, — " with
one who — that is to say, with a man at whom the
finger of scorn can never — in fact, with my honor-
able friend Dombey, if he will allow me to call him
so."

Cousin Feenix bows to Mr. Dombey ; Mr. Dombey
solemnly returns the bow ; everybody is more or
less gratified and affected by this extraordinary, and
perhaps unprecedented, appeal to the feelings.

" I have not," says Cousin Feenix, " enjoyed those
opportunities which I could have desired, of culti-
vating the acquaintance of my friend Dombey, and
studying those qualities which do equal honor to his
head, and, in point of fact, to his heart ; for it has
been my misfortune to be, as we used to say in my
time at the House of Commons, when it was not the
custom to allude to the Lords, and when the order



DOMBEY AKD SOX. 243

of parliamentary proceedings was perhaps better
observed than it is now — to be in — in point of
fact," says Cousin Feenix, cherishing his joke with
great slyness, and finally bringing it out with a jerk,
" ' in another place ! ' "

The major falls into convulsions, and is recovered
with difficulty.

"But I know sufficient of my friend Dombey,"
resumes Cousin Feenix in a graver tone, as if he had
suddenly become a sadder and a wiser man, " to
know that he is, in point of fact, what may be
emphatically called a — a merchant — a British
merchant — and a — and a man. And although I
have been resident abroad for some years (it would
give me great pleasure to receive my friend Dombey,
and everybody here, at Baden-Baden, and to have
an opportunity of making 'em known to the Grand
Duke), still I know enough, I flatter myself, of my
lovely and accomplished relative, to know that she
possesses every requisite to make a man happy, and
that her marriage with my friend Dombey is one of
inclination and affection on both sides."

Many smiles and nods from Mr. Carker.

" Therefore," says Cousin Feenix, " I congratulate
the family of which I am a member on the acquisi-
tion of my friend Dombey. I congratulate my
friend Dombey on his union with my lovely and
accomplished relative, who possesses every requisite
to make a man happy ; and I take the liberty of
calling on you all, in point of fact, to congratulate
both my friend Dombey, and my lovely and accom-
plished relative on the present occasion."

The speech of Cousin Feenix is received with
great applause, and Mr. Dombey returns thanks on



244 DOMBEY AND SON.

behalf of himself and Mrs. Dombey. J. B. shortly
afterwards proposes Mrs. Skewton. The breakfast
languishes Avhen that is done, the violated hatch-
ments are avenged, and Edith rises to assume her
travelling dress.

All the servants, in the meantime, have been
breakfasting below. Champagne has grown too
common among them to be mentioned, and roast
fowls, raised pies, and lobster salad have become
mere drugs. The very tall young man has recovered
his spirits, and again alludes to the exciseman.
His comrade's eye begins to emulate his own, and
he too stares at objects without taking cognizance
thereof. There is a general redness in the faces of
the ladies ; in the face of Mrs. Perch particularly,
who is joyous and beaming, and lifted so far above
the cares of life, that if she were asked just now to
direct a wayfarer to Balls Pond, where her own
cares lodge, she would have some difficulty in recall-
ing the way. Mr. Towlinson has proposed the
happy pair ; to which the silver-headed butler has
responded neatly, and with emotion ; for he half
begins to think he is an old retainer of the family,
and that he is bound to be affected by these changes.
The whole party, and especially the ladies, are very
frolicsome. Mr. Dombey's cook, who generally
takes the lead in society, has said, it is impossible
to settle down after this, and why not go, in a party,
to the play ? Everybody (Mrs. Perch included) has
agreed to this ; even the native, who is tigerish in
his drink, and who alarms the ladies (Mrs. Perch
particularly) by the rolling of his eyes. One of the
very tall young men has even proposed a ball after
the play, and it presents itself to no one (Mrs.



