Chapter 16. What the Waves were always saying

Dombey and Son

by Charles Dickens

Paul had never risen from his little bed. He lay there, listening
to the noises in the street, quite tranquilly; not caring much how
the time went, but watching it and watching everything about him with
observing eyes.

When the sunbeams struck into his room through the rustling
blinds, and quivered on the opposite wall like golden water, he knew
that evening was coming on, and that the sky was red and beautiful.
As the reflection died away, and a gloom went creeping up the wall,
he watched it deepen, deepen, deepen, into night. Then he thought how
the long streets were dotted with lamps, and how the peaceful stars
were shining overhead. His fancy had a strange tendency to wander to
the river, which he knew was flowing through the great city; and now
he thought how black it was, and how deep it would look, reflecting
the hosts of stars - and more than all, how steadily it rolled away
to meet the sea.

As it grew later in the night, and footsteps in the street
became so rare that he could hear them coming, count them as they
passed, and lose them in the hollow distance, he would lie and watch
the many-coloured ring about the candle, and wait patiently for day.
His only trouble was, the swift and rapid river. He felt forced,
sometimes, to try to stop it - to stem it with his childish hands -
or choke its way with sand - and when he saw it coming on,
resistless, he cried out! But a word from Florence, who was always at
his side, restored him to himself; and leaning his poor head upon her
breast, he told Floy of his dream, and smiled.

When day began to dawn again, he watched for the sun; and when
its cheerful light began to sparkle in the room, he pictured to
himself - pictured! he saw - the high church towers rising up into
the morning sky, the town reviving, waking, starting into life once
more, the river glistening as it rolled (but rolling fast as ever),
and the country bright with dew. Familiar sounds and cries came by
degrees into the street below; the servants in the house were roused
and busy; faces looked in at the door, and voices asked his
attendants softly how he was. Paul always answered for himself, 'I am
better. I am a great deal better, thank you! Tell Papa so!'

By little and little, he got tired of the bustle of the day, the
noise of carriages and carts, and people passing and repassing; and
would fall asleep, or be troubled with a restless and uneasy sense
again - the child could hardly tell whether this were in his sleeping
or his waking moments - of that rushing river. 'Why, will it never
stop, Floy?' he would sometimes ask her. 'It is bearing me away, I
think!'

But Floy could always soothe and reassure him; and it was his
daily delight to make her lay her head down on his pillow, and take
some rest.

'You are always watching me, Floy, let me watch you, now!' They
would prop him up with cushions in a corner of his bed, and there he
would recline the while she lay beside him: bending forward
oftentimes to kiss her, and whispering to those who were near that
she was tired, and how she had sat up so many nights beside him.

Thus, the flush of the day, in its heat and light, would
gradually decline; and again the golden water would be dancing on the
wall.

He was visited by as many as three grave doctors - they used to
assemble downstairs, and come up together - and the room was so
quiet, and Paul was so observant of them (though he never asked of
anybody what they said), that he even knew the difference in the
sound of their watches. But his interest centred in Sir Parker Peps,
who always took his seat on the side of the bed. For Paul had heard
them say long ago, that that gentleman had been with his Mama when
she clasped Florence in her arms, and died. And he could not forget
it, now. He liked him for it. He was not afraid.

The people round him changed as unaccountably as on that first
night at Doctor Blimber's - except Florence; Florence never changed -
and what had been Sir Parker Peps, was now his father, sitting with
his head upon his hand. Old Mrs Pipchin dozing in an easy chair,
often changed to Miss Tox, or his aunt; and Paul was quite content to
shut his eyes again, and see what happened next, without emotion. But
this figure with its head upon its hand returned so often, and
remained so long, and sat so still and solemn, never speaking, never
being spoken to, and rarely lifting up its face, that Paul began to
wonder languidly, if it were real; and in the night-time saw it
sitting there, with fear.

'Floy!' he said. 'What is that?'

'Where, dearest?'

'There! at the bottom of the bed.'

'There's nothing there, except Papa!'

The figure lifted up its head, and rose, and coming to the
bedside, said:

'My own boy! Don't you know me?'

Paul looked it in the face, and thought, was this his father?
But the face so altered to his thinking, thrilled while he gazed, as
if it were in pain; and before he could reach out both his hands to
take it between them, and draw it towards him, the figure turned away
quickly from the little bed, and went out at the door.

Paul looked at Florence with a fluttering heart, but he knew
what she was going to say, and stopped her with his face against her
lips. The next time he observed the figure sitting at the bottom of
the bed, he called to it.

'Don't be sorry for me, dear Papa! Indeed I am quite happy!'

His father coming and bending down to him - which he did
quickly, and without first pausing by the bedside - Paul held him
round the neck, and repeated those words to him several times, and
very earnestly; and Paul never saw him in his room again at any time,
whether it were day or night, but he called out, 'Don't be sorry for
me! Indeed I am quite happy!' This was the beginning of his always
saying in the morning that he was a great deal better, and that they
were to tell his father so.

