 6. Paul's Second Deprivation Polly was beset by so many misgivings in the morning that but for the incessant promptings of her black-eyed companion she would have abandoned all thoughts of the expedition and formally petitioned for leave to see number 147 under the awful shadow of Mr. Dombie's roof. But Susan, who was personally disposed in favor of the excursion, and who, like Tony Lumpkin, if she could bear the disappointments of other people with tolerable fortitude, could not abide to disappoint herself, through so many ingenious doubts in the way of this second thought and stimulated the original intention with so many ingenious arguments that almost as soon as Mr. Dombie's stately back was turned and that gentleman was pursuing his daily road toward the city, his unconscious son was on his way to Staggs Gardens. This euphonious locality was situated in a suburb known by the inhabitants of Staggs Gardens by the name of Camberling Down, a designation which the Strangers' Map of London, as printed, with a view to pleasant and comodious reference on pocket handkerchiefs, condenses with some show of reason into Camden Town. Hither the two nurses bent their steps, accompanied by their charges, Richards carrying Paul, of course, and Susan leading little Florence by the hand and giving her such jerks and pokes from time to time as she considered it wholesome to administer. The first shock of a great earthquake had, just at that period, rent the whole neighborhood to its center. Traces of its course were visible on every side. Houses were knocked down, streets broken through and stopped, deep pits and trenches dug in the ground, enormous heaps of earthen clay thrown up, buildings that were undermined and shaking, propped by great beams of wood. Here a chaos of carts overthrown and jumbled together lay topsy-turvy at the bottom of a steep unnatural hill. There confused treasures of iron soaked and rusted in something that had accidentally become a pond. Everywhere were bridges that led nowhere, thoroughfares that were wholly impassable, babble towers of chimneys wanting half their height, temporary wooden houses and enclosures in the most unlikely situations, carcasses of ragged tenements and fragments of unfinished walls and arches and piles of scaffolding and wildernesses of bricks and giant forms of cranes and tripods straddling above nothing. There were a hundred thousand shapes and substances of incompleteness wildly mingled out of their places, upside down, burrowing in the earth, aspiring in the air, moldering in the water, and unintelligible as any dream. Hot springs and fiery eruptions, the usual attendance upon earthquakes, lent their contributions of confusion to the scene, boiling water hissed and heaved within dilapidated walls, whence also the glare and roar of flames came issuing forth, and mounds of ashes blocked up rites of way, and wholly changed the law and custom of the neighborhood. In short, the yet unfinished and unopened railroad was in progress, and from the very core of all this dire disorder trailed smoothly away upon its mighty course of civilization and improvement. But as yet the neighborhood was shy to own the railroad. One or two bold speculators had projected streets, and one had built a little, but had stopped among the mud and ashes to consider farther of it. A brand new tavern, redolent of fresh mortar and size, and fronting nothing at all, had taken for its sign the railway arms, but that might be rash enterprise, and then it hoped to sell drink to the workmen. So the excavator's house of call had sprung up from a beer shop, and the old established ham and beef shop had become the railway eating house, with a roast leg of pork daily, through interested motives of a similar immediate and popular description. Lodging housekeepers were favorable in like number, and for the like reasons were not to be trusted. The general belief was very slow. There were frowsy fields and cowhouses and dung hills and dust heaps and ditches and gardens and summer houses and carpet-beating grounds at the very door of the railway. Little tumuli of oyster shells in the oyster season and of lobster shells in the lobster season and of broken crockery and faded cabbage leaves in all seasons encroached upon its high places. Posts and rails and old cautions to trespassers and backs of mean houses and patches of wretched vegetation stared it out of countenance. Nothing was better for it, or thought of being so. If the miserable waste ground lying near it could have laughed, it would have laughed it to scorn, like many of the miserable neighbors. Stag's gardens was uncommonly incredulous. It was a little row of houses, with little squalid patches of ground before them, fenced off with old doors, barrel staves, scraps of tarpolin and dead bushes, with bottomless tin kettles and exhausted iron fenders thrust into the gaps. Here the stag's gardeners, trained scarlet beans, kept fowls and rabbits, erected rotten summer houses. One was an old boat, dried clothes and smoked pipes. Some were of opinion that stag's gardens derived its name from a deceased capitalist, one Mr. Stag's, who had built it for his delectation. Others, who had a natural taste for the country, held that it dated from those rural times when the anthlert herd under the familiar denomination of stag's, had resorted to its shady precincts. Be this as it may, stag's gardens was regarded by its population as a sacred grove not to be withered by railroads, and so confident were they generally of its long outliving any such ridiculous inventions that the master chimney sweeper at the corner, who was understood to take the lead in the local politics of the gardens, had publicly declared that on the occasion of the railroad opening, if ever it did open, two of his boys should ascend the flues of his dwelling, with instructions to hail the failure with derisive jeers from the chimney pots. To this unhellowed spot, the very name of which had hitherto been carefully concealed from Mr. Dombie by his sister, was little Paul now born by fate and Richards. That's my house, Susan said Polly, pointing it out. Is it indeed Mrs. Richards, said Susan condescendingly? And there's my sister Jemima at the door. I do declare, cried Polly, with my own sweet precious baby in her arms. The sight added such an extensive pair of wings to Polly's impatience that she set off down the gardens at a run and bouncing on Jemima, changed babies with her in a twinkling to the utter astonishment of that young damsel on whom the air of the Dombies seemed to have fallen from the clouds. Why Polly, cried Jemima, you, what a turn you have given me. Who thought it come? Come along in, Polly. How will you do look to be sure? The children will go half-while to seal Polly, that they will. That they did, if one might judge from the noise they made, and the way in which they dashed at Polly and dragged her to a low chair in the chimney corner, where her own honest apple face became immediately the center of a bunch of smaller pippins all laying their rosy cheeks close to it, and all evidently the growth of the same tree. As to Polly, she was full as noisy and vehement as the children, and it was not until she was quite out of breath and her hair was hanging all about her flushed face that her new christening attire was very much disheveled, that any pause took place in the confusion. Even then the smallest toodle but one remained in her lap, holding on tight with both arms round her neck, while