DOMBEY AND SON. 245

Perch iucluded) in the liglit of an impossibility.
Words have arisen between the housemaid and Mr.
Towlinson ; she, on the authority of an old saw,
asserting marriages to be made in heaven : he
affecting to trace the manufacture elsewhere ; he
supposing that she says so, because she thinks of
being married her own self ; she saying, Lord forbid,
at any rate, that she should ever marry him. To
calm these flying taunts, the silver-headed butler
rises to propose the health of Mr. Towlinson, whom
to know is to esteem, and to esteem is to wish well
settled in life with the object of his choice, wherever
(here the silver-headed butler eyes the housemaid)
she may be. Mr. Towlinson retvirns thanks in a
speech replete with feeling, of which the peroration
turns on foreigners, regarding whom he says they
may find favor, sometimes, with weak and incon-
stant intellects that can be led away by hair, but all
he hopes is, he may never hear of no foreigner never
boning nothing out of no travelling chariot. The
eye of Mr. Towlinson is so severe and so expressive
here, that the housemaid is turning hysterical, when
she and all the rest, roused by the intelligence that
the Bride is going away, hurry upstairs to witness
her departure.

The chariot is at the door ; the Bride is descend-
ing to the hall, where Mr. Dombey waits for her.
Florence is ready on the staircase to depart too ;
and Miss Nipper, who has held a middle state be-
tween the parlor and the kitchen, is prepared to ac-
company her. As Edith appears, Florence hastens
towards her, to bid her farewell.

Is Edith cold, that she should tremble ? Is there
anything unnatural or unwholesome in the touch of



246 DOMBEY AND SON.

Florence, that the beautiful form recedes and con-
tracts, as if it could not bear it ? Is there so much
hurry in this going away, that Edith, with a wave
of her hand, sweeps on, and is gone ?

Mrs. Skewton, overpowered by her feelings as a
mother, sinks on her sofa in the Cleopatra attitude,
when the clatter of the chariot wheels is lost, and
sheds several tears. The major, coming with the rest
of the company from table, endeavors to comfort her ;
but she will not be comforted on any terms, and so
the major takes his leave. Cousin Feenix takes his
leave, and Mr, Carker takes his leave. The guests
all go away. Cleopatra, left alone, feels a little
giddy from her strong emotion, and falls asleep.

Giddiness prevails below-stairs too. The very
tall young man, whose excitement came on so
soon, appears to have his head glued to the table
in the pantry, and cannot be detached from it. A
violent revulsion has taken place in the spirits of
Mrs. Perch, who is low on account of Mr. Perch ;
and tells cook that she fears he is not so much
attached to his home as he used to be, when they
were only nine in family. Mr. Towlinson has a
singing in his ears, and a large wheel going round
and round inside his head. The housemaid wishes
it wasn't wicked to wish that one was dead.

There is a general delusion likewise, in these
lower regions, on the subject of time; everybody
conceiving that it ought to be, at the earliest, ten
o'clock at night, whereas it is not yet three in the
afternoon. A shadowy idea of wickedness commit-
ted haunts every individual in the party ; and each
one secretly thinks the other a companion in guilt,
whom it would be agreeable to avoid. No man or



DOMBEY AND SON. 247

woman has the hardihood to hint at the projected
visit to the play. Any one reviving the notion of
the ball would be scouted as a malignant idiot.

Mrs. Skewton sleeps upstairs two hours after-
wards, and naps are not yet over in the kitchen.
The hatchments in the dining-room look down on
crumbs, dirty plates, spillings of wine, half-thawed
ice, stale discolored heel-taps, scraps of lobster,
drumsticks of fowls, and pensive jellies, gradually
resolving themselves into a lukewarm, gummy soup.
The marriage is, by this time, almost as denuded of
its show and garnish as the breakfast. Mr. Dom-
bey's servants moralize so much about it, and are
so repentant over their early tea at home, that, by
eight o'clock or so, they settle down into confirmed
seriousness ; and Mr. Perch, arriving at that time
from the City, fresh and jocular, with a white waist-
coat and a comic song, ready to spend the even-
ing, and prepared for any amount of dissipation, is
amazed to find himself coldly received, and Mrs.
Perch but poorly, and to have the pleasing duty of
escorting that lady home by the next omnibus.

