retribution

changes have come again upon the great house in the long dull street, once the scene of florence's childhood and loneliness. it is a great house still, proof against wind and weather, without breaches in the roof, or shattered windows, or dilapidated walls; but it is a ruin none the less, and the rats fly from it.

mr towlinson and company are, at first, incredulous in respect of the shapeless rumours that they hear. cook says our people's credit ain't so easy shook as that comes to, thank god; and mr towlinson expects to hear it reported next, that the bank of england's a-going to break, or the jewels in the tower to be sold up. but, next come the gazette, and mr perch; and mr perch brings mrs perch to talk it over in the kitchen, and to spend a pleasant evening.

as soon as there is no doubt about it, mr towlinson's main anxiety is that the failure should be a good round one - not less than a hundred thousand pound. mr perch don't think himself that a hundred thousand pound will nearly cover it. the women, led by mrs perch and cook, often repeat 'a hun-dred thou-sand pound!' with awful satisfaction - as if handling the words were like handling the money; and the housemaid, who has her eye on mr towlinson, wishes she had only a hundredth part of the sum to bestow on the man of her choice. mr towlinson, still mindful of his old wrong, opines that a foreigner would hardly know what to do with so much money, unless he spent it on his whiskers; which bitter sarcasm causes the housemaid to withdraw in tears.

but not to remain long absent; for cook, who has the reputation of being extremely good-hearted, says, whatever they do, let 'em stand by one another now, towlinson, for there's no telling how soon they may be divided. they have been in that house (says cook) through a funeral, a wedding, and a running-away; and let it not be said that they couldn't agree among themselves at such a time as the present. mrs perch is immensely affected by this moving address, and openly remarks that cook is an angel. mr towlinson replies to cook, far be it from him to stand in the way of that good feeling which he could wish to see; and adjourning in quest of the housemaid, and presently returning with that young lady on his arm, informs the kitchen that foreigners is only his fun, and that him and anne have now resolved to take one another for better for worse, and to settle in oxford market in the general greengrocery and herb and leech line, where your kind favours is particular requested. this announcement is received with acclamation; and mrs perch, projecting her soul into futurity, says, 'girls,' in cook's ear, in a solemn whisper.

misfortune in the family without feasting, in these lower regions, couldn't be. therefore cook tosses up a hot dish or two for supper, and mr towlinson compounds a lobster salad to be devoted to the same hospitable purpose. even mrs pipchin, agitated by the occasion, rings her bell, and sends down word that she requests to have that little bit of sweetbread that was left, warmed up for her supper, and sent to her on a tray with about a quarter of a tumbler-full of mulled sherry; for she feels poorly.

there is a little talk about mr dombey, but very little. it is chiefly speculation as to how long he has known that this was going to happen. cook says shrewdly, 'oh a long time, bless you! take your oath of that.' and reference being made to mr perch, he confirms her view of the case. somebody wonders what he'll do, and whether he'll go out in any situation. mr towlinson thinks not, and hints at a refuge in one of them genteel almshouses of the better kind. 'ah, where he'll have his little garden, you know,' says cook plaintively, 'and bring up sweet peas in the spring.' 'exactly so,' says mr towlinson, 'and be one of the brethren of something or another.' 'we are all brethren,' says mrs perch, in a pause of her drink. 'except the sisters,' says mr perch. 'how are the mighty fallen!' remarks cook. 'pride shall have a fall, and it always was and will be so!' observes the housemaid.

it is wonderful how good they feel, in making these reflections; and what a christian unanimity they are sensible of, in bearing the common shock with resignation. there is only one interruption to this excellent state of mind, which is occasioned by a young kitchen-maid of inferior rank - in black stockings - who, having sat with her mouth open for a long time, unexpectedly discharges from it words to this effect, 'suppose the wages shouldn't be paid!' the company sit for a moment speechless; but cook recovering first, turns upon the young woman, and requests to know how she dares insult the family, whose bread she eats, by such a dishonest supposition, and whether she thinks that anybody, with a scrap of honour left, could deprive poor servants of their pittance? 'because if that is your religious feelings, mary daws,' says cook warmly, 'i don't know where you mean to go to.

mr towlinson don't know either; nor anybody; and the young kitchen-maid, appearing not to know exactly, herself, and scouted by the general voice, is covered with confusion, as with a garment.

after a few days, strange people begin to call at the house, and to make appointments with one another in the dining-room, as if they lived there. especially, there is a gentleman, of a mosaic arabian cast of countenance, with a very massive watch-guard, who whistles in the drawing-room, and, while he is waiting for the other gentleman, who always has pen and ink in his pocket, asks mr towlinson (by the easy name of 'old cock,') if he happens to know what the figure of them crimson and gold hangings might have been, when new bought. the callers and appointments in the dining-room become more numerous every day, and every gentleman seems to have pen and ink in his pocket, and to have some occasion to use it. at last it is said that there is going to be a sale; and then more people arrive, with pen and ink in their pockets, commanding a detachment of men with carpet caps, who immediately begin to pull up the carpets, and knock the furniture about, and to print off thousands of impressions of their shoes upon the hall and staircase.

the council downstairs are in full conclave all this time, and, having nothing to do, perform perfect feats of eating. at length, they are one day summoned in a body to mrs pipchin's room, and thus addressed by the fair peruvian:

'your master's in difficulties,' says mrs pipchin, tartly. 'you know that, i suppose?'

mr towlinson, as spokesman, admits a general knowledge of the fact.

'and you're all on the look-out for yourselves, i warrant you, says mrs pipchin, shaking her head at them.

a shrill voice from the rear exclaims, 'no more than yourself!'

'that's your opinion, mrs impudence, is it?' says the ireful pipchin, looking with a fiery eye over the intermediate heads.

'yes, mrs pipchin, it is,' replies cook, advancing. 'and what then, pray?'

'why, then you may go as soon as you like,' says mrs pipchin. 'the sooner the better; and i hope i shall never see your face again.'

with this the doughty pipchin produces a canvas bag; and tells her wages out to that day, and a month beyond it; and clutches the money tight, until a receipt for the same is duly signed, to the last upstroke; when she grudgingly lets it go. this form of proceeding mrs pipchin repeats with every member of the household, until all are paid.

'now those that choose, can go about their business,' says mrs pipchin, 'and those that choose can stay here on board wages for a week or so, and make themselves useful. except,' says the inflammable pipchin, 'that slut of a cook, who'll go immediately.'

'that,' says cook, 'she certainly will! i wish you good day, mrs pipchin, and sincerely wish i could compliment you on the sweetness of your appearance!'

