 Chapter 47 The Thunderbolt The barrier between Mr. Dombie and his wife was not weakened by time. Ill assorted couple, unhappy in themselves and in each other, bound together by no tie but the manacle that joined their fettered hands, and straining that so harshly, in their shrinking asunder, that it wore and chafed to the bone. Time, consolar of affliction, and softener of anger, could do nothing to help them. Their pride, however different in kind and object, was equal in degree, and in their flinty opposition struck out fire between them which might smolder or might blaze, as circumstances were, but burnt up everything within their mutual reach, and made their marriage way a road of ashes. Let us be just to him. In the monstrous delusion of his life, swelling with every grain of sands that shifted in its glass, he urged her on. He little thought to what, or considered how, but still his feeling towards her, such as it was, remained as at first. She had the grand demerit of unaccountably putting herself in opposition to the recognition of his vast importance, and to the acknowledgment of her complete submission to it, and so far it was necessary to correct and reduce her. But otherwise he still considered her, in his cold way, a lady capable of doing honour, if she would, to his choice and name, and of reflecting credit on his proprietorship. Now she, with all her might of passionate and proud resentment, bent her dark glance from day to day, and hour to hour, from that night in her own chamber, when she had sat gazing at the shadows on the wall to the deeper night fast coming, upon one figure directing a crowd of humiliations and exasperations against her, and that figure still her husband's. Was Mr. Donby's master vice, that drooled him so inexorably, an unnatural characteristic? It might be worthwhile, sometimes, to inquire what nature is, and how men work to change her, and whether, in the enforced distortion so produced, it is not natural to be unnatural. Coop any son or daughter of our mighty mother, within narrow range, and bind the prisoner to one idea, and foster it by servile worship of it on the part of the few timid or designing people standing round, and what is nature to the willing captive who has never risen up upon the wings of a free mind, drooping and useless soon to see her in her comprehensive truth. Alas! are there so few things in the world about us, most unnatural, and yet most natural in being so? Hear the magistrate or judge admonish the unnatural outcasts of society, unnatural in brutal habits, unnatural in want of decency, unnatural in losing and confounding all distinctions between good and evil, unnatural in ignorance, in vice, in recklessness, in contumacy, in mind, in looks, in everything. But follow the good clergyman, or doctor, who, with his life imperiled at every breath he draws, goes down into their dens, lying within the echoes of our carriage-wheels and daily tread upon the pavement-stones. Look round upon the world of odious sights, millions of immortal creatures of no other world on earth, at the lightest mention of which humanity revolts, and dainty delicacy living in the next street stops her ears and lisps, I don't believe it. Breathe the polluted air, fowl with every impurity that is poisonous to health and life, and have every sense conferred upon our race for its delight and happiness, offended, sickened and disgusted, and made a channel by which misery and death alone can enter. Vainly attempt to think of any simple plant or flower or wholesome weed that, set in this fetid bed, could have its natural growth, or put its little leaves off to the sun as God designed it, and then, calling up some ghastly child with stunted form and wicked face, hold forth on its unnatural sinfulness, and lament its being so early, far away from heaven, but think a little of its having been conceived, and borne and bred, in hell. Those who study the physical sciences, and bring them to bear upon the health of man, tell us that if the noxious particles that rise from vitiated air were palpable to the sight, we should see them lowering in a dense black cloud above such haunts, and rolling slowly on to corrupt the better portions of a town. But if the moral pestilence that rises with them, and in the eternal laws of our nature is inseparable from them, could be made discernible too, how terrible a revelation. Then should we see depravity, impiety, drunkenness, theft, murder, and a long train of nameless sins against the natural affections and repulsions of mankind, overhanging the devoted spots, and creeping on to blight the innocent and spread contagion among the pure. Then should we see how the same poisoned fountains that flow into our hospitals, and laze our houses, inundate the jails, and make the convict ships swim deep, and roll across the seas, and overrun vast continents with crime. Then should we stand appalled to know, that where we generate disease to strike our children down, and entail itself on unborn generations, there also we breed, by the same certain process, infancy that knows no innocence, youth without modesty or shame, maturity that is mature in nothing but in suffering and guilt, blasted old age that is a scandal on the form we bear, unnatural humanity. When we shall gather grapes from thorns, and figs from thistles, when fields of grain shall spring up from the offal in the byways of our wicked cities, and roses bloom in a fat churchyard that they cherish, then we may look for natural humanity, and find it growing from such seed. Oh, for a good spirit who would take the housetops off, with a more potent and benign at hand and the lame demon in the tale, and show a Christian people what dark shapes issue from the midst their homes, to swell the retinue of the destroying angel as he moves forth among them. For only one night's view of the pale phantoms rising from the scenes of our too-long neglect, and from the thick and sullen air where vice and fever propagate together, reigning the tremendous social retributions which are ever pouring down, and ever coming thicker. Bright and blessed the morning that should rise on such a night, for men delayed no more by stumbling blocks of their own making, which are but specks of dust upon the path between them and eternity, would then apply themselves like creatures of one common origin, owing one duty to the father of one family, and tending to one common end to make the world a better place. Not the less bright and blessed would that day be for rousing some who never have looked out upon the world of human life around them, to a knowledge of their own relation to it, and for making them acquainted with a perversion of nature in their own contracted sympathies and estimates, as great, and yet as natural in its development when once begun as the lowest degradation known. But no such day had ever dawned on Mr. Donby or his wife, and the course of each was taken. Through six months that ensued upon his accident, they held the same relations one towards the other. A marble rock could not have stood more obdurately in his way than she, and no chilled spring lying uncheered by any ray of light in the depths of a deep cave could be more sullen or more cold than he. The hope that had fluttered within her and the promise of her new home dawned was quite gone from the heart of Florence now. That home was nearly two years old, and even the patient trust that was in her could not survive the daily blight of such experience. If she had any lingering fancy in the nature of hope left, that Edith and her father might be happier together in some distant time, she had none now that her father would ever love her. The little interval in which she had imagined that she saw some small relenting in him was forgotten in the long remembrance of his coldness since and before, or only remembered as a sorrowful delusion. Florence loved him still, but, by degrees, had come to love him rather as some dear one who had been, or who might have been, than as the hard reality before her eyes. Something of the softened sadness with which she loved the memory of little Paul, or of her mother, seemed to enter now into her thoughts of him and to make them, as it were, a dear remembrance. Whether it was that he was dead to her, and that partly for this reason, partly for his share in those old objects of her affection, and partly for the long association of him with hopes that were withered and tendernesses he had frozen, she could not have told. But the father whom she loved began to be a vague and dreamy idea to her, hardly more substantially connected with her real life than the image she would sometimes conjure up of her dear brother yet alive and growing to be a man who would protect and cherish her. The change, if it may be called one, had stolen on her like the change from childhood to womanhood, and had come with it. Florence was almost seventeen, when in her lonely musings she was conscious of these thoughts. She was often alone now, but the old association between her and her mama was