 Chapter 42 of Dombe in Sun. Chapter 42 Confidential and Accidental Attired no more in Captain Cuttle's sable slops and sourster hat, but dressed in a substantial suit of brown livery, which, while it affected to be a very sober and demure livery indeed, was really a self-satisfied and confident a one as Taylor need desire to make. Rob the grinder thus transformed as to his outer man, and all regardless within of the captain and the midshipman, except when he devoted a few minutes of his leisure time to crowing over those inseparable worthies, and recalling, with much applauding music from that brazen instrument his conscience, the triumphant manner in which he had disembarrassed himself of their company, now served his patron, Mr. Carca. In mate of Mr. Carca's house, and serving about his person, Rob kept his round eyes on the white teeth with fear and trembling, and felt that he had need to open them wider than ever. He could not have quaked more through his whole being before the teeth, though he had come into the service of some powerful enchanter, and they had been his strongest spells. The boy had a sense of power and authority in this patron of his, that engrossed his whole attention and exacted his most implicit submission and obedience. He hardly considered himself safe in thinking about him when he was absent, lest he should feel himself immediately taken by the throat again, as on the morning when he first became bound to him, and should see every one of the teeth finding him out and taxing him with every fancy of his mind. Face to face with him, Rob had no more doubt that Mr. Carca read his secret thoughts, or that he could read them by the least exertion of his will, if he were so inclined. Then he had that Mr. Carca saw him when he looked at him. The ascendancy was so complete, and held him in such enthrallment, that hardly daring to think at all, but with his mind filled with the constantly dilating impression of his patron's irresistible command over him, and power of doing anything with him, he would stand watching his pleasure, and trying to anticipate his orders in a state of mental suspension as to all other things. Rob had not informed himself, perhaps. In his then state of mind it would have been an act of no common temerity to inquire whether he yielded so completely to this influence in any part, because he had floating suspicions of his patron's being a master of certain treacherous arts, in which he had himself been a poor scholar at the grinder's school. But certainly Rob admired him, as well as feared him. Mr. Carca perhaps was better acquainted with the sources of his power, which lost nothing by his management of it. On the very night when he left the captain's service, Rob, after disposing of his pigeons, and even making a bad bargain in his hurry, had gone straight down to Mr. Carca's house, and hotly presented himself before his new master with a glowing face that seemed to expect commendation. What, scape-grace, said Mr. Carca, glancing at his bundle. Have you left your situation and come to me? Ow, if you please, sir, faltered Rob. You said, you know, when I'll come here last. I said, returned Mr. Carca. What did I say? If you please, sir, you didn't say nothing at all, sir. Returned Rob, warned by the manner of this inquiry, and very much disconcerted. His patron looked at him with a wide display of gums, and shaking his forefinger, observed, You'll come to an evil end, my vagabond friend, I foresee. There's ruin in store for you. Ow, if you please, don't, sir. cried Rob, with his legs trembling under him. I'm sure, sir, I only want to work for you, sir, and to wait upon you, sir, and to do faith for whatever I'm bid, sir. You had better do faithfully whatever you are bid, returned his patron, if you have anything to do with me. Yes, I know that, sir. pleaded the submissive Rob. I'm sure of that, sir. If you'll only be so good as to try me, sir, and if ever you find me out, sir, doing anything against your wishes, I'll give you leave to kill me. You dog! said Mr. Carker, leaning back in his chair and smiling at him serenely. That's nothing to what I'd do to you, if you tried to deceive me. Yes, sir, replied the abject grinder. I'm sure you would be down upon me dreadful, sir. I wouldn't attempt for it to go and do it, sir, not if I was bribed with gold and guineas. Thoroughly checked in his expectations of commendation, the crest-fallen grinder stood looking at his patron and vainly endeavouring not to look at him, but the uneasiness which occur will often manifest in a similar situation. So you have left your old service, and come here to ask me to take you in to mine, eh? said Mr. Carker. Yes, if you please, sir, returned Rob, who in doing so had acted on his patron's own instructions, but dared not justify himself by the least insinuation to that effect. Well, said Mr. Carker, you know me, boy? Please, sir, yes, sir. Returned Rob, tumbling with his hat, and still fixed by Mr. Carker's eye, and fruitlessly endeavouring to unfix himself. Mr. Carker nodded. Take care, then. Rob expressed in a number of short bows his lively understanding of this caution, and was bowing himself back to the door, greatly relieved by the prospect of getting on the outside of it, when his patron stopped him. Hello? he cried, calling him roughly back. You have been shut that door, Rob obeyed, as if his life had depended on his alacrity. You have been used to eavesdropping. Do you know what that means? Listening, sir. Rob hazarded, after some embarrassed reflection, his patron nodded, and watching, and so forth. I wouldn't do such a thing, yes, sir, answered Rob, upon my word and honour I wouldn't, sir. I wish I may die if I would, sir, for anything that could be promised to me, I should consider it is as much as all the world was worth to offer a do such a thing unless I was ordered, sir. You had better not. You have been used, too, to babbling and tattling, said his patron, with perfect cooness. Be aware of that here, or you're a lost rascal. And he smiled again, and again cautioned him with his forefinger. The grinder's breath came short and thick with consternation. He tried to protest the purity of his intentions, which could only stare at the smiling gentleman in a stupor of submission, with which the smiling gentleman seemed well enough satisfied, for he ordered him downstairs, after observing him for some moments in silence, and gave him to understand that he was retained in his employment. This was the manner of Rob the grinder's engagement by Mr. Karker, and his awe-stricken devotion to that gentleman had strengthened and increased, if possible, with every minute of his service. It was a service of some month's duration, when early one morning Rob opened the garden gate to Mr. Dombie, who has come to breakfast with his master, by appointment. At the same moment his master himself came, hurrying forth to receive the distinguished guest, and give him welcome with all his teeth. I never thought, said Karker, when he had assisted him to a light from his horse, to see you here, I am sure, this is an extraordinary day in my calendar, no occasion is very special to a man like you, who may do anything, but to a man like me the case is widely different. You have a tasteful place here, Karker, said Mr. Dombie, condescending to stop upon the lawn to look about him, you can afford to say so, returned Karker, thank you. Indeed, Mr. Dombie, in his lofty patronage, anyone might say so. As far as it goes, it is a very commodious and well-arranged place, quite elegant. As far as it goes truly, returned Karker, with an air of disparagement, it wants that qualification. Well, we have said enough about it, and though you can afford to praise it, I thank you nonetheless. Will you walk in? Mr. Dombie, entering the house, noticed, as he had reason to do, the complete arrangement of the rooms, and the numerous contrivances for comfort and effect that abounded there. Mr. Karker, in his ostentation of humility, received this notice with a deferential smile, and said he understood its delicate meaning and appreciated it, but in truth the cottage was good enough for one in his position. Better, perhaps, than such a man should occupy, poor as it was. But perhaps to you, who are so far removed, it really does look better than it is, he said, with his false mouth distended to its fullest stretch. Mr. Monarch's imagined attractions in the lives of beggars. He directed a sharp glance, and a sharp smile at Mr. Dombie, as he spoke, and a sharper glance, and a sharper smile yet, when Mr. Dombie, drawing himself up before the fire, in the attitude so often copied by his second-in-command, looked round at the pictures on the walls. Cursorily, as his cold eye wandered over them, Karker's keen glance accompanied his, and kept pace with his, marking exactly where it went, and what it saw. As it rested on one picture in particular, Karker hardly seemed to breathe. His side-long scrutiny was so cat-like and vigilant. But the eye of his great chief passed from that, as from the others, and appeared no more impressed by it than by the rest. Karker looked at it. It was the picture that resembled Edith, as if it were a living thing, and with a wicked, silent laugh upon his face, that seemed in part addressed to it, though it was all derisive of the great man standing so unconscious beside him. Breakfast was soon set upon the table, and, inviting Mr. Dombie to a chair which had its back towards this picture, he took his own seat opposite to it, as usual. Mr. Dombie was even graver than it was his custom to be, and quite silent. The parrot, swinging in the gilded hoop within her gaudy cage, attempted in vain to attract notice, for Karker was too observant of his