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such a wild voyage. So no more of that. I have little hope that my poor boy
will ever read these words, or gladden your eyes with the sight of his frank
face any more." No, no; no more,' said Captain Cuttle, sorrowfully
meditating; 'no more. There he lays, all his days - '
Mr Bunsby, who had a musical ear, suddenly bellowed, 'In the Bays of
Biscay, O!' which so affected the good Captain, as an appropriate tribute to
departed worth, that he shook him by the hand in acknowledgment, and was
fain to wipe his eyes.
'Well, well!' said the Captain with a sigh, as the Lament of Bunsby
ceased to ring and vibrate in the skylight. 'Affliction sore, long time he
bore, and let us overhaul the wollume, and there find it.'
'Physicians,' observed Bunsby, 'was in vain."
'Ay, ay, to be sure,' said the Captain, 'what's the good o' them in two
or three hundred fathoms o' water!' Then, returning to the letter, he read
on: - '"But if he should be by, when it is opened;"' the Captain
involuntarily looked round, and shook his head; '"or should know of it at
any other time;"' the Captain shook his head again; '"my blessing on him! In
case the accompanying paper is not legally written, it matters very little,
for there is no one interested but you and he, and my plain wish is, that if
he is living he should have what little there may be, and if (as I fear)
otherwise, that you should have it, Ned. You will respect my wish, I know.
God bless you for it, and for all your friendliness besides, to Solomon
Gills." Bunsby!' said the Captain, appealing to him solemnly, 'what do you
make of this? There you sit, a man as has had his head broke from infancy
up'ards, and has got a new opinion into it at every seam as has been opened.
Now, what do you make o' this?'
'If so be,' returned Bunsby, with unusual promptitude, 'as he's dead,
my opinion is he won't come back no more. If so be as he's alive, my opinion
is he will. Do I say he will? No. Why not? Because the bearings of this
obserwation lays in the application on it.'
'Bunsby!' said Captain Cuttle, who would seem to have estimated the
value of his distinguished friend's opinions in proportion to the immensity
of the difficulty he experienced in making anything out of them; 'Bunsby,'
said the Captain, quite confounded by admiration, 'you carry a weight of
mind easy, as would swamp one of my tonnage soon. But in regard o' this here
will, I don't mean to take no steps towards the property - Lord forbid! -
except to keep it for a more rightful owner; and I hope yet as the rightful
owner, Sol Gills, is living and'll come back, strange as it is that he ain't
forwarded no dispatches. Now, what is your opinion, Bunsby, as to stowing of
these here papers away again, and marking outside as they was opened, such a
day, in the presence of John Bunsby and Ed'ard Cuttle?'
Bunsby, descrying no objection, on the coast of Greenland or elsewhere,
to this proposal, it was carried into execution; and that great man,
bringing his eye into the present for a moment, affixed his sign-manual to
the cover, totally abstaining, with characteristic modesty, from the use of
capital letters. Captain Cuttle, having attached his own left-handed
signature, and locked up the packet in the iron safe, entreated his guest to
mix another glass and smoke another pipe; and doing the like himself, fell a
musing over the fire on the possible fortunes of the poor old
Instrument-maker.
And now a surprise occurred, so overwhelming and terrific that Captain
Cuttle, unsupported by the presence of Bunsby, must have sunk beneath it,
and been a lost man from that fatal hour.
How the Captain, even in the satisfaction of admitting such a guest,
could have only shut the door, and not locked it, of which negligence he was
undoubtedly guilty, is one of those questions that must for ever remain mere
points of speculation, or vague charges against destiny. But by that
unlocked door, at this quiet moment, did the fell MacStinger dash into the
parlour, bringing Alexander MacStinger in her parental arms, and confusion
and vengeance (not to mention Juliana MacStinger, and the sweet child's
brother, Charles MacStinger, popularly known about the scenes of his
youthful sports, as Chowley) in her train. She came so swiftly and so
silently, like a rushing air from the neighbourhood of the East India Docks,
that Captain Cuttle found himself in the very act of sitting looking at her,
before the calm face with which he had been meditating, changed to one of
horror and dismay.
But the moment Captain Cuttle understood the full extent of his
misfortune, self-preservation dictated an attempt at flight. Darting at the
little door which opened from the parlour on the steep little range of
cellar-steps, the Captain made a rush, head-foremost, at the latter, like a
man indifferent to bruises and contusions, who only sought to hide himself
in the bowels of the earth. In this gallant effort he would probably have
succeeded, but for the affectionate dispositions of Juliana and Chowley, who
pinning him by the legs - one of those dear children holding on to each -
claimed him as their friend, with lamentable cries. In the meantime, Mrs
MacStinger, who never entered upon any action of importance without
previously inverting Alexander MacStinger, to bring him within the range of
a brisk battery of slaps, and then sitting him down to cool as the reader
first beheld him, performed that solemn rite, as if on this occasion it were
a sacrifice to the Furies; and having deposited the victim on the floor,
made at the Captain with a strength of purpose that appeared to threaten
scratches to the interposing Bunsby.
The cries of the two elder MacStingers, and the wailing of young
Alexander, who may be said to have passed a piebald childhood, forasmuch as
he was black in the face during one half of that fairy period of existence,
combined to make this visitation the more awful. But when silence reigned
again, and the Captain, in a violent perspiration, stood meekly looking at
Mrs MacStinger, its terrors were at their height.
'Oh, Cap'en Cuttle, Cap'en Cuttle!' said Mrs MacStinger, making her
chin rigid, and shaking it in unison with what, but for the weakness of her
sex, might be described as her fist. 'Oh, Cap'en Cuttle, Cap'en Cuttle, do
you dare to look me in the face, and not be struck down in the herth!'
The Captain, who looked anything but daring, feebly muttered 'Standby!'
'Oh I was a weak and trusting Fool when I took you under my roof,
Cap'en Cuttle, I was!' cried Mrs MacStinger. 'To think of the benefits I've
showered on that man, and the way in which I brought my children up to love
and honour him as if he was a father to 'em, when there ain't a housekeeper,
no nor a lodger in our street, don't know that I lost money by that man, and
by his guzzlings and his muzzlings' - Mrs MacStinger used the last word for
the joint sake of alliteration and aggravation, rather than for the
expression of any idea - 'and when they cried out one and all, shame upon
him for putting upon an industrious woman, up early and late for the good of
her young family, and keeping her poor place so clean that a individual
might have ate his dinner, yes, and his tea too, if he was so disposed, off
any one of the floors or stairs, in spite of all his guzzlings and his
muzzlings, such was the care and pains bestowed upon him!'
Mrs MacStinger stopped to fetch her breath; and her face flushed with
triumph in this second happy introduction of Captain Cuttle's muzzlings.
'And he runs awa-a-a-y!'cried Mrs MacStinger, with a lengthening out of
the last syllable that made the unfortunate Captain regard himself as the
meanest of men; 'and keeps away a twelve-month! From a woman! Such is his
conscience! He hasn't the courage to meet her hi-i-igh;' long syllable
again; 'but steals away, like a felion. Why, if that baby of mine,' said Mrs
MacStinger, with sudden rapidity, 'was to offer to go and steal away, I'd do
my duty as a mother by him, till he was covered with wales!'
The young Alexander, interpreting this into a positive promise, to be
shortly redeemed, tumbled over with fear and grief, and lay upon the floor,
exhibiting the soles of his shoes and making such a deafening outcry, that
Mrs MacStinger found it necessary to take him up in her arms, where she
quieted him, ever and anon, as he broke out again, by a shake that seemed
enough to loosen his teeth.
'A pretty sort of a man is Cap'en Cuttle,' said Mrs MacStinger, with a
sharp stress on the first syllable of the Captain's name, 'to take on for -
and to lose sleep for- and to faint along of- and to think dead forsooth -
and to go up and down the blessed town like a madwoman, asking questions
after! Oh, a pretty sort of a man! Ha ha ha ha! He's worth all that trouble
and distress of mind, and much more. That's nothing, bless you! Ha ha ha ha!