greatly changed. At the time of her father's accident, and when he was lying in his room downstairs, Florence had first observed that Edith avoided her. Wounded and shocked, and yet unable to reconcile this with her affection when they did meet, she sought her in her own room at night once more. "'Mama!' said Florence, stealing softly to her side. "'Have I offended you?' Edith answered. "'No.' "'I must have done something,' said Florence. "'Tell me what it is. You have changed your manner to me, dear Mama. I cannot say how instantly I feel the least change, for I love you with my whole heart.' "'As I do you,' said Edith, "'Ah, Florence, believe me never more than now. Why do you go away from me so often, and keep away?' asked Florence. "'And why do you sometimes look so strangely on me, dear Mama? You do so, do you not?' Edith signified ascent with her dark eyes. "'Why?' returned Florence imploringly. "'Tell me why. That I may know how to please you better, and tell me this shall not be so any more.' "'My Florence!' answered Edith, taking the hand that embraced her neck, and looking into the eyes that looked into hers so lovingly, as Florence knelt upon the ground before her. "'Why it is, I cannot tell you. It is neither for me to say nor you to hear, but that it is, and that it must be, I know. Should I do it, if I did not?' "'Are we to be estranged, Mama?' asked Florence, gazing at her like one frightened. Edith's silent lips formed, yes. Florence looked at her with increasing fear and wonder, until she could see her no more through the blinding tears that ran down her face. "'Florence, my life!' said Edith hurriedly. "'Listen to me. I cannot bear to see this grief. Be calmer. You see that I am composed, and is it nothing to me?' She resumed her steady voice and manner, as she said the latter words, and added presently, not wholly estranged, partially, and only that in appearance, Florence, for in my own breast I am still the same to you, and ever will be, but what I do is not done for myself.' "'Is it for me, Mama?' asked Florence. "'It is enough,' said Edith, after a pause, "'to know what it is. Why matters little. Dear Florence, it is better. It is necessary. It must be that our association should be less frequent. The confidence there has been between us must be broken off.' "'When?' cried Florence. "'Oh, Mama, when?' "'Now,' said Edith, "'for all time to come,' asked Florence. "'I do not say that,' answered Edith. "'I do not know that. Nor will I say that companionship between us is, at the best, an ill-assorted and unholy union of which I might have known no good could come. My way here has been through paths that you will never tread, and my way henceforth may lie—' God knows! I do not see it.' The voice died away into silence, and she sat, looking at Florence, and almost shrinking from her, with the same strange dread and wild avoidance that Florence had noticed once before. The same dark pride and rage succeeded, sweeping over her form and features like an angry cord across the strings of a wild harp. But no softness or humility ensued on that. She did not lay her head down now, and weep, and say that she had no hope but in Florence. She held it up, as if you were a beautiful medusor, looking on him, face to face, to strike him dead. Yes, and she would have done it, if she had had the charm. "'Mama,' said Florence, anxiously, "'there is a change in you, in—more than what you say to me, which alarms me. Let me stay with you a little.' "'No,' said Edith, "'no, dearest. I am best left alone now, and I do best to keep apart from you of all else. Ask me no questions, but believe that what I am, when I seem fickle or capricious to you, I am not of my own will or for myself. Believe, though we are stranger to each other, than we have been, that I am unchanged to you within. Forgive me for having ever darkened your dark home. I am a shadow on it. I know well. And let us never speak of this again.' "'Mama,' said Florence, "'we are not to part. We do this that we may not part,' said Edith. "'Ask no more. Go, Florence. My love and my remorse go with you.' She embraced her and dismissed her, and as Florence passed out of her room, Edith looked on the retiring figure, as if her good angel went out in that form, and left her to the haughty and indignant passions that now claimed her for their own, and set their seal upon her brow. From that hour Florence and she were, as they had been, no more. For days together they would seldom meet except at table, and when Mr. Dombey was present. Then Edith, imperious, inflexible, and silent, never looked at her. Whenever Mr. Carker was of the party, as he often was, during the progress of Mr. Dombey's recovery, and afterwards, Edith held herself more removed from her, and was more distant towards her than at other times. Yet she and Florence never encountered, when there was no one by, but she would embrace her as affectionately as of old, though not with the same relenting of her proud aspect, and often, when she had been out late, she would steal up to Florence's room as she had been used to do in the dark, and whisper, good night, on her pillow. In unconscious, in her slumber, of such visits, Florence would sometimes awake as from a dream of those words, softly spoken, and would seem to feel the touch of lips upon her face, but less and less often, as the months went on. And now the void in Florence's own heart began again, indeed, to make a solitude around her. As the image of the father whom she loved had insensibly become a mere abstraction, so Edith, following the fate of all the rest about whom her affections had entwined themselves, was fleeting, fading, drawing paler in the distance every day. Little by little, she receded from Florence, like the retiring ghost of what she had been. Little by little, the chasm between them widened, and seemed deeper. Little by little, all the power of earnestness and tenderness she had shown was frozen up in the bold, angry hardy-hood with which she stood, upon the brink of a deep precipice unseen by Florence, daring to look down. There was but one consideration to set against the heavy loss of Edith, and though it was slight comfort to her burdened heart, she tried to think it some relief. No longer divided between her affection and duty to the two, Florence could love both, and do no injustice to either. As shadows of her fond imagination, she could give them equal place in her own bosom, and drawing them with no doubts. So she tried to do. At times, and often to, wondering speculations on the cause of this change in Edith, would obtrude themselves upon her mind, and frighten her. But in the calm of its abandonment once more to silent grief and loneliness, it was not a curious mind. Florence had only to remember that her star of promise was clouded in the general gloom that hung upon the house, and to weep and be resigned. Thus living in a dream wherein the overflowing love of her young heart expended itself on airy forms, and in a real world where she had experienced little but the rolling back of that strong tide upon itself, Florence grew to be seventeen. Timid and retiring as her solitary life had made her, it had not embittered her sweet temper, or her earnest nature, a child in innocent simplicity, a woman in her modest self-reliance, and her deep intensity of feeling. Both child and woman seemed at once expressed in her face and fragile delicacy of shape, and gracefully to mingle there, as if the spring should be unwilling to depart when summer came, and sought to blend the earlier beauties of the flowers with their bloom. But in her thrilling voice, in her calm eyes, sometimes in a sage ethereal light that seemed to rest upon her head, and always in a certain pence of air upon her beauty, there was an expression such as had been seen in the dead boy, and the council in the servants' hall whispered so among themselves, and shook their heads, and ate and drank them all, in a closer bond of good fellowship. This observant body had plenty to say of Mr. and Mrs. Donby, and of Mr. Carker, who appeared to be a mediator between them, and who came and went as if you were trying to make peace, but never could. They all deplored the uncomfortable state of affairs, and all agreed that Mrs. Pipchen, whose unpopularity was not to be surpassed, had some hand in it, but upon the whole it was agreeable to have so good a subject for a rallying point, and they made a great deal of it and enjoyed themselves very much. The general visitors who came to the house, and those among whom Mr. and Mrs. Donby visited, thought it a pretty equal match as to haughtiness at all events, and thought nothing more about it. The young lady with the back did not appear for some time after Mrs. Scuton's death, observing to some particular friends, with her usual engaging little scream, that she couldn't separate the family from a notion of tombstones and horrors of that sort. But when she did come, she saw nothing wrong, except Mr. Donby's wearing a bunch of gold seals to his watch, which shocked