visitor to heed her, and the visitor, abstracted in meditation, looked fixedly, not to say sullenly, over his stiff neckcloth, without raising his eyes from the tablecloth. As to Rob, who was in attendance, all his faculties and energies were so locked up in observation of his master, that he scarcely ventured to give shelter to the thought that the visitor was the great gentleman before whom he had been carried as a certificate of the family health in his childhood, and to whom he had been indebted for his leather smalls. Allow me, said Karker suddenly, to ask how Mrs. Dombie is. He leaned forward obsequiously, as he made the inquiry, with his chin resting on his hand, and at the same time his eyes went up to the picture, as if he said to it, now see how I will lead him on. Mr. Dombie reddened, as he answered. Mrs. Dombie is quite well. You remind me, Karker, of some conversation that I wish to have with you. Robyn, you can leave us, said his master, at whose mild tones Robyn started and disappeared with his eyes fixed on his patron to the last. You don't remember that boy, of course, he added, when the enmeshed grinder was gone. No, said Mr. Dombie, with magnificent indifference. Not likely that a man like you would. Hardly possible, murmured Karker. But he is one of that family from whom you took a nurse. Perhaps you may remember having generously charged yourself with his education. Is it that boy, said Mr. Dombie, with the frown? He does little credit to his education, I believe. Why, he is a young rip, I am afraid, returned Karker with a shrug. He bears that character, but the truth is, I took him into my service because, being able to get no other employment, he conceived, had been taught at home, I daresay, that he had some sort of claim upon you, and was constantly trying to dog your heels with his petition. And although my defined and recognized connection with your affairs is merely of a business character, still I have that spontaneous interest in everything belonging to you, that he stopped again, as if to discover whether he had led Mr. Dombie far enough yet. And again, with his chin resting on his hand, he leered at the picture. Karker, said Mr. Dombie, I am sensible that you do not limit your service, suggested his smiling entertainer. No, I prefer to say your regard, observed Mr. Dombie, very sensible, as he said so, that he was paying him a handsome and flattering compliment. To our mere business relations, your consideration for my feelings, hopes and disappointments in the little instance you have just now mentioned is an example in point. I am obliged to you, Karker. Mr. Karker bent his head slowly and very softly rubbed his hands, as if you were afraid by any action to disturb the current of Mr. Dombie's confidence. Your allusion to it is opportune, said Mr. Dombie, after a little hesitation, for it prepares the way to what I was beginning to say to you, and reminds me that that involves no absolutely new relations between us, although it may involve more personal confidence on my part than I have hitherto distinguished me with, suggested Karker, bending his head again. I will not say to you how honoured I am, for a man like you well knows how much honour he has in his power to bestow it pleasure. Mrs. Dombie and myself, said Mr. Dombie, passing this compliment with august self-denial, are not quite agreed upon some points. We do not appear to understand each other yet. Mrs. Dombie has something to learn. Mrs. Dombie is distinguished by many rare attractions, and has been accustomed, no doubt, to receive much adulation, said the smooth, sleek watcher of his slightest look and tone. But where there is affection, duty, and respect, any little mistakes engendered by such causes are soon set right. Mr. Dombie's thoughts instinctively flew back to the face that had looked at him in his wife's dressing-room, when an imperious hand was stretched towards the door, and remembering the affection, duty, and respect expressed in it, he felt the blood rush to his own face quite as plainly as the watchful eyes upon him saw it there. Mrs. Dombie and myself, he went on to say, had some discussion, before Mrs. Scootin's death, upon the causes of my dissatisfaction, of which you will have formed a general understanding from having been a witness of what passed between Mrs. Dombie and myself on the evening when you were at my house. When I so much regretted being present, said the smiling caca, proud as a man in my position necessarily must be of your familiar notice, though I give you no credit for it, you may do anything you please without losing cast, and honoured as I was by an early presentation to Mrs. Dombie, before she was made eminent by bearing your name, I almost regretted that night. I assure you that I had been the object of such a special good fortune. That any man could, under any possible circumstances, regret the being distinguished by his condescension and patronage was a moral phenomenon which Mr. Dombie could not comprehend. He therefore responded with a considerable accession of dignity. Indeed. And why, caca? I fear, returned the confidential agent, that Mrs. Dombie never very much disposed to regard me with favourable interest. One in my position could not expect that, from a lady naturally proud and whose pride becomes her so well, may not easily forgive my innocent part in that conversation. Your displeasure is no light matter, you must remember, and to be visited with it before a third party. Caca, said Mr. Dombie arrogantly, I presume that I am the first consideration. Oh, can there be a doubt about it? replied the other, with the impatience of man admitting a notorious and incontrovertible fact. Mrs. Dombie becomes a secondary consideration, when you are both in question, I imagine. Said Mr. Dombie, is that so? Is it so? returned caca, do you know better than anyone that you have no need to ask? Then I hope, caca, said Mr. Dombie, that your regret and the acquisition of Mrs. Dombie's displeasure may be almost counterbalanced by your satisfaction in retaining my confidence and good opinion. I have the misfortune, I find, returned caca, do have incurred that displeasure. Mrs. Dombie has expressed it to you? Mrs. Dombie has expressed various opinions, said Mr. Dombie, with majestic coldness and indifference, in which I do not participate, and which I am not inclined to discuss or to recall. I made Mrs. Dombie acquainted, some time since, as I have already told you, with certain points of domestic deference and submission on which I felt necessary to insist. I failed to convince Mrs. Dombie of the expediency of her immediately altering her conduct in those respects, with a view to her own peace and welfare and my dignity, and I informed Mrs. Dombie that if I should find it necessary to object or remonstrate again, I should express my opinion to her through yourself, my confidential agent. Blended with the look that caca bent upon him, was a devilish look at the picture over his head, that struck upon it like a flash of lightning. Now, caca, said Mr. Dombie, I do not hesitate to say to you that I will carry my point. I am not to be trifled with. Mrs. Dombie must understand that my will is law, and that I cannot allow of one exception for the whole rule of my life. You will have the goodness to undertake this charge, which, coming from me, is not unacceptable to you, I hope, whatever regret you may politely profess, for which I am obliged to you, on behalf of Mrs. Dombie, and you will have the goodness I am persuaded to discharge it as exactly as any other commission. You know, said Mr. Caca, that you have only to command me. I know, said Mr. Dombie, with a majestic indication of assent, that I have only to command you. It is necessary that I should proceed in this. Mrs. Dombie, as a lady undoubtedly highly qualified, in many respects, to to do credit even to your choice, suggested caca, with a yawning show of teeth. Yes, and if you please to adopt that form of words, said Mr. Dombie, in his tone of state, and at present I do not conceive that Mrs. Dombie does that credit to it to which it is entitled. There is a principle of opposition in Mrs. Dombie that must be eradicated, that must be overcome. Mrs. Dombie does not appear to understand, said Mr. Dombie forcibly, that the idea of opposition to me is monstrous and absurd. We in the city know you better, replied caca, with a smile from ear to ear. You know me better, said Mr. Dombie. I hope so. Though indeed I am bound to do Mrs. Dombie the justice of saying, however inconsistent it may seem with her subsequent conduct, which remains unchanged, that on my expressing my disapprobation and determination to her, with some severity on the occasion to which I have referred, my admonition appeared to produce a very powerful effect. Mr. Dombie delivered himself of those words with most portentous stateliness. I wish you to have the goodness, then, to inform Mrs. Dombie, caca, from me, that I must recall our former conversation to her remembrance, in some surprise that it has not yet had its effect, that I must insist upon her regulating her conduct by the injunctions laid upon her in that conversation, that I am not satisfied with her conduct, that I am greatly dissatisfied with it, and that I shall be under the very disagreeable necessity of making you the bearer of yet more unwelcome and explicit communications if she has not the good sense and the proper feeling to adapt herself to my wishes, as the first Mrs. Dombie did, and I believe I may add, as any other lady in her place would. The first Mrs. Dombie lived very happily, said caca. The first Mrs. Dombie had great good sense, said Mr. Dombie, in a gentlemanly toleration of the dead, and very correct feeling. Is