Cap'en Cuttle,' said Mrs MacStinger, with severe reaction in her voice and
manner, 'I wish to know if you're a-coming home.
The frightened Captain looked into his hat, as if he saw nothing for it
but to put it on, and give himself up.
'Cap'en Cuttle,' repeated Mrs MacStinger, in the same determined
manner, 'I wish to know if you're a-coming home, Sir.'
The Captain seemed quite ready to go, but faintly suggested something
to the effect of 'not making so much noise about it.'
'Ay, ay, ay,' said Bunsby, in a soothing tone. 'Awast, my lass, awast!'
'And who may you be, if you please!' retorted Mrs MacStinger, with
chaste loftiness. 'Did you ever lodge at Number Nine, Brig Place, Sir? My
memory may be bad, but not with me, I think. There was a Mrs Jollson lived
at Number Nine before me, and perhaps you're mistaking me for her. That is
my only ways of accounting for your familiarity, Sir.'
'Come, come, my lass, awast, awast!' said Bunsby.
Captain Cuttle could hardly believe it, even of this great man, though
he saw it done with his waking eyes; but Bunsby, advancing boldly, put his
shaggy blue arm round Mrs MacStinger, and so softened her by his magic way
of doing it, and by these few words - he said no more - that she melted into
tears, after looking upon him for a few moments, and observed that a child
might conquer her now, she was so low in her courage.
Speechless and utterly amazed, the Captain saw him gradually persuade
this inexorable woman into the shop, return for rum and water and a candle,
take them to her, and pacify her without appearing to utter one word.
Presently he looked in with his pilot-coat on, and said, 'Cuttle, I'm
a-going to act as convoy home;' and Captain Cuttle, more to his confusion
than if he had been put in irons himself, for safe transport to Brig Place,
saw the family pacifically filing off, with Mrs MacStinger at their head. He
had scarcely time to take down his canister, and stealthily convey some
money into the hands of Juliana MacStinger, his former favourite, and
Chowley, who had the claim upon him that he was naturally of a maritime
build, before the Midshipman was abandoned by them all; and Bunsby
whispering that he'd carry on smart, and hail Ned Cuttle again before he
went aboard, shut the door upon himself, as the last member of the party.
Some uneasy ideas that he must be walking in his sleep, or that he had
been troubled with phantoms, and not a family of flesh and blood, beset the
Captain at first, when he went back to the little parlour, and found himself
alone. Illimitable faith in, and immeasurable admiration of, the Commander
of the Cautious Clara, succeeded, and threw the Captain into a wondering
trance.
Still, as time wore on, and Bunsby failed to reappear, the Captain
began to entertain uncomfortable doubts of another kind. Whether Bunsby had
been artfully decoyed to Brig Place, and was there detained in safe custody
as hostage for his friend; in which case it would become the Captain, as a
man of honour, to release him, by the sacrifice of his own liberty. Whether
he had been attacked and defeated by Mrs MacStinger, and was ashamed to show
himself after his discomfiture. Whether Mrs MacStinger, thinking better of
it, in the uncertainty of her temper, had turned back to board the
Midshipman again, and Bunsby, pretending to conduct her by a short cut, was
endeavouring to lose the family amid the wilds and savage places of the
City. Above all, what it would behove him, Captain Cuttle, to do, in case of
his hearing no more, either of the MacStingers or of Bunsby, which, in these
wonderful and unforeseen conjunctions of events, might possibly happen.
He debated all this until he was tired; and still no Bunsby. He made up
his bed under the counter, all ready for turning in; and still no Bunsby. At
length, when the Captain had given him up, for that night at least, and had
begun to undress, the sound of approaching wheels was heard, and, stopping
at the door, was succeeded by Bunsby's hail.
The Captain trembled to think that Mrs MacStinger was not to be got rid
of, and had been brought back in a coach.
But no. Bunsby was accompanied by nothing but a large box, which he
hauled into the shop with his own hands, and as soon as he had hauled in,
sat upon. Captain Cuttle knew it for the chest he had left at Mrs
MacStinger's house, and looking, candle in hand, at Bunsby more attentively,
believed that he was three sheets in the wind, or, in plain words, drunk. It
was difficult, however, to be sure of this; the Commander having no trace of
expression in his face when sober.
'Cuttle,' said the Commander, getting off the chest, and opening the
lid, 'are these here your traps?'
Captain Cuttle looked in and identified his property.
'Done pretty taut and trim, hey, shipmet?' said Bunsby.
The grateful and bewildered Captain grasped him by the hand, and was
launching into a reply expressive of his astonished feelings, when Bunsby
disengaged himself by a jerk of his wrist, and seemed to make an effort to
wink with his revolving eye, the only effect of which attempt, in his
condition, was nearly to over-balance him. He then abruptly opened the door,
and shot away to rejoin the Cautious Clara with all speed - supposed to be
his invariable custom, whenever he considered he had made a point.
As it was not his humour to be often sought, Captain Cuttle decided not
to go or send to him next day, or until he should make his gracious pleasure
known in such wise, or failing that, until some little time should have
lapsed. The Captain, therefore, renewed his solitary life next morning, and
thought profoundly, many mornings, noons, and nights, of old Sol Gills, and
Bunsby's sentiments concerning him, and the hopes there were of his return.
Much of such thinking strengthened Captain Cuttle's hopes; and he humoured
them and himself by watching for the Instrument-maker at the door - as he
ventured to do now, in his strange liberty - and setting his chair in its
place, and arranging the little parlour as it used to be, in case he should
come home unexpectedly. He likewise, in his thoughtfulness, took down a
certain little miniature of Walter as a schoolboy, from its accustomed nail,
lest it should shock the old man on his return. The Captain had his
presentiments, too, sometimes, that he would come on such a day; and one
particular Sunday, even ordered a double allowance of dinner, he was so
sanguine. But come, old Solomon did not; and still the neighbours noticed
how the seafaring man in the glazed hat, stood at the shop-door of an
evening, looking up and down the street.
Domestic Relations
It was not in the nature of things that a man of Mr Dombey's mood,
opposed to such a spirit as he had raised against himself, should be
softened in the imperious asperity of his temper; or that the cold hard
armour of pride in which he lived encased, should be made more flexible by
constant collision with haughty scorn and defiance. It is the curse of such
a nature - it is a main part of the heavy retribution on itself it bears
within itself - that while deference and concession swell its evil
qualities, and are the food it grows upon, resistance and a questioning of
its exacting claims, foster it too, no less. The evil that is in it finds
equally its means of growth and propagation in opposites. It draws support
and life from sweets and bitters; bowed down before, or unacknowledged, it
still enslaves the breast in which it has its throne; and, worshipped or
rejected, is as hard a master as the Devil in dark fables.
Towards his first wife, Mr Dombey, in his cold and lofty arrogance, had
borne himself like the removed Being he almost conceived himself to be. He
had been 'Mr Dombey' with her when she first saw him, and he was 'Mr Dombey'
when she died. He had asserted his greatness during their whole married
life, and she had meekly recognised it. He had kept his distant seat of
state on the top of his throne, and she her humble station on its lowest
step; and much good it had done him, so to live in solitary bondage to his
one idea. He had imagined that the proud character of his second wife would
have been added to his own - would have merged into it, and exalted his
greatness. He had pictured himself haughtier than ever, with Edith's
haughtiness subservient to his. He had never entertained the possibility of
its arraying itself against him. And now, when he found it rising in his
path at every step and turn of his daily life, fixing its cold, defiant, and
contemptuous face upon him, this pride of his, instead of withering, or
hanging down its head beneath the shock, put forth new shoots, became more
concentrated and intense, more gloomy, sullen, irksome, and unyielding, than
it had ever been before.