her very much as an exploded superstition. This youthful fascinator considered a daughter-in-law objectionable in principle, otherwise she had nothing to say against Florence, but that she sadly wanted style, which might mean back, perhaps. Many who only came to the house on state occasions hardly knew who Florence was, and said, going home, indeed was that Miss Donby in the corner? Very pretty, but a little delicate and thoughtful in appearance. Even the less so, certainly, for her life of the last six months, Florence took her seat at the dinner-table on the day before the second anniversary of her father's marriage to Edith. Mrs. Scuton had been lying stricken with paralysis when the first came round, with an uneasiness amounting to dread. She had no other warrant for it than the occasion, expression of her father's face in the hasty glance she caught of it, and the presence of Mr. Carca, which, always unpleasant to her, was more so on this day than she had ever felt it before. Edith was richly dressed, for she and Mr. Donby were engaged in the evening to some large assembly, and the dinner hour that day was late. She did not appear until they were seated at the table, when Mr. Carca rose and led her to her chair. Beautiful and lustrous as she was, there was that in her face and air which seemed to separate her hopelessly from Florence, and from everyone, for ever more. And yet, for an instant, Florence saw a beam of kindness in her eyes, when they were turned on her, that made the distance to which she had withdrawn herself a greater cause of sorrow and regret than ever. There was very little said at dinner, Florence heard her father speak to Mr. Carca sometimes on business matters, and heard him softly reply. But she paid little attention to what they said, and only wished the dinner at an end. When the dessert was placed upon the table, and they were left alone with no servant in attendance, Mr. Donby, who had been several times clearing his throat in a manner that all good no good, said, Mrs. Donby, you know, I suppose, that I have instructed the housekeeper that there will be some company to dinner here to-morrow. I do not dine at home, she answered, not a large party, pursued Mr. Donby with an indifferent assumption of not having heard her, merely some twelve or fourteen, my sister, major bag-stock, and some others, whom you know but slightly. I do not dine at home, she repeated. However doubtful a reason I may have, Mrs. Donby, said Mr. Donby, still going majesticly on as if she had not spoken. To hold the occasion in very pleasant remembrance just now. There are appearances in these things which must be maintained before the world. If you have no respect for yourself, Mrs. Donby, I have none, she said. Madam! grabbed Mr. Donby, striking his hand upon the table. Hear me, if you please. I say, if you have no respect for yourself. And I say, I have none, she answered. He looked at her, but the face she showed him in return would not have changed if death itself had looked. Carcassus! said Mr. Donby, turning more quietly to that gentleman. As you have been my medium of communication with Mrs. Donby on former occasions, and as I choose to preserve the decencies of life so far as I am individually concerned, I will trouble you to have the goodness to inform Mrs. Donby that if she has no respect for herself, I have some respect for myself, and therefore insist on my arrangements for tomorrow. Tell your sovereign master, sir, said Edith, that I will take leave to speak to him on this subject by and by, and that I will speak to him alone. Mr. Carcassus, Madam! said her husband, being in possession of the reason which obliges me to refuse you that privilege, shall be absolved from the delivery of any such message. He saw her eyes move while he spoke, and followed them with his own. Your daughter is present, sir, said Edith. My daughter will remain present, said Mr. Donby. Florence, who had risen, sat down again, hiding her face in her hands and trembling. My daughter, Madam, began Mr. Donby, but Edith stopped him, in a voice which, although not raised in the least, was so clear, emphatic, and distinct, that it might have been heard in a whirlwind. I tell you I will speak to you alone, she said. If you are not mad, heed what I say. I have authority to speak to you, Madam, returned her husband, when and where I please, and it is my pleasure to speak here and now. She rose up, as if to leave the room, but sat down again, and looking at him with all outward composure, said in the same voice, You shall. I must tell you first, that there is a threatening appearance in your manner, Madam, said Mr. Donby, which does not become you. She laughed. The shaken diamonds and her hair started and trembled. There are fables of precious stones that would turn pale, there where are being in danger. Had these been such, their imprisoned rays of light would have taken flight that moment, and they would have been as dull as lead. Carca listened, with his eyes cast down. As to my daughter, Madam, said Mr. Donby, resuming the thread of his discourse, it is by no means inconsistent with her duty to me, that she should know what conduct to avoid. At present you are a very strong example to her of this kind, and I hope she may profit by it. I would not stop you now, returned his wife, immovable in eye and voice and attitude. I would not rise and go away, and save you the utterance of one word, if the room were burning. Mr. Donby moved his head, as if in a sarcastic acknowledgement of the attention, and resumed. But not with so much self-possession as before, for Edith's quick uneasiness in reference to Florence, and Edith's indifference to him and his censure chafed and galled him like a stiffening wound. Mrs. Donby, said he, it may not be inconsistent with my daughter's improvement to know how very much to be lamented, and how necessary to be corrected, a stubborn disposition is especially when it is indulged in, unthankfully indulged in, I will add, after the gratification of ambition and interest, both of which, I believe, had some share in inducing you to occupy your present station at this board. No, I would not rise and go away and save you the utterance of one word, she repeated exactly as before, if the room were burning. It may be natural enough, Mrs. Donby, he pursued, that you should be uneasy in the presence of any auditors of these disagreeable truths, though why, he could not hide his real feeling here or keep his eyes from glancing gloomily at Florence, why anyone can give them greater force and point than myself, whom they so nearly concern I do not pretend to understand. It may be natural enough that you should object to hear, in anybody's presence, that there is a rebellious principle within you which you cannot curb too soon, which you must curb, Mrs. Donby, and which I regret to say I remember to have seen manifested, with some doubt and displeasure, on more than one occasion before our marriage, towards your deceased mother, but you have the remedy in your own hands. I by no means forgot, when I began, that my daughter was present, Mrs. Donby. I beg you will not forget tomorrow, that there are several persons present, and that with some regard to appearances, you will receive your company in a becoming manner. So it is not enough, said Edith, that you know what has passed between yourself and me. It is not enough that you can look here, pointing at Carca, who still listened with his eyes cast down, and be reminded of the affronts you have put upon me. It is not enough that you can look here, pointing to Florence with a hand that slightly trembled for the first and only time. And think of what you have done, and of the ingenious agony, daily, hourly, constant you have made me feel in doing it. It is not enough that this day, of all others in the year, is memorable to me for a struggle, well deserved, but not conceivable, by such as you, in which I wish I had died. You add to all this, do you, the last crowning meanness of making her a witness of the depth to which I have fallen, when you know that you have made me sacrifice to her peace, the only gentle feeling and interest of my life, when you know that for her sake, I would now if I could, but I cannot, my soul recoils from you too much, submit myself wholly to your will, and be the meekest vassal that you have. This was not the way to minister to Mr. Dombie's greatness. The old feeling was roused by what she said into a stronger and fiercer existence than it had ever had. Again his neglected child, at this rough passage of his life, put forth by even this rebellious woman as powerful where he was powerless, and everything where he was nothing. He turned on Florence, as if it were she who had spoken, and bade her leave the room. Florence with her covered face obeyed, trembling and weeping as she went. I understand, madam, said Mr. Dombie, with an angry flush of triumph. The spirit of opposition that turned your affections in that channel, but they have been met, Mrs. Dombie, they have been met and turned