Mrs. Dombie like her mother, do you think? said caca. Swiftly and darkly Mr. Dombie's face changed, his confidential agent eyed it keenly. I have approached a painful subject, he said, in a soft regretful tone of voice, irreconcilable with his eager eye. Pray forgive me, I forget these chains of association in the interest I have. Pray forgive me. But for all he said, his eager eye scanned Mr. Dombie's downcast face nonetheless, closely, and then it shot a strange triumphant look at the picture, as appealing to it to bear witness how he led him on again, and what was coming. Caca, said Mr. Dombie, looking here and there upon the table, and saying in a somewhat altered and more hurried voice and with a paler lip. There is no occasion for apology. You mistake, the association is with the matter in hand, and not with any recollection as you suppose. I do not approve of Mrs. Dombie's behaviour towards my daughter. Pardon me, said Mr. Caca, I don't quite understand. Understand, then, returned Mr. Dombie, that you may make that, that you will make that, if you please, a matter of direct objection from me to Mrs. Dombie. You will please to tell her that her show of devotion for my daughter is disagreeable to me. It is likely to be noticed. It is likely to induce people to contrast Mrs. Dombie in her relation towards my daughter with Mrs. Dombie in her relation towards myself. You will have the goodness to let Mrs. Dombie know plainly that I object to it, and that I expect her to defer immediately to my objection. Mrs. Dombie may be an earnest, or she may be pursuing a whim, or she may be opposing me, but I object to it in any case and in every case. If Mrs. Dombie is an earnest, so much the less reluctant should she be to desist, for she will not serve my daughter by any such display. If my wife has any superfluous gentleness and duty over and above her proper submission to me, she may bestow them where she pleases, perhaps. But I will have submission first, Karka. Said Mr. Dombie, checking the unusual emotion with which he had spoken, and falling into a tone more like that in which he was accustomed to assert his greatness. You will have the goodness not to omit or slur this point, but to consider it a very important part of your instructions. Mr. Karka bowed his head, and rising from the table, and standing thoughtfully before the fire, with his hand to his smooth chin, looked down at Mr. Dombie with the evil slinus of some monkish carving, half human and half brute, or like a leering face on an old water-spout. Mr. Dombie, recovering his composure by degrees, or cooling his emotion in his sense of having taken a high position, sat gradually stiffening again, and looking at the parrot, as she swung to and fro in her great wedding-ring. I beg your pardon, said Karka, after a silence, suddenly resuming his chair and drawing it opposite to Mr. Dombie's. But let me understand. Mrs. Dombie is aware of the probability of your making me the organ of your displeasure? Yes, replied Mr. Dombie. I have said so. Yes, rejoined Karka quickly. But why? Why, Mr. Dombie repeated, not without hesitation, because I told her. I, replied Karka, but why did you tell her? You see, he continued with a smile, and softly laying his velvet hand, as a cat might have laid its sheathed claws on Mr. Dombie's arm. If I perfectly understand what is in your mind, I am so much more likely to be useful, and to have the happiness of being effectually employed. I think I do understand. I have not the honour of Mrs. Dombie's good opinion. In my position, I have no reason to expect it, but I take the fact to be that I have not got it. Possibly not, said Mr. Dombie. Consequently, pursued Karka, your making the communications to Mrs. Dombie through me is sure to be particularly unpalatable to that lady. It appears to me, said Mr. Dombie, with haughty reserve, and yet with some embarrassment, that Mrs. Dombie's views upon the subject form no part of it as it presents itself to you and me, Karka. But it may be so. And, pardon me, do I misconceive you, said Karka, when I think you describe in this a likely means of humbling Mrs. Dombie's pride, I use the word as expressive of a quality which kept within you bounds adorns and graces a lady so distinguished for her beauty and accomplishments, and not to say of punishing her, but of reducing her to the submission you so naturally and justly require. I am not accustomed, Karka, as you know, said Mr. Dombie, to give such close reasons for any course of conduct I think proper to adopt. But I will again say nothing of this. If you have any objection to found upon it, that is indeed another thing, and the mere statements that you have one will be sufficient. But I have not supposed, I confess, that any confidence I could entrust to you would be likely to degrade you. Oh, I degraded, exclaimed Karka, in your service, or to place you, pursued Mr. Dombie, in a false position, I, in a false position, exclaimed Karka, I shall be proud, delighted to execute your trust. I could have wished, I own, to have given the lady at whose feet I would lay my humble duty and devotion, for is she not your wife? No new cause of dislike, but I wish from you is, of course, paramount to every other consideration on earth. Besides, when Mrs. Dombie is converted from these little errors of judgment incidental, I would presume to say to the novelty of her situation, I shall hope that she will perceive in the slight part I take only a grain, my removed and different sphere gives room for little more, of the respect for you and sacrifice of all considerations to you, of which it will be her pleasure and privilege to garner up a great store every day. Mr. Dombie, seen at the moment, again to see her with her hands stretched out towards the door, and again to hear through the mild speech of his confidential agent an echo of the words, nothing can make us stranger to each other than we are henceforth. But he shook off the fancy, and did not shake in his resolution, and said, Certainly, no doubt. There is nothing more, quote Karka, drawing his chair back to its old place, for they had taken little breakfast as yet, and pausing for an answer before he sat down. Nothing, said Mr. Dombie, but this. You will be good enough to observe Karka, but no message to Mrs. Dombie with which you are, or may be charged, admits of reply. You will be good enough to bring me no reply. Mrs. Dombie is informed that it does not become me to temporise or treat upon any matter that is at issue between us, and that what I say is final. Mr. Karka signified his understanding of these credentials, and they fell to breakfast with what appetite they might. The grinder also, in due time, reappeared, keeping his eyes upon his master without a moment's respite, and passing the time in a reverie of worshipful tenor. Breakfast concluded, Mr. Dombie's horse was ordered out again, and Mr. Karka, mounting his own, they rode off for the city together. Mr. Karka was in capital spirits, and talked much. Mr. Dombie received his conversation with the sovereign air of a man who had a right to be talked to, and occasionally condescended to throw in a few words to carry on the conversation. So they rode on characteristically enough. But Mr. Dombie, in his dignity, rode with very long stirrups, and a very loose rein, and very rarely dained to look down to see where his horse went. In consequence of which, it happened that Mr. Dombie's horse, while going at a round trot, stumbled on some loose stones, threw him, rolled over him, and lashing out with iron-shod feet in his struggles to get up, kicked him. Mr. Karka, quick of eye, steady of hand, and a good horseman, was afoot, and had the struggling animal upon his legs and by the bridle in a moment. Otherwise, that morning's confidence would have been Mr. Dombie's last. Yet even with the flush and hurry of this action red upon him, he bent over his prostrate chief with every tooth disclosed, and muttered as he stooped down. I have given good cause of offence to Mrs. Dombie now, if she knew it. Mr. Dombie, being insensible, and bleeding from the head and face, was carried by certain menders of the road, under Karka's direction, to the nearest public house, which was not far off, and where he was soon attended by diverse surgeons, who arrived in quick succession from all parts, and who seemed to come by some mysterious instinct, as vultures are said to gather about a camel who dies in the desert. After being at some pains to restore him to consciousness, these gentlemen examined into the nature of his injuries. One surgeon who lived hard by was strong for a compound fracture of the leg, which was the landlord's opinion also. But two surgeons who lived at a distance, and were only in that neighbourhood by accident, combatted this opinion so disinterstitly that it was decided at last that the patient, though severely cut and bruised, had broken no bones but a lesser rib or so, and might be carefully taken home before night. His injuries being dressed and bandaged, which was a long operation, and he at length left it to repose, Mr. Karka mounted his horse again, and rode away to carry the intelligence home. Crafty and cruel as his face was at the best of times, though it was a sufficiently fair face, as to form and regularity of feature, it was at its worst when he set forth on this errand. Animated by the craft and cruelty of thoughts within him, suggestions of remote possibility, rather than of design or plot, had made him ride as if he hunted men and women. Drawing rain at length, and slackening in his speed, as he came into the more public roads, he checked his white-legged horse into picking his way along as usual, and hid himself beneath his sleek, hushed, crouched manner and his