Night closes in. Florence, having rambled through
the handsome house, from room to room, seeks her
own chamber, where the care of Edith has sur-
rounded her with luxuries and comforts ; and, di-
vesting herself of her handsome dress, puts on her
old simple mourning for dear Paul, and sits down
to read, with Diogenes winking and blinking on
the ground beside her. But Florence cannot read
to-night. The house seems strange and new, and
there are loud echoes in it. There is a shadow on
her heart : she knows not why or what : but it is
heavy. Florence shuts her book, and gruff Dioge-



248 DOMBEY AND SON.

nes, who takes that for a signal, puts his paws upon
her lap, and rubs his ears against her caressing
hands. But Florence cannot see him plainly in a
little time, for there is a mist between her eyes and
him, and her dead brother and dead mother shine in
it like angels. Walter, too, poor, wandering, ship-
wrecked boy, oh, where is he ?

The major don't know; that's for certain; and
don't care. The major, having choked and slum-
bered all the afternoon, has taken a late dinner at
his club, and now sits over his pint of wine, driving
a modest young man, with a fresh-colored face, at the
next table (who would give a handsome sum to be
able to rise and go away, but cannot do it), to the
verge of madness, by anecdotes of Bagstock, sir, at
Dombey's wedding, and old Joe's devilish gentle-
manly friend. Lord Feenix. While Cousin Feenix,
who ought to be at Long's, and in bed, finds him-
self, instead, at a gaming-table, where his wilful
legs have taken him, perhaps, in his own despite.

Night, like a giant, fills the church, from pave-
ment to roof, and holds dominion through the silent
hours. Pale dawn again comes peeping through the
windows ; and, giving place to day, sees night with-
draw into the vaults, and follows it, and drives it
out, and hides among the dead. The timid mice
again cower close together when the great door
clashes, and Mr. Sownds and Mrs. Miff, treading
the circle of their daily lives, unbroken as a mar-
riage ring, come in. Again the cocked hat and the
mortified bonnet stand in the background at the
marriage hour; and again this man taketh this
woman, and this woman taketh this man, on the
solemn terms :



DOilBEY AND SON. 249

" To have and to hold, from this day forward, for
better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness
and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do
them part."

The very words that Mr. Carker rides into town
repeating, with his mouth stretched to the utmost,
as he picks his dainty way.



CHAPTER XII.

THE WOODEN MIDSHIPMAN GOES TO PIECES.

Honest Captain Cuttle, as the weeks flew over
him in his fortified retreat, by no means abated any
of his prudent provisions against surprise, because
of the non-appearance of the enemy. The captain
argued that his present security was too profound
and wonderful to endure much longer; he knew
that, when the wind stood in a fair quarter, the
weather-cock was seldom nailed there ; and he was
too well acquainted with the determined and daunt-
less character of Mrs. MacStinger to doubt that
that heroic woman had devoted herself to the task
of his discovery and capture. Trembling beneath
the weight of these reasons, Captain Cuttle lived a
very close and retired life ; seldom stirring abroad
until after dark ; venturing even then only into the
obscurest streets ; never going forth at all on Sun-
days ; and, both within and without the walls of
his retreat, avoiding bonnets, as if they were worn
by raging lions.

The captain never dreamed that, in the event of
his being pounced upon by Mrs. MacStinger in his
walks, it would be possible to offer resistance.
He felt that it could not be done. He saw himself,



DOMBEY AND SON. 251

in his mind's eye, put meekly in a hackney coach,
and carried off to his old lodgings. He foresaw
that, once immured there, he was a lost man : his
hat gone ; Mrs. MacStinger watchful of him day and
night ; reproaches heaped upon his head before the
infant family ; himself the guilty object of suspi-
cion and distrust : an ogre in the children's eyes,
and in their mother's a detected traitor.

A violent perspiration and a lowness of spirits
always came over the captain as this gloomy picture
presented itself to his imagination. It generally
did so previous to his stealing out of doors at night
for air and exercise. Sensible of the risk he ran,
the captain took leave of Eob, at those times, with
the solemnity which became a man who might never
return : exhorting him, in the event of his (the cap-
tain's) being lost sight of for a time, to tread in the
paths of virtue, and keep the brazen instruments
well polished.

But not to throw away a chance, and to secure to
himself a means, in case of the worst, of holding
communication with the external world. Captain
Cuttle soon conceived the happy idea of teaching
Kob the Grinder some secret signal, by which that
adherent might make his presence and fidelity
known to his commander in the hour of adversity.
After much cogitation, the captain decided in favor
of instructing him to whistle the marine melody,
"Oh, cheerily, cheerily!" and Rob the Grinder
attaining a point as near perfection in that accom-
plishment as a landsman could hope to reach, the
captain impressed these mysterious instructions on
his mind :

" Now, my lad, stand by ! If ever I'm took — "



252 DOMBEY AKD SON.

" Took, captain ! " interposed Eob, with his round
eyes wide open.