the smallest toodle but two mounted on the back of the chair and made desperate efforts with one leg in the air to kiss her round the corner. Look, there's a pretty little lady come to see you, said Polly, and see how quiet she is. What a beautiful little lady, ain't she? This reference to Florence, who had been standing by the door, not unobservant of what past, directed the attention of the younger branches toward her, and had likewise the happy effect of leading to the formal recognition of Miss Nipper, who was not quite free from a misgiving that she had been already slighted. Oh, do come in and sit down a minute, Susan, please, said Polly. This is my sister, Jemima. This is. Jemima, I don't know what I should ever do with myself. If it wasn't for Susan Nipper, I shouldn't be here now but for her. Oh, do sit down, Miss Nipper, if you please, quote Jemima. Susan took the extreme corner of a chair with a stately and ceremonious aspect. I never was so glad to see anybody in all my life. Now, really, I never was, Miss Nipper, said Jemima. Susan, relaxing, took a little more of the chair and smiled graciously. Do untie your bonnet strings and make yourself at home, Miss Nipper, please, and treated Jemima. I am afraid it's a poorer place than you're used to, but you'll make allowances, I'm sure. The black-eyed was so softened by this deferential behavior that she caught up little Miss Toodle, who was running past, and took her to Banbury Cross immediately. But where's my pretty boy, said Polly. My poor fellow, I came all this way to see him in his new clothes. Ah, what a pity, cried Jemima. He'll break his heart when he hears his mother has been here. He's at school, Polly. Gone already? Yes, he went for the first time yesterday. For fear he should lose any learning. But it's half-holiday, Polly. If you could only stop till he comes home, you and Miss Nipper least ways, said Jemima, mindful in good time of the dignity of the black-eyed. And how does he look, Jemima? Bless him. Faulted Polly. Well, really, he don't look so bad as you suppose, returned Jemima. Ah, said Polly with emotion. I know his legs must be too short. His legs is short, returned Jemima, especially behind, but they'll get longer Polly every day. It was a slow, prospective kind of consolation, but the cheerfulness and good nature with which it was administered gave it a value it did not intrinsically possess. After a moment's silence, Polly asked, in a more sprightly manner. And where's Father Jemima, dear? For, by that patriarchal appellation, Mr. Toodle was generally known in the family. There again, said Jemima, what a pity. Father took his dinner with him this morning and isn't coming home till night. But he's always talking of you, Polly, and telling the children about you, and is the peace-sublist, patient-ist, best-tempered-ist soul in the world, as he always was and will be. Thank you, Jemima, cried the simple Polly, delighted by the speech and disappointed by the absence. Oh, you needn't thank me, Polly, said her sister, giving her a sound kiss upon the cheek, and then dancing little Paul cheerfully. I say the same of you sometimes, and think it too. In spite of the double disappointment, it was impossible to regard in the light of a failure a visit which was greeted with such a reception. So the sisters talked hopefully about family matters, and about Beiler, and about all his brothers and sisters, while the black-eyed, having performed several journeys to Banbury Cross and back, took sharp note of the furniture, the Dutch clock, the cupboard, the castle on the mantelpiece with red and green windows in it, susceptible of illumination by a candle-end within, and the pair of small black velvet kittens, each with a lady's ridicule in its mouth, regarded by the stag's gardeners as prodigies of imitative art. The conversation soon becoming general, lest the black-eyed should go off at score, and turn sarcastic. That young lady related to Jemima a summary of everything she knew concerning Mr. Dombie, his prospects, family, pursuits, and character. Also an exact inventory of her personal wardrobe, and some account of her principal relations and friends. Having relieved her mind of these disclosures, she partook of shrimps and porter, and evinced a disposition to swear eternal friendship. Little Florence herself was not behind hand in improving the occasion. For, being conducted forth by the young toodles to inspect some toadstools and other curiosities of the gardens, she entered with them heart and soul on the formation of a temporary breakwater across a small green pool that had collected in a corner. She was still busily engaged in that labour when sought and found by Susan, who, such was her sense of duty, even under the humanizing influence of shrimps, delivered a moral address to her, punctuated with thumps on her degenerate nature while washing her face and hands, and predicted that she would bring the grey hairs of her family in general with sorrow to the grave. After some delay, occasioned by a pretty long confidential interview above stairs on pecuniary subjects between Paul and Jemima, an interchange of babies was again effected. For Polly had all this time retained her own child and Jemima little Paul and the visitors took leave. But first the young toodles, victim of a pious fraud, was deluded into repairing in a body to a Chandler shop in the neighborhood for the ostensible purpose of spending a penny. And when the coast was quite clear Polly fled, Jemima calling after her that if they could only go round towards the city road on their way back, they would be sure to meet little Boiler coming from school. Do you think we might make time to go a little round in that direction, Susan, inquired Polly when they halted to take breath? Why not, Mrs. Richards, returned Susan. It's getting on toward our dinnertime, you know, said Polly. But lunch had rendered her companion more than indifferent to this grave consideration, so she allowed no wait to it, and they resolved to go a little round. Now it happened that poor Boiler's life had been since yesterday morning rendered weary by the custom of the charitable grinders. The youth of the streets could not endure it. No young vagabond could be brought to bear its contemplation for a moment without throwing himself upon the unoffending wearer and doing him a mischief. His social existence had been more like that of an early Christian than an innocent child of the 19th century. He had been stoned in the streets. He had been overthrown into gutters, bespattered with mud, violently flattened against post. Entire strangers to his person had lifted his yellow cap off his head and cast it to the winds. His legs had not only undergone verbal criticisms and revilings, but had been handled and pinched. That very morning he had received a perfectly unsolicited black eye on his way to the grinder's establishment, and had been punished for it by the master, a superannuated old grinder of savage disposition, who had been appointed schoolmaster because he didn't know anything and wasn't fit for anything, and for whose cruel cane all chubby little boys had a perfect fascination. Thus it fell out that Byler, on his way home, sought unfrequented paths and slunk along by narrow passages and back streets to avoid his tormentors. Being compelled to emerge into the main road, his ill fortune brought him at last, where a small party of boys headed by a ferocious young butcher were lying in wait for any means