ivory smile, as he best could. He rode direct to Mr. Dombie's house, alighted at the door, and begged to see Mrs. Dombie on an affair of importance. The servant, who showed him to Mr. Dombie's own room, soon returned to say that it was not Mrs. Dombie's hour for receiving visitors, and that he begged pardon for not having mentioned it before. Mr. Carca, who was quite prepared for a cold reception, wrote upon a card that he must take the liberty of pressing for an interview, and that he would not be so bold as to do so for the second time, as he underlined, if he were not equally sure of the occasion being sufficient for his justification. After a trifling delay, Mrs. Dombie's maid appeared and conducted him to a morning-room upstairs, where Edith and Florence were together. He had never thought Edith half so beautiful before. Much as he admired the graces of her face and form, and freshly as they dwelt within his sensual remembrance, he had never thought her half so beautiful. Her glance fell haughtily upon him in the doorway, but he looked at Florence, though only in the act of bending his head as he came in, with some irrepressible expression of the new power he held, and it was his triumph to see the glance droop and falter, and to see that Edith half rose up to receive him. He was very sorry. He was deeply grieved. He couldn't say with what unwillingness he came to prepare her for the intelligence of a very slight accident. He entreated Mrs. Dombie to compose herself. Upon his sacred word of honour there was no cause of alarm. But Mr. Dombie, Florence uttered a sudden cry. He did not look at her, but at Edith. Edith composed and reassured her. She uttered no cry of distress. No, no. Mr. Dombie had met with an accident in riding. His horse had slipped, and he had been thrown. Florence wildly exclaimed that he was badly hurt, that he was killed. No, upon his honour, Mr. Dombie, though stunned at first, was soon recovered, and though certainly hurt, was in no kind of danger. If this were not the truth, he, the distressed intruder, never could have had the courage to present himself before Mrs. Dombie. It was the truth indeed, he solemnly assured her. All this he said, as if he were answering Edith, and not Florence, and with his eyes and his smile, fastened on Edith. He then went on to tell her where Mr. Dombie was lying, and to request that the carriage might be placed at his disposal to bring him home. Mama! faulted Florence in tears. If I might venture to go! Mr. Carca, having his eyes on Edith when he heard these words, gave her a secret look, and slightly shook his head. He saw how she battled with herself before she answered him with her handsome eyes, but he rested the answer from her. He showed her that he would have it, or that he would speak and catch Florence to the heart, and she gave it to him. As he had looked at the picture in the morning, so he looked at her afterwards, when she turned her eyes away. I am directed to request, he said, that the new housekeeper, Mrs. Pipchen, I think, is the name. Nothing escaped him. He saw in an instant that she was another slight of Mr. Dombie's on his wife. Maybe informed that Mr. Dombie wishes to have his bed prepared in his own apartments downstairs, as he prefers those rooms to any other, I shall return to Mr. Dombie almost immediately. That every possible attention has been paid to his comfort, and that he is the object of every possible solicitude, I need not assure you, Madam. Let me again say, there is no cause for the least alarm. Even you may be quite at ease. Believe me. He bowed himself out, with his extremist show of deference and conciliation, and having returned to Mr. Dombie's room, and there arranged for a carriage being sent after him to the city, mounted his horse again, and rode slowly thither. He was very thoughtful, as he went along, and very thoughtful there, and very thoughtful in the carriage on his way back to the place where Mr. Dombie had been left. It was only when sitting by that gentleman's couch, that he was quite himself again, and conscious of his teeth. About the time of twilight, Mr. Dombie, grievously afflicted with aches and pains, was helped into his carriage, and propped with cloaks and pillows on one side of it, while his confidential agent bore him company upon the other. As he was not to be shaken, they moved at little more than a foot pace, and hence it was quite dark when he was brought home. Mrs. Pipchin, bitter and grim, and not oblivious of the Peruvian minds, as the establishment in general had good reason to know, received him at the door, and freshened the domestics with several little sprinklings of wordy vinegar, while they assisted in conveying him to his room. Mr. Kharka remained in attendance until he was safe in bed, and then, as he declined to receive any female visitor, but the excellent Ogros, who presided over his household, waited on Mrs. Dombie once more with his report on her lord's condition. He again found Edith alone with Florence, and he again addressed the whole of his soothing speech to Edith, as if she were a prey to the liveliest and most affectionate anxieties. So earnest he was in his respectful sympathy, that on taking leave he ventured with one more glance towards Florence at the moment, to take her hand, and bending over it, to touch it with his lips. Edith did not withdraw the hand, nor did she strike his fair face with it, despite the flush upon her cheek, the bright light in her eyes, and the dilation of her whole form. But when she was alone in her own room, she struck it on the marble chimney-shelf, so that at one blow it was bruised and bled, and held it from her near the shining fire as if she could have thrusted in and burnt it. Far into the night she sat alone, by the sinking blaze, in dark and threatening beauty, watching the murky shadows looming on the wall as if her thoughts were tangible and cast them there. Whatever shapes of outrage and affront, and black foreshadowings of things that might happen, flickered indistinct and giant-like before her, one resented figure marshalled them against her. And that figure was her husband. Dombie and Son by Charles Dickens Chapter 43 The Watches of the Night Florence, long since awakened from her dream, mournfully observed the estrangement between her father and Edith, and saw it widen more and more, and knew that there was greater bitterness between them every day. Each day's added knowledge deepened the shade upon her love and hope, roused up the old sorrow that had slumbered for a little time, and made it even heavier to bear than it had been before. It had been hard—how hard may none but Florence ever know—to have the natural affection of a true and earnest nature turn to agony, and slight or stern repulse substituted for the tenderest protection and the dearest care. It had been hard to feel in her deep heart what she had felt, and never know the happiness of one touch of response. But it was much more hard to be compelled to doubt either her father or Edith, so affectionate and dear to her, and to think of her love for each of them by turns with fear, distrust, and wonder. Yet Florence now began to do so, and the doing of it was a task imposed upon her by the very purity of her soul, as one she could not fly from. She saw her father cold and obdurate to Edith as to her—hard, inflexible, unyielding. Could it be, she asked herself with starting tears, that her own dear mother had been made unhappy by such treatment, and had pined away and died? Then she would think how proud and stately Edith was to everyone but her, with what disdain she treated him, how distantly she kept apart from him, and what she had said on the night when they came home, and quickly it would come on Florence, almost as a crime, that she loved one who was set in opposition to her father, and that her father, knowing of it, must think of her in his solitary room as the unnatural child who added this wrong to the old fault, so much wept for, of never having won his fatherly affection from her birth. The next kind word from Edith, the next kind glance, would shake these thoughts again, and make them seem like black in gratitude, for who but she had cheered the drooping heart of Florence so lonely and so hurt, and been its best of comforters. Thus with her gentle nature yearning to them both, feeling for the misery of both, and whispering doubts of her own duty to both, Florence in her wider and expanded love, and by the side of Edith, endured more than when she had hoarded up her undivided secret in the mournful house, and her beautiful mama had never dawned upon it. One exquisite unhappiness that would have far outweighed this, Florence was spared, she never had the least suspicion that Edith, by her tenderness for her, widened separation from her father, or gave him new cause of dislike. If Florence had conceived the possibility of such an effect being wrought by such a cause, what grief she would have felt, what sacrifice she would have tried to make, poor loving girl, how fast and sure her quiet passage might have been beneath it to the presence of that higher father who does not reject his children's love, or spurn their tried and broken hearts, heaven knows, but it was otherwise, and that was well. No word was ever spoken between Florence and Edith now on these subjects. Edith has said there ought to be between them, in that wise, a division and a silence like the grave itself, and Florence felt she was right. In this state of affairs her father was brought home, suffering and disabled, and gloomily retired to his own rooms, where he was tended by servants, not approached by Edith, and had no friend or companion but Mr. Carca, who withdrew near midnight. A nice company he is, Miss