Who wears such armour, too, bears with him ever another heavy
retribution. It is of proof against conciliation, love, and confidence;
against all gentle sympathy from without, all trust, all tenderness, all
soft emotion; but to deep stabs in the self-love, it is as vulnerable as the
bare breast to steel; and such tormenting festers rankle there, as follow on
no other wounds, no, though dealt with the mailed hand of Pride itself, on
weaker pride, disarmed and thrown down.
Such wounds were his. He felt them sharply, in the solitude of his old
rooms; whither he now began often to retire again, and pass long solitary
hours. It seemed his fate to be ever proud and powerful; ever humbled and
powerless where he would be most strong. Who seemed fated to work out that
doom?
Who? Who was it who could win his wife as she had won his boy? Who was
it who had shown him that new victory, as he sat in the dark corner? Who was
it whose least word did what his utmost means could not? Who was it who,
unaided by his love, regard or notice, thrived and grew beautiful when those
so aided died? Who could it be, but the same child at whom he had often
glanced uneasily in her motherless infancy, with a kind of dread, lest he
might come to hate her; and of whom his foreboding was fulfilled, for he DID
hate her in his heart?
Yes, and he would have it hatred, and he made it hatred, though some
sparkles of the light in which she had appeared before him on the memorable
night of his return home with his Bride, occasionally hung about her still.
He knew now that she was beautiful; he did not dispute that she was graceful
and winning, and that in the bright dawn of her womanhood she had come upon
him, a surprise. But he turned even this against her. In his sullen and
unwholesome brooding, the unhappy man, with a dull perception of his
alienation from all hearts, and a vague yearning for what he had all his
life repelled, made a distorted picture of his rights and wrongs, and
justified himself with it against her. The worthier she promised to be of
him, the greater claim he was disposed to antedate upon her duty and
submission. When had she ever shown him duty and submission? Did she grace
his life - or Edith's? Had her attractions been manifested first to him - or
Edith? Why, he and she had never been, from her birth, like father and
child! They had always been estranged. She had crossed him every way and
everywhere. She was leagued against him now. Her very beauty softened
natures that were obdurate to him, and insulted him with an unnatural
triumph.
It may have been that in all this there were mutterings of an awakened
feeling in his breast, however selfishly aroused by his position of
disadvantage, in comparison with what she might have made his life. But he
silenced the distant thunder with the rolling of his sea of pride. He would
bear nothing but his pride. And in his pride, a heap of inconsistency, and
misery, and self-inflicted torment, he hated her.
To the moody, stubborn, sullen demon, that possessed him, his wife
opposed her different pride in its full force. They never could have led a
happy life together; but nothing could have made it more unhappy, than the
wilful and determined warfare of such elements. His pride was set upon
maintaining his magnificent supremacy, and forcing recognition of it from
her. She would have been racked to death, and turned but her haughty glance
of calm inflexible disdain upon him, to the last. Such recognition from
Edith! He little knew through what a storm and struggle she had been driven
onward to the crowning honour of his hand. He little knew how much she
thought she had conceded, when she suffered him to call her wife.
Mr Dombey was resolved to show her that he was supreme. There must be
no will but his. Proud he desired that she should be, but she must be proud
for, not against him. As he sat alone, hardening, he would often hear her go
out and come home, treading the round of London life with no more heed of
his liking or disliking, pleasure or displeasure, than if he had been her
groom. Her cold supreme indifference - his own unquestioned attribute
usurped - stung him more than any other kind of treatment could have done;
and he determined to bend her to his magnificent and stately will.
He had been long communing with these thoughts, when one night he
sought her in her own apartment, after he had heard her return home late.
She was alone, in her brilliant dress, and had but that moment come from her
mother's room. Her face was melancholy and pensive, when he came upon her;
but it marked him at the door; for, glancing at the mirror before it, he saw
immediately, as in a picture-frame, the knitted brow, and darkened beauty
that he knew so well.
'Mrs Dombey,' he said, entering, 'I must beg leave to have a few words
with you.'
'To-morrow,' she replied.
'There is no time like the present, Madam,' he returned. 'You mistake
your position. I am used to choose my own times; not to have them chosen for
me. I think you scarcely understand who and what I am, Mrs Dombey.
'I think,' she answered, 'that I understand you very well.'
She looked upon him as she said so, and folding her white arms,
sparkling with gold and gems, upon her swelling breast, turned away her
eyes.
If she had been less handsome, and less stately in her cold composure,
she might not have had the power of impressing him with the sense of
disadvantage that penetrated through his utmost pride. But she had the
power, and he felt it keenly. He glanced round the room: saw how the
splendid means of personal adornment, and the luxuries of dress, were
scattered here and there, and disregarded; not in mere caprice and
carelessness (or so he thought), but in a steadfast haughty disregard of
costly things: and felt it more and more. Chaplets of flowers, plumes of
feathers, jewels, laces, silks and satins; look where he would, he saw
riches, despised, poured out, and. made of no account. The very diamonds - a
marriage gift - that rose and fell impatiently upon her bosom, seemed to
pant to break the chain that clasped them round her neck, and roll down on
the floor where she might tread upon them.
He felt his disadvantage, and he showed it. Solemn and strange among
this wealth of colour and voluptuous glitter, strange and constrained
towards its haughty mistress, whose repellent beauty it repeated, and
presented all around him, as in so many fragments of a mirror, he was
conscious of embarrassment and awkwardness. Nothing that ministered to her
disdainful self-possession could fail to gall him. Galled and irritated with
himself, he sat down, and went on, in no improved humour:
'Mrs Dombey, it is very necessary that there should be some
understanding arrived at between us. Your conduct does not please me,
Madam.'
She merely glanced at him again, and again averted her eyes; but she
might have spoken for an hour, and expressed less.
'I repeat, Mrs Dombey, does not please me. I have already taken
occasion to request that it may be corrected. I now insist upon it.'
'You chose a fitting occasion for your first remonstrance, Sir, and you
adopt a fitting manner, and a fitting word for your second. You insist! To
me!'
'Madam,' said Mr Dombey, with his most offensive air of state, 'I have
made you my wife. You bear my name. You are associated with my position and
my reputation. I will not say that the world in general may be disposed to
think you honoured by that association; but I will say that I am accustomed
to "insist," to my connexions and dependents.'
'Which may you be pleased to consider me? she asked.
'Possibly I may think that my wife should partake - or does partake,
and cannot help herself - of both characters, Mrs Dombey.'
She bent her eyes upon him steadily, and set her trembling lips. He saw
her bosom throb, and saw her face flush and turn white. All this he could
know, and did: but he could not know that one word was whispering in the
deep recesses of her heart, to keep her quiet; and that the word was
Florence.
Blind idiot, rushing to a precipice! He thought she stood in awe of
him.
'You are too expensive, Madam,' said Mr Dombey. 'You are extravagant.
You waste a great deal of money - or what would be a great deal in the
pockets of most gentlemen - in cultivating a kind of society that is useless
to me, and, indeed, that upon the whole is disagreeable to me. I have to
insist upon a total change in all these respects. I know that in the novelty
of possessing a tithe of such means as Fortune has placed at your disposal,
ladies are apt to run into a sudden extreme. There has been more than enough
of that extreme. I beg that Mrs Granger's very different experiences may now
come to the instruction of Mrs Dombey.'
Still the fixed look, the trembling lips, the throbbing breast, the
face now crimson and now white; and still the deep whisper Florence,
Florence, speaking to her in the beating of her heart.
His insolence of self-importance dilated as he saw this alteration in
her. Swollen no less by her past scorn of him, and his so recent feeling of
disadvantage, than by her present submission (as he took it to be), it
became too mighty for his breast, and burst all bounds. Why, who could long
resist his lofty will and pleasure! He had resolved to conquer her, and look
here!
'You will further please, Madam,' said Mr Dombey, in a tone of
sovereign command, 'to understand distinctly, that I am to be deferred to
and obeyed. That I must have a positive show and confession of deference
before the world, Madam. I am used to this. I require it as my right. In
short I will have it. I consider it no unreasonable return for the worldly
advancement that has befallen you; and I believe nobody will be surprised,
either at its being required from you, or at your making it. - To Me - To
Me!' he added, with emphasis.