of pleasurable excitement that might happen. These, finding a charitable grinder in the midst of then, unaccountably delivered over, as it were, into their hands, set up a general yell and rushed upon him. But it so fell out likewise that at the same time Polly, looking hopelessly along the road before her, after a good hour's walk, had said it was no use going any further when suddenly she saw this sight. She no sooner sought than uttering a hasty exclamation and giving Master Dombie to that black-eyed. She started to the rescue of her unhappy little son. Surprises like misfortunes rarely come along. The astonished Susan Nipper and her two young charges were rescued by the bystanders from under the very wheels of a passing carriage before they knew what had happened, and at that moment it was market day. A thundering alarm of mad bull was raised. With a wild confusion before her of people running up and down and shouting and wheels running over them and boys fighting and mad bulls coming up and the nurse in the midst of all these dangers being torn to pieces. Florence screamed and ran. She ran till she was exhausted, urging Susan to do the same, and then stopping and wringing her hands as she remembered they had left the other nurse behind, found with a sensation of terror not to be described that she was quite alone. Susan Susan cried Florence, clapping her hands in the very ecstasy of her alarm. Oh, where are they? Where are they? Where are they? said an old woman coming hobbling across as fast as she could from the opposite side of the way. Why did you run away from him? I was frightened, answered Florence. I didn't know what I did. I thought they were with me. Where are they? The old woman took her by the wrist and said, I'll show you. She was a very ugly old woman with red rims round her eyes and a mouth that mumbled and chattered of itself when she was not speaking. She was miserably dressed and carried some skins over her arm. She seemed to have followed Florence some little way at all events, for she had lost her breath, and this made her uglier still as she stood trying to regain it, working her shriveled yellow face and throat into all sorts of contortions. Florence was afraid of her and looked hesitating up the street of which she had almost reached the bottom. It was a solitary place, more a back road than a street, and there was no one in it but herself and the old woman. You needn't be frightened now, said the old woman, still holding her tight. Come along with me. I don't know you. What's your name? asked Florence. Mrs. Brown, said the old woman. Good Mrs. Brown. Are they near here? asked Florence, begging to be led away. Susan ain't far off, said Good Mrs. Brown, and the others are close to her. Is anybody hurt? cried Florence. Not a bit of it, said Good Mrs. Brown. The child shed tears of delight on hearing this and accompanied the old woman willingly, though she could not help glancing at her face as they went along, particularly at that industrious mouth, and wondering whether bad Mrs. Brown, if there was such a person, was at all like her. They had not gone far, but had gone by some very uncomfortable places, such as brick fields and tile yards, when the old woman turned down a dirty lane, where the mud lay in deep black ruts in the middle of the road. She stopped before a shabby little house as closely shut up as a house that was full of cracks and crevices could be. Opening the door with a key, she took out of her bonnet. She pushed the child before her into a back room, where there was a great heap of rags of different colors lying on the floor, a heap of bones, and a heap of sifted dust or cinders. But there was no furniture at all. And the walls and ceiling were quite black. The child became so terrified that she was stricken speechless, and looked as though about to swoon. Now, don't be a young mule, said good Mrs. Brown, reviving her with a shake. I'm not going to hurt you, sit upon the rags. Florence obeyed her, holding out her folded hands in mute supplication. I'm not going to keep you even above an hour, said Mrs. Brown. Do you understand what I say? The child answered with great difficulty. Yes. Then, said good Mrs. Brown, taking her own seat on the bones. Don't vex me. If you don't, I tell you I won't hurt you. But if you do, I'll kill you. I could have you killed at any time, even if you was in your own bed at home. Now let's know who you are and what you are and all about it. The old woman's threats and promises, the dread of giving her offense, and the habit unusual to a child, but almost natural to Florence now of being quiet, and repressing what she felt and feared and hoped, enabled her to do this bidding, and to tell her little history or what she knew of it. Mrs. Brown listened attentively until she had finished. So your name's Domby, eh? said Mrs. Brown. Yes, ma'am. I want that pretty frock, Miss Domby, said good Mrs. Brown, and that little bonnet and a petticoat or two and anything else you can spare. Come, take them off. Florence obeyed as fast as her trembling hands would allow, keeping all the while a frightened eye on Mrs. Brown. When she had divested herself of all the articles of apparel mentioned by that lady, Mrs. B examined them at leisure and seemed tolerably well satisfied with their quality and value. Humpf! she said, running her eyes over the child's slight figure. I don't see anything else, except the shoes. I must have the shoes, Miss Domby. Poor little Florence took them off with equal alacrity, only too glad to have any more means of conciliation about her. The old woman then produced some wretched substitutes from the bottom of the heap of rags, which she turned up for that purpose, together with a girl's cloak, quite worn out and very old, and the crushed remains of a bonnet that had probably been picked up from some ditch or dung hill. In this dainty raiment she instructed Florence to dress herself, and as such preparations seemed apprelude to her release, the child complied with increased readiness, if possible. In hurriedly putting on the bonnet, if that may be called a bonnet, which was more like a pad to carry loads on, she caught it in her hair, which grew luxuriously, and could not immediately disentangle it. Good Mrs. Brown whipped out a large pair of scissors and fell into an unaccountable state of excitement. Why couldn't you let me be, said Mrs. Brown, when I was contented, you little fool? I beg your pardon. I don't know what I have done, panted Florence. I couldn't help it. Couldn't help it, cried Mrs. Brown. How do you expect I can help it? Why, Lord, said the old woman, ruffling her curls with a furious pleasure. Anybody but me would have had him off, first of all. Florence was so relieved to find that it was only her hair and not her head, which Mrs. Brown coveted, that she offered no resistance or entreaty, and merely raised her mild eyes toward the face of that good soul. If I hadn't once had a gal of my own, beyond seas now, that was proud of her hair, said Mrs. Brown, I'd have every lock of it. She's far, far away. She's far away. Oh, ho, oh, ho. Mrs. Brown's was not a melodious cry, but accompanied with a wild tossing up of her lean arms. It was full of passionate grief, and thrilled to the heart of Florence, whom it frightened more than ever. It had its part, perhaps, in saving her curls. For Mrs. Brown, after hovering about her with the scissors for some moments, like a new kind of butterfly, bade her hide them under the