back. The worse for you, she answered with her voice and manner still unchanged. I, for he turned sharply when she said so, what is the worse for me, is twenty million times the worse for you? He'd that if you heed nothing else. The arch of diamonds spanning her dark hair flashed and glittered like a starry bridge. There was no warning in them, or they would have turned as dull and dim as tarnished honour. Carcass still sat and listened, with his eyes cast down. Mrs. Dombie, said Mr. Dombie, resuming as much as he could of his arrogant composure, you will not conciliate me or turn me from any purpose by this course of conduct. It is the only true, although it is a faint expression of what is within me, she replied, but if I thought it would conciliate you, I would repress it. If it were repressible by any human effort, I will do nothing that you ask. I am not accustomed to ask, Mrs. Dombie, he observed, I direct. I will hold no place in your house to-morrow, or on any recurrence of to-morrow. I will be exhibited to no one as a refractory slave you purchased such a time. If I kept my marriage-day, I would keep it as a day of shame, self-respect, appearances before the world, what are these to me? You have done all you can to make them nothing to me, and they are nothing. Garka, said Mr. Dombie, speaking with knitted brows, and after a moment's consideration. Mrs. Dombie is so forgetful of herself and me in all this, and places me in a position so unsuited to my character, that I must bring this state of matters to a close. Release me then, said Edith, immovable in voice, in look, and bearing, as she had been throughout. From the chain by which I am bound, let me go. Madam, exclaimed Mr. Dombie, loose me, set me free. Madam, he repeated, Mrs. Dombie, tell him, said Edith, addressing her proud face to Garka, that I wish for a separation between us, that they had better be one, that I recommend it to him. Tell him it may take place on his own terms. His wealth is nothing to me, but that it cannot be too soon. Good heaven, Mrs. Dombie, said her husband, with supreme amazement. Do you imagine it possible that I could ever listen to such a proposition? Do you know who I am, madam? Do you know what I represent? Did you ever hear of Dombie and son? You'll just say that Mr. Dombie, Mr. Dombie, was separated from his wife. Common people to talk of Mr. Dombie and his domestic affairs. Do you seriously think, Mrs. Dombie, that I would permit my name to be banded about in such connection? Poo-hoo, poo-hoo, madam, fie for shame, you're absurd! Mr. Dombie absolutely laughed. Not as she did. She had better have been dead than laugh as she did, in reply with her intent look fixed upon him. He had better have been dead, and sitting there in his magnificence to hear her. No, Mrs. Dombie! He resumed, no, madam, there is no possibility of separation between you and me, and therefore I the more advise you to be awakened to a sense of duty. And Karka, as I was about to say to you, Mr. Karka, who had sat and listened all this time, now raised his eyes, in which there was a bright, unusual light. As I was about to say to you, resumed Mr. Dombie, I must beg you, now that matters have come to this, to inform Mrs. Dombie that it is not the rule of my life to allow myself to be thwarted by anybody, anybody, Karka, or to suffer anybody, to be paraded as a stronger motive for obedience in those who owe obedience to me than I am myself. The mention that has been made of my daughter, and the use that is made of my daughter in opposition to me, are unnatural. Whether my daughter is in actual concert with Mrs. Dombie, I do not know, and do not care. But after what Mrs. Dombie has said today, and my daughter has heard today, I beg you to make known to Mrs. Dombie, that if she continues to make this house the scene of contention it has become, I shall consider my daughter responsible in some degree, on that lady's own vowel, and shall visit her with my severe displeasure. Mrs. Dombie has asked whether it is not enough that she had done this and that. You will please to answer no, it is not enough. A moment! cried Karka, interposing. Permit me, painful as my position is, at the best, and usually painful in seeming to entertain a different opinion from you, addressing Mr. Dombie. I must ask, had you not better reconsider the question of a separation? I know how incompatible it appears with your high public position, and I know how determined you are, when you give Mrs. Dombie to understand, the light in his eyes fell upon her as he separated his words each from each with the distinctness of so many bells, that nothing but death can ever part you, nothing else. But when you consider that Mrs. Dombie, by living in this house, and making it, as you have said, a scene of contention, not only has her part in that contention, but compromises Miss Dombie every day, for I know how determined you are. Will you not relieve her from a continual irritation of spirit, and a continual sense of being unjust to another almost intolerable? Does this not seem like, I do not say it is, sacrificing Mrs. Dombie to the preservation of your preeminent and unassailable position? Again the light in his eyes fell upon her, as she stood looking at her husband, now with an extraordinary and awful smile upon her face. �Karka!� returned Mr. Dombie, with a supercilious frown, and in a tone that was intended to be final. �You mistake your position in offering advice to me on such a point. And you mistake me, I am surprised to find, in the character of your advice. I have no more to say. �Perhaps� said Karka, with an unusual and indefinable taunt in his air. �You mistook my position, when you honoured me with the negotiations in which I have been engaged here,� with the motion of his hand towards Mrs. Dombie. �Not at all, sir. Not at all� returned the other hortily. �You are employed, being an inferior person, for the humiliation of Mrs. Dombie. I forgot. �Oh, yes, it was expressly understood� said Karka, �I beg your pardon.� As he bent his head to Mr. Dombie, with an air of deference that accorded ill with his words, though they were humbly spoken, he moved it round towards her, and kept his watching eyes that way. She had better have turned hideous and dropped dead, than have stood up with such a smile upon her face, in such a fallen spirit's majesty of scorn and beauty. She lifted her hand to the tiara of bright jewels radiant on her head, and, plucking it off with a force that dragged and strained her rich black hair with heedless cruelty, and brought it tumbling wildly on her shoulders, cast the gems upon the ground. From each arm she unclasped a diamond bracelet, flung it down, and trod upon the glittering heap. Without a word, without a shadow on the fire of her bright eye, without abatement of her awful smile, she looked on Mr. Dombie to the last, and moving to the door, and left him. Florence had heard enough, before quitting the room, to know that Edith loved her yet, that she had suffered for her sake, and that she had kept her sacrifices quiet, lest they should trouble her peace. She did not want to speak to her of this. She could not, remembering to whom she was opposed, but she wished in one silent affectionate embrace, to assure her that she felt it all, and thanked her. Her father went out alone that evening, and Florence, issuing from her own chamber soon afterwards, went about the house in search of Edith, but unavailingly. She was in her own rooms, where Florence had long ceased to go, and did not dare to venture now, lest she should unconsciously engender new trouble. Little Florence, hoping to meet her before going to bed, changed from room to room, and wandered through the house so splendid and so dreary, without remaining anywhere. She was crossing a gallery of communication that opened at some little distance on the staircase, and was only lighted on great occasions. When she saw through the opening, which was an arch, the figure of a man coming down some few stairs opposite. Instinctively apprehensive of her father, whom she supposed it was, she stopped, in the dark, gazing through the arch into the light. But it was Mr. Carker coming down alone, and looking over the railing into the hall. No bell was rung to announce his departure, and no servant was in attendance. He went down quietly, opened the door for himself, glided out, and shut it softly after him. Her invincible repugnance to this man, and perhaps the stealthy act of watching any one, which even under such innocent circumstances, is in a manner guilty and oppressive, made Florence shake from head to foot. Her blood seemed to run cold. As soon as she could, for at first she felt an insurmountable dread of moving, she went quickly to her own room and locked her door. But even then, shut in with her dog beside her, felt a chill sensation of horror, as if they were danger brooding somewhere near her. It invaded her dreams and disturbed the whole night. Rising in the morning, unrefreshed, and with a heavy recollection of the domestic