No word from her. No change in her. Her eyes upon him.
'I have learnt from your mother, Mrs Dombey,' said Mr Dombey, with
magisterial importance, what no doubt you know, namely, that Brighton is
recommended for her health. Mr Carker has been so good
She changed suddenly. Her face and bosom glowed as if the red light of
an angry sunset had been flung upon them. Not unobservant of the change, and
putting his own interpretation upon it, Mr Dombey resumed:
'Mr Carker has been so good as to go down and secure a house there, for
a time. On the return of the establishment to London, I shall take such
steps for its better management as I consider necessary. One of these, will
be the engagement at Brighton (if it is to be effected), of a very
respectable reduced person there, a Mrs Pipchin, formerly employed in a
situation of trust in my family, to act as housekeeper. An establishment
like this, presided over but nominally, Mrs Dombey, requires a competent
head.'
She had changed her attitude before he arrived at these words, and now
sat - still looking at him fixedly - turning a bracelet round and round upon
her arm; not winding it about with a light, womanly touch, but pressing and
dragging it over the smooth skin, until the white limb showed a bar of red.
'I observed,' said Mr Dombey - 'and this concludes what I deem it
necessary to say to you at present, Mrs Dombey - I observed a moment ago,
Madam, that my allusion to Mr Carker was received in a peculiar manner. On
the occasion of my happening to point out to you, before that confidential
agent, the objection I had to your mode of receiving my visitors, you were
pleased to object to his presence. You will have to get the better of that
objection, Madam, and to accustom yourself to it very probably on many
similar occasions; unless you adopt the remedy which is in your own hands,
of giving me no cause of complaint. Mr Carker,' said Mr Dombey, who, after
the emotion he had just seen, set great store by this means of reducing his
proud wife, and who was perhaps sufficiently willing to exhibit his power to
that gentleman in a new and triumphant aspect, 'Mr Carker being in my
confidence, Mrs Dombey, may very well be in yours to such an extent. I hope,
Mrs Dombey,' he continued, after a few moments, during which, in his
increasing haughtiness, he had improved on his idea, 'I may not find it
necessary ever to entrust Mr Carker with any message of objection or
remonstrance to you; but as it would be derogatory to my position and
reputation to be frequently holding trivial disputes with a lady upon whom I
have conferred the highest distinction that it is in my power to bestow, I
shall not scruple to avail myself of his services if I see occasion.'
'And now,' he thought, rising in his moral magnificence, and rising a
stiffer and more impenetrable man than ever, 'she knows me and my
resolution.'
The hand that had so pressed the bracelet was laid heavily upon her
breast, but she looked at him still, with an unaltered face, and said in a
low voice:
'Wait! For God's sake! I must speak to you.'
Why did she not, and what was the inward struggle that rendered her
incapable of doing so, for minutes, while, in the strong constraint she put
upon her face, it was as fixed as any statue's - looking upon him with
neither yielding nor unyielding, liking nor hatred, pride not humility:
nothing but a searching gaze?
'Did I ever tempt you to seek my hand? Did I ever use any art to win
you? Was I ever more conciliating to you when you pursued me, than I have
been since our marriage? Was I ever other to you than I am?'
'It is wholly unnecessary, Madam,' said Mr Dombey, 'to enter upon such
discussions.'
'Did you think I loved you? Did you know I did not? Did you ever care,
Man! for my heart, or propose to yourself to win the worthless thing? Was
there any poor pretence of any in our bargain? Upon your side, or on mine?'
'These questions,' said Mr Dombey, 'are all wide of the purpose,
Madam.'
She moved between him and the door to prevent his going away, and
drawing her majestic figure to its height, looked steadily upon him still.
'You answer each of them. You answer me before I speak, I see. How can
you help it; you who know the miserable truth as well as I? Now, tell me. If
I loved you to devotion, could I do more than render up my whole will and
being to you, as you have just demanded? If my heart were pure and all
untried, and you its idol, could you ask more; could you have more?'
'Possibly not, Madam,' he returned coolly.
'You know how different I am. You see me looking on you now, and you
can read the warmth of passion for you that is breathing in my face.' Not a
curl of the proud lip, not a flash of the dark eye, nothing but the same
intent and searching look, accompanied these words. 'You know my general
history. You have spoken of my mother. Do you think you can degrade, or bend
or break, me to submission and obedience?'
Mr Dombey smiled, as he might have smiled at an inquiry whether he
thought he could raise ten thousand pounds.
'If there is anything unusual here,' she said, with a slight motion of
her hand before her brow, which did not for a moment flinch from its
immovable and otherwise expressionless gaze, 'as I know there are unusual
feelings here,' raising the hand she pressed upon her bosom, and heavily
returning it, 'consider that there is no common meaning in the appeal I am
going to make you. Yes, for I am going;' she said it as in prompt reply to
something in his face; 'to appeal to you.'
Mr Dombey, with a slightly condescending bend of his chin that rustled
and crackled his stiff cravat, sat down on a sofa that was near him, to hear
the appeal.
'If you can believe that I am of such a nature now,' - he fancied he
saw tears glistening in her eyes, and he thought, complacently, that he had
forced them from her, though none fell on her cheek, and she regarded him as
steadily as ever, - 'as would make what I now say almost incredible to
myself, said to any man who had become my husband, but, above all, said to
you, you may, perhaps, attach the greater weight to it. In the dark end to
which we are tending, and may come, we shall not involve ourselves alone
(that might not be much) but others.'
Others! He knew at whom that word pointed, and frowned heavily.
'I speak to you for the sake of others. Also your own sake; and for
mine. Since our marriage, you have been arrogant to me; and I have repaid
you in kind. You have shown to me and everyone around us, every day and
hour, that you think I am graced and distinguished by your alliance. I do
not think so, and have shown that too. It seems you do not understand, or
(so far as your power can go) intend that each of us shall take a separate
course; and you expect from me instead, a homage you will never have.'
Although her face was still the same, there was emphatic confirmation
of this 'Never' in the very breath she drew.
'I feel no tenderness towards you; that you know. You would care
nothing for it, if I did or could. I know as well that you feel none towards
me. But we are linked together; and in the knot that ties us, as I have
said, others are bound up. We must both die; we are both connected with the
dead already, each by a little child. Let us forbear.'
Mr Dombey took a long respiration, as if he would have said, Oh! was
this all!
'There is no wealth,' she went on, turning paler as she watched him,
while her eyes grew yet more lustrous in their earnestness, 'that could buy
these words of me, and the meaning that belongs to them. Once cast away as
idle breath, no wealth or power can bring them back. I mean them; I have
weighed them; and I will be true to what I undertake. If you will promise to
forbear on your part, I will promise to forbear on mine. We are a most
unhappy pair, in whom, from different causes, every sentiment that blesses
marriage, or justifies it, is rooted out; but in the course of time, some
friendship, or some fitness for each other, may arise between us. I will try
to hope so, if you will make the endeavour too; and I will look forward to a
better and a happier use of age than I have made of youth or prime.
Throughout she had spoken in a low plain voice, that neither rose nor
fell; ceasing, she dropped the hand with which she had enforced herself to
be so passionless and distinct, but not the eyes with which she had so
steadily observed him.
'Madam,' said Mr Dombey, with his utmost dignity, 'I cannot entertain
any proposal of this extraordinary nature.
She looked at him yet, without the least change.
'I cannot,' said Mr Dombey, rising as he spoke, 'consent to temporise
or treat with you, Mrs Dombey, upon a subject as to which you are in
possession of my opinions and expectations. I have stated my ultimatum,
Madam, and have only to request your very serious attention to it.'