'get along with you,' says mrs pipchin, stamping her foot.

cook sails off with an air of beneficent dignity, highly exasperating to mrs pipchin, and is shortly joined below stairs by the rest of the confederation.

mr towlinson then says that, in the first place, he would beg to propose a little snack of something to eat; and over that snack would desire to offer a suggestion which he thinks will meet the position in which they find themselves. the refreshment being produced, and very heartily partaken of, mr towlinson's suggestion is, in effect, that cook is going, and that if we are not true to ourselves, nobody will be true to us. that they have lived in that house a long time, and exerted themselves very much to be sociable together. (at this, cook says, with emotion, 'hear, hear!' and mrs perch, who is there again, and full to the throat, sheds tears.) and that he thinks, at the present time, the feeling ought to be 'go one, go all!' the housemaid is much affected by this generous sentiment, and warmly seconds it. cook says she feels it's right, and only hopes it's not done as a compliment to her, but from a sense of duty. mr towlinson replies, from a sense of duty; and that now he is driven to express his opinions, he will openly say, that he does not think it over-respectable to remain in a house where sales and such-like are carrying forwards. the housemaid is sure of it; and relates, in confirmation, that a strange man, in a carpet cap, offered, this very morning, to kiss her on the stairs. hereupon, mr towlinson is starting from his chair, to seek and 'smash' the offender; when he is laid hold on by the ladies, who beseech him to calm himself, and to reflect that it is easier and wiser to leave the scene of such indecencies at once. mrs perch, presenting the case in a new light, even shows that delicacy towards mr dombey, shut up in his own rooms, imperatively demands precipitate retreat. 'for what,' says the good woman, 'must his feelings be, if he was to come upon any of the poor servants that he once deceived into thinking him immensely rich!' cook is so struck by this moral consideration, that mrs perch improves it with several pious axioms, original and selected. it becomes a clear case that they must all go. boxes are packed, cabs fetched, and at dusk that evening there is not one member of the party left.

the house stands, large and weather-proof, in the long dull street; but it is a ruin, and the rats fly from it.

the men in the carpet caps go on tumbling the furniture about; and the gentlemen with the pens and ink make out inventories of it, and sit upon pieces of furniture never made to be sat upon, and eat bread and cheese from the public-house on other pieces of furniture never made to be eaten on, and seem to have a delight in appropriating precious articles to strange uses. chaotic combinations of furniture also take place. mattresses and bedding appear in the dining-room; the glass and china get into the conservatory; the great dinner service is set out in heaps on the long divan in the large drawing-room; and the stair-wires, made into fasces, decorate the marble chimneypieces. finally, a rug, with a printed bill upon it, is hung out from the balcony; and a similar appendage graces either side of the hall door.

then, all day long, there is a retinue of mouldy gigs and chaise-carts in the street; and herds of shabby vampires, jew and christian, over-run the house, sounding the plate-glass minors with their knuckles, striking discordant octaves on the grand piano, drawing wet forefingers over the pictures, breathing on the blades of the best dinner-knives, punching the squabs of chairs and sofas with their dirty fists, touzling the feather beds, opening and shutting all the drawers, balancing the silver spoons and forks, looking into the very threads of the drapery and linen, and disparaging everything. there is not a secret place in the whole house. fluffy and snuffy strangers stare into the kitchen-range as curiously as into the attic clothes-press. stout men with napless hats on, look out of the bedroom windows, and cut jokes with friends in the street. quiet, calculating spirits withdraw into the dressing-rooms with catalogues, and make marginal notes thereon, with stumps of pencils. two brokers invade the very fire-escape, and take a panoramic survey of the neighbourhood from the top of the house. the swarm and buzz, and going up and down, endure for days. the capital modern household furniture, &c., is on view.

then there is a palisade of tables made in the best drawing-room; and on the capital, french-polished, extending, telescopic range of spanish mahogany dining-tables with turned legs, the pulpit of the auctioneer is erected; and the herds of shabby vampires, jew and christian, the strangers fluffy and snuffy, and the stout men with the napless hats, congregate about it and sit upon everything within reach, mantel-pieces included, and begin to bid. hot, humming, and dusty are the rooms all day; and - high above the heat, hum, and dust - the head and shoulders, voice and hammer, of the auctioneer, are ever at work. the men in the carpet caps get flustered and vicious with tumbling the lots about, and still the lots are going, going, gone; still coming on. sometimes there is joking and a general roar. this lasts all day and three days following. the capital modern household furniture, &c., is on sale.

then the mouldy gigs and chaise-carts reappear; and with them come spring-vans and waggons, and an army of porters with knots. all day long, the men with carpet caps are screwing at screw-drivers and bed-winches, or staggering by the dozen together on the staircase under heavy burdens, or upheaving perfect rocks of spanish mahogany, best rose-wood, or plate-glass, into the gigs and chaise-carts, vans and waggons. all sorts of vehicles of burden are in attendance, from a tilted waggon to a wheelbarrow. poor paul's little bedstead is carried off in a donkey-tandem. for nearly a whole week, the capital modern household furniture, & c., is in course of removal.

at last it is all gone. nothing is left about the house but scattered leaves of catalogues, littered scraps of straw and hay, and a battery of pewter pots behind the hall-door. the men with the carpet-caps gather up their screw-drivers and bed-winches into bags, shoulder them, and walk off. one of the pen-and-ink gentlemen goes over the house as a last attention; sticking up bills in the windows respecting the lease of this desirable family mansion, and shutting the shutters. at length he follows the men with the carpet caps. none of the invaders remain. the house is a ruin, and the rats fly from it.

mrs pipchin's apartments, together with those locked rooms on the ground-floor where the window-blinds are drawn down close, have been spared the general devastation. mrs pipchin has remained austere and stony during the proceedings, in her own room; or has occasionally looked in at the sale to see what the goods are fetching, and to bid for one particular easy chair. mrs pipchin has been the highest bidder for the easy chair, and sits upon her property when mrs chick comes to see her.

'how is my brother, mrs pipchin?' says mrs chick.

'i don't know any more than the deuce,' says mrs pipchin. 'he never does me the honour to speak to me. he has his meat and drink put in the next room to his own; and what he takes, he comes out and takes when there's nobody there. it's no use asking me. i know no more about him than the man in the south who burnt his mouth by eating cold plum porridge."

this the acrimonious pipchin says with a flounce.

'but good gracious me!' cries mrs chick blandly. 'how long is this to last! if my brother will not make an effort, mrs pipchin, what is to become of him? i am sure i should have thought he had seen enough of the consequences of not making an effort, by this time, to be warned against that fatal error.'

'hoity toity!' says mrs pipchin, rubbing her nose. 'there's a great fuss, i think, about it. it ain't so wonderful a case. people have had misfortunes before now, and been obliged to part with their furniture. i'm sure i have!'

'my brother,' pursues mrs chick profoundly, 'is so peculiar - so strange a man. he is the most peculiar man i ever saw. would anyone believe that when he received news of the marriage and emigration of that unnatural child - it's a comfort to me, now, to remember that i always said there was something extraordinary about that child: but nobody minds me - would anybody believe, i say, that he should then turn round upon me and say he had supposed, from my manner, that she had come to my house? why, my gracious! and would anybody believe that when i merely say to him, "paul, i may be very foolish, and i have no doubt i am, but i cannot understand how your affairs can have got into this state," he should actually fly at me, and request that i will come to see him no more until he asks me! why, my goodness!'