Floyd, said Susan Nipper. Oh, he's a precious piece of goods. If every one's a character, don't let him come to me whatever he does, that's all I tell him. Dear Susan, urge Florence, don't. Oh, it's very well to say don't, Miss Floyd. Returned the Nipper, much exasperated. But Raleigh, beg it your pardon, we're coming to such passes that it turns all the blood in a person's body into pins and needles, with their pints always. Don't mistake me, Miss Floyd. I don't mean nothing against your marring law, who's always treated me as a lady, should, though she is rather high, I must say, not that I have any right to object to that particular. But when we come to Mrs. Pipchins's, and having them put over us, and keeping guard at your Pa's door like crocodiles, only make us thankful that they lay no eggs, we are a growing too outrageous. Papa thinks well of Mrs. Pipchins, Susan, returned Florence, and has a right to choose his housekeeper, you know, or pray don't. Well, Miss Floyd, return the Nipper, when you say don't, I never do, I hope, but Mrs. Pipchins acts like early gooseberries upon me, Miss, and nothing less. Susan was unusually emphatic, and destitute of punctuation in her discourse on this night, which was the night of Mr. Donby's being brought home. Because having been sent downstairs by Florence to inquire after him, she had been obliged to deliver her message to her mortal enemy, Mrs. Pipchins, who, without carrying it into Mr. Donby, had taken upon herself to return what Miss Nipper called a huffish answer on her own responsibility. This Susan Nipper construed into presumption, and the part of that exemplary sufferer by the Peruvian minds, and a deed of disparagement upon her young lady that was not to be forgiven, and so far her emphatic state was special. But she had been in a condition of greatly increased suspicion and distrust ever since the marriage. For, like most persons of her quality of mind, who form a strong and sincere attachment to one in the different station which Florence occupied, Susan was very jealous, and her jealousy naturally attached to Edith, who divided her old empire and came between them. Proud and glad as Susan Nipper truly was, that her young mistress should be advanced towards her proper place in the scene of her old neglect, and that she should have her father's handsome wife for her companion and protectress, she could not relinquish any part of her own dominion to the handsome wife, without a grudge and a vague feeling of ill-will, for which she did not fail to find a disinterested justification in her sharp perception of the pride and passion of the lady's character. From the background to which she had necessarily retired somewhat, since the marriage, Miss Nipper looked on, therefore, at domestic affairs in general, with a resolute conviction that no good would come of Mrs. Donby, always being very careful to publish on all possible occasions that she had nothing to say against her. Susan, said Florence, who was sitting thoughtfully at her table. It's very late. I shall want nothing more tonight. Ah, Miss Floyd! returned the Nipper. I'm sure I often wish for them old tarms when I set up with you hours later than this, and fell asleep then with being tied out when you was as broad a white as spectacles. But you've marred in law to come and sit with you now, Miss Floyd, and I'm thankful for it, I'm sure. I've not a word to say against him. I shall not forget who was my old companion when I had none, Susan. Returned Florence gently. Never. And looking up, she put her arm round the neck of her humble friend, drew her face down to hers, and bidding her good night, kissed it. Which so mollified, Miss Nipper, that she fell her sobbing. Now, my dear Miss Floyd, said Susan, let me go downstairs again and see how your par is. I know you're wretched about him. Do let me go downstairs again and knock at his door my own self. No, said Florence, go to bed. We shall hear more in the morning. I will inquire myself in the morning. Mama has been down, I daresay. Florence blushed. She had no such hope. Or is there now, perhaps? Good night. Susan was too much softened to express her private opinion on the probability of Mrs. Domby's being in attendance on her husband, and silently withdrew. Florence left alone soon hit her head upon her hands, as she had often done in other days, and did not restrain the tears from coursing down her face. The misery of this domestic discord and unhappiness, the withered hope she cherished now, if hope it could be called, of ever being taken to her father's heart, her doubts and fears between the two, the yearning of her innocent breast to both, the heavy disappointment and regret of such an end as this, to what had been a vision of bright hope and promise to her, all crowded on her mind, and made her tears flow fast. Her mother and her brother dead, her father unmoved to water, Edith opposed to him and casting him away, but loving her, and loved by her, it seemed as if her affection could never prosper, rest where it would. That weak thought was soon hushed, but the thoughts in which it had arisen were too true and strong to be dismissed with it, and they made the night desolate. Among such reflections there rose up, as they had risen up all day, the image of her father, wounded and in pain, alone in his own room, untended by those who should be nearest to him, and passing the tardy hours in lonely suffering. A frightened thought which made her start and clasp her hands, though it was not a new one in her mind, that he might die, and never see her or pronounce her name, thrilled her whole frame, in her agitation she thought and trembled while she thought of once more stealing downstairs and venturing to his door. She listened at her own, the house was quiet, and all the lights were out. It was a long, long time, she thought, since she used to make her nightly pilgrimages to his door. It was a long, long time, she tried to think, since she had entered his room at midnight, and he had led her back to the stairfoot. With the same child's heart within her, as of old, even with the child's sweet, timid eyes and clustering hair, Florence, estranged to her father in her early maiden bloom, as in her nursery time, crept down the staircase, listening as she went, and drew near to his room. No one was staring in the house. The door was partly open to admit air, and all were so still within that you could hear the burning of the fire, and count the ticking of the clock that stood upon the chimney-piece. She looked in. In that room, the housekeeper wrapped in a blanket was fast asleep in an easy chair before the fire. The doors between it and the next were partly closed, and a screen was drawn before them. But there was a light there, and it shone upon the corners of his bed. All were so very still that you could hear from his breathing that he was asleep. This gave her courage to pass round the screen and look into his chamber. It was as great a start to come upon his sleeping face as if she had not expected to see it. Florence stood rested on the spot, and if he had awakened then, must have remained there. There was a cut upon his forehead, and they had been wetting his hair, which lay be dabbled and entangled on the pillow. One of his arms, resting outside the bed, was bandaged up, and he was very white. But it was not this that after the first quick glance and first assurance of his sleeping quietly held Florence rooted to the ground. It was something very different from this, and more than this, had made him look so solemn in her eye. She had never seen his face in all her life, but they had been upon it, or she fancied so, some disturbing consciousness of her. She had never seen his face in all her life, but hope had sunk within her, and her timid glance had dropped before its stern, unloving, and repelling harshness. As she looked upon it now, she saw it for the first time, free from the cloud that had darkened her childhood. Calm, tranquil night was raining in its stead. He might have gone to sleep for anything she saw there, blessing her. Awake, unkind father! Awake now, sullen man! The time is flitting by. The hour is coming with an angry tread. Awake! There was no change upon his face. And as she watched it, awfully, its motionless response, recalled the faces that were gone. So they looked. So would he. So she, his weeping child, who should say when, so all the world of love and hatred and indifference around them. When that time should come, it would not be the heavier to him, for this that she was going to do, and it might fall something lighter upon her. She stole close to the bed, and drawing in her breath, bent down, and softly kissed him on the face, and laid her own for one brief moment by its side, and put the arm, as which she dared not touch him, round about him on the pillow. Awake, doomed man, while she is near! The time is flitting by. The hour is coming with an angry tread. Its foot is in the house. Awake! In her mind, she prayed to God to bless her father, and to soften him towards her, if it might be so. And if not, to forgive him if he was wrong, and pardon her the prayer which almost seemed impiety. And doing so, and looking back at him with blinded eyes, and stealing timidly away, passed out of his room, and crossed the other, and was gone. He may sleep on now. He may sleep on while he may. But let him look for that slight figure when he wakes, and find it near him when the hour is come. Sad and grieving was the heart of Florence as she crept upstairs. The quiet house had grown more dismal since she came down. The sleep she had been looking on, in the dead of night, had the solemnity to her of death and life in one. The secrecy and silence of her own proceeding made