bonnet, and let no trace of them escape to tempt her. Having accomplished this victory over herself, Mrs. Brown resumed her seat on the bones, and smoked a very short black pipe, mowing and mumbling all the time as if she were eating the stem. When the pipe was smoked out, she gave the child a rabbit skin to carry, that she might appear the more like her ordinary companion, and told her that she was now going to lead her to a public street when she could inquire her way to her friends. But she cautioned her with threats of summary and deadly vengeance in case of disobedience, not to talk to strangers, nor to repair to her own home, which may have been too near for Mrs. Brown's convenience, but to her father's office in the city, also to wait at the street corner where she would be left until the clock struck three. These directions, Mrs. Brown enforced with assurances that there would be potent eyes and ears in her employment cognizant of all she did, and these directions Florence promised faithfully and earnestly to observe. At length, Mrs. Brown, issuing forth, conducted her changed and ragged little friend through a labyrinth of narrow streets and lanes and alleys, which emerged after a long time upon a stable yard with a gateway at the end whence the roar of a great thoroughfare made itself audible, pointing out this gateway and informing Florence that when the clock struck three, she was to go to the left, Mrs. Brown, after making a parting grasp at her hair, which seemed involuntary and quite beyond her own control, told her she knew what to do and bade her go and do it, remembering that she was watched. With a lighter heart, but still sore afraid, Florence felt herself released and tripped off to the corner. When she reached it, she looked back and saw the head of Good Mrs. Brown peeping out of the low wooden passage where she had issued her parting injunctions. Likewise, the fist of Good Mrs. Brown shaking towards her, but though she often looked back afterwards, every minute at least, in her nervous recollection of the old woman, she could not see her again. Florence remained there, looking at the bustle in the street, and more and more bewildered by it, and in the meanwhile the clocks appeared to have made up their minds never to strike three any more. At last the steeples rang out three o'clock. There was one close by, so she couldn't be mistaken, and after often looking over her shoulder, and often going a little away, and as often coming back again, lest the all-powerful spies of Mrs. Brown could take offense, she hurried off as fast as she could in her slip-shod shoes, holding the rabbit-skin tight in her hand. All she knew of her father's offices was that they belonged to Dombien's son, and that that was a great power belonging to the city. So she could only ask the way to Dombien's sons in the city, and as she generally made inquiry of children, being afraid to ask grown people, she got very little satisfaction indeed. But by dint of asking her way to the city, after a while, and dropping the rest of her inquiry for the present, she really did advance by slow degrees toward the heart of the great region which is governed by the terrible Lord Mayor. Tired of walking, repulsed and pushed about, stunned by the noise and confusion, anxious for her brother and the nurses, terrified by what she had undergone, and the prospect of encountering her angry father in such an altered state, perplexed and frightened alike by what had passed and what was passing, and what was yet before her. Florence went upon her weary way with tearful eyes and once or twice could not help stopping to ease her bursting heart by crying bitterly. But few people noticed her at these times in the garb she wore, or if they did, believed that she was tutored to excite compassion and passed on. Florence, too, called her her aid all the firmness and self-reliance of a character that her sad experience had prematurely formed and tried, and keeping the end she had in view steadily before her, steadily pursued it. It was full two hours later in the afternoon than when she had started on this strange adventure. When escaping from the clash and clanger of a narrow street full of carts and wagons, she peeped into a kind of whore for landing-place upon the riverside, where there was a great many packages, casks, and boxes strewn about. A large pair of wooden scales and a little wooden house on wheels, outside of which, looking at the neighbouring masts and boats, a stout man stood whistling, with his pen behind his ear and his hands in his pockets, as if his day's work were nearly done. Now then, said this man, happening to turn round, we haven't got anything for you, little girl, be off. If you please, is this the city? asked the trembling daughter of the Dombies. Ah, it's the city, you know that well enough, I daresay. Be off, we haven't got anything for you. I don't want anything thank you, was the timid answer, except to know the way to Dombian sons. The man, who had been strolling carelessly toward her, seemed surprised by this reply, and looking attentively in her face rejoined. Why, what can you want with Dombian sons? To know the way there, if you please. The man looked at her yet more curiously, and rubbed the back of his head so hard in his wonderment that he knocked his own hat off. Joe, he called to another man, a laborer, as he picked it up and put it on again. Joe, it is, said Joe. Where's that young spark of Dombies, who's been watching the shipment of them goods? Just gone by the other gate, said Joe. Call him back a minute. Joe ran up an archway, bawling as he went, and very soon returned with a blithe-looking boy. You're Dombie's jockey, ain't you? Obedient to the indication of Mr. Clark's hand, the boy approached towards Florence, wondering, as well he might, what he had to do with her. But she, who had heard what passed, and who, besides the relief of so suddenly considering herself safe at her journey's end, felt reassured beyond all measure by his lively, youthful face and manner, ran eagerly up to him, leaving one of the slip-shot shoes upon the ground, and caught his hand in both of hers. I am lost, if you please, said Florence. Lost? cried the boy. Yes, I was lost this morning, a long way from here, and I have had my clothes taken away, since. And I am not dressed in my own now. And my name is Florence Dombie, my little brother's only sister. And, oh dear, dear, take care of me, if you please, saw Florence, giving full vent to the childish feelings she had so long suppressed and bursting into tears. At the same time her miserable bonnet falling off, her hair came tumbling down about her face, moving to speechless admiration and commiseration young Walter, nephew of Solomon Gill's ship's instrument maker in general. Mr. Clark stood wrapped in amazement, observing under his breath. I never saw such a start on this wharf before. Walter picked up the shoe and put it on the little foot, as the prints in the story might have fitted Cinderella's slipper on. He hung the rabbit skin over his left arm, gave the right to Florence, and felt not to say, like Richard Whittington, that is a tame companion, but like St. George of England, with the dragon laying dead before him. Don't cry, Miss Domby, said Walter, in a transport of enthusiasm. What a wonderful thing for me that I am here. You are as safe now as if you were guarded by a whole boat's crew of picked men from a man of war. Oh, don't cry. I won't cry any more, said