'ah'!' says mrs pipchin. 'it's a pity he hadn't a little more to do with mines. they'd have tried his temper for him.'

'and what,' resumes mrs chick, quite regardless of mrs pipchin's observations, 'is it to end in? that's what i want to know. what does my brother mean to do? he must do something. it's of no use remaining shut up in his own rooms. business won't come to him. no. he must go to it. then why don't he go? he knows where to go, i suppose, having been a man of business all his life. very good. then why not go there?'

mrs chick, after forging this powerful chain of reasoning, remains silent for a minute to admire it.

'besides,' says the discreet lady, with an argumentative air, 'who ever heard of such obstinacy as his staying shut up here through all these dreadful disagreeables? it's not as if there was no place for him to go to. of course he could have come to our house. he knows he is at home there, i suppose? mr chick has perfectly bored about it, and i said with my own lips, "why surely, paul, you don't imagine that because your affairs have got into this state, you are the less at home to such near relatives as ourselves? you don't imagine that we are like the rest of the world?" but no; here he stays all through, and here he is. why, good gracious me, suppose the house was to be let! what would he do then? he couldn't remain here then. if he attempted to do so, there would be an ejectment, an action for doe, and all sorts of things; and then he must go. then why not go at first instead of at last? and that brings me back to what i said just now, and i naturally ask what is to be the end of it?'

'i know what's to be the end of it, as far as i am concerned,' replies mrs pipchin, 'and that's enough for me. i'm going to take myself off in a jiffy.'

'in a which, mrs pipchin,' says mrs chick.

'in a jiffy,' retorts mrs pipchin sharply.

'ah, well! really i can't blame you, mrs pipchin,' says mrs chick, with frankness.

'it would be pretty much the same to me, if you could,' replies the sardonic pipchin. 'at any rate i'm going. i can't stop here. i should be dead in a week. i had to cook my own pork chop yesterday, and i'm not used to it. my constitution will be giving way next. besides, i had a very fair connexion at brighton when i came here - little pankey's folks alone were worth a good eighty pounds a-year to me - and i can't afford to throw it away. i've written to my niece, and she expects me by this time.'

'have you spoken to my brother?' inquires mrs chick

'oh, yes, it's very easy to say speak to him,' retorts mrs pipchin. 'how is it done? i called out to him yesterday, that i was no use here, and that he had better let me send for mrs richards. he grunted something or other that meant yes, and i sent. grunt indeed! if he had been mr pipchin, he'd have had some reason to grunt. yah! i've no patience with it!'

here this exemplary female, who has pumped up so much fortitude and virtue from the depths of the peruvian mines, rises from her cushioned property to see mrs chick to the door. mrs chick, deploring to the last the peculiar character of her brother, noiselessly retires, much occupied with her own sagacity and clearness of head.

in the dusk of the evening mr toodle, being off duty, arrives with polly and a box, and leaves them, with a sounding kiss, in the hall of the empty house, the retired character of which affects mr toodle's spirits strongly.

'i tell you what, polly, me dear,' says mr toodle, 'being now an ingine-driver, and well to do in the world, i shouldn't allow of your coming here, to be made dull-like, if it warn't for favours past. but favours past, polly, is never to be forgot. to them which is in adversity, besides, your face is a cord'l. so let's have another kiss on it, my dear. you wish no better than to do a right act, i know; and my views is, that it's right and dutiful to do this. good-night, polly!'

mrs pipchin by this time looms dark in her black bombazeen skirts, black bonnet, and shawl; and has her personal property packed up; and has her chair (late a favourite chair of mr dombey's and the dead bargain of the sale) ready near the street door; and is only waiting for a fly-van, going to-night to brighton on private service, which is to call for her, by private contract, and convey her home.

presently it comes. mrs pipchin's wardrobe being handed in and stowed away, mrs pipchin's chair is next handed in, and placed in a convenient corner among certain trusses of hay; it being the intention of the amiable woman to occupy the chair during her journey. mrs pipchin herself is next handed in, and grimly takes her seat. there is a snaky gleam in her hard grey eye, as of anticipated rounds of buttered toast, relays of hot chops, worryings and quellings of young children, sharp snappings at poor berry, and all the other delights of her ogress's castle. mrs pipchin almost laughs as the fly-van drives off, and she composes her black bombazeen skirts, and settles herself among the cushions of her easy chair.

the house is such a ruin that the rats have fled, and there is not one left.

but polly, though alone in the deserted mansion - for there is no companionship in the shut-up rooms in which its late master hides his head - is not alone long. it is night; and she is sitting at work in the housekeeper's room, trying to forget what a lonely house it is, and what a history belongs to it; when there is a knock at the hall door, as loud sounding as any knock can be, striking into such an empty place. opening it, she returns across the echoing hall, accompanied by a female figure in a close black bonnet. it is miss tox, and miss tox's eyes are red.

'oh, polly,' says miss tox, 'when i looked in to have a little lesson with the children just now, i got the message that you left for me; and as soon as i could recover my spirits at all, i came on after you. is there no one here but you?'

'ah! not a soul,' says polly.

'have you seen him?' whispers miss tox.

'bless you,' returns polly, 'no; he has not been seen this many a day. they tell me he never leaves his room.'

'is he said to be ill?' inquires miss tox.

'no, ma'am, not that i know of,' returns polly, 'except in his mind. he must be very bad there, poor gentleman!'

miss tox's sympathy is such that she can scarcely speak. she is no chicken, but she has not grown tough with age and celibacy. her heart is very tender, her compassion very genuine, her homage very real. beneath the locket with the fishy eye in it, miss tox bears better qualities than many a less whimsical outside; such qualities as will outlive, by many courses of the sun, the best outsides and brightest husks that fall in the harvest of the great reaper.

it is long before miss tox goes away, and before polly, with a candle flaring on the blank stairs, looks after her, for company, down the street, and feels unwilling to go back into the dreary house, and jar its emptiness with the heavy fastenings of the door, and glide away to bed. but all this polly does; and in the morning sets in one of those darkened rooms such matters as she has been advised to prepare, and then retires and enters them no more until next morning at the same hour. there are bells there, but they never ring; and though she can sometimes hear a footfall going to and fro, it never comes out.

miss tox returns early in the day. it then begins to be miss tox's occupation to prepare little dainties - or what are such to her - to be carried into these rooms next morning. she derives so much satisfaction from the pursuit, that she enters on it regularly from that time; and brings daily in her little basket, various choice condiments selected from the scanty stores of the deceased owner of the powdered head and pigtail. she likewise brings, in sheets of curl-paper, morsels of cold meats, tongues of sheep, halves of fowls, for her own dinner; and sharing these collations with polly, passes the greater part of her time in the ruined house that the rats have fled from: hiding, in a fright at every sound, stealing in and out like a criminal; only desiring to be true to the fallen object of her admiration, unknown to him, unknown to all the world but one poor simple woman.

the major knows it; but no one is the wiser for that, though the major is much the merrier. the major, in a fit of curiosity, has charged the native to watch the house sometimes, and find out what becomes of dombey. the native has reported miss tox's fidelity, and the major has nearly choked himself dead with laughter. he is permanently bluer from that hour, and constantly wheezes to himself, his lobster eyes starting out of his head, 'damme, sir, the woman's a born idiot!'

and the ruined man. how does he pass the hours, alone?