the night secret, silent, and oppressive. She felt unwilling, almost unable, to go on to her own chamber. And turning into the drawing-rooms where the clouded moon was shining through the blinds, looked out into the empty streets. The wind was blowing drearily. The lamps looked pale and shook as if they were cold. There was a distant glimmer of something that was not quite darkness, rather than of light in the sky, and foreboding night was shivering and restless as the dying are who make a troubled end. Florence remembered how, as a watcher, by a sick bed, she had noted this bleak time, and felt its influence, as if in some hidden, natural antipathy to it, and now it was very, very gloomy. Her mama had not come to her room that night, which was one cause of her having sat late out of her bed. In her general uneasiness, no less than in her ardent longing to have somebody to speak to, and to break the spell of gloom and silence, Florence directed her steps towards the chamber where she slept. The door was not fastened within, and yielded smoothly to her hesitating hand. She was surprised to find a bright light burning. Still more surprised on looking in to see that her mama, but partially undressed, were sitting near the ashes of the fire, which had crumbled and dropped away. Her eyes were intently bent upon the air, and in their light, and in her face, and in her form, and in the grasp with which she held the elbows of her chair, as if about to start up. Florence saw such fierce emotion, that it terrified her. Mama! she cried. What is the matter? Edith started, looking at her with such a strange dread in her face, that Florence was more frightened than ever. Mama! said Florence, hurriedly advancing. Dear Mama, what is the matter? I have not been well, said Edith, shaking, and still looking at her in the same strange way. I have had bad dreams, my love. And not yet been to bed, Mama! No, she returned, half waking dreams. Her features gradually softened, and suffering Florence to come closer to her within her embrace, she said in a tender manner, But what does my bird do here? What does my bird do here? I have been uneasy, Mama, in not seeing you tonight, and in not knowing how papa was, and I— Florence stopped there, and said no more. Is it late? asked Edith, fondly putting back the curls that mingled with her own dark hair, and strayed upon her face. Very late, near day. Near day? she repeated in surprise. Dear Mama, what have you done to your hand? said Florence. Edith threw it suddenly away, and for a moment looked at her with the same strange dread. There was a sort of wild avoidance in it, as before. But she presently said, Nothing, nothing, a blow. And then she said, My Florence. And then her bosom heaved, and she was weeping passionately. Mama! said Florence. Oh Mama, what can I do? What should I do to make us happier? Is there anything? Nothing, she replied. Are you sure of that? Can it never be? If I speak now of what is in my thoughts in spite of what we have agreed? said Florence. You will not blame me, will you? It is useless, she replied. Useless. I have told you, dear, that I have had bad dreams. Nothing can change them or prevent them coming back. I did not understand, said Florence. Gazing on her agitated face, which seemed to darken as she looked. I have dreamed, said Edith, in a low voice. Of a pride that is all-powerless for good, all-powerful for evil. Of a pride that has been galled and goaded through many shameful years, and has never recoiled except upon itself. A pride that has debased its owner with the consciousness of deep humiliation, and never helped its owner boldly to resent it or avoid it, or to say this shall not be. A pride that, rightly guided, might have led perhaps to better things, but which misdirected and perverted, like all else belonging to the same possessor, has been self-contempt, mere hardy-hood, and ruin. She neither looked nor spoke to Florence now, but went on as if she were alone. I have dreamed, she said, of such indifference and callousness, arising from this self-contempt, this wretched, inefficient, miserable pride, that it has gone on with listless steps even to the altar, yielding to the old familiar beckoning finger. Oh mother, oh mother! While it spurned it, and willing to be hateful to itself for once and for all, rather than to be stung daily in some new form, mean, poor thing. And now, with gathering and darkening emotion, she looked as she had looked when Florence entered. And I have dreamed, she said, that in a first late effort to achieve a purpose, it has been trodden on, and trodden down by a base-foot, but turns and looks upon him. I have dreamed, that it is wounded, hunted, set upon by dogs, but that it stands at bay, and will not yield. No, that it cannot if it would, but that it is urged on to hate. Her clenched hand tightened on the trembling arm she had in hers. And as she looked down on the alarmed and wondering face, her own subsided. Oh Florence, she said, I think I have been nearly mad tonight. And humbled her proud head upon her neck, and wept again. Don't leave me. Be near me. I have no hope but in you. These words, she said a score of times. Soon she grew calmer, and was full of pity for the tears of Florence, and for her waking at such untimely hours. And the day now dawning, Edith folded her in her arms, and laid her down upon her bed. And, not lying down herself, sat by her, and bade her try to sleep. For you are weary, dearest, and unhappy, and should rest. I am indeed unhappy, dear mama, to-night, said Florence, but you are weary and unhappy, too. Not when you lie asleep, so near me, sweet. They kissed each other, and Florence, worn out, gradually fell into a gentle slumber. But as her eyes closed on the face beside her, it was so sad to think upon the face downstairs, that her hand drew closer to Edith for some comfort. Yet, even in the act, it faltered, lest it should be deserting him. So, in her sleep, she tried to reconcile the two together, and to show them that she loved them both, but could not do it, and her waking grief was part of her dreams. Edith, sitting by, looked down at the dark eyelashes lying wet on the flushed cheeks, and looked with gentleness and pity, for she knew the truth. But no sleep hung upon her own eyes. As the day came on, she still sat, watching and waking, with the placid hand in hers, and sometimes whispered, as she looked at the hushed face, Be near me, Florence. I have no hope but in you. CHAPTER 44 A SEPARATION With the day, though not so early as the sun, up rose Miss Susan Nipper. There was a heaviness in this young maiden's exceedingly sharp black eyes, that abated somewhat of their sparkling, and suggested, which was not their usual character, the possibility of their being sometimes shut. There was likewise a swollen look about them, as if they had been crying overnight. But the Nipper, so far from being cast down, was singularly brisk and bold, and all her energies appeared to be braced up for some great feet. This was noticeable even in her dress, which was much more tight and trim than usual, and in occasional twitches of her head as she went about the house, which were mightily expressive of determination. In a word, she had formed a determination, and an aspiring one, it being nothing less than this, to penetrate to Mr. Donby's presence, and have speech of that gentleman alone. I have often said I would, she remarked, in a threatening manner to herself, that morning with many twitches of her head, and now I will. Sparing herself on to the accomplishment of this desperate design, with a sharpness that was peculiar to herself, Susan Nipper haunted the hall and staircase during the whole forenoon, without finding a favourable opportunity for the assault. Not at all baffled by this discomforture, which indeed had a stimulating effect, and put her on her metal, she diminished nothing of her vigilance, and at last discovered towards the evening that her sworn foe, Mrs. Pipchin, and a pretence of having sat up all night, was dozing in her own room, and that Mr. Donby was lying on his sofa unattended. With a twitch, not of her head merely this time, but of her whole self, the Nipper went on tiptoe to Mr. Donby's door, and knocked. Come in, said Mr. Donby. Susan encouraged herself with the final twitch, and went in. Mr. Donby, who was eyeing the fire, gave an amazed look at his visitor, and raised himself a little on his arm. The Nipper dropped a curtsy. What do you want? said Mr. Donby. If you please, sir, I wish to speak to you, said Susan. Mr. Donby moved his lips as if he were repeating the words, but he seemed so lost in astonishment at the presumption of the young woman as to be incapable of giving them utterance. I have been in your service, sir, said Susan Nipper, with her usual rapidity. Now twelve-year awaiting on Miss Floyd my own young lady, who couldn't speak plain in our first came here, and I was old in this house when Mrs. Richards was new. I may not be Methuselum, but I am not a child in arms. Mr. Donby, raised upon his arm, and looking at her, offered no comment on this preparatory statement of fact. There never was a dearer or a blesseder young lady than is my young lady, sir, said Susan, and I ought to know a great deal better than some, for I have seen her in her grief, and I have seen her in her joy. There's not been much of it, and I have seen her with her brother, and I have seen her in her loneliness, and some have never seen her, and I say to some and all I do, and here the black-eyed shook her head and slightly stamped her foot, that she is the blessedest and dearest angel as Miss Floyd that ever do the breath of life. The more that I was torn to pieces, sir, the more I'd say it, though I may