unhappiness of the preceding day, she sought Edith again in all the rooms, and did so from time to time all the morning. But she remained in her own chamber, and Florence saw nothing of her. Learning, however, that the projected dinner at home was put off, Florence thought it likely that she would go out in the evening to fulfil the engagement she had spoken of, and resolved to try and meet her then upon the staircase. When the evening had set in, she heard, from the room in which she sat on purpose, a footstep on the stairs that she thought to be Edith's. Hurrying out and up towards her room, Florence met her immediately, coming down alone. What was Florence's affright and wonder, when, at sight of her, with her tearful face and outstretched arms, Edith recoiled and shrieked. Don't come near me! She cried, keep away! Let me go by! Mama! said Florence. Don't call me by that name! Don't speak to me! Don't look at me, Florence! Shrinking back, as Florence moved a step towards her, don't touch me! As Florence stood transfixed before the haggard face and staring eyes, she noted, as in a dream, that Edith spread her hands over them, and shuddering through all her form, and crouching down against the wall, crawled by her like some lower animal, sprang up and fled away. Florence dropped upon the stairs in a swoon, and was found there by Mrs. Pipchin, she supposed. She knew nothing more, until she found herself lying on her own bed, with Mrs. Pipchin and some servants standing round her. Where is Mama? was her first question. Gone out to dinner, said Mrs. Pipchin. And Papa? Mr. Dombie is in his own room, Miss Dombie, said Mrs. Pipchin, and the best thing you can do is take off your things and go to bed this minute. This was the sagacious woman's remedy for all complaints, particularly lowness of spirits and inability to sleep, for which offences many young victims in the days of the Brighton Castle had been committed to bed at ten o'clock in the morning. Without promising obedience, but on the plea of desiring to be very quiet, Florence disengaged herself as soon as she could for the administration of Mrs. Pipchin and her attendance. Left alone, she thought of what had happened on the staircase. But first, in doubt of its reality, then with tears, then with an indescribable and terrible alarm, like that she had felt the night before. She determined not to go to bed until Edith returned, and if she could not speak to her, at least to be sure that she was safe at home. What indistinct and shadowy dread moved Florence to this resolution, she did not know, and did not dare to think. She only knew that until Edith came back, there was no repose for her aching head or throbbing heart. The evening deepened into night. Midnight came. No Edith. Florence could not read or rest a moment. She paced her own room, opened the door, and paced the staircase gallery outside, looked out of window on the night, listened to the wind blowing and the rain falling, sat down and watched the faces in the fire, got up and watched the moon flying like a storm-driven ship through the sea of clouds. All the house was gone to bed, except two servants who were waiting the return of their mistress downstairs. One o'clock. The carriages that rumbled in the distance turned away or stopped short or went past. The silence gradually deepened, and was more and more rarely broken, save by a rush of wind or sweep of rain. Two o'clock. No Edith. Florence more agitated paced her room, and paced the gallery outside, and looked out at the night, blurred and wavy with the raindrops on the glass, and the tears in her own eyes, and looked up at the hurry in the sky, so different from the repose below, and yet so tranquil and solitary. Three o'clock. There was a terror in every ash that dropped out of the fire. No Edith yet. More and more agitated, Florence paced her room, and paced the gallery, and looked out at the moon with a new fancy of her likeness to a pale fugitive hurrying away and hiding her guilty face. Four struck. Five. No Edith yet. But now there was some cautious stir in the house, and Florence found that Mrs. Pipchin had been awakened by one of those who sat up, had risen, and had gone down to her father's door. Stealing lower down the stairs, and observing what passed, she saw her father come out in his morning gown, and start when he was told his wife had not come home. He dispatched a messenger to the stables to inquire whether the coachman was there, and while the man was gone, dressed himself very hurriedly. The man came back, in great haste, bringing the coachman with him, who said he had been at home and in bed since ten o'clock. He had driven his mistress to her old house in Brook Street, where she had been met by Mr. Carker. Florence stood upon the very spot where she had seen him coming down. Again she shivered with the nameless terror of that sight, and had hardly steadiness enough to hear and understand what followed. Who had told him, the man went on to say, that his mistress would not want the carriage to go home in, and had dismissed him. She saw her father turn white in the face, and heard him ask, in a quick trembling voice, for Mrs. Dombie's maid. The whole house was roused, for she was there in a moment, very pale too, and speaking incoherently. She said she had dressed her mistress early, full two hours before she went out, and had been told, as she often was, that she would not be wanted at night. She had just come from her mistress's rooms, but— But what? What was it? Florence heard her father demand, like a madman. But the inner dressing-room was locked, and the key gone. Her father seized a candle that was flaming on the ground. Someone had put it down there, and forgotten it, and came running upstairs with such fury, that Florence, in her fear, had hardly time to fly before him. She heard him striking in the door, as she ran on, with her hands widely spread, and her hair streaming, and her face like a distracted person's, back to her own room. When the door yielded, and he rushed in, what did he see there? No one knew. But thrown down in a costly mass upon the ground, was every ornament she had had, since she had been his wife. Every dress she had worn, and everything she had possessed. This was the room in which he had seen, in yonder mirror, the proud face discard him. This was the room in which he had wondered, idly, how these things would look, when he should see them next. Keeping them back into the drawers, and locking them up in a rage of haste, he saw some papers on the table. The deed of settlement he had executed on their marriage, and a letter. He read that she was gone. He read that he was dishonoured. He read that she had fled upon her shameful wedding-day, with the man whom he had chosen for her humiliation. And he tore out of the room, and out of the house, with a frantic idea of finding her yet, at the place to which she had been taken, and beating all trace of beauty out of the triumphant face with his bare hand. Florence, not knowing what she did, put on a shawl and bonnet in a dream of running through the streets until she found Edith, and then clasping her in her arms to save and bring her back. But when she hurried out upon the staircase, and saw the frightened servants going up and down with lights and whispering together and falling away from her father as he passed down, she awoke to a sense of her own powerlessness, and hiding in one of the great rooms that had been made gorgeous for this, felt as if her heart would burst with grief. Compassion for her father was the first distinct emotion that made head against the flood of sorrow which overwhelmed her. Her constant nature turned to him in his distress, as fervently and faithfully as if in his prosperity he had been the embodiment of that idea which had gradually become so faint and dim. Though she did not know, otherwise until the suggestions of a shapeless fear, the full extent of his calamity, he stood before her, wronged and deserted, and again her yearning love impelled her to his side. He was not long away, for Florence was yet weeping in the great room and nourishing these thoughts when she heard him come back. He ordered the servants to set about their ordinary occupations, and went into his own apartment, where he trod so heavily that she could hear him walking up and down from end to end. Yielding at once to the impulse of her affection, timid at all other times, but bold in its tooth to him in his adversity, and undaunted by past repulse, Florence, dressed as she was, hurried downstairs. As she set her light foot in the hall, he came out of his room. She hastened towards him unchecked, with her arms stretched out and crying, Oh, dear, dear papa! As if she would have clasped him round the neck. And so she would have done, but in his frenzy, he lifted up his cruel arm and struck her, crosswise, with that heaviness that she tottered on the marble floor, and as he dealt the blow he told her what Edith was and bade her follow her since they had always been in league. She did not sink