'let him remember it in that room, years to come!' he did remember it. it was heavy on his mind now; heavier than all the rest.

'let him remember it in that room, years to come! the rain that falls upon the roof, the wind that mourns outside the door, may have foreknowledge in their melancholy sound. let him remember it in that room, years to come!'

he did remember it. in the miserable night he thought of it; in the dreary day, the wretched dawn, the ghostly, memory-haunted twilight. he did remember it. in agony, in sorrow, in remorse, in despair! 'papa! papa! speak to me, dear papa!' he heard the words again, and saw the face. he saw it fall upon the trembling hands, and heard the one prolonged low cry go upward.

he was fallen, never to be raised up any more. for the night of his worldly ruin there was no to-morrow's sun; for the stain of his domestic shame there was no purification; nothing, thank heaven, could bring his dead child back to life. but that which he might have made so different in all the past - which might have made the past itself so different, though this he hardly thought of now - that which was his own work, that which he could so easily have wrought into a blessing, and had set himself so steadily for years to form into a curse: that was the sharp grief of his soul.

oh! he did remember it! the rain that fell upon the roof, the wind that mourned outside the door that night, had had foreknowledge in their melancholy sound. he knew, now, what he had done. he knew, now, that he had called down that upon his head, which bowed it lower than the heaviest stroke of fortune. he knew, now, what it was to be rejected and deserted; now, when every loving blossom he had withered in his innocent daughter's heart was snowing down in ashes on him.

he thought of her, as she had been that night when he and his bride came home. he thought of her as she had been, in all the home-events of the abandoned house. he thought, now, that of all around him, she alone had never changed. his boy had faded into dust, his proud wife had sunk into a polluted creature, his flatterer and friend had been transformed into the worst of villains, his riches had melted away, the very walls that sheltered him looked on him as a stranger; she alone had turned the same mild gentle look upon him always. yes, to the latest and the last. she had never changed to him - nor had he ever changed to her - and she was lost.

as, one by one, they fell away before his mind - his baby- hope, his wife, his friend, his fortune - oh how the mist, through which he had seen her, cleared, and showed him her true self! oh, how much better than this that he had loved her as he had his boy, and lost her as he had his boy, and laid them in their early grave together!

in his pride - for he was proud yet - he let the world go from him freely. as it fell away, he shook it off. whether he imagined its face as expressing pity for him, or indifference to him, he shunned it alike. it was in the same degree to be avoided, in either aspect. he had no idea of any one companion in his misery, but the one he had driven away. what he would have said to her, or what consolation submitted to receive from her, he never pictured to himself. but he always knew she would have been true to him, if he had suffered her. he always knew she would have loved him better now, than at any other time; he was as certain that it was in her nature, as he was that there was a sky above him; and he sat thinking so, in his loneliness, from hour to hour. day after day uttered this speech; night after night showed him this knowledge.

it began, beyond all doubt (however slow it advanced for some time), in the receipt of her young husband's letter, and the certainty that she was gone. and yet - so proud he was in his ruin, or so reminiscent of her only as something that might have been his, but was lost beyond redemption - that if he could have heard her voice in an adjoining room, he would not have gone to her. if he could have seen her in the street, and she had done no more than look at him as she had been used to look, he would have passed on with his old cold unforgiving face, and not addressed her, or relaxed it, though his heart should have broken soon afterwards. however turbulent his thoughts, or harsh his anger had been, at first, concerning her marriage, or her husband, that was all past now. he chiefly thought of what might have been, and what was not. what was, was all summed up in this: that she was lost, and he bowed down with sorrow and remorse.

and now he felt that he had had two children born to him in that house, and that between him and the bare wide empty walls there was a tie, mournful, but hard to rend asunder, connected with a double childhood, and a double loss. he had thought to leave the house - knowing he must go, not knowing whither - upon the evening of the day on which this feeling first struck root in his breast; but he resolved to stay another night, and in the night to ramble through the rooms once more.

he came out of his solitude when it was the dead of night, and with a candle in his hand went softly up the stairs. of all the footmarks there, making them as common as the common street, there was not one, he thought, but had seemed at the time to set itself upon his brain while he had kept close, listening. he looked at their number, and their hurry, and contention - foot treading foot out, and upward track and downward jostling one another - and thought, with absolute dread and wonder, how much he must have suffered during that trial, and what a changed man he had cause to be. he thought, besides, oh was there, somewhere in the world, a light footstep that might have worn out in a moment half those marks! - and bent his head, and wept as he went up.

he almost saw it, going on before. he stopped, looking up towards the skylight; and a figure, childish itself, but carrying a child, and singing as it went, seemed to be there again. anon, it was the same figure, alone, stopping for an instant, with suspended breath; the bright hair clustering loosely round its tearful face; and looking back at him.

he wandered through the rooms: lately so luxurious; now so bare and dismal and so changed, apparently, even in their shape and size. the press of footsteps was as thick here; and the same consideration of the suffering he had had, perplexed and terrified him. he began to fear that all this intricacy in his brain would drive him mad; and that his thoughts already lost coherence as the footprints did, and were pieced on to one another, with the same trackless involutions, and varieties of indistinct shapes.

he did not so much as know in which of these rooms she had lived, when she was alone. he was glad to leave them, and go wandering higher up. abundance of associations were here, connected with his false wife, his false friend and servant, his false grounds of pride; but he put them all by now, and only recalled miserably, weakly, fondly, his two children.

everywhere, the footsteps! they had had no respect for the old room high up, where the little bed had been; he could hardly find a clear space there, to throw himself down, on the floor, against the wall, poor broken man, and let his tears flow as they would. he had shed so many tears here, long ago, that he was less ashamed of his weakness in this place than in any other - perhaps, with that consciousness, had made excuses to himself for coming here. here, with stooping shoulders, and his chin dropped on his breast, he had come. here, thrown upon the bare boards, in the dead of night, he wept, alone - a proud man, even then; who, if a kind hand could have been stretched out, or a kind face could have looked in, would have risen up, and turned away, and gone down to his cell.