Florence. I am only crying for joy. Crying for joy, thought Walter, and I'm the cause of it. Come along, Miss Domby. There's the other shoe off now. Take mine, Miss Domby. No, no, no, said Florence. Checking him in the act of impetuously pulling off his own. These do better. These do very well. Why, to be sure, said Walter, glancing at her foot. Mine are a mile too large. What am I thinking about? You never could walk in mine. Come along, Miss Domby. Let me see the villain who will dare molest you now. So Walter, looking immensely fierce, led off Florence, looking very happy, and they went arm in arm along the streets, perfectly indifferent to any astonishment that their appearance might or did excite, by the way. It was growing dark and foggy and beginning to rain, too, but they cared nothing for this, being both wholly absorbed in the late adventures of Florence, which she related with the innocent good faith and confidence of her years, while Walter listened as if, far from the mud and grease of Thames Street, they were rambling alone among the broad leaves and tall trees of some desert island in the tropics. He as very likely fancied for the time they were. Have we far to go, asked Florence at last, lifting up her eyes to her companion's face? Ah, by the by, said Walter, stopping. Let me see, where are we? Oh, I know. But the offices are shut up now. Miss Domby, there's nobody there. Mr. Domby has gone home long ago. I suppose we must go home, too, or stay. Suppose I take you to my uncle's, where I live. It's very near here, and go to your house in a coach to tell them you are safe and bring you back some clothes. Won't that be best? I think so, answered Florence. Don't you? What do you think? As they stood, deliberating in the street, a man passed them, who glanced quickly at Walter as he went by as if he recognized him, but seeming to correct that first impression, he passed on without stopping. Why, I think it's Mr. Karker, said Walter. Karker in our house, not Karker our manager, Miss Domby, the other Karker, the junior. Hello, Mr. Karker. Is that Walter gay, said the other, stopping and returning? I couldn't believe it, with such a strange companion. As he stood near a lamp, listening with surprise to Walter's hurried explanation, he presented a remarkable contrast to the two youthful figures arm in arm before him. He was not old, but his hair was white, his body was bent or bowed as if by the weight of some great trouble, and there were deep lines in his worn and melancholy face. The fire of his eyes, the expression of his features, the very voice in which he spoke, were all subdued and quenched, as if the spirit within him lay in ashes. He was respectively, though, very plainly dressed in black, but his clothes, molded to the general character of his figure, seemed to shrink and abase themselves upon him, and to join in the sorrowful solicitation, which the whole man from head to foot expressed, to be left unnoticed and alone in his humility. And yet his interest in youth and hopefulness was not extinguished with the other embers of his soul, for he watched the boy's earnest countenance, as he spoke with unusual sympathy, though with an inexplicable show of trouble and compassion, which escaped into his looks, however hard he strove to hold it prisoner. When Walter, in conclusion, put to him the question he had put to Florence, he still stood glancing at him with the same expression, as if he had read some fate upon his face, mournfully at variance with its present brightness. What do you advise, Mr. Parker? said Walter, smiling. You always give me good advice, you know, when you do speak to me. That's not often, though. I think your own idea is the best, he answered, looking from Florence to Walter and back again. Mr. Parker, said Walter, brightening with a generous thought. Come, here's a chance for you. Go you to Mr. Domby's, and be the messenger of good news. It may do you some good. Sir, I'll remain at home. You shall go. I returned the other? Yes, why not, Mr. Parker, said the boy. He merely shook him by the hand in answer. He seemed, in a manner, ashamed and afraid, even to do that, and bidding him good night, and advising him to make haste turned away. Come, Miss Domby, said Walter, looking after him, as they turned away also. We'll go to my uncles as quick as we can. Did you ever hear Mr. Domby speak of Mr. Parker the junior, Miss Florence? No, returned the child mildly. I don't often hear Papa speak. Ah, true, more shame for him, thought Walter. After a minute's pause, during which he had been looking down upon the gentle, patient little face moving on at his side, he said, The strangest man Mr. Parker the junior is, Miss Florence, that you ever heard of. If you could understand what an extraordinary interest he takes in me, and yet how he shuns and avoids me, and what a low place he holds in our office, and how he is never advanced, and never complains, though year after year he sees young men passed over his head, and though his brugger, younger than he is, is our head manager, you would be as much puzzled about him as I am. As Florence could hardly be expected to understand much about it, Walter bestowed himself with his accustomed boyish animation and restlessness to change the subject, and one of the unfortunate shoes coming off again, opportunely, proposed to carry Florence to his uncles in his arms. Florence, though very tired, laughingly declined the proposal, lest he should let her fall, and as they were already near the wooden midshipmen, and as Walter went on to cite various precedents from shipwrecks and other moving accidents, where younger boys than he had triumphantly rescued and carried off older girls than Florence, they were still in full conversation about it when they arrived at the instrument maker's door. Hello, Uncle Saul, cried Walter, bursting into the shop and speaking incoherently and out of breath from that time forth for the rest of the evening. Here's a wonderful adventure, here's Mr. Dombie's daughters lost in the streets and robbed of her clothes by an old witch of a woman found by me, and brought home to our parlour to rest, look here. Good heavens, said Uncle Saul, staring back against his favourite compass case. It can't be, well I know, nor anybody else, said Walter, anticipating the rest. Nobody would, nobody could, you know. Here, just help me lift the little sofa near the fire, will you, Uncle Saul? Take care of the plates, cut some dinner for her, will you, Uncle? Throw those shoes under the grate. Miss Florence, put your feet on the fender to dry. How damp they are. Here's an adventure, Uncle, eh? God bless my soul, how hot I am. Solomon Gills was quite as hot by sympathy and in excessive bewilderment. He patted Florence's head, pressed her to eat, pressed her to drink, rubbed the soles of her feet with his pocket handkerchief, heated up the fire, followed his locomotive nephew with his eyes and ears, and had no clear perception of anything, except that he was being constantly knocked against and tumbled over by that excited young gentleman, as he darted about the room, attempting to accomplish twenty things at once, and doing nothing at all. Here, wait a minute, Uncle, he continued, catching up a candle. Till I run upstairs and get another jacket on, and then I'll be off, I say, Uncle, isn't this an adventure? My dear boy, said Solomon, who, with his spectacles on his forehead and the great chronometer in his pocket, was incessantly oscillating between