" Ah ! " said Captain Cuttle darkly, " if ever I
goes away, meaning to come back to supper, and
don't come within hail again twenty-four hours
arter my loss, go you to Brig Place, and whistle
that 'ere tune near my old moorings — not as if you
was a-meaning of it, you understand, but as if you'd
drifted there promiscuous. If I answer in that
tune, you sheer off, my lad, and come back four and
twenty hours arterwards ; if I answer in another
tune, do you stand off and on, and wait till I throw
out further signals. Do you understand them
orders, now ? "

" What am I to stand off and on of, captain ? "
inquired Rob. " The horse road ? "

" Here's a smart lad for you ! " cried the captain,
eying him sternly, " as don't know his own native
alphabet ! Go away a bit and come back again
alternate — d'ye understand that ? "

" Yes, captain," said Eob.

"Very good, my lad, then," said the captain,
relenting. " Do it ! "

That he might do it the better, Captain Cuttle
sometimes condescended, of an evening, after the
shop was shut, to rehearse the scene : retiring into
the parlor for the purpose, as into the lodgings of
a supposititious MacStinger, and carefully observing
the behavior of his ally, from the hole of espial he
had cut in the wall. Rob the Grinder discharged
himself of his duty with so much exactness and
judgment, when thus put to the proof, that the
captain presented him, at divers times, with seven
sixpences, in token of satisfaction; and gradually



DOMBEY AND SON. 253

felt stealing over his spirit the resignation of a man
who had made provision for the worst, and taken
every reasonable precaution against an unrelenting
fate.

Nevertheless, the captain did not tempt ill-for-
tune by being a whit more venturesome than before.
Though he considered it a point of good-breeding in
himself, as a general friend of the family, to attend
Mr. Dombey's wedding (of which he had heard
from Mr. Perch), and to show that gentleman a
pleasant and approving countenance from the gal-
lery, he had repaired to the church in a hackney
cabriolet with both windows up; and might have
scrupled even to make that venture, in his dread of
Mrs. MacStinger, but that the lady's attendance on
the ministry of the Reverend Melchisedech rendered
it peculiarly unlikely that she would be found in
communion with the Establishment.

The captain got safe home again, and fell into
the ordinary routine of his new life, without en-
countering any more direct alarm from the enemy
than was suggested to him by the daily bonnets in
the street. But, other subjects began to lie heavier
on the captain's mind. Walter's ship was still
unheard of. No news came of old Sol Gills. Flor-
ence did not even know of the old man's disappear-
ance, and Captain Cuttle had not the heart to tell
her. Indeed, the captain, as his own hopes of the
generous, handsome, gallant-hearted youth whom he
had loved, according to his rough manner, from a
child, began to fade, and faded more and more from
day to day, shrunk with instinctive pain from the
thought of exchanging a word with Florence. If
he had had good news to carry to her, the honest



254 DOMBEY AND SON.

captain would have braved the newly decorated
house and splendid furniture — though these, con-
nected with the lady he had seen at church, were
awful to him — and made his way into her presence.
With a dark horizon gathering around their common
hopes, however, which darkened every hour, the
captain almost felt as if he were a new misfortune
and affliction to her; and was scarcely less afraid
of a visit from Florence than from Mrs. MacStinger
herself.

It was a chill, dark, autumn evening, and Captain
Cuttle had ordered a fire to be kindled in the little
back-parlor, now more than ever like the cabin of a
ship. The rain fell fast, and the wind blew hard ;
and straying out on the housetop by that stormy
bedroom of his old friend, to take an observation of
the weather, the captain's heart died within him
when he saw how wild and desolate it was. Not
that he associated the weather of that time with
poor Walter's destiny, or doubted that, if Providence
had doomed him to be lost and shipwrecked, it was
over long ago ; but that beneath an outward influ-
ence quite distinct from the subject-matter of his
thoughts, the captain's spirits sank, and his hopes