when the day broke he was shut up in his rooms again. he had meant to go away to-day, but clung to this tie in the house as the last and only thing left to him. he would go to-morrow. to-morrow came. he would go to-morrow. every night, within the knowledge of no human creature, he came forth, and wandered through the despoiled house like a ghost. many a morning when the day broke, his altered face, drooping behind the closed blind in his window, imperfectly transparent to the light as yet, pondered on the loss of his two children. it was one child no more. he reunited them in his thoughts, and they were never asunder. oh, that he could have united them in his past love, and in death, and that one had not been so much worse than dead!

strong mental agitation and disturbance was no novelty to him, even before his late sufferings. it never is, to obstinate and sullen natures; for they struggle hard to be such. ground, long undermined, will often fall down in a moment; what was undermined here in so many ways, weakened, and crumbled, little by little, more and more, as the hand moved on the dial.

at last he began to think he need not go at all. he might yet give up what his creditors had spared him (that they had not spared him more, was his own act), and only sever the tie between him and the ruined house, by severing that other link -

it was then that his footfall was audible in the late housekeeper's room, as he walked to and fro; but not audible in its true meaning, or it would have had an appalling sound.

the world was very busy and restless about him. he became aware of that again. it was whispering and babbling. it was never quiet. this, and the intricacy and complication of the footsteps, harassed him to death. objects began to take a bleared and russet colour in his eyes. dombey and son was no more - his children no more. this must be thought of, well, to-morrow.

he thought of it to-morrow; and sitting thinking in his chair, saw in the glass, from time to time, this picture:

a spectral, haggard, wasted likeness of himself, brooded and brooded over the empty fireplace. now it lifted up its head, examining the lines and hollows in its face; now hung it down again, and brooded afresh. now it rose and walked about; now passed into the next room, and came back with something from the dressing-table in its breast. now, it was looking at the bottom of the door, and thinking.

hush! what? it was thinking that if blood were to trickle that way, and to leak out into the hall, it must be a long time going so far. it would move so stealthily and slowly, creeping on, with here a lazy little pool, and there a start, and then another little pool, that a desperately wounded man could only be discovered through its means, either dead or dying. when it had thought of this a long while, it got up again, and walked to and fro with its hand in its breast. he glanced at it occasionally, very curious to watch its motions, and he marked how wicked and murderous that hand looked.

now it was thinking again! what was it thinking?

whether they would tread in the blood when it crept so far, and carry it about the house among those many prints of feet, or even out into the street.

it sat down, with its eyes upon the empty fireplace, and as it lost itself in thought there shone into the room a gleam of light; a ray of sun. it was quite unmindful, and sat thinking. suddenly it rose, with a terrible face, and that guilty hand grasping what was in its breast. then it was arrested by a cry - a wild, loud, piercing, loving, rapturous cry - and he only saw his own reflection in the glass, and at his knees, his daughter!

yes. his daughter! look at her! look here! down upon the ground, clinging to him, calling to him, folding her hands, praying to him.

'papa! dearest papa! pardon me, forgive me! i have come back to ask forgiveness on my knees. i never can be happy more, without it!'

unchanged still. of all the world, unchanged. raising the same face to his, as on that miserable night. asking his forgiveness!

'dear papa, oh don't look strangely on me! i never meant to leave you. i never thought of it, before or afterwards. i was frightened when i went away, and could not think. papa, dear, i am changed. i am penitent. i know my fault. i know my duty better now. papa, don't cast me off, or i shall die!'

he tottered to his chair. he felt her draw his arms about her neck; he felt her put her own round his; he felt her kisses on his face; he felt her wet cheek laid against his own; he felt - oh, how deeply! - all that he had done.

upon the breast that he had bruised, against the heart that he had almost broken, she laid his face, now covered with his hands, and said, sobbing:

'papa, love, i am a mother. i have a child who will soon call walter by the name by which i call you. when it was born, and when i knew how much i loved it, i knew what i had done in leaving you. forgive me, dear papa! oh say god bless me, and my little child!'

he would have said it, if he could. he would have raised his hands and besought her for pardon, but she caught them in her own, and put them down, hurriedly.

'my little child was born at sea, papa i prayed to god (and so did walter for me) to spare me, that i might come home. the moment i could land, i came back to you. never let us be parted any more, papa. never let us be parted any more!'

his head, now grey, was encircled by her arm; and he groaned to think that never, never, had it rested so before.

'you will come home with me, papa, and see my baby. a boy, papa. his name is paul. i think - i hope - he's like - '

her tears stopped her.

'dear papa, for the sake of my child, for the sake of the name we have given him, for my sake, pardon walter. he is so kind and tender to me. i am so happy with him. it was not his fault that we were married. it was mine. i loved him so much.'

she clung closer to him, more endearing and more earnest.

'he is the darling of my heart, papa i would die for him. he will love and honour you as i will. we will teach our little child to love and honour you; and we will tell him, when he can understand, that you had a son of that name once, and that he died, and you were very sorry; but that he is gone to heaven, where we all hope to see him when our time for resting comes. kiss me, papa, as a promise that you will be reconciled to walter - to my dearest husband - to the father of the little child who taught me to come back, papa who taught me to come back!'

as she clung closer to him, in another burst of tears, he kissed her on her lips, and, lifting up his eyes, said, 'oh my god, forgive me, for i need it very much!'

with that he dropped his head again, lamenting over and caressing her, and there was not a sound in all the house for a long, long time; they remaining clasped in one another's arms, in the glorious sunshine that had crept in with florence.

he dressed himself for going out, with a docile submission to her entreaty; and walking with a feeble gait, and looking back, with a tremble, at the room in which he had been so long shut up, and where he had seen the picture in the glass, passed out with her into the hall. florence, hardly glancing round her, lest she should remind him freshly of their last parting - for their feet were on the very stones where he had struck her in his madness - and keeping close to him, with her eyes upon his face, and his arm about her, led him out to a coach that was waiting at the door, and carried him away.

then, miss tox and polly came out of their concealment, and exulted tearfully. and then they packed his clothes, and books, and so forth, with great care; and consigned them in due course to certain persons sent by florence, in the evening, to fetch them. and then they took a last cup of tea in the lonely house.

'and so dombey and son, as i observed upon a certain sad occasion,' said miss tox, winding up a host of recollections, 'is indeed a daughter, polly, after all.'

'and a good one!' exclaimed polly.

'you are right,' said miss tox; 'and it's a credit to you, polly, that you were always her friend when she was a little child. you were her friend long before i was, polly,' said miss tox; 'and you're a good creature. robin!'

miss tox addressed herself to a bullet-headed young man, who appeared to be in but indifferent circumstances, and in depressed spirits, and who was sitting in a remote corner. rising, he disclosed to view the form and features of the grinder.

'robin,' said miss tox, 'i have just observed to your mother, as you may have heard, that she is a good creature.

'and so she is, miss,' quoth the grinder, with some feeling.

'very well, robin,' said miss tox, 'i am glad to hear you say so. now, robin, as i am going to give you a trial, at your urgent request, as my domestic, with a view to your restoration to respectability, i will take this impressive occasion of remarking that i hope you will never forget that you have, and have always had, a good mother, and that you will endeavour so to conduct yourself as to be a comfort to her.'