Florence on the sofa and his nephew in all parts of the parlor. It's the most extraordinary! No, but do, Uncle, please, do, Miss Florence, dinner, you know, Uncle. Yes, yes, yes, cried Solomon, cutting instantly into a leg of mutton, as if he were catering for a giant. I'll take care of her whiley, I understand. Pretty dear, famished, of course. You go and get ready, Lord bless me, Sir Richard Whittington Thrice, Lord Mayor of London. Walter was not very long in mounting to his lofty garret and descending from it, but in the meantime Florence, overcome by fatigue, had sunk into a dose before the fire. The short interval of quiet, though only a few minutes in duration, enabled Solomon Gill so far to collect his wits as to make some little arrangements for her comfort, and to darken the room and to screen her from the blaze. Thus, when the boy returned, she was sleeping peacefully. That's capital, he whispered, giving Solomon such a hug, that it squeezed a new expression into his face. Now I'm off. I'll just take a crust of bread with me, for I'm very hungry. And don't wake her, Uncle Saul. No, no, said Solomon. Pretty child. Pretty indeed, said Walter. I never saw such a face, Uncle Saul. Now I'm off. That's right, said Solomon, greatly relieved. I say, Uncle Saul, cried Walter, putting his face in at the door. Here he is again, said Solomon. How does she look now? Quite happy, said Solomon. That's famous. Now I'm off. I hope you are, said Solomon, to himself. I say, Uncle Saul, cried Walter, reappearing at the door. Here he is again, said Solomon. We met Mr. Corker the Junior in the street, queerer than ever. He bade me good-bye, but came behind us here. There's an odd thing. For when we reached the shop door, I looked round and saw him going quietly away, like a servant who had seen me home, or a faithful dog. How does she look now, Uncle? Pretty much the same as before, Wally, replied Uncle Saul. That's right, now I am off. And this time he really was. And Solomon Gills, with no appetite for dinner, sat on the opposite side of the fire, watching Florence in her slumber, building a great many airy castles of the most fantastic architecture, and looking in the dim shade, and in the close vicinity of all the instruments, like a magician disguised in a Welsh wig and a suit of coffee colour, who held the child in an enchanted sleep. In the meantime, Walter proceeded toward Mr. Dombie's house at a pace seldom achieved by a hack-horse from a stand, and yet with his head out of window every two or three minutes, in impatient remonstrance with the driver. Arriving at his journey's end, he leaped out and breathlessly announced his errand to the servant, followed him straight into the library, where there was a great confusion of tongues, and where Mr. Dombie, his sister, and Miss Tox, Richards, and Nipper were all congregated together. Oh, I beg your pardon, sir, said Walter, rushing up to him, but I'm happy to say it's all right, sir, Miss Dombie's found. The boy, with his open face and flowing hair and sparkling eyes, panting with pleasure and excitement, was wonderfully opposed to Mr. Dombie as he sat confronting him in his library chair. I told you, Louisa, that she would certainly be found, said Mr. Dombie, looking slightly over his shoulder at that lady, who wept in company with Miss Tox. Let the servants know that no further steps are necessary. This boy, who brings the information, is young gay from the office. How was my daughter found, sir? I know how she was lost. Here he looked majestically at Richards. But how was she found? Who found her? Why, I believe I found Miss Dombie, sir, said Walter modestly. At least I don't know that I can claim the merit of having exactly found her, sir, but I was the fortunate instrument of. What do you mean, sir? interrupted Mr. Dombie, regarding the boy's evident pride and pleasure in his share of the transaction, with an instinctive dislike, by not having exactly found my daughter, and by being a fortunate instrument. Be plain and coherent, if you please. It was quite out of Walter's power to be coherent, but he rendered himself as explanatory as he could in his breathless state, and stated why he had come alone. You hear this, girl? said Mr. Dombie sternly to the black-eyed. Take what is necessary, and return immediately with this young man to fetch Miss Florence home. Gay, you will be rewarded tomorrow. Oh, thank you, sir, said Walter. You are very kind. I'm sure I was not thinking of any reward, sir. You are a boy, said Mr. Dombie, suddenly and almost fiercely, and what you think of, or affect to think of, is of little consequence. You have done well, sir. Don't undo it. Louisa, please to give the lad some wine. Mr. Dombie's glance followed Walter Gay with sharp disfavor, as he left the room under the pilotage of Mrs. Chick, and it may be that his mind's eye followed him with no greater relish as he rode back to his uncles with Miss Susan Nipper. There they found that Florence, much refreshed by sleep, had dined, and greatly improved the acquaintance of Solomon Gill's, with whom she was on terms of perfect confidence and ease. The black-eyed, who had cried so much that she might now be called the red-eyed, and who was very silent and depressed, caught her in her arms without a word of contradiction or reproach, and made very hysterical meeting of it. Then, converting the parlour for the nonce into a private tiring room, she dressed her with great care in proper clothes, and presently led her forth as like a Dombie as her natural disqualifications admitted of her being made. Good night, said Florence, running up to Solomon. You have been very good to me. Old Saul was quite delighted and kissed her like her grandfather. Good night, Walter. Goodbye, said Florence. Goodbye, said Walter, giving both his hands. I'll never forget you, pursued Florence. No, indeed I never will. Goodbye, Walter. In the innocence of her grateful heart, the child lifted up her face to his. Walter, bending down his own, raised it again, all red and burning, and looked at Uncle Saul quite sheepishly. Where's Walter? Good night, Walter. Goodbye, Walter. Shake hands once more, Walter. This was still Florence's cry after she was shut up with her little maid in the coach. And when the coach at length moved off, Walter on the doorstep gaily returned the waving of her handkerchief, while the wooden midshipman behind him seemed, like himself, intent upon that coach alone, excluding all the other passing coaches from his observation. In good time Mr. Dombe's mansion was gained again, and again there was a noise of tongues in the library. Again, too, the coach was ordered to wait for Mrs. Richards, one of Susan's fellow servants ominously whispered as she passed with Florence. The entrance of the lost child made a slight sensation, but not much. Mr. Dombe, who had never found her, kissed her once upon the forehead, and cautioned her not to run away again, or wander anywhere with treacherous attendance. Mrs. Chick stopped in her lamentations on the corruption of human nature, even when beckoned to the paths of virtue by a charitable grinder, and received her with a welcome something short of the reception due to none but perfect Dombe's. Ms. Tox regulated her feelings by the models before her. Richards, the culprit Richards, alone poured out her heart in broken words of welcome, and bowed herself over the little wandering head as if she really loved it. Ah, Richards said Mrs. Chick with a sigh. It would have