not be at Fox's martyr. Mr. Donby turned yet paler than his fall had made him, with indignation and astonishment, and kept his eyes upon the speaker, as if he accused them and his ears, too, of playing him false. Now one could be anything but true and faithful to Miss Floyd, sir, pursued Susan, and I take no merit for my service of twelve year, for I love her, yes, I say to some and all I do, and here the black-eyed shook her head again and slightly stamped her foot again and checked her sob. Butchoo and faithful service gives me right to speak, I hope, and speak I must, and will, now, right or wrong. What do you mean, woman? said Mr. Donby, glaring at her. How do you dare? What I mean, sir, is to speak respectful and without offence, but out, and how I dare I know not, but I do, said Susan. Ah, you don't know, my young lady, sir, you don't indeed. You'd never know so little of her if you did. Mr. Donby, in a fury, put his hand out for the bell-rope, but there was no bell-rope on that side of the fire, and he could not rise and cross to the other without assistance. The quick eye of the nipper detected his helplessness immediately, and now, as she afterwards observed, she felt she had got him. Miss Floyd, said Susan Nipper, is the most devoted, and most patient, and most beautiful, and beautiful of daughters. There ain't no gentleman, no sir, though as great and rich as all the greatest and richest of England put together, but might be proud of her, and would, and ought. If he knew her value right, he'd rather lose his greatness, and his fortune piece by piece, and beg his way and rags from daughter-door. I say to some and all, he would. cried Susan Nipper, bursting into tears, then bring the sorrow on her tender heart that I have seen it suffer in this house. Woman! cried Mr. Donby, leave the room. Back in your pardon, not even if I am to leave the situation, sir, replied the steadfast nipper, in which I have been so many years and seen so much, or the way I hoped you'd never have the heart to send me from Miss Floyd for such a cause. Will I go now till I have said the rest? I may not be an Indian widow, sir, and I am not, and I would not so become, but if I once made up my mind to burn myself alive, I'd do it, and I've made up my mind to go on. Which was rendered no less clear, by the expression of Susan Nipper's countenance, than by her words. There ain't a person in your service, sir, pursued the black-eyed, that has always stood more in awe of you than me, and you may think how too it is when I make so bold as say that I have hundreds and hundreds of times thoughtless speaking to you, and never been able to make up my mind to it till last night, but last night decided of me. Mr. Donby, in a paroxysm of rage, made another grasp at the bell-rope that was not there, and in its absence pulled his hair rather than nothing. I have seen, said Susan Nipper, Miss Floyd, strive and strive when nothing but a child so sweet and patient that the best of women might have copied from her. I've seen her sitting nights together half the night through to help her delicate brother with his learning. I've seen her helping him and watching him at other times, some well-know when, I've seen her with no encouragement and no help, grow up to be a lady, thank God, that is the grace and pride of every company she goes in, and I've always seen her cruelly neglected and keenly feeling of it, I say to some and all I have, and never said one word, but ordering one self-lowly and reverently towards one's betters is not to be a worshipper of graven images, and I will and must speak. Is there anybody there? cried Mr. Donby calling out. Where are the men? Where are the women? Is there no one there? I left my dear young lady out of bed late last night, said Susan. Nothing checked, and I knew why, for you was ill, sir, and she didn't know how ill, and that was enough to make her wretched as I saw it did. I may not be a peacock, but I have my eyes, and I sat up a little in my own room thinking she might be lonesome and might want me, and I saw her steal downstairs and come to this door, as if it was a guilty thing to look her own par, and then steal back again and go into them lonely drawing-rooms, a cry in, so that I could hardly bear to hear it. I could not bear to hear it, said Susan Nipper, wiping her black eyes and fixing them undauntingly on Mr. Donby's infuriated face. It's not the first time I've heard it, not by many and many a time. You don't know your own daughter, sir. You don't know what you're doing, sir. I say to some and all, cried Susan Nipper in a final burst, that it's a sinful shame. Why, hidey-tidey! cried the voices of Mrs. Pippchin, as the black bombazine garments of that fair Peruvian minor swept into the room. What's this, indeed? Susan favoured Mrs. Pippchin with the look she had invented expressly for her when they first became acquainted, and resigned the reply to Mr. Donby. What's this? repeated Mr. Donby, almost foaming. What's this, madam? You, who are at the head of this household and bound to keep it in order, have reason to inquire. Do you know this woman? I know very little good of her, sir, croaked Mrs. Pippchin. How dare you come here, you hussy! Go along with you. But the inflexible Nipper, merely honouring Mrs. Pippchin with another look, remained. Do you call it managing this establishment, madam? said Mr. Donby, to leave a person like this at liberty to come and talk to me? A gentleman in his own house in his own room assailed with the impertenences of women servants. Well, sir, returned Mrs. Pippchin with a vengeance in her hard grey eye. I exceedingly deplore it. Nothing can be more irregular. Nothing can be more out of all bounds and reason. But I regret to say, sir, that this young woman is quite beyond control. She has been spoiled by Mrs. Donby, and is amenable to nobody. You know you're not, said Mrs. Pippchin sharply, and shaking her head at Susan Nipper. For shame, you hussy! Go along with you. If you find people in my service who are not to be controlled, Mrs. Pippchin, said Mr. Donby, turning back towards the fire, you know what to do with them, I presume. You know what you are here for? Take her away. Sir, I know what to do, retorted Mrs. Pippchin, and, of course, shall do it. Susan Nipper, snapping her up particularly short, a month's warning from this hour. Indeed! cried Susan loftily. Yes. returned Mrs. Pippchin. And don't smile at me, you minks, or I'll know the reason why. Go along with you this minute. I intend to go this minute. You may rely upon it, said the voluble Nipper. I have been in this house waiting on my young lady a dozen year, and I won't stop in it one hour under notice from a person known to the name of Pippchin. Trust me, Mrs. P. A good riddance of bad rubbish, said that rothful old lady. Get along with you, or I'll have you carried out. My comfort is, said Susan, looking back at Mr. Donby, that I have told a piece of truth this day, which ought to have been told long before, and can't be told too often or too plain, and that no amount of Pippchins is, I hope the number of them may be great. Here Mrs. Pippchin uttered a very sharp, now along with you, and Mrs. Nipper repeated the look. Can Anne say what I have said? That they gave a whole year full of warnings, beginning at ten o'clock in the forenoon, and never leaving off till twelve at night, and died of the exhaustion which would be a jubilee. With these words Mrs. Nipper proceeded her foe out of the room, and walking upstairs to her apartments in great state, to the choking exasperation of the eye of Pippchin, sat down among her boxes, and began to cry. From this soft mood she was soon aroused with a very wholesome and refreshing effect by the voice of Mrs. Pippchin outside the door. Does that bold-faced slut, said the fell Pippchin, intend to take her warning, or does she not? Mrs. Nipper replied from within that the person described did not inhabit that part of the house, but that her name was Pippchin, and she was to be found in the housekeeper's room. You saucy baggage! retorted Mrs. Pippchin, rattling at the handle of the door. Go along with you this minute. Pack up your things directly. How dare you talk in this way to a gentlewoman who has seen better days! To which Mrs. Nipper rejoined from her castle, that she pitied the better days that had seen Mrs. Pippchin, and that for her part she considered the worst days in the year to be about that lady's mark, except that they were much too good for her. But you needn't trouble yourself to make a noise at my door, said Susan Nipper, nor to contaminate the keyhole with your eye. I'm pecking up and going. You may take your affidavit. The dowager expressed her lively satisfaction at this intelligence, and with some general opinions upon young hussies as a race, and especially upon their demerits after being spoiled by Miss Donby, withdrew to prepare the Nipper's wages. Susan then bestowed herself to get her trunks in order, but she might take an immediate and dignified departure, sobbing heartily all the time as she thought of Florence. The object of her regret was not long in coming to her, for the news soon spread over the house that Susan Nipper had had a disturbance with Mrs. Pippchin, and that they had both appealed to Mr. Donby, and that they had been an unprecedented piece of work in Mr. Donby's room, and that Susan was going. The latter part of this confused rumour Florence found to be so correct that Susan had locked the last trunk, and was sitting upon it with her bonnet on, and she came into her room. Susan! cried Florence, going to leave me! You! Oh, for goodness gracious sake, Miss Floyd! said Susan, sobbing. Don't speak a word to me, or ask her to meme herself before them