down at his feet. She did not shut out the sight of him with her trembling hands. She did not weep. She did not utter one word of reproach. But she looked at him, and a cry of desolation issued from her heart. For as she looked, she saw him murdering that fond idea to which she had held in spite of him. She saw his cruelty, neglect, and hatred dominant above it, and stamping it down. She saw she had no father upon earth, and ran out, orphaned, from his house. Ran out of his house. A moment, and her hand was on the lock, the cry was on her lips, his face was there, made paler by the yellow candles hastily put down and guttering away, and by the daylight coming in above the door. Another moment, and a close darkness of the shut-up house, forgotten to be opened, though it was long since day, yielded to the unexpected glare and freedom of the morning, and Florence, with her head bent down to hide her agony of tears, was in the streets. CHAPTER 48 THE FLIGHT OF FLORENCE In the wildness of her sorrow, shame, and terror, the forlorn girl hurried through the sunshine of a bright morning, as if it were the darkness of a winter night. Ringing her hands and weeping bitterly, insensible to everything but the deep wound in her breast, stunned by the loss of all she loved, left like the sole survivor on a lonely shore from the wreck of a great vessel, she fled without a thought, without a hope, without a purpose, but to fly somewhere, anywhere. The cheerful vista of the long street, burnished by the morning light, the sight of the blue sky and airy clouds, the vigorous freshness of the day, so flushed and rosy in its conquest of the night, awakened no response of feelings in her so hurt bosom. Somewhere, anywhere, to hide her head, somewhere, anywhere, for refuge, never more to look upon the place from which she fled. But there were people going to and fro, there were opening shops, and servants at the doors of houses, there was the rising clash and roar of the day's struggle. Florence saw surprise, and curiosity in the faces fitting past her, saw long shadows coming back upon the pavement, and heard voices that were strange to her, asking her where she went, and what the matter was. And though these frightened her the more at first, and made her hurry on the faster, they did her the good service of recalling her in some degree to herself, and reminding her of the necessity of greater composure. Where to go? Still somewhere, anywhere, still going on, but where? She thought of the only other time she had been lost in the wild wilderness of London, though not lost as now, and went that way, to the home of Walter's uncle. Checking her sobs, and drying her swollen eyes, and endeavouring to calm the agitation of her manner so as to avoid attracting notice, Florence, resolving to keep to the more quiet streets as long as she could, was going on more quietly herself, when a familiar little shadow darted past upon the sunny pavement. Stopped short, wheeled about, came close to her, made off again, bounded round and round her, and diogenes, panting for breath, and yet making the street ring with his glad bark, was at her feet. Oh, die! Oh, dear true faithful die, how did you come here? How could I ever leave you die, who would never leave me? One spent down on the pavement, and laid his rough, old, loving, foolish head against her breast, and they got up together, and went on together. Die more off the ground than on it, endeavouring to kiss his mistress, flying, tumbling over, and getting up again without the least concern, dashing at big dogs and a jucoast defiance of his species, terrifying with touches of his nose young housemaids who were cleaning doorsteps, and continually stopping, in the midst of a thousand extravagances, to look back at Florence, and bark until all the dogs within hearing answered, and all the dogs who could come out came out to stare at him. With this last adherent, Florence hurried away in the advancing morning, and the strengthening sunshine to the city. The roar soon grew more loud, the passengers more numerous, the shops more busy, until she was carried onward in a stream of life setting that way, and flowing indifferently past marts and mansions, prisons, churches, marketplaces, wealth, poverty, good, and evil, like the broad reverse side by side with it, awakened from its dreams of rushes, willows, and green moss, and rolling on, turbid and troubled, among the works and cares of men, to the deep sea. At length the quarters of the Little Midshipman arose in view. Nearer yet, and the Little Midshipman himself, was seen upon his post, intent as ever, on his observations. Nearer yet, and the door stood open, inviting her to enter. Florence, who had again quickened her pace, as she approached the end of her journey, ran across the road, closely followed by diogenes whom the bustle had somewhat confused, ran in, and sank upon the threshold of the well-remembered little parlour. The captain, in his glazed hat, was standing over the fire, making his mornings cocoa, with that elegant trifle, his watch, upon the chimney-piece, for easy reference, during the progress of the cookery. Hearing a footstep and the rustle of address, the captain turned with a palpitating remembrance of the dreadful Mrs. Max Stinger, at the instant when Florence made a motion with her hand towards him, reeled, and fell upon the floor. The captain, pale as Florence, pale on the very knobs upon his face, raised her like a baby, and laid her on the same old sofa upon which she had slumbered long ago. It's art's delight! said the captain, looking intently in her face. It's the sweet-creature, groad a woman! Captain Cuttle was so respectful of her, and had such a reverence for her, in this new character, that he would not have held her in his arms, while she was unconscious, for a thousand pounds. My art's delight! said the captain, withdrawing to a little distance, with the greatest alarm and sympathy depicted on his countenance. If you can hail, Ned Cuttle, with a finger, do it! But Florence did not stir. My art's delight! said the trembling captain, for the sake of Waller drowned it in the briny deep, turned to, and hiced up something or another, if able. Finding her insensible to this impressive adoration or so, Captain Cuttle snatched from his breakfast table a basin of cold water, and sprinkled some upon her face. Yielding to the urgency of the case, the captain then, using his immense hand with extraordinary gentleness, relieved her of her bonnet, moistened her lips and forehead, put back her hair, covered her feet with his own coat, which he pulled off for the purpose, patted her hand, so small in his, that he was struck with wonder when he touched it. And seeing that her eyelids quivered, and that her lips began to move, continued these restorative applications with a better heart. Cheerily! said the captain, cheerily! Stand by, my pretty one, stand by! There, you're better now! Steady's the word, and steady it is! Keeper or so, drink a little drop with this ear! said the captain. There you are! What cheer now, my pretty! What cheer now! At this stage of her recovery, Captain Cuttle, with an imperfect association of a watch, with a physician's treatment of a patient, took his own down to the mantel shelf, and holding it out on his hook, and taking Florence's hand in his, looked steadily from one to the other, as expecting the dial to do something. What cheer, my pretty! said the captain. What cheer now! You've done her some good, my lad, I believe! said the captain, under his breath, and throwing an approving glance upon his watch. Put you back off an hour every morning, and about another quarter towards the hour noon, and your watch, as can be equaled by few, and excelled by none. What cheer, my lady lass! Captain Cuttle, is it you? exclaimed Florence, raising herself a little. Yes, yes, my lady lass! said the captain, hastily deciding in his own mind upon the superior elegance of that form of address, as the most courtly he could think of. Is Walter's uncle here? asked Florence. Here, pretty! returned the captain. He ain't been here this many a long day. He ain't been here, Don, since he sheared off Art of Poor Waller. But, said the captain, as a quotation, Oh, lost to sight, to memory dear, and England, home, and beauty. Do you live here? asked Florence. Yes, my lady lass! returned the captain. Oh, Captain Cuttle! cried Florence, putting her hands together, and speaking wildly. Save me! keep me here! let no one know where I am. I tell you what has happened by and by when I can. I have no one in the world to go to. Do not send me away! Send you away, my lady lass! exclaimed the captain. You, my art's delight! stay a bit. We'll put up this ear-deadlight, and take a double turn on the key. With these words, the captain, using his one hand and his hook with the greatest dexterity, got out the shutter of the door, put it up, made it all fast, and locked the door itself. When he came back to the side of Florence, she took his hand and kissed it. The helplessness of the