DOMBEY AND SON. By Charles Dickens. No. 5. Little Paul.

New Zealand Spectator and Cook's Strait Guardian, Volume III, Issue 211, 7 August 1847, Page 3

DOMBEY AND SON. By Charles Dickens. No. 5. Little Paul.

Once, when there was a pause in the dancing, Lady S kettles told Paul that he seemed very fond of music. Paul replied, that he -was ; . and if she was too, she ought to hear hi* sister, Florence, sing. Lady S kettles presently discovered that she was dying with anxiety to have that gratification ; and though Florence was, at first, very much frightened at being asked to sing before so many people, and begged earnestly to be excused, yet, ori^ Paul calling her to him, and saying, "Do, Flp/y,! Please ! For me, my dear !" she went straight to the piano, and began. When they all drew a little away, that Paul might see her: and when he saw her sitting there alone, so young, and good, and beautiful, and kind to him ; and heard her thrilling voice, so natural and sweet, and such a golden link [between rhim and all his life's love and happiness, rising out of the silence, he turned his face away, and hid his tears. Not, as he told them when they spoke to him, not that the musia was too painful or too sorrowful, but it was so dear to him. They all loved Flo1 rence. How could they help it ? Paul had known beforehand that they must and would ; and sitting in his cushioned corner, with calmly folded hands, and one leg loosely doubled under him, few would have thought what triumph and delight expanded his childish bo-

som while he watched her, or what a sweet tranquillity he felt. Lavish encomiums on " Dombey's sister," reached his ears from all the boys : admiration of the self-possessed and modest little beauty, was on every lip : .reports of her intelligence and accomplishments floated past him, constantly ; and, as if borne in upon the air of the summer night, there was a half-intelligible sentiment diffused around, referring to Florence, and himself, and breathing sympathy for both, that soothed and touched him. He did not know why. For all that the child observed, and felt, and thought, that night — the present and the absent ; what was then and what had been — were blended like the colours in the rainbow, or in the plumage of rich birds when the sun is shining on them, or in the softening sky when the same sun is setting. The many things he had had to think of lately passed before him in the music ; not as claiming his attention over again, or as likely ever more to occupy it, but as peacefully disposed of and gone. A solitary window, gazed through years ago, looked out upon an ocean, miles and miles away ; upon its waters, fancies busy with him only yesterday, were hushed and lulled to rest like broken waves. The same mysterious murmur he had wondered at, when lying on his couch upon the beach, he thought he still heard sounding through his sister's song, and through the hum of voices, and the tread of feet, aud having some part in the faces flitting by, and even in the heavy gentleness of Mr. Toots, who frequently came up to shake him by the hand. Through the universal kindness he still thought he heard it, speaking to him ; aud even his old-fashion-ed reputation seemed to be allied to it, he knew not how. Thus little Paul sat musing, listening, looking on, and dreaming ; and was very happy.

Paul's Illness. Paul had never risen from his little hed. He lay there, listening to the noises in the street, quite tranquilly ; not caring much how the time went, but watching it and watching every thing 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 then 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 paused, 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 wLh 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 bis 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 iv 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 aud light, would gradually decline ; and again the golden water would be dancing on the wall.