Stretched on a crimson cushion in his gallant bark, with his shoes in the air, Mr. Toots, in the exercise of his project, had come up the river, day after day, and week after week, and had flitted to and fro, near Sir Barnet’s garden, and had caused his crew to cut across and across the river at sharp angles, for his better exhibition to any lookers-out from Sir Barnet’s windows, and had had such evolutions performed by the Toots’s Joy as had filled all the neighbouring part of the waterside with astonishment. But whenever he saw anyone in Sir Barnet’s garden on the brink of the river, Mr. Toots always feigned to be passing there, by a combination of coincidences of the most singular and unlikely description.
“How are you, Toots?” Sir Barnet would say, waving his hand from the lawn, while the artful Chicken steered close in shore.
“How de do, Sir Barnet?” Mr. Toots would answer, “What a surprising thing that I should see you here!”
Mr. Toots, in his sagacity, always said this, as if, instead of that being Sir Barnet’s house, it were some deserted edifice on the banks of the Nile, or Ganges.
“I never was so surprised!” Mr. Toots would exclaim.—“Is Miss Dombey there?”
Whereupon Florence would appear, perhaps.
“Oh, Diogenes is quite well, Miss Dombey,” Toots would cry. “I called to ask this morning.”
“Thank you very much!” the pleasant voice of Florence would reply.
“Won’t you come ashore, Toots?” Sir Barnet would say then. “Come! you’re in no hurry. Come and see us.”
“Oh, it’s of no consequence, thank you!” Mr. Toots would blushingly rejoin. “I thought Miss Dombey might like to know, that’s all. Goodbye!” And poor Mr. Toots, who was dying to accept the invitation, but hadn’t the courage to do it, signed to the Chicken, with an aching heart, and away went the Joy, cleaving the water like an arrow.
The Joy was lying in a state of extraordinary splendour, at the garden steps, on the morning of Florence’s departure. When she went downstairs to take leave, after her talk with Susan, she found Mr. Toots awaiting her in the drawing-room.
“Oh, how de do, Miss Dombey?” said the stricken Toots, always dreadfully disconcerted when the desire of his heart was gained, and he was speaking to her; “thank you, I’m very well indeed, I hope you’re the same, so was Diogenes yesterday.”
“You are very kind,” said Florence.
“Thank you, it’s of no consequence,” retorted Mr. Toots. “I thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind, in this fine weather, coming home by water, Miss Dombey. There’s plenty of room in the boat for your maid.”
“I am very much obliged to you,” said Florence, hesitating. “I really am—but I would rather not.”
“Oh, it’s of no consequence,” retorted Mr. Toots. “Good morning!”
“Won’t you wait and see Lady Skettles?” asked Florence, kindly.
“Oh no, thank you,” returned Mr. Toots, “it’s of no consequence at all.”
So shy was Mr. Toots on such occasions, and so flurried! But Lady Skettles entering at the moment, Mr. Toots was suddenly seized with a passion for asking her how she did, and hoping she was very well; nor could Mr. Toots by any possibility leave off shaking hands with her, until Sir Barnet appeared: to whom he immediately clung with the tenacity of desperation.
“We are losing, today, Toots,” said Sir Barnet, turning towards Florence, “the light of our house, I assure you.”
“Oh, it’s of no conseq—I mean yes, to be sure,” faltered the embarrassed Mr. Toots. “Good morning!”
Notwithstanding the emphatic nature of this farewell, Mr. Toots, instead of going away, stood leering about him, vacantly. Florence, to relieve him, bade adieu, with many thanks, to Lady Skettles, and gave her arm to Sir Barnet.
“May I beg of you, my dear Miss Dombey,” said her host, as he conducted her to the carriage, “to present my best compliments to your dear Papa?”
It was distressing to Florence to receive the commission, for she felt as if she were imposing on Sir Barnet by allowing him to believe that a kindness rendered to her, was rendered to her father. As she could not explain, however, she bowed her head and thanked him; and again she thought that the dull home, free from such embarrassments, and such reminders of her sorrow, was her natural and best retreat.
Such of her late friends and companions as were yet remaining at the villa, came running from within, and from the garden, to say goodbye. They were all attached to her, and very earnest in taking leave of her. Even the household were sorry for her going, and the servants came nodding and curtseying round the carriage door. As Florence looked round on the kind faces, and saw among them those of Sir Barnet and his lady, and of Mr. Toots, who was chuckling and staring at her from a distance, she was reminded of the night when Paul and she had come from Doctor Blimber’s: and when the carriage drove away, her face was wet