To see the face change to its old expression, deepened in intensity! To
see the eyes droop as from some mean and odious object! To see the lighting
of the haughty brow! To see scorn, anger, indignation, and abhorrence
starting into sight, and the pale blank earnestness vanish like a mist! He
could not choose but look, although he looked to his dismay.
'Go, Sir!' she said, pointing with an imperious hand towards the door.
'Our first and last confidence is at an end. Nothing can make us stranger to
each other than we are henceforth.'
'I shall take my rightful course, Madam,' said Mr Dombey, 'undeterred,
you may be sure, by any general declamation.'
She turned her back upon him, and, without reply, sat down before her
glass.
'I place my reliance on your improved sense of duty, and more correct
feeling, and better reflection, Madam,' said Mr Dombey.
She answered not one word. He saw no more expression of any heed of
him, in the mirror, than if he had been an unseen spider on the wall, or
beetle on the floor, or rather, than if he had been the one or other, seen
and crushed when she last turned from him, and forgotten among the
ignominious and dead vermin of the ground.
He looked back, as he went out at the door, upon the well-lighted and
luxurious room, the beautiful and glittering objects everywhere displayed,
the shape of Edith in its rich dress seated before her glass, and the face
of Edith as the glass presented it to him; and betook himself to his old
chamber of cogitation, carrying away with him a vivid picture in his mind of
all these things, and a rambling and unaccountable speculation (such as
sometimes comes into a man's head) how they would all look when he saw them
next.
For the rest, Mr Dombey was very taciturn, and very dignified, and very
confident of carrying out his purpose; and remained so.
He did not design accompanying the family to Brighton; but he
graciously informed Cleopatra at breakfast, on the morning of departure,
which arrived a day or two afterwards, that he might be expected down, soon.
There was no time to be lost in getting Cleopatra to any place recommended
as being salutary; for, indeed, she seemed upon the wane, and turning of the
earth, earthy.
Without having undergone any decided second attack of her malady, the
old woman seemed to have crawled backward in her recovery from the first.
She was more lean and shrunken, more uncertain in her imbecility, and made
stranger confusions in her mind and memory. Among other symptoms of this
last affliction, she fell into the habit of confounding the names of her two
sons-in-law, the living and the deceased; and in general called Mr Dombey,
either 'Grangeby,' or 'Domber,' or indifferently, both.
But she was youthful, very youthful still; and in her youthfulness
appeared at breakfast, before going away, in a new bonnet made express, and
a travelling robe that was embroidered and braided like an old baby's. It
was not easy to put her into a fly-away bonnet now, or to keep the bonnet in
its place on the back of her poor nodding head, when it was got on. In this
instance, it had not only the extraneous effect of being always on one side,
but of being perpetually tapped on the crown by Flowers the maid, who
attended in the background during breakfast to perform that duty.
'Now, my dearest Grangeby,' said Mrs Skewton, 'you must posively prom,'
she cut some of her words short, and cut out others altogether, 'come down
very soon.'
'I said just now, Madam,' returned Mr Dombey, loudly and laboriously,
'that I am coming in a day or two.'
'Bless you, Domber!'
Here the Major, who was come to take leave of the ladies, and who was
staring through his apoplectic eyes at Mrs Skewton's face with the
disinterested composure of an immortal being, said:
'Begad, Ma'am, you don't ask old Joe to come!'
'Sterious wretch, who's he?' lisped Cleopatra. But a tap on the bonnet
from Flowers seeming to jog her memory, she added, 'Oh! You mean yourself,
you naughty creature!'
'Devilish queer, Sir,' whispered the Major to Mr Dombey. 'Bad case.
Never did wrap up enough;' the Major being buttoned to the chin. 'Why who
should J. B. mean by Joe, but old Joe Bagstock - Joseph - your slave - Joe,
Ma'am? Here! Here's the man! Here are the Bagstock bellows, Ma'am!' cried
the Major, striking himself a sounding blow on the chest.
'My dearest Edith - Grangeby - it's most trordinry thing,' said
Cleopatra, pettishly, 'that Major - '
'Bagstock! J. B.!' cried the Major, seeing that she faltered for his
name.
'Well, it don't matter,' said Cleopatra. 'Edith, my love, you know I
never could remember names - what was it? oh! - most trordinry thing that so
many people want to come down to see me. I'm not going for long. I'm coming
back. Surely they can wait, till I come back!'
Cleopatra looked all round the table as she said it, and appeared very
uneasy.
'I won't have Vistors - really don't want visitors,' she said; 'little
repose - and all that sort of thing - is what I quire. No odious brutes must
proach me till I've shaken off this numbness;' and in a grisly resumption of
her coquettish ways, she made a dab at the Major with her fan, but overset
Mr Dombey's breakfast cup instead, which was in quite a different direction.
Then she called for Withers, and charged him to see particularly that
word was left about some trivial alterations in her room, which must be all
made before she came back, and which must be set about immediately, as there
was no saying how soon she might come back; for she had a great many
engagements, and all sorts of people to call upon. Withers received these
directions with becoming deference, and gave his guarantee for their
execution; but when he withdrew a pace or two behind her, it appeared as if
he couldn't help looking strangely at the Major, who couldn't help looking
strangely at Mr Dombey, who couldn't help looking strangely at Cleopatra,
who couldn't help nodding her bonnet over one eye, and rattling her knife
and fork upon her plate in using them, as if she were playing castanets.
Edith alone never lifted her eyes to any face at the table, and never
seemed dismayed by anything her mother said or did. She listened to her
disjointed talk, or at least, turned her head towards her when addressed;
replied in a few low words when necessary; and sometimes stopped her when
she was rambling, or brought her thoughts back with a monosyllable, to the
point from which they had strayed. The mother, however unsteady in other
things, was constant in this - that she was always observant of her. She
would look at the beautiful face, in its marble stillness and severity, now
with a kind of fearful admiration; now in a giggling foolish effort to move
it to a smile; now with capricious tears and jealous shakings of her head,
as imagining herself neglected by it; always with an attraction towards it,
that never fluctuated like her other ideas, but had constant possession of
her. From Edith she would sometimes look at Florence, and back again at
Edith, in a manner that was wild enough; and sometimes she would try to look
elsewhere, as if to escape from her daughter's face; but back to it she
seemed forced to come, although it never sought hers unless sought, or
troubled her with one single glance.
The best concluded, Mrs Skewton, affecting to lean girlishly upon the
Major's arm, but heavily supported on the other side by Flowers the maid,
and propped up behind by Withers the page, was conducted to the carriage,
will ever read these words, or gladden your eyes with the sight of his frank
face any more." No, no; no more,' said Captain Cuttle, sorrowfully
meditating; 'no more. There he lays, all his days - '
Mr Bunsby, who had a musical ear, suddenly bellowed, 'In the Bays of
Biscay, O!' which so affected the good Captain, as an appropriate tribute to
departed worth, that he shook him by the hand in acknowledgment, and was
fain to wipe his eyes.
'Well, well!' said the Captain with a sigh, as the Lament of Bunsby
ceased to ring and vibrate in the skylight. 'Affliction sore, long time he
bore, and let us overhaul the wollume, and there find it.'
'Physicians,' observed Bunsby, 'was in vain."
'Ay, ay, to be sure,' said the Captain, 'what's the good o' them in two
or three hundred fathoms o' water!' Then, returning to the letter, he read
on: - '"But if he should be by, when it is opened;"' the Captain
involuntarily looked round, and shook his head; '"or should know of it at
any other time;"' the Captain shook his head again; '"my blessing on him! In
case the accompanying paper is not legally written, it matters very little,
for there is no one interested but you and he, and my plain wish is, that if
he is living he should have what little there may be, and if (as I fear)
otherwise, that you should have it, Ned. You will respect my wish, I know.
God bless you for it, and for all your friendliness besides, to Solomon
Gills." Bunsby!' said the Captain, appealing to him solemnly, 'what do you
make of this? There you sit, a man as has had his head broke from infancy
up'ards, and has got a new opinion into it at every seam as has been opened.