'upon my soul i will, miss,' returned the grinder. 'i have come through a good deal, and my intentions is now as straightfor'ard, miss, as a cove's - '

'i must get you to break yourself of that word, robin, if you please,' interposed miss tox, politely.

'if you please, miss, as a chap's - '

'thankee, robin, no,' returned miss tox, 'i should prefer individual.'

'as a indiwiddle's,' said the grinder.

'much better,' remarked miss tox, complacently; 'infinitely more expressive!'

' - can be,' pursued rob. 'if i hadn't been and got made a grinder on, miss and mother, which was a most unfortunate circumstance for a young co - indiwiddle.'

'very good indeed,' observed miss tox, approvingly.

' - and if i hadn't been led away by birds, and then fallen into a bad service,' said the grinder, 'i hope i might have done better. but it's never too late for a - '

'indi - ' suggested miss tox.

' - widdle,' said the grinder, 'to mend; and i hope to mend, miss, with your kind trial; and wishing, mother, my love to father, and brothers and sisters, and saying of it.'

'i am very glad indeed to hear it,' observed miss tox. 'will you take a little bread and butter, and a cup of tea, before we go, robin?'

'thankee, miss,' returned the grinder; who immediately began to use his own personal grinders in a most remarkable manner, as if he had been on very short allowance for a considerable period.

miss tox, being, in good time, bonneted and shawled, and polly too, rob hugged his mother, and followed his new mistress away; so much to the hopeful admiration of polly, that something in her eyes made luminous rings round the gas-lamps as she looked after him. polly then put out her light, locked the house-door, delivered the key at an agent's hard by, and went home as fast as she could go; rejoicing in the shrill delight that her unexpected arrival would occasion there. the great house, dumb as to all that had been suffered in it, and the changes it had witnessed, stood frowning like a dark mute on the street; baulking any nearer inquiries with the staring announcement that the lease of this desirable family mansion was to be disposed of.

座落在那条长长的、沉闷无趣的街道中的那座宏伟的公馆，曾经是弗洛伦斯度过童年与孤独生活的地方，如今又发生了变化。它依旧是一座宏伟的公馆，经得起风吹雨打；屋顶没有裂缝，窗子没有损坏，墙壁没有坍塌，可是它却是个废墟了，耗子从里面飞快地跑出来。

托林森先生和其他仆人最初对他们所听到的那些传说纷纭的谣言难以置信。厨娘说，谢天谢地，我们主人的名誉不是那么容易损害的；托林森先生料想还会听到英格兰银行将要倒闭或保存在伦敦塔中的宝石将要变卖的消息。可是随后不久《公报》1寄到了，珀奇先生也来了；珀奇先生把珀奇太太一道带来，在厨房里谈论这件事情，度过了一个愉快的夜晚。

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1公报（gazette）：指英国政府1966年以后出版的公报，上面登载政府文告、官员的任命与调动、法律事务以及宣布破产等消息。

当这桩事情已经没有任何疑问的时候，托林森先生主要担心的是这次破产准是一笔巨大的金额——不少于十万镑。珀奇先生本人认为十万镑未必就能抵偿债务。以珀奇太太和厨娘为首的妇女们不时重复地说道，“十万镑，”，“十万镑”，那种得意的神气，真仿佛说出这几个字就跟手里拿到这些钱一样似的；注意着托林森先生的女仆但愿她能有这笔钱的百分之一，那样她就可以把它赠给她的意中人了；托林森依旧对过去所受的委屈耿耿于怀，就发表意见说，一位外国人有了这么多钱，除非把它花在连鬓胡子上，否则真不知道该拿它怎么办；这几句尖酸刻薄的挖苦话把女仆说得眼泪汪汪地离开了。

不过她出去没多久；因为厨娘素有心地特别善良的名声，她说，托林森，他们现在无论如何，都必须好好相处，相互支持才好，因为现在很难说，他们有多快就要分手了。厨娘说，他们在这座公馆里曾经见过一次丧葬、一次结婚，一次私奔；不要让人说他们像现在这种时刻还不能和睦相处。珀奇太太听了这番感人肺腑的话，深受感动，当众把厨娘称作天使。托林森先生回答厨娘说，他决不会妨碍这样善良的感情，而只会欢迎它；他说完就出去寻找女仆，不一会儿就挽着那位年轻姑娘的胳膊回来了；他告诉厨房里的人说，刚才关于外国人的话他只是说着开开玩笑而已；他与安妮已决定今后同甘共苦，在牛津市场里开设一个蔬菜水果店，兼卖药草和水蛭；他特别请求在场的各位多多光顾。这一宣布受到了热烈的欢呼；珀奇太太的心灵飞到了未来，在厨娘的耳朵旁一本正经地低声说道，“让他们多生几个女孩子！”。

这个家庭每发生一桩不幸的事件，在地下室里总少不了要大吃大喝一番。因此厨娘为这顿晚饭匆忙准备了一两盘热菜，托林森先生也调制了一个龙虾色拉来招待大家。甚至皮普钦太太—也由于发生了这个事件，心情激动，摇了铃，吩咐厨房里的人，把剩下的一小块小羊胰脏热一热，给她当晚饭，并和四分之一杯加上糖和香料，并将烫热的雪利酒（加上糖和香料）一起放在托盘里一起端给她；因为她的情绪坏透了。

他们也稍稍谈到了董贝先生，但是谈得很少。大家主要是猜测他多久以前就已知道将会发生这样的事情。厨娘机灵地说道，“啊，他老早就知道了。哎呀！这一点您是可以发誓的！”大家请珀奇先生发表意见，他对她的看法表示赞同。有人说，不知道董贝先生将怎么办，他会不会出走。托林森先生认为不会，照他看来，董贝先生可以到那些为上流社会人士开设的救济院去寻求庇护。“啊，您知道，他在那里将会有他自己的小菜园，”厨娘悲叹地说道，“春天可以栽种香豌豆。”

“完全不错，”托林森先生说，“还可以当个什么会的会友。”

“我们全都是会友，”珀奇太太停止喝酒，说道。“姐妹们除外，”珀奇先生说道。“伟大的人物是怎样垮台的啊，”厨娘说道。

“高傲一定是要垮台的。过去一直是这样，将来也会这样！”女仆说道。

当他们发表这些意见的时候，他们感到他们自己是多么善良；当他们听天由命地忍受着这共同的冲击时又表现出基督徒何等同心同德的精神，这是令人惊奇的。这种极好的心情只有一次被打乱了，那是一位年轻的、身份低下的、穿黑长袜的帮厨女工引起的；她张着嘴坐了很长一段时间之后，出乎意料地从嘴里说出了大意是这样的一句话：“如果他不发工资的话！”一时间这群人哑口无言地坐着，但厨娘首先恢复过来，她转过身子对着那位女人，想要知道，她怎么敢用这样一种无情无义的猜疑来侮辱这个她靠它吃饭的家庭，是不是她认为，任何一位还留有一点点道义的人居然能把他们可怜的仆人的菲薄的收入都剥夺掉吗？“因为，如果那是您的宗教感情的话，玛丽·道斯，”厨娘激昂地说道，“我不知道您打算走向哪里去。”