action, the appeal it made to him, the confidence it expressed, the unspeakable sorrow in her face, the pain of mind she had too plainly suffered, and was suffering then, his knowledge of her past history, her present, lonely, worn, and unprotected appearance, all so rushed upon the good captain together, that he fairly overflowed with compassion and gentleness. My lady lass! said the captain, polishing the bridge of his nose with his arm, until it shone like burnished copper. Don't you say a word to Edward Cuddle, until such times as you find yourself at riding smooth and easy, which won't be today nor yet tomorrow, and as to giving of you up, or the port and where you are, yes, verily, and boy, God's help so I won't church-catabism make a note on. This the captain said, reference and all, in one breath, and with much solemnity, taking off his hat at yes, verily, and putting it on again when he had quite concluded. Florence could do but one thing more to thank him, and to show him how she trusted in him, and she did it. Clinging to this rough creature, as the last asylum of her bleeding heart, she laid her head upon his honest shoulder, and clasped him round his neck, and would have kneeled down to bless him, but that he devined her purpose, and held her up like a true man. Steady! said the captain, steady! You're too weak to stand, you see, my pretty, and must lie down here again, there, there. To see the captain lift her on the sofa, and cover her with his coat, would have been worth a hundred state sites. And now, said the captain, you must take some breakfast, lady lass, and the dog shall have some too, and after that you shall go aloft to old Solgill's room, and fall asleep there like an angel. Captain Cattle petted Diogenes when he made allusion to him, and Diogenes met that overture graciously, halfway. During the administration of the restoratives, he had clearly been in two minds whether to fly at the captain, or to offer him his friendship, and he had expressed that conflict of feeling by alternate waggings of his tail, and displays of his teeth, with now and then a growl or so. But by this time his doubts were all removed. It was plain that he considered the captain one of the most amiable of men, and a man whom it was an honour to a dog to know. In evidence of these convictions, Diogenes attended on the captain, while he made some tea and toast, and showed a lively interest in his housekeeping. But it was in vain for the kind captain to make such preparations for Florence, who sorely tried to do some honour to them, but could touch nothing, and could only weep and weep again. Well, well, said the compassionate captain, art returning in, my art's delight, you'll get more way upon you. Now, I'll serve out your allowance, my lad, to Diogenes, and you shall keep guard on your, Mistress Saloft. Diogenes, however, although he had been eyeing his intended breakfast with a watering mouth and listening eyes, instead of falling to, ravenously, when it was put before him, pricked up his ears, darted to the shop door, and barked there furiously, burrowing with his head at the bottom, as if you were bent on mining his way out. Can there be anybody there? asked Florence in alarm. No, my lady lass, returned the captain. Who'd stay there without making any noise? Keep up a good heart, pretty, it's only people going by. But for all that, Diogenes barked and barked, and burrowed and burrowed, with pertinacious fury, and whenever he stopped to listen, appeared to receive some new conviction into his mind, for he set to, barking and burrowing again a dozen times. Even when he was persuaded to return to his breakfast, he came jogging back to it with a very doubtful air, and was off again in another paroxysm before touching a morsel. If there should be someone listening and watching, whispered Florence, someone who saw me come, who followed me perhaps. It ain't the young woman, lady lass, is it, said the captain, taken with a bright idea. Susan, said Florence, shaking her head, ah, no, Susan has been gone from me a long time. Not deserted, I hope, said the captain. Don't say that that there young woman's run, my pretty. Oh, no, no, cried Florence. She is one of the truest hearts in the world. The captain was greatly relieved by this reply, and expressed his satisfaction by taking off his hard-glazed hat and dabbing his head all over with his handkerchief, rolled up like a ball, observing several times with infinite complacency and with the beaming countenance that he noted. So you're quiet now, are you, brother? said the captain to Diogenes. There warn't nobody there, my lady lass, bless you. Diogenes was not so sure of that. The door still had an attraction for him at intervals, and he went snuffing about it and growling to himself, unable to forget the subject. This incident, coupled with the captain's observation of Florence's fatigue and faintness, decided him to prepare Sol Gilza's chamber as a place of retirement for her immediately. He therefore hastily betook himself to the top of the house, and made the best arrangement of it that his imagination and his means suggested. It was very clean already, and the captain, being an orderly man, and accustomed to make things ship-shape, converted the bed into a couch, by covering it all over with a clean white drapery. By a similar contrivance, the captain converted the little dressing table into a species of altar, on which he set forth two silver teaspoons, a flower pot, a telescope, his celebrated watch, a pocket comb, and a song-book as a small collection of rarities that made a choice appearance. Having darkened the window and straightened the pieces of carpet on the floor, the captain surveyed these preparations with great delight, and descended to the little parlor again to bring Florence to her bower. Nothing would induce the captain to believe that it was possible for Florence to walk upstairs. If he could have got the idea into his head, he would have considered it an outrageous breach of hospitality to allow her to do so. Florence was too weak to dispute the point, and the captain carried her up out of hand, laid her down, and covered her with a great watchcoat. My Lady Lass, said the captain, you are as safe here as if you were at the top of St Paul's Cathedral with the ladder cast off. Sleep is what you want, for all other things, and may you be able to show yourself smart with that there balsam for the still small voice of a wounded mind. When there is anything you want, my arts delight, as this year humble house or town can offer. Pass the word to Edward Cuddle, as he'll stand off and on outside the door, and that their man will vibrate with joy. The captain concluded by kissing the hand that Florence stretched out to him, with the chivalry of any old night errant, and walking on tiptoe out of the room. Descending to the little parlour, Captain Cuddle, after holding a hasty counsel with himself, decided to open the shop door for a few minutes, and satisfy himself that now, at all events, there was no one loitering about it. Accordingly he set it open, and stood upon the threshold, keeping a bright look out, and sweeping the whole street with his spectacles. How'd he do, Captain Gilles? said a voice beside him. The captain, looking down, found that he had been bordered by Mr. Toots while sweeping the horizon. How are you, my lad? replied the captain. Well, I'm pretty well, Anki, Captain Gills. Said Mr. Toots. You know I'm never quite what I could wish to be now. I don't expect that I ever shall be any more. Mr. Toots never approached any nearer than this to the great theme of his life, when in conversation with Captain Cuddle, on account of the agreement between them. Captain Gills. said Mr. Toots. If I could have the pleasure of a word with you, it's rather particular. Why, you see, my lad, replied the captain, leading the way into the parlor. I ain't what you may call exactly free this morning, and therefore, if you can clap on a bit, I should take it kindly. Certainly, Captain Gills, replied Mr. Toots, who seldom had any notion of the captain's meaning. To clap on is exactly what I could wish to do, naturally. If so be, my lad, returned the captain. Do it! The captain was so impressed by the possession of his tremendous secret, by the fact of Miss Donby being at that moment under his roof, while the innocent and unconscious Toots sat opposite to him, that a perspiration broke out on his forehead, and he found it impossible, while slowly drying the same, glazed hat in hand, to keep his eyes off Mr. Toots's face. Mr. Toots, who himself appeared to have some secret reasons for being in a nervous state, was so unspeakably disconcerted by the captain's stare, that after looking at him vacantly for some time in silence, and shifting uneasily on his chair, he said, I beg your pardon, Captain Gills, but you don't happen to see anything particular in me, do you? No, my lad, returned the captain. No. Because, you know, said Mr. Toots with a chuckle, I know I'm wasting away. You needn't at all, mind