Now, what do you make o' this?'
'If so be,' returned Bunsby, with unusual promptitude, 'as he's dead,
my opinion is he won't come back no more. If so be as he's alive, my opinion
is he will. Do I say he will? No. Why not? Because the bearings of this
obserwation lays in the application on it.'
'Bunsby!' said Captain Cuttle, who would seem to have estimated the
value of his distinguished friend's opinions in proportion to the immensity
of the difficulty he experienced in making anything out of them; 'Bunsby,'
said the Captain, quite confounded by admiration, 'you carry a weight of
mind easy, as would swamp one of my tonnage soon. But in regard o' this here
will, I don't mean to take no steps towards the property - Lord forbid! -
except to keep it for a more rightful owner; and I hope yet as the rightful
owner, Sol Gills, is living and'll come back, strange as it is that he ain't
forwarded no dispatches. Now, what is your opinion, Bunsby, as to stowing of
these here papers away again, and marking outside as they was opened, such a
day, in the presence of John Bunsby and Ed'ard Cuttle?'
Bunsby, descrying no objection, on the coast of Greenland or elsewhere,
to this proposal, it was carried into execution; and that great man,
bringing his eye into the present for a moment, affixed his sign-manual to
the cover, totally abstaining, with characteristic modesty, from the use of
capital letters. Captain Cuttle, having attached his own left-handed
signature, and locked up the packet in the iron safe, entreated his guest to
mix another glass and smoke another pipe; and doing the like himself, fell a
musing over the fire on the possible fortunes of the poor old
Instrument-maker.
And now a surprise occurred, so overwhelming and terrific that Captain
Cuttle, unsupported by the presence of Bunsby, must have sunk beneath it,
and been a lost man from that fatal hour.
How the Captain, even in the satisfaction of admitting such a guest,
could have only shut the door, and not locked it, of which negligence he was
undoubtedly guilty, is one of those questions that must for ever remain mere
points of speculation, or vague charges against destiny. But by that
unlocked door, at this quiet moment, did the fell MacStinger dash into the
parlour, bringing Alexander MacStinger in her parental arms, and confusion
and vengeance (not to mention Juliana MacStinger, and the sweet child's
brother, Charles MacStinger, popularly known about the scenes of his
youthful sports, as Chowley) in her train. She came so swiftly and so
silently, like a rushing air from the neighbourhood of the East India Docks,
that Captain Cuttle found himself in the very act of sitting looking at her,
before the calm face with which he had been meditating, changed to one of
horror and dismay.
But the moment Captain Cuttle understood the full extent of his
misfortune, self-preservation dictated an attempt at flight. Darting at the
little door which opened from the parlour on the steep little range of
cellar-steps, the Captain made a rush, head-foremost, at the latter, like a
man indifferent to bruises and contusions, who only sought to hide himself
in the bowels of the earth. In this gallant effort he would probably have
succeeded, but for the affectionate dispositions of Juliana and Chowley, who
pinning him by the legs - one of those dear children holding on to each -
claimed him as their friend, with lamentable cries. In the meantime, Mrs
MacStinger, who never entered upon any action of importance without
previously inverting Alexander MacStinger, to bring him within the range of
a brisk battery of slaps, and then sitting him down to cool as the reader
first beheld him, performed that solemn rite, as if on this occasion it were
a sacrifice to the Furies; and having deposited the victim on the floor,
made at the Captain with a strength of purpose that appeared to threaten
scratches to the interposing Bunsby.
The cries of the two elder MacStingers, and the wailing of young
Alexander, who may be said to have passed a piebald childhood, forasmuch as
he was black in the face during one half of that fairy period of existence,
combined to make this visitation the more awful. But when silence reigned
again, and the Captain, in a violent perspiration, stood meekly looking at
Mrs MacStinger, its terrors were at their height.
'Oh, Cap'en Cuttle, Cap'en Cuttle!' said Mrs MacStinger, making her
chin rigid, and shaking it in unison with what, but for the weakness of her
sex, might be described as her fist. 'Oh, Cap'en Cuttle, Cap'en Cuttle, do
you dare to look me in the face, and not be struck down in the herth!'
The Captain, who looked anything but daring, feebly muttered 'Standby!'
'Oh I was a weak and trusting Fool when I took you under my roof,
Cap'en Cuttle, I was!' cried Mrs MacStinger. 'To think of the benefits I've
showered on that man, and the way in which I brought my children up to love
and honour him as if he was a father to 'em, when there ain't a housekeeper,
no nor a lodger in our street, don't know that I lost money by that man, and
by his guzzlings and his muzzlings' - Mrs MacStinger used the last word for
the joint sake of alliteration and aggravation, rather than for the
expression of any idea - 'and when they cried out one and all, shame upon
him for putting upon an industrious woman, up early and late for the good of
her young family, and keeping her poor place so clean that a individual
might have ate his dinner, yes, and his tea too, if he was so disposed, off
any one of the floors or stairs, in spite of all his guzzlings and his
muzzlings, such was the care and pains bestowed upon him!'
Mrs MacStinger stopped to fetch her breath; and her face flushed with
triumph in this second happy introduction of Captain Cuttle's muzzlings.
'And he runs awa-a-a-y!'cried Mrs MacStinger, with a lengthening out of
the last syllable that made the unfortunate Captain regard himself as the
meanest of men; 'and keeps away a twelve-month! From a woman! Such is his
conscience! He hasn't the courage to meet her hi-i-igh;' long syllable
again; 'but steals away, like a felion. Why, if that baby of mine,' said Mrs
MacStinger, with sudden rapidity, 'was to offer to go and steal away, I'd do
my duty as a mother by him, till he was covered with wales!'
The young Alexander, interpreting this into a positive promise, to be
shortly redeemed, tumbled over with fear and grief, and lay upon the floor,
exhibiting the soles of his shoes and making such a deafening outcry, that
Mrs MacStinger found it necessary to take him up in her arms, where she
quieted him, ever and anon, as he broke out again, by a shake that seemed
enough to loosen his teeth.
'A pretty sort of a man is Cap'en Cuttle,' said Mrs MacStinger, with a
sharp stress on the first syllable of the Captain's name, 'to take on for -
and to lose sleep for- and to faint along of- and to think dead forsooth -
and to go up and down the blessed town like a madwoman, asking questions
after! Oh, a pretty sort of a man! Ha ha ha ha! He's worth all that trouble
and distress of mind, and much more. That's nothing, bless you! Ha ha ha ha!
Cap'en Cuttle,' said Mrs MacStinger, with severe reaction in her voice and
manner, 'I wish to know if you're a-coming home.
The frightened Captain looked into his hat, as if he saw nothing for it
but to put it on, and give himself up.
'Cap'en Cuttle,' repeated Mrs MacStinger, in the same determined
manner, 'I wish to know if you're a-coming home, Sir.'
The Captain seemed quite ready to go, but faintly suggested something
to the effect of 'not making so much noise about it.'
'Ay, ay, ay,' said Bunsby, in a soothing tone. 'Awast, my lass, awast!'
'And who may you be, if you please!' retorted Mrs MacStinger, with
chaste loftiness. 'Did you ever lodge at Number Nine, Brig Place, Sir? My
memory may be bad, but not with me, I think. There was a Mrs Jollson lived
at Number Nine before me, and perhaps you're mistaking me for her. That is
my only ways of accounting for your familiarity, Sir.'
'Come, come, my lass, awast, awast!' said Bunsby.
Captain Cuttle could hardly believe it, even of this great man, though
he saw it done with his waking eyes; but Bunsby, advancing boldly, put his
shaggy blue arm round Mrs MacStinger, and so softened her by his magic way
of doing it, and by these few words - he said no more - that she melted into
tears, after looking upon him for a few moments, and observed that a child
might conquer her now, she was so low in her courage.