been much more satisfactory to those who wished to think well of their fellow creatures, and much more becoming in you if you had shown some proper feeling in time for the little child that is now going to be prematurely deprived of its natural nourishment. Cut off, said Ms. Tox in a plaintive whisper, from one common fountain. If it was my ungrateful case, said Mrs. Chick solemnly, and I had your reflections, Richards, I should feel as if the charitable grinder's dress would blight my child and the education choke him. For the matter of that, but Mrs. Chick didn't know it, he had been pretty well blighted by the dress already, and as to the education, even its retributive effect might be produced in time, for it was a storm of sobs and blows. Louisa, said Mr. Dombie, it is not necessary to prolong these observations. The woman is discharged and paid. You leave this house, Richards, for taking my son, my son, said Mr. Dombie, emphatically repeating these two words, into haunts and into society which are not to be thought of without a shudder. As to the accident which befell Ms. Florence this morning, I regard that as, in one great sense, a happy and fortunate circumstance, in as much as, but for that occurrence, I never could have known, and from your own lips, too, of what you had been guilty. I think Louisa, the other nurse, the young person, here, Miss Nipper sobbed aloud. Being so much younger and necessarily influenced by Paul's nurse, may remain. Have the goodness to direct that this woman's coach is paid to. Mr. Dombie stopped and went to Staggs Gardens. Polly moved toward the door, with Florence holding to her dress and crying to her in the most pathetic manner not to go away. It was a dagger to the haughty father's heart, an arrow in his brain, to see how the flesh and blood he could not disown, clung to this obscure stranger, and he sitting by. Not that he cared to whom his daughter turned, or from whom turned away. The swift sharp agony struck through him, as he thought of what his son might do. His son cried lustily that night at all events. Soothe to say, poor Paul had better reason for his tears than sons of that age often have, for he had lost his second mother. His first, so far as he knew, by a stroke as sudden as that natural affliction which had darkened the beginning of his life. At the same blow his sister, too, who cried herself to sleep so mournfully, had lost as good a true a friend. But that is quite besides the question. Let us waste no words about it. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Dombie and Son by Charles Dickens, Chapter 7 A bird's-eye glimpse of Miss Tox's dwelling place. Also of the state of Miss Tox's affections. Miss Tox inhabited a dark little house that had been squeezed at some remote period of English history into a fashionable neighborhood at the west end of the town, where it stood in the shade like a poor relation of the great street round the corner, coldly looked down upon by mighty mansions. It was not exactly in a court, and it was not exactly in a yard, but it was in the dullest of no thoroughfares, rendered anxious and haggard by distant double knocks. The name of this retirement, where grass grew between the chinks in the stone pavement, was Princess Place, and in Princess Place was Princess's Chapel with a tinkling bell, where sometimes as many as five and twenty people attended service on a Sunday. The princess's arms was also there, and much resorted to by splendid footmen. A sedan chair was kept inside the railing before the princess's arms, but it had never come out within the memory of man, and on fine mornings the top of every rail, there were eight and forty, as Miss Tox had often counted, was decorated with a pewter pot. There was another private house besides Miss Tox's in Princess's Place, not to mention an immense pair of gates with an immense pair of lion-headed knockers on them, which were never opened by any chance and were supposed to constitute a disused entrance to somebody's stables. Indeed, there was a smack of stabbling in the air of Princess's Place, and Miss Tox's bedroom, which was at the back, commanded a vista of muse, where hostlers at whatever sort of work engaged were continually accompanying themselves with effervescent noises, and where the domestic and confidential garments of coachmen and their wives and families usually hung like Macbeth's banners on the outward walls. At this other private house in Princess's Place, tenanted by a retired butler who had married a housekeeper, apartments were let, furnished, to a single gentleman, to it a wooden-featured, blue-faced major, with his eyes starting out of his head, in whom Miss Tox recognized as she herself expressed it, something so truly military, and between whom and herself an occasional interchange of newspapers and pamphlets and such platonic dallions was effected through the medium of a dark servant of the majors, who Miss Tox was quite content to classify as a native without connecting him with any geographical idea whatever. Perhaps there never was a smaller entry and staircase than the entry and staircase of Miss Tox's house. Perhaps taken all together, from top to bottom, it was the most inconvenient little house in England, and the crookedest, but then Miss Tox said, what a situation. There was very little daylight to be got there in the winter, no sun at the best of times, air was out of the question, and traffic was walled out. Still Miss Tox said, think of the situation. So said the blue-faced major, whose eyes were starting out of his head, who gloried in Princess's place, and who delighted to turn the conversation at his club, whenever he could, to something connected with some of the great people in the great street round the corner, that he might have the satisfaction of saying they were his neighbors. The dingy tenement inhabited by Miss Tox was her own, having been devised and bequeathed to her by the deceased owner of the fishy eye in the locket, of whom a miniature portrait with a powdered head and a pigtail balanced the kettle holder on opposite sides of the parlour fireplace. The greater part of the furniture was of the powdered head and pigtail period, comprising a plate warmer, always languishing and sprawling its four attenuated bow legs in somebody's way, and an obscure harpsichord illuminated round the maker's name with a painted garland of sweet peas. Although major bagstock had arrived at what is called in polite literature the grand meridian of life, and was proceeding on his journey downhill with hardly any throat and a very rigid pair of jaw bones and long flapped elephantine ears, and his eyes and complexion in the state of artificial excitement already mentioned, he was mightily proud of awakening an interest in Miss Tox, and tickled his vanity with the fiction that she was a splendid woman who had her eye on him. This he had several times hinted at the club in connection with little jocularities of which old joe bagstock, old joey bagstock, old jay bagstock, old josh bagstock and so forth was the perpetual theme it being, as it were, the major's stronghold and dungeon keep of light humor to be on the most familiar terms with his own name. Joey B. Sir, the major would say with a flourish of his walking stick, is worth a dozen of you. If you had a few more of the bagstock breed among you, Sir, you'd be none the worse for it. Old joe, Sir, needn't look far for a wife even now if he was on the lookout, but he's hard-hearted. Sir