Pippchinses! And I wouldn't have him see me cry, Miss Floyd, for words! Susan! said Florence, My dear girl, my old friend, what shall I do without you? Can you bear to go away so? No, no, my darling dear, Miss Floyd, I can't indeed! sobbed Susan. But it can't be helped. I've done my duty, Miss. I have indeed. It's no fault of mine. I'm quite resigned. I couldn't stay my month, or I could never leave you then, my darling. And I must at last, as well as at first. Don't speak to me, Miss Floyd, for though I'm pretty firm, I'm not a marble doorpost, my own dear. What is it? Why is it? said Florence. Won't you tell me? for Susan was shaking her head. No, no, my darling, returned Susan. Don't ask me, for I mustn't, and whatever you do, don't put in a word for me to stop, for it couldn't be, and you'd only wrong yourself. And so, God bless you, my own precious, and forgive me any harm I've done, or any temper I have showed in all these many years. With which entreaty, very heartily delivered, Susan hugged her mistress in her arms. My darling, there's a many that may come to serve you, and be glad to serve you, and it will serve you well and true, said Susan. But there can't be one who'll serve you so affectionate as me, or love you half as dearly. That's my comfort. Goodbye, sweet Miss Floyd. Where will you go, Susan? are still weeping mistress. I've got a brother down in the country, Miss, a farmer in Essex, said the heartbroken nipper, that keeps ever so many cows at pigs, and I shall go down there by the couch and stop with him. And don't mind me, for I've got money in the savings-bank, my dear, and needn't taken our service just yet, which I couldn't do my art's own mistress. Susan finished with a burst of sorrow, which was opportunally broken by the voice of Mrs. Pipchin talking downstairs. On hearing which, she dried her red and swollen eyes, and made a melancholy faint of calling jauntedly to Mr. Townsend to fetch a cab, and carry down her boxes. Florence, pale and hurried and distressed, but withheld from useless interference even here, by her dread of causing any new division between her father and his wife, whose stern, indignant face had been a warning to her a few moments since, and by her apprehension of being in some way unconsciously connected already with the dismissal of her old servant and friend, followed weeping downstairs to Edith's dressing room, with her Susan betook herself to make her part in curtsy. Now here's the cab, and here's the boxes. Get along with you do," said Mrs. Pipchin, presenting herself at the same moment. I beg your pardon, ma'am, but Mr. Dombie's orders are imperative. Edith, sitting under the hands of her maid, she was going out to dinner, preserved her haughty face, and took not the least notice. Where's your money? said Mrs. Pipchin, who in pursuance of her system and in recollection of the mines, was accustomed to rout the servants about, as she had routed her young Brighton Borders to the everlasting assiduation of Master Bithystone. And the sooner this house sees your back, the better. Susan had no spirits even for the look that belonged to Mark Pipchin, by right. So she dropped her curtsy to Mrs. Dombie, who inclined her head without one word, and whose eye avoided everyone but Florence, and gave one last parting hug to her young mistress, and received her parting embrace in return. Poor Susan's face of this crisis, in the intensity of her feelings, and the determined suffocation of her sobs, lest one should become audible and be a triumph to Mrs. Pipchin, presented a series of the most extraordinary physiognomical phenomena ever witnessed. I beg your pardon, Miss, I'm sure, said Talinson outside the door with the boxes addressing Florence, but Mr. Toots is in the drawing room, and sends his compliments and begs to know how diogenese and master is. Quick as thought, Florence glided out and hastened downstairs, where Mr. Toots, in the most splendid vestments, was breathing very hard with doubt and agitation on the subject of her coming. Oh, how did you do, Miss Dombie? said Mr. Toots. God bless my soul. This last ejaculation was occasioned by Mr. Toots' deep concern at the distress he saw in Florence's face, which caused him to stop short in a fit of chuckles, and become an image of despair. Dear Mr. Toots, said Florence, you are so friendly to me, and so honest, that I am sure I may ask a favour of you. Miss Dombie, return, Mr. Toots, if you'll only name one, you'll give me an appetite to which, said Mr. Toots, with some sentiment, I have long been a stranger. Susan, who is an old friend of mine, the oldest friend I have, said Florence, is about to leave here suddenly, and quite alone, poor girl. She's going home a little way into the country. Might I ask you to take care of her, until she's in the coach? Miss Dombie, return, Mr. Toots, you really do me an honour and a kindness, this proof of your confidence after the manner in which I was beast enough to conduct myself at Brighton? Yes, said Florence hurriedly. No, don't think of that. Then would you have the kindness to go, and to be ready to meet her when she comes out? Thank you a thousand times. You ease my mind so much, she doesn't seem so desolate. You cannot think how grateful I feel to you, or what a good friend I am sure you are. And Florence, in her earnestness, thanked him again and again, and Mr. Toots, in his earnestness, hurried away, but backwards, that he might lose no glimpse of her. Florence had not the courage to go out, when she saw poor Susan in the hall, with Mrs. Pipchin driving her forth, and Diogenes jumping about her and terrifying Mrs. Pipchin to the last degree, by making snaps at her bombazine skirts, and howling with anguish at the sound of her voice. For the good duena was the dearest and most cherished aversion of his breast. But she saw Susan shake hands with the servants all round, and turned once to look at her old home, and she saw Diogenes bound out after the cab, and want to follow it, and testify an impossibility of conviction that he had no longer any property in the fair, and the door was shut, and the hurry over, and her tears flowed fast for the loss of an old friend whom no one could replace. No one. No one. Mr. Toots, like the leal and trusty soul he was, stopped the cabriolet in a twinkling, and told Susan Nipper of his commission, at which she cried more than before. Upon my soul and body, said Mr. Toots, taking his seat beside her, I feel for you. Upon my word and honour, I think you can hardly know your own feelings better than I imagine them. I can conceive nothing more dreadful than to have to leave Miss Dombie. Susan abandoned herself to her grief now, and it really was touching to see her. I say, said Mr. Toots, now don't. At least I mean now do, you know. Do what, Mr. Toots? cried Susan. Why, come home to my place and have some dinner before you start, said Mr. Toots. My cook's a most respectable woman, one of the most motherly people I ever saw, and she'd be delighted to make you comfortable. Her son, said Mr. Toots, as an additional recommendation, was educated in the Bluecoat School, and blown up in a powder mill. Susan accepting this kind offer, Mr. Toots conducted her to his dwelling, where they were received by the matron in question, who fully justified his character of her, and by the chicken, who at first supposed, on seeing a lady in the vehicle, that Mr. Dombie had been doubled up, ably to his old recommendation, and Miss Dombie abducted. This gentleman awakened in Miss Nipper some considerable astonishment. For, having been defeated by the larky boy, his visage was in a state of such great dilapidation as to be hardly presentable in society with comfort to the beholders. The chicken himself attributed this punishment to his having had the misfortune to get into chancery early in the proceedings, when he was severely fibbed by the larky one, and heavily grasped. But it appeared from the published records of that great contest, that the larky boy had had it all his own way from the beginning, and that the chicken had been tapped, and bunged, and had received pepper, and had been made groggy, and had come up piping, at an endured, a complication of similar strange inconveniences until he had been gone into, and finished. After a good repast, and much hospitality, Susan set out for the coach office in another cabriolet with Mr. Toots inside as before, and the chicken on the box, who whatever distinction he conferred on the little party by the moral weight and heroism of his character, was scarcely ornamental to it, physically speaking, on account of his plasters, which were numerous. But the chicken had registered a vow, in secret, that he would never leave Mr. Toots, who was secretly pining to get rid of him, for any less consideration than the goodwill and fixtures of a public house, and being ambitious to go into that line, and drink himself to death as soon as possible, he felt at his cue to make his company unacceptable. The night coach by which Susan was to go was on the point of departure. Mr. Toots, having put her inside, lingered by the window, irresolutely, until the driver was about to mount. When standing on the step, and putting in a face that by the light of the lamp was anxious and confused, he said abruptly, I say, Susan, Miss Donby, you know? Yes, sir. Do you think she could, you know, uh... I'll beg your pardon, Mr. Toots, said Susan, but I don't hear you. Do you think she could be brought, you know, not exactly at once, but in time, in a long time, to love me, you know, there? Said poor Mr. Toots. Oh, dear, no, returned Susan shaking her head. I should say never, never. Thank you, said Mr. Toots. It's of no consequences, though, good night. It's of no consequence. Thank you.