Speechless and utterly amazed, the Captain saw him gradually persuade
this inexorable woman into the shop, return for rum and water and a candle,
take them to her, and pacify her without appearing to utter one word.
Presently he looked in with his pilot-coat on, and said, 'Cuttle, I'm
a-going to act as convoy home;' and Captain Cuttle, more to his confusion
than if he had been put in irons himself, for safe transport to Brig Place,
saw the family pacifically filing off, with Mrs MacStinger at their head. He
had scarcely time to take down his canister, and stealthily convey some
money into the hands of Juliana MacStinger, his former favourite, and
Chowley, who had the claim upon him that he was naturally of a maritime
build, before the Midshipman was abandoned by them all; and Bunsby
whispering that he'd carry on smart, and hail Ned Cuttle again before he
went aboard, shut the door upon himself, as the last member of the party.
Some uneasy ideas that he must be walking in his sleep, or that he had
been troubled with phantoms, and not a family of flesh and blood, beset the
Captain at first, when he went back to the little parlour, and found himself
alone. Illimitable faith in, and immeasurable admiration of, the Commander
of the Cautious Clara, succeeded, and threw the Captain into a wondering
trance.
Still, as time wore on, and Bunsby failed to reappear, the Captain
began to entertain uncomfortable doubts of another kind. Whether Bunsby had
been artfully decoyed to Brig Place, and was there detained in safe custody
as hostage for his friend; in which case it would become the Captain, as a
man of honour, to release him, by the sacrifice of his own liberty. Whether
he had been attacked and defeated by Mrs MacStinger, and was ashamed to show
himself after his discomfiture. Whether Mrs MacStinger, thinking better of
it, in the uncertainty of her temper, had turned back to board the
Midshipman again, and Bunsby, pretending to conduct her by a short cut, was
endeavouring to lose the family amid the wilds and savage places of the
City. Above all, what it would behove him, Captain Cuttle, to do, in case of
his hearing no more, either of the MacStingers or of Bunsby, which, in these
wonderful and unforeseen conjunctions of events, might possibly happen.
He debated all this until he was tired; and still no Bunsby. He made up
his bed under the counter, all ready for turning in; and still no Bunsby. At
length, when the Captain had given him up, for that night at least, and had
begun to undress, the sound of approaching wheels was heard, and, stopping
at the door, was succeeded by Bunsby's hail.
The Captain trembled to think that Mrs MacStinger was not to be got rid
of, and had been brought back in a coach.
But no. Bunsby was accompanied by nothing but a large box, which he
hauled into the shop with his own hands, and as soon as he had hauled in,
sat upon. Captain Cuttle knew it for the chest he had left at Mrs
MacStinger's house, and looking, candle in hand, at Bunsby more attentively,
believed that he was three sheets in the wind, or, in plain words, drunk. It
was difficult, however, to be sure of this; the Commander having no trace of
expression in his face when sober.
'Cuttle,' said the Commander, getting off the chest, and opening the
lid, 'are these here your traps?'
Captain Cuttle looked in and identified his property.
'Done pretty taut and trim, hey, shipmet?' said Bunsby.
The grateful and bewildered Captain grasped him by the hand, and was
launching into a reply expressive of his astonished feelings, when Bunsby
disengaged himself by a jerk of his wrist, and seemed to make an effort to
wink with his revolving eye, the only effect of which attempt, in his
condition, was nearly to over-balance him. He then abruptly opened the door,
and shot away to rejoin the Cautious Clara with all speed - supposed to be
his invariable custom, whenever he considered he had made a point.
As it was not his humour to be often sought, Captain Cuttle decided not
to go or send to him next day, or until he should make his gracious pleasure
known in such wise, or failing that, until some little time should have
lapsed. The Captain, therefore, renewed his solitary life next morning, and
thought profoundly, many mornings, noons, and nights, of old Sol Gills, and
Bunsby's sentiments concerning him, and the hopes there were of his return.
Much of such thinking strengthened Captain Cuttle's hopes; and he humoured
them and himself by watching for the Instrument-maker at the door - as he
ventured to do now, in his strange liberty - and setting his chair in its
place, and arranging the little parlour as it used to be, in case he should
come home unexpectedly. He likewise, in his thoughtfulness, took down a
certain little miniature of Walter as a schoolboy, from its accustomed nail,
lest it should shock the old man on his return. The Captain had his
presentiments, too, sometimes, that he would come on such a day; and one
particular Sunday, even ordered a double allowance of dinner, he was so
sanguine. But come, old Solomon did not; and still the neighbours noticed
how the seafaring man in the glazed hat, stood at the shop-door of an
evening, looking up and down the street.
Domestic Relations
It was not in the nature of things that a man of Mr Dombey's mood,
opposed to such a spirit as he had raised against himself, should be
softened in the imperious asperity of his temper; or that the cold hard
armour of pride in which he lived encased, should be made more flexible by
constant collision with haughty scorn and defiance. It is the curse of such
a nature - it is a main part of the heavy retribution on itself it bears
within itself - that while deference and concession swell its evil
qualities, and are the food it grows upon, resistance and a questioning of
its exacting claims, foster it too, no less. The evil that is in it finds
equally its means of growth and propagation in opposites. It draws support
and life from sweets and bitters; bowed down before, or unacknowledged, it
still enslaves the breast in which it has its throne; and, worshipped or
rejected, is as hard a master as the Devil in dark fables.
Towards his first wife, Mr Dombey, in his cold and lofty arrogance, had
borne himself like the removed Being he almost conceived himself to be. He
had been 'Mr Dombey' with her when she first saw him, and he was 'Mr Dombey'
when she died. He had asserted his greatness during their whole married
life, and she had meekly recognised it. He had kept his distant seat of
state on the top of his throne, and she her humble station on its lowest
step; and much good it had done him, so to live in solitary bondage to his
one idea. He had imagined that the proud character of his second wife would
have been added to his own - would have merged into it, and exalted his
greatness. He had pictured himself haughtier than ever, with Edith's
haughtiness subservient to his. He had never entertained the possibility of
its arraying itself against him. And now, when he found it rising in his
path at every step and turn of his daily life, fixing its cold, defiant, and
contemptuous face upon him, this pride of his, instead of withering, or
hanging down its head beneath the shock, put forth new shoots, became more
concentrated and intense, more gloomy, sullen, irksome, and unyielding, than
it had ever been before.
Who wears such armour, too, bears with him ever another heavy
retribution. It is of proof against conciliation, love, and confidence;
against all gentle sympathy from without, all trust, all tenderness, all
soft emotion; but to deep stabs in the self-love, it is as vulnerable as the
bare breast to steel; and such tormenting festers rankle there, as follow on
no other wounds, no, though dealt with the mailed hand of Pride itself, on
weaker pride, disarmed and thrown down.
Such wounds were his. He felt them sharply, in the solitude of his old
rooms; whither he now began often to retire again, and pass long solitary
hours. It seemed his fate to be ever proud and powerful; ever humbled and
powerless where he would be most strong. Who seemed fated to work out that
doom?
Who? Who was it who could win his wife as she had won his boy? Who was
it who had shown him that new victory, as he sat in the dark corner? Who was
it whose least word did what his utmost means could not? Who was it who,
unaided by his love, regard or notice, thrived and grew beautiful when those
so aided died? Who could it be, but the same child at whom he had often
glanced uneasily in her motherless infancy, with a kind of dread, lest he
might come to hate her; and of whom his foreboding was fulfilled, for he DID
hate her in his heart?
Yes, and he would have it hatred, and he made it hatred, though some
sparkles of the light in which she had appeared before him on the memorable
night of his return home with his Bride, occasionally hung about her still.