How many times the golden water danced upon the wall; how many
nights the dark, dark river rolled towards the sea in spite of him;
Paul never counted, never sought to know. If their kindness, or his
sense of it, could have increased, they were more kind, and he more
grateful every day; but whether they were many days or few, appeared
of little moment now, to the gentle boy.

One night he had been thinking of his mother, and her picture in
the drawing-room downstairs, and thought she must have loved sweet
Florence better than his father did, to have held her in her arms
when she felt that she was dying - for even he, her brother, who had
such dear love for her, could have no greater wish than that. The
train of thought suggested to him to inquire if he had ever seen his
mother? for he could not remember whether they had told him, yes or
no, the river running very fast, and confusing his mind.

'Floy, did I ever see Mama?'

'No, darling, why?'

'Did I ever see any kind face, like Mama's, looking at me when I
was a baby, Floy?'

He asked, incredulously, as if he had some vision of a face
before him.

'Oh yes, dear!'

'Whose, Floy?'

'Your old nurse's. Often.'

'And where is my old nurse?' said Paul. 'Is she dead too? Floy,
are we all dead, except you?'

There was a hurry in the room, for an instant - longer, perhaps;
but it seemed no more - then all was still again; and Florence, with
her face quite colourless, but smiling, held his head upon her arm.
Her arm trembled very much.

'Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please!'

'She is not here, darling. She shall come to-morrow.'

'Thank you, Floy!'

Paul closed his eyes with those words, and fell asleep. When he
awoke, the sun was high, and the broad day was clear and He lay a
little, looking at the windows, which were open, and the curtains
rustling in the air, and waving to and fro: then he said, 'Floy, is
it tomorrow? Is she come?'

Someone seemed to go in quest of her. Perhaps it was Susan. Paul
thought he heard her telling him when he had closed his eyes again,
that she would soon be back; but he did not open them to see. She
kept her word - perhaps she had never been away - but the next thing
that happened was a noise of footsteps on the stairs, and then Paul
woke - woke mind and body - and sat upright in his bed. He saw them
now about him. There was no grey mist before them, as there had been
sometimes in the night. He knew them every one, and called them by
their names.

'And who is this? Is this my old nurse?' said the child,
regarding with a radiant smile, a figure coming in.

Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those tears at sight
of him, and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her own poor
blighted child. No other woman would have stooped down by his bed,
and taken up his wasted hand, and put it to her lips and breast, as
one who had some right to fondle it. No other woman would have so
forgotten everybody there but him and Floy, and been so full of
tenderness and pity.

'Floy! this is a kind good face!' said Paul. 'I am glad to see
it again. Don't go away, old nurse! Stay here.'

His senses were all quickened, and he heard a name he knew.

'Who was that, who said "Walter"?' he asked, looking round.
'Someone said Walter. Is he here? I should like to see him very
much.'

Nobody replied directly; but his father soon said to Susan,
'Call him back, then: let him come up!' Alter a short pause of
expectation, during which he looked with smiling interest and wonder,
on his nurse, and saw that she had not forgotten Floy, Walter was
brought into the room. His open face and manner, and his cheerful
eyes, had always made him a favourite with Paul; and when Paul saw
him' he stretched Out his hand, and said 'Good-bye!'

'Good-bye, my child!' said Mrs Pipchin, hurrying to his bed's
head. 'Not good-bye?'

For an instant, Paul looked at her with the wistful face with
which he had so often gazed upon her in his corner by the fire.
'Yes,' he said placidly, 'good-bye! Walter dear, good-bye!' - turning
his head to where he stood, and putting out his hand again. 'Where is
Papa?'

He felt his father's breath upon his cheek, before the words had
parted from his lips.

'Remember Walter, dear Papa,' he whispered, looking in his face.
'Remember Walter. I was fond of Walter!' The feeble hand waved in the
air, as if it cried 'good-bye!' to Walter once again.

'Now lay me down,' he said, 'and, Floy, come close to me, and
let me see you!'

Sister and brother wound their arms around each other, and the
golden light came streaming in, and fell upon them, locked
together.

'How fast the river runs, between its green banks and the
rushes, 'Floy! But it's very near the sea. I hear the waves! They
always said so!'

Presently he told her the motion of the boat upon the stream was
lulling him to rest. How green the banks were now, how bright the
flowers growing on them, and how tall the rushes! Now the boat was
out at sea, but gliding smoothly on. And now there was a shore before
him. Who stood on the bank! -

He put his hands together, as he had been used to do at his
prayers. He did not remove his arms to do it; but they saw him fold
them so, behind her neck.

'Mama is like you, Floy. I know her by the face! But tell them
that the print upon the stairs at school is not divine enough. The
light about the head is shining on me as I go!'

The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else
stirred in the room. The old, old fashion! The fashion that came in
with our first garments, and will last unchanged until our race has
run its course, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll.
The old, old fashion - Death!

Oh thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of
Immortality! And look upon us, angels of young children, with regards
not quite estranged, when the swift river bears us to the ocean!

'Dear me, dear me! To think,' said Miss Tox, bursting out afresh
that night, as if her heart were broken, 'that Dombey and Son should
be a Daughter after all!'