is joe. He's tough, Sir, tough and devilish sly. After such a declaration, wheezing sounds would be heard and the major's blue would deepen into purple while his eyes strained and started convulsively. Nevertheless, his very liberal laudation of himself, however, the major was selfish. It may be doubted whether there ever was a more entirely selfish person at heart, or at stomach is perhaps a better expression, seeing that he was more decidedly endowed with that latter organ than with the former. He had no idea of being overlooked or slighted by anybody, least of all had he the remotest comprehension of being overlooked and slighted by Miss Tox. And yet Miss Tox, as it appeared, forgot him, gradually forgot him. She began to forget him soon after her discovery of the Toodle family. She continued to forget him up to the time of the christening. She went on forgetting him with compound interest after that. Some thing or somebody had superseded him as a source of interest. Good morning, ma'am, said the major, meeting Miss Tox in Princess's place some weeks after the changes chronicled in the last chapter. Good morning, sir, said Miss Tox very coldly. Joe Bagstock, ma'am, observed the major with his usual gallantry, has not had the happiness of bowing to you at your window for a considerable period. Joe has been hardly used, ma'am. His sum has been behind a cloud. Miss Tox inclined her head, but very coldly indeed. Joe's luminary husband out of town, ma'am, perhaps, inquired the major. I, out of town? Oh, no, I have not been out of town, said Miss Tox. I have been much engaged lately. My time is nearly all devoted to some very intimate friends. I am afraid I have none to spare even now. Good morning, sir. As Miss Tox, with her most fascinating step and carriage, disappeared from Princess's place, the major stood looking after her with a bluer face than ever, muttering and growling some not at all complimentary remarks. Why, dammy, sir, said the major, rolling his lobster eyes round and round Princess's place and apostrophizing its fragrant air. Six months ago the woman loved the ground Joe Backstock walked on. What's the meaning of it? The major decided, after some consideration, that it meant man traps, that it meant plotting and snaring, that Miss Tox was digging pitfalls. But you won't catch Joe, ma'am, said the major. He's tough, ma'am. Tough is JB. Tough and devilish sly, over which reflection he chuckled for the rest of the day. But still, when that day and many other days were gone and past, it seemed that Miss Tox took no heed whatever of the major and thought nothing at all about him. She had been want, once upon a time, to look out at one of her dark little windows by accident and blushingly return the major's greeting. But now she never gave the major a chance and cared nothing at all whether he looked over the way or not. Other changes had come to pass too. The major, standing in the shade of his own apartments, could make out that an air of greater smartness had recently come over Miss Tox's house, that a new cage with gilded wires had been provided for the ancient little canary bird, that diverse ornaments cut out of colored cardboards and paper seemed to decorate the chimney piece and tables, that a plant or two had suddenly sprung up in the windows, that Miss Tox occasionally practiced on the harpsichord, whose garland of sweet peas was always displayed ostentatiously, crowned with that Copenhagen and bird waltzes in a music book of Miss Tox's own copying. Over and above all this, Miss Tox had long been dressed with uncommon care and elegance in slight mourning. But this helped the major out of his difficulty, and he determined within himself that she had come into a small legacy and grown proud. It was on the very next day after he had eased his mind, by arriving at this decision, that the major, sitting at his breakfast, saw an apparition so tremendous and wonderful in Miss Tox's little drawing-room, that he remained for some time rooted to his chair. Then, rushing into the next room, returned with a double-barreled upper glass, through which he surveyed it intently for some minutes. It's a baby, sir, said the major, shutting up the glass again, for fifty thousand pounds. The major couldn't forget it. He could do nothing but whistle and stare to that extent, that his eyes compared with what they now became, had been in former times quite cavernous and sunken. Day after day, two, three, four times a week, this baby reappeared. The major continued to stare and whistle. To all other intents and purposes, he was alone in Princess's place. Miss Tox had ceased to mind what he did. He might have been black as well as blue, and it would have been of no consequence to her. The perseverance with which she walked out of Princess's place to fetch this baby and its nurse, and walked back with them, and walked home with them again, and continually mounted guard over them, and the perseverance with which she nursed it herself, and fed it, and played with it, and froze its young blood with airs upon the harpsichord, was extraordinary. At about the same period, too, she was seized with a passion for looking at a certain bracelet, also with a passion for looking at the moon, of which she would take long observations from her chamber window. But whatever she looked at, sun, moon, stars, or bracelet, she looked no more at the major, and the major whistled and stared and wondered, and dodged about his room, and could make nothing of it. You'll quite win my brother Paul's heart, and that's the truth, my dear, said Mrs. Chick one day. Miss Tox turned pale. He grows more like Paul every day, said Mrs. Chick. Miss Tox returned no other reply than by taking the little Paul in her arms, and making his cockade perfectly flat and limp with her caresses. His mother, my dear, said Miss Tox, whose acquaintance I was to have made through you. Does he at all resemble her? Not at all, returned Louisa. She was. She was pretty, I believe, faltered Miss Tox. Why, poor dear Fanny, was interesting, said Mrs. Chick after some judicial consideration. Certainly interesting. She had not that air of commanding superiority, which one would somehow expect, almost as a matter of course, to find in my brother's wife, nor had she that strength and vigor of mind which such a man requires. Miss Tox heaved a deep sigh. But she was pleasing, said Mrs. Chick, extremely so. And she meant, oh, dear, how well poor Fanny meant. You angel, cried Miss Tox to little Paul, you picture of your own papa. If the major could have known how many hopes and ventures, what a multitude of plans and speculations rested on that baby head, and could have seen them hovering in all their heterogeneous confusion and disorder round the puckered cup of the unconscious little Paul, he might have stared indeed. Then would he have recognized, among the crowd, some few ambitious moats and beams belonging to Miss Tox. Then would he perhaps have understood the nature of that lady's faltering investment in the Dombie Firm. If the child himself could have awakened in the night and seen, gathered about his cradle curtains, faint reflections of the dreams that other people had of him, they might have scared him with good reason. But he slumbered on, a like unconscious of the kind intentions of Miss Tox, the wonder of the major, the early sorrows of his sister, and the stern visions of his father, and innocent that any spot of earth contained a Dombie, or a son. End of chapter seven.