托林森先生也不知道，任何人也不知道，那位年轻的帮厨女工本人好像也不完全知道；在一片讥笑声中，她好像被一件外衣笼罩着似的，被慌乱的情绪笼罩着。

过了几天以后，陌生的人们开始在这座房屋中出现，并在餐厅里相互约定见面的时间，仿佛他们是住在这里似的。特别是，有一位面貌像犹太—阿拉伯人的先生，佩着一条很大的表链，在客厅里吹着口哨；当他在等待另一位经常在口袋里带着笔和墨水瓶的先生的时候，他问托林森先生（随随便便地称他为“老公鸡”），他是不是知道，这些深红色、夹织金丝的帘子新买来的时候花了多少钱。到屋子里来的人和在客厅里相互约会的事情每天愈来愈多，每一位先生似乎在口袋里都带着笔和墨水瓶，而且有时还使用它们。最后传说将要有一次拍卖，于是更多的人来了；他们口袋中带着笔和墨水瓶，并指挥着一队戴着毡制便帽的工人；这些工人立即拉起地毯，移动家具，并在前厅和楼梯上留下几千双鞋印。

地下室的人们这些时候一直在秘密地开着会议，而且由于没有什么事好做，就开出丰盛的宴席，大吃大喝。终于有一天，他们全体被召集到皮普钦太太的房间里；这位秘鲁美人这样对他们说：

“你们的主人正处在困境中，”皮普钦太太尖酸地说道，“我想，你们知道了吧？”

托林森充当代言人，承认他们都已知道这个事实了。

“毫无疑问，你们都已在找工作了，”皮普钦太太向他们摇摇头，说道。

后面的一排中有一个尖锐的喊道，“不比您本人找得多！”

“那是您的想法，是不是，厚颜无耻的太太？”忿怒的皮普钦太太射出烈焰般的眼光，越过中间的头顶望过去。

“是的，皮普钦太太，我是这样想的，”厨娘向前走去，回答道。“那又怎么样呢，请问？”

“唔，那您就可以走了，您愿意多早走就多早走，”皮普钦太太说道，“走得愈早愈好；我希望，我永远不再看到您的脸孔了。”

英勇无畏的皮普钦太太说了这些话之后，就拿出了一只帆布袋，读出了她到那天为止外加一个月的工资；然后紧紧地握着钱，直到那张收据的签字符合要求，签完最后一笔，她才很舍不得地放开了手。皮普钦太太对家里每一位仆人都重复进行了同样的手续，直到所有人的工资都支付完毕为止。

“现在那些愿意走的人就请准备走吧，”皮普钦太太说道，“那些愿意留下的人可以在这里再吃住一个星期左右，并做一些有益的工作。但是，”怒火高烧的皮普钦太太说道，“那位当厨娘的混帐女人除外，她必须立刻就走。”

“她一定会走的！”厨娘说道，“我祝您好！皮普钦太太，我还真诚地希望，我要是能对您的花容月貌恭维一番就好了！”

“快滚开，”皮普钦太太跺着脚，说道。

厨娘摆出一副使皮普钦太太十分恼怒的、仁慈而尊严的神态，离开了房间；不一会儿，她的盟友们就跟她在地下室里聚集在一起了。

然后托林森先生说，首先他建议先吃一点快餐；吃完快餐之后，他想提出一个他认为符合他们目前处境的建议。饮食端上来了，而且被很痛快地吃喝了之后，托林森先生所提的建议是，厨娘就要走了，如果我们对我们自己不真诚相待的话，那么没有任何人会对我们真诚相待的。我们在这屋子里居住了很长久的时间，一直努力保持着和睦友好的关系（这时厨娘激动地说道，“听哪！听哪！说得多好！”这时又参加到他们中间、饱到喉咙眼的珀奇太太流出了眼泪）；他认为，现在他们的感情应该是：“一个人走，所有的人都一起走。”这种慷慨无私的感情使女仆十分感动，她热情地表示附议。厨娘说，她觉得这是正确的，但只希望这样做并不是为了对她表示恭维，而是出于一种责任感。托林森先生回答说，是的，这是出于一种责任感；还说如果现在非要让他发表意见不可的话，那么他将会直率地说，他认为，继续留在一个正在进行拍卖等类活动的公馆里，不是一件太体面的事情。女仆对这点深信不疑，为了证实这点，她说，有一位戴毡制便帽的陌生人就在今天早上想在楼梯上跟她亲嘴；托林森先生听到这里立即从椅子中跳起来，想去寻找那位罪犯并“把他杀死”；这时妇女们把他拉住，恳求他冷静下来，思考一下，还是立刻离开发生这种下流事情的房屋为好，那要容易得多，也明智得多；珀奇太太从另外一个角度来考虑问题；她认为，即使是对关在自己房间里的董贝先生表示关心体贴来说，也必须要求火速离开这里。“因为，”这位善良的女人说道，“如果他突然碰见了这些可怜的仆人中的任何一位的话，那么他的感情该会是怎么样啊！他们曾经一度被人欺骗过，以为他富得不得了呢！”这种道义上的考虑使厨娘大受感动；珀奇太太就引用了一些新颖的、精选的虔诚的道理来进一步完善她的说法。情况变得十分清楚：他们必须全都走。于是大家把箱子捆好了，并把马车叫来，那天薄暮的时候，这群人中没有一个留下来了。

这座宽敞的、经得起风吹雨打的公馆矗立在那条长长的、沉寂无趣的街道中，但它却是一个废墟了，耗子从里面飞快地跑出来。

戴毡制便帽的工人继续在搬移家具；带着笔和墨水瓶的先生们开列出家具清单；他们在决不是用来坐人的家具上坐着，在决不是用来吃东西的家具上吃着从酒吧买来的面包和乳酪，而且似乎感到，把那些贵重的物品硬派作奇怪的用途是一件乐趣。家具被杂乱无章地摆放着；褥垫和床上用品出现在餐厅里；玻璃器具和瓷器进入了暖房；大型的成套餐具被堆放在大客厅中的长沙发椅子上；夹楼梯地毯的金属线被捆成一小束，装饰着大理石的壁炉架。最后，从阳台上挂出一块小地毯，上面还有印好的说明书；还有一个类似的装饰品垂悬在前厅正门的两旁。