alluding to that, I should like it. Burgess and Coe have altered my measure. I'm in that state of thinness. It's a gratification to me. I'm glad of it. I'd a great deal rather go into a decline if I could. I'm a mere brute, you know, grazing upon the surface of the earth, Captain Gills. The more Mr. Toots went on in this way, the more the captain was weighed down by his secret, and stared at him. What were this cause of uneasiness, and his desire to get rid of Mr. Toots? The captain was in such a scared and strange condition indeed, that if he had been in conversation with a ghost, he could hardly have evinced greater discomposure. But I was going to say, Captain Gills, said Mr. Toots, Happening to be this way early this morning, to tell you the truth, I was coming to breakfast with you. As to sleep, you know, I never sleep now. I might be a watchman, except that I don't get any pay, and he's got nothing on his mind. Carry on, my lad, said the captain, in an admonitory voice. Certainly, Captain Gills, said Mr. Toots. Perfectly true. Happening to be this way early this morning, an hour or so ago, and finding the door shut. What? Were you waiting there, brother? Demanded the captain. Not at all, Captain Gills, returned Mr. Toots. I didn't stop a moment. I thought you were out. But the person said, By the by, you don't keep a dog, do you, Captain Gills? The captain shook his head. To be sure, said Mr. Toots. That's exactly what I said. I knew you didn't. There is a dog, Captain Gills, connected with— But excuse me. That's forbidden ground. The captain stared at Mr. Toots until he seemed to swell to twice his natural size, and again the perspiration broke out on the captain's forehead when he thought of diogenes, taking it into his head to come down and make a third in the parlor. The person said, continued Mr. Toots, that he had heard a dog barking in the shop, which I knew couldn't be, and I told him so, but he was as positive as if he had seen the dog. What person, my lad, inquired the captain. Why, you see, there it is, Captain Gills, said Mr. Toots, with a perceptible increase in the nervousness of his manner. It's not for me to say what may have taken place, or what may not have taken place. Indeed, I will know. I get mixed up with all sorts of things that I don't quite understand, and I think there's something rather weak in my—in my head, in short. The captain nodded his own, as in a mark of ascent. But the person said, as we were walking away, continued Mr. Toots, that you knew what, under existing circumstances, might occur. He said, might, very strongly, and that if you were requested to prepare yourself, you would, no doubt, come prepared. Person, my lad, the captain repeated. I don't know what person, I'm sure, Captain Gills, replied Mr. Toots. I haven't the least idea. But coming to the door, I found him waiting there, and he said, was I coming back again, and I said yes, and he said, did I know you, and I said yes, I had the pleasure of your acquaintance. You had given me the pleasure of your acquaintance after some persuasion. And he said, if that was the case, would I say to you what I have said about existing circumstances and coming prepared, and as soon as ever I saw you, would I ask you to step round the corner, if it was only for one minute, on most important business, to Mr. Broglie's The Brokers. Now, I tell you what, Captain Gills, whatever it is, I am convinced, is very important, and if you'd like to step around now, I'll wait here till you come back. The Captain, divided between his fear of compromising Florence in some way by not going, and his horror of leaving Mr. Toots in possession of the house with the chance of finding out of the secret, was a spectacle of mental disturbance that even Mr. Toots could not be blind to. But that young gentleman, considering his nautical friend as merely in a state of preparation for the interview he was going to have, was quite satisfied, and did not review his own discreet conduct without chuckles. At length the Captain decided, as the lesser of two evils, to run round to Broglie's The Brokers, previously locking the door that communicated with the upper part of the house, and putting the key in his pocket. If so be, said the Captain to Mr. Toots, with not a little shame and hesitation, as you'll excuse my doing of it, brother. Captain kills, returned Mr. Toots, whatever you do is satisfactory to me. The Captain thanked him heartily, and promising to come back in less than five minutes, went out in quest of the person who had entrusted Mr. Toots with this mysterious message. Poor Mr. Toots, left to himself, lay down upon the sofa, little thinking who had reclined their last, and, gazing up at the skylight, and resigning himself to visions of Miss Dombie, lost all heed of time and place. It was as well that he did so. For although the Captain was not gone long, he was gone much longer than he had proposed. When he came back, he was very pale indeed, and greatly agitated, and even looked as if he had been shedding tears. He seemed to have lost the faculty of speech, until he had been to the cupboard and taken a dram of rum from the case-bottle, when he fetched a deep breath, and sat down in a chair with his hand before his face. Captain kills, said Toots kindly, I hope and trust there is nothing wrong. Thank ye, my lad, not a bit, said the Captain, quite contrary. You have the appearance of being overcome, Captain kills, observed Mr. Toots. Why, my lad, I am took aback, the Captain admitted. I am. Is there anything I can do, Captain kills? inquired Mr. Toots, if there is, make use of me. The Captain removed his hand from his face, looked at him with a remarkable expression of pity and tenderness, and took him by the hand and shook it hard. No, thank ye, said the Captain, nothing. Only I will take it as a favour, if you will part company for the present. I believe, brother, bringing his hand again, that after war and on a different model, you're as good a lad as ever stepped. Upon my word and honour, Captain kills, returned Mr. Toots, giving the Captain's hand a preliminary slap before shaking it again. It's delightful to me to possess your good opinion. Thank ye. And bear a hand and cheer up, said the Captain, patting him on the back. What? There is more than one sweet-keeter in the world. Not to me, Captain kills, replied Mr. Toots gravely. Not to me, I assure you. The state of my feelings towards Miss Dombie is of that unspeakable description, that my heart is a desert island and she lives in it alone. I'm getting more used up every day, and I'm proud to be so. If you could see my legs, when I take my boots off, you'd form some idea of what unrequited affection is. I have been prescribed bark, but I don't take it, for I don't wish to have any tone whatever, given to my constitution. I'd rather not. This, however, is forbidden ground. Captain kills, goodbye. Captain Cuttle, cordially reciprocating the warmth of Mr. Toots's farewell, locked the door behind him, and shaking his head with the same remarkable expression of pity and tenderness as he had regarded him with before, went up to see if Florence wanted him. There was an entire change in the Captain's face as he went upstairs. He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief, and he polished the bridge of his nose with the sleeve as he had done already that morning, but his face was absolutely changed. Now he might have been thought supremely happy. Now he might have been thought sad. But the kind of gravity that sat upon his features was quite new to them, and was as great an improvement to them as if they had undergone some sublimating process. He knocked softly with his hook at Florence's door, twice or thrice, but receiving no answer ventured first to peep in, and then to enter, emboldened to take the latter step perhaps by the familiar recognition of Diogenes, who, stretched upon the ground by the side of her couch, wagged his tail and winked his eyes at the Captain without being at the trouble of getting up. She was sleeping heavily and moaning in her sleep, and Captain Cuttle with the perfect awe of her youth and beauty and her sorrow, raised her head and adjusted the coat that covered her where it had fallen off, and darkened the window a little more that she might sleep on, and crept out again, and took his post of watch upon the stairs, all this with a touch and tread as light as Florence's own. Long may it remain in this mixed world a point not easy of decision, which is the more beautiful evidence of the Almighty's goodness, the delicate fingers that are formed for sensitiveness and sympathy of touch, and made to minister to pain and grief, or the rough hard Captain Cuttle hand at the heart teaches, guides, and softens in a moment. Florence slept upon her couch, forgetful of her homelessness and orphanage, and Captain Cuttle watched upon the stairs, allowed a sob or moan unusual brought him sometimes to her door, but by degrees she slept more peacefully, and the Captain's watch was undisturbed. End of Chapter 48