然后，一长列生了霉的轻便二轮马车和二轮运货马车整天在街上徐徐移动着；一群群衣衫褴褛的吸血鬼、犹太人和基督徒群集在屋子里，他们用指关节敲敲平板玻璃的镜子，在大钢琴上弹敲着不谐和的八度音，用湿漉漉的食指在图画上乱划，在最好的餐刀的刀口上吹气，用肮脏的拳头在椅子和沙发的厚垫子上捶打，把羽毛褥垫弄乱，把所有的抽屉都打开又关上，在手掌上掂掂银匙和银叉的重量，细细观察绸缎与亚麻布的每一根线，然后对所有的东西都指责一通。整个屋子没有一个秘密的地方。胡子拉碴、脸被鼻烟弄脏了的陌生人细看着烹饪用炉，就跟看顶楼里的衣橱一样好奇。壮汉们戴着磨去了绒毛的帽子，从卧室的窗子里向外看，并跟街上的朋友们开玩笑。冷静的、精于计算的人们拿着物品目录，退到化妆室里，用铅笔头在上面记着旁注。两位经纪人甚至闯进了太平门，从屋顶上面附近一带地方进行全景眺望。川流不息的人群、闹闹哄哄的喧声、上上下下的奔忙持续了好几天。上等时髦家具公司正在陈列物品，供大家参观。

然后，在最豪华的餐厅里用桌子围成一个栅栏；精美的、漆了法国漆、曲腿的西班牙红木餐桌排成长长的一列；在这些餐桌上面竖起了拍卖人的台子；成群的衣衫褴褛的吸血鬼、犹太人和基督徒，胡子拉碴、脸被鼻烟弄脏了的陌生人，戴着磨去了绒毛的帽子的壮汉们，聚集在它的周围；他们坐在近旁的每件东西（包括壁炉台）上，开始喊价。房间里整天热气腾腾，嘈杂，灰尘飞扬，而在这些热气、杂音和灰尘之上，拍卖人的头、肩膀、嗓子和槌子一直在不停地工作着；戴毡制便帽的工人们忙忙碌碌地搬抬着物品，疲累心烦，脾气变得特别坏；可是物品仍然在被搬着，搬着，搬走了，同时又仍然不断地被搬进来。有时可以听到开心逗趣和哄堂大笑。这种情形持续了整整一天和随后接着的三天。上等时髦家具公司正在拍卖。

然后，生了霉的二轮轻便马车和二轮运货马车又开来了，跟它们一起来的还有有弹簧的搬运车和四轮运货马车，还有一大群携带着绳子的搬运夫。戴毡制便帽的工人从早到晚拧着改锥和铁钳，或者十几个人在沉重的负担下，脚步不稳、摇摇晃晃地走下楼梯，或者把像岩石般沉重的西班牙红木、上等的黄檀木或平板玻璃搬进二轮轻便马车、四轮运货马车、搬运车和手推车中。所有的运输工具都被动用了，从有篷盖的运货马车到独轮手推车。可怜的保罗的小床架是放在一个小单轴双轮马车中拉走的。将近一个星期，上等时髦家具公司都在搬运物品。

终于，所有的物品都被搬走了。除了散乱的目录的纸页、零零落落的稻草和干草的碎株和前厅门后的一套白镴壶外，屋子里没有什么东西留下了。戴毡制帽的工人们收拾好他们的改锥和铁钳，装进袋子，扛着它们，离开了。带着笔和墨水瓶的先生们当中的一位把整个房屋贴上一张出租这座上好的公馆的招贴，关上了百叶窗。最后，他跟着戴毡制便帽的工人出去了。所有曾经闯进这个屋子里来的人，没有一个留下来了；这座房屋是一个废墟了，耗子从里面飞快地跑出来。

皮普钦太太的一套住房，以及一层楼中那些拉下窗帘、锁着的房间，幸免于被蹂躏。当这些活动在进行的时候，她森严地、木然无情地待在自己的房间中；或者在进行拍卖的时候偶尔出去看看，看那些货物是按什么价钱卖出去的；她还给一张安乐椅喊了一个价；这张安乐椅皮普钦太太喊的价最高。当奇克夫人前来看她的时候，她正坐在她的这个财产上。

“我的哥哥怎么样，皮普钦太太？”奇克夫人问道。“我不比魔鬼知道得更多，”皮普钦太太说道。“他从来不肯赏光跟我说话。他的饭菜和饮料都送到他房间旁边的一个房间里，当没有人在那里的时候，他就走出来取走。问我没有用。我知道南边热带国家中有一个人吃冷的葡萄干粥时竟把嘴烫伤了，可是我对他的情况并不比对这个热带国家的人的情况知道得更多。”

恶毒的皮普钦太太说这话的时候，肢体扭动了一下。

“可是天呀！”奇克夫人温和地喊道，“这要到什么时候才结束哪？如果我的哥哥不作出努力的话，皮普钦太太，那么他将怎么办呢？说实在的，我想这时候他已经完全明白，一个人不作出努力会有什么样的结果，用不着警告他提防犯那样致命的错误了。”

“哎呀！”皮普钦太太擦擦鼻子，说道，“我看，这是大惊小怪。这不是一件什么令人惊奇的事情。人们过去就遭遇过不幸，不得不跟他们的家具分离。不错，我就遭遇过这样的不幸！”

“我的哥哥，”奇克夫人意味深长地说道，“是一个多么异常——多么奇怪的人。他是我所见过的最异常的人。有谁能相信，当他听到他那个古怪的女儿结婚和移居国外的消息的时候——现在回忆起来，对我倒是一种安慰：过去我经常说，这个孩子有些反常的东西，可是谁也没有理会我的话——，我说，有谁能相信，他那时竟居然转过身来对我说，他曾经根据我的态度猜想，她到我的家里去了？啊，我的天！又谁能相信，我仅仅对他说，‘保罗，我可能很愚蠢；我也毫不怀疑，我是很愚蠢的，但是我不能明白，你的事情怎么能落到这个地步呢？’这时候他竟居然向我猛扑过来，要求我再也别去见他，除非他要我去的时候我再去！啊，我的天！”

“啊！”皮普钦太太说道，“可惜他没有跟矿井打交道。矿井会考验他的性格。”

“那么，”奇克夫人根本不管皮普钦太太的意见，继续说道，“这一切将怎样结束呢？这是我想知道的。我的哥哥打算做什么？他必须做点事情。继续关在他自己的房间里是没有用的。生意不会来到他的面前。不会的，他必须出去找它。那么他为什么不出去找呢！他这一辈子都在做生意，我想他是知道到哪里去找的。很好，那么为什么不到那里去找呢？”

奇克夫人锻造了这条有力的推理的链条之后，沉默了一会儿，进行自我赞赏。

“再说，”这位用心深远的夫人露出一副好争辩的神态，说道，“当这些可怕的、不愉快的事情正在进行的时候，他却把自己这样一直关在这里，有谁听说过有这种固执的脾气的吗？并不是仿佛他没有什么地方好去似的。当然，他可以到我们家里来。他在我们家里就像在自己家里