He knew now that she was beautiful; he did not dispute that she was graceful
and winning, and that in the bright dawn of her womanhood she had come upon
him, a surprise. But he turned even this against her. In his sullen and
unwholesome brooding, the unhappy man, with a dull perception of his
alienation from all hearts, and a vague yearning for what he had all his
life repelled, made a distorted picture of his rights and wrongs, and
justified himself with it against her. The worthier she promised to be of
him, the greater claim he was disposed to antedate upon her duty and
submission. When had she ever shown him duty and submission? Did she grace
his life - or Edith's? Had her attractions been manifested first to him - or
Edith? Why, he and she had never been, from her birth, like father and
child! They had always been estranged. She had crossed him every way and
everywhere. She was leagued against him now. Her very beauty softened
natures that were obdurate to him, and insulted him with an unnatural
triumph.
It may have been that in all this there were mutterings of an awakened
feeling in his breast, however selfishly aroused by his position of
disadvantage, in comparison with what she might have made his life. But he
silenced the distant thunder with the rolling of his sea of pride. He would
bear nothing but his pride. And in his pride, a heap of inconsistency, and
misery, and self-inflicted torment, he hated her.
To the moody, stubborn, sullen demon, that possessed him, his wife
opposed her different pride in its full force. They never could have led a
happy life together; but nothing could have made it more unhappy, than the
wilful and determined warfare of such elements. His pride was set upon
maintaining his magnificent supremacy, and forcing recognition of it from
her. She would have been racked to death, and turned but her haughty glance
of calm inflexible disdain upon him, to the last. Such recognition from
Edith! He little knew through what a storm and struggle she had been driven
onward to the crowning honour of his hand. He little knew how much she
thought she had conceded, when she suffered him to call her wife.
Mr Dombey was resolved to show her that he was supreme. There must be
no will but his. Proud he desired that she should be, but she must be proud
for, not against him. As he sat alone, hardening, he would often hear her go
out and come home, treading the round of London life with no more heed of
his liking or disliking, pleasure or displeasure, than if he had been her
groom. Her cold supreme indifference - his own unquestioned attribute
usurped - stung him more than any other kind of treatment could have done;
and he determined to bend her to his magnificent and stately will.
He had been long communing with these thoughts, when one night he
sought her in her own apartment, after he had heard her return home late.
She was alone, in her brilliant dress, and had but that moment come from her
mother's room. Her face was melancholy and pensive, when he came upon her;
but it marked him at the door; for, glancing at the mirror before it, he saw
immediately, as in a picture-frame, the knitted brow, and darkened beauty
that he knew so well.
'Mrs Dombey,' he said, entering, 'I must beg leave to have a few words
with you.'
'To-morrow,' she replied.
'There is no time like the present, Madam,' he returned. 'You mistake
your position. I am used to choose my own times; not to have them chosen for
me. I think you scarcely understand who and what I am, Mrs Dombey.
'I think,' she answered, 'that I understand you very well.'
She looked upon him as she said so, and folding her white arms,
sparkling with gold and gems, upon her swelling breast, turned away her
eyes.
If she had been less handsome, and less stately in her cold composure,
she might not have had the power of impressing him with the sense of
disadvantage that penetrated through his utmost pride. But she had the
power, and he felt it keenly. He glanced round the room: saw how the
splendid means of personal adornment, and the luxuries of dress, were
scattered here and there, and disregarded; not in mere caprice and
carelessness (or so he thought), but in a steadfast haughty disregard of
costly things: and felt it more and more. Chaplets of flowers, plumes of
feathers, jewels, laces, silks and satins; look where he would, he saw
riches, despised, poured out, and. made of no account. The very diamonds - a
marriage gift - that rose and fell impatiently upon her bosom, seemed to
pant to break the chain that clasped them round her neck, and roll down on
the floor where she might tread upon them.
He felt his disadvantage, and he showed it. Solemn and strange among
this wealth of colour and voluptuous glitter, strange and constrained
towards its haughty mistress, whose repellent beauty it repeated, and
presented all around him, as in so many fragments of a mirror, he was
conscious of embarrassment and awkwardness. Nothing that ministered to her
disdainful self-possession could fail to gall him. Galled and irritated with
himself, he sat down, and went on, in no improved humour:
'Mrs Dombey, it is very necessary that there should be some
understanding arrived at between us. Your conduct does not please me,
Madam.'
She merely glanced at him again, and again averted her eyes; but she
might have spoken for an hour, and expressed less.
'I repeat, Mrs Dombey, does not please me. I have already taken
occasion to request that it may be corrected. I now insist upon it.'
'You chose a fitting occasion for your first remonstrance, Sir, and you
adopt a fitting manner, and a fitting word for your second. You insist! To
me!'
'Madam,' said Mr Dombey, with his most offensive air of state, 'I have
made you my wife. You bear my name. You are associated with my position and
my reputation. I will not say that the world in general may be disposed to
think you honoured by that association; but I will say that I am accustomed
to "insist," to my connexions and dependents.'
'Which may you be pleased to consider me? she asked.
'Possibly I may think that my wife should partake - or does partake,
and cannot help herself - of both characters, Mrs Dombey.'
She bent her eyes upon him steadily, and set her trembling lips. He saw
her bosom throb, and saw her face flush and turn white. All this he could
know, and did: but he could not know that one word was whispering in the
deep recesses of her heart, to keep her quiet; and that the word was
Florence.
Blind idiot, rushing to a precipice! He thought she stood in awe of
him.
'You are too expensive, Madam,' said Mr Dombey. 'You are extravagant.
You waste a great deal of money - or what would be a great deal in the
pockets of most gentlemen - in cultivating a kind of society that is useless
to me, and, indeed, that upon the whole is disagreeable to me. I have to
insist upon a total change in all these respects. I know that in the novelty
of possessing a tithe of such means as Fortune has placed at your disposal,
ladies are apt to run into a sudden extreme. There has been more than enough
of that extreme. I beg that Mrs Granger's very different experiences may now
come to the instruction of Mrs Dombey.'
Still the fixed look, the trembling lips, the throbbing breast, the
face now crimson and now white; and still the deep whisper Florence,
Florence, speaking to her in the beating of her heart.
His insolence of self-importance dilated as he saw this alteration in
her. Swollen no less by her past scorn of him, and his so recent feeling of
disadvantage, than by her present submission (as he took it to be), it
became too mighty for his breast, and burst all bounds. Why, who could long
resist his lofty will and pleasure! He had resolved to conquer her, and look
here!
'You will further please, Madam,' said Mr Dombey, in a tone of
sovereign command, 'to understand distinctly, that I am to be deferred to
and obeyed. That I must have a positive show and confession of deference
before the world, Madam. I am used to this. I require it as my right. In
short I will have it. I consider it no unreasonable return for the worldly
advancement that has befallen you; and I believe nobody will be surprised,
either at its being required from you, or at your making it. - To Me - To
Me!' he added, with emphasis.
No word from her. No change in her. Her eyes upon him.
'I have learnt from your mother, Mrs Dombey,' said Mr Dombey, with
magisterial importance, what no doubt you know, namely, that Brighton is
recommended for her health. Mr Carker has been so good
She changed suddenly. Her face and bosom glowed as if the red light of
an angry sunset had been flung upon them. Not unobservant of the change, and
putting his own interpretation upon it, Mr Dombey resumed:
'Mr Carker has been so good as to go down and secure a house there, for
a time. On the return of the establishment to London, I shall take such
steps for its better management as I consider necessary. One of these, will
be the engagement at Brighton (if it is to be effected), of a very
respectable reduced person there, a Mrs Pipchin, formerly employed in a
situation of trust in my family, to act as housekeeper. An establishment
like this, presided over but nominally, Mrs Dombey, requires a competent
head.'
She had changed her attitude before he arrived at these words, and now
sat - still looking at him fixedly - turning a bracelet round and round upon
her arm; not winding it about with a light, womanly touch, but pressing and
dragging it over the smooth skin, until the white limb showed a bar of red.
'I observed,' said Mr Dombey - 'and this concludes what I deem it
necessary to say to you at present, Mrs Dombey - I observed a moment ago,
Madam, that my allusion to Mr Carker was received in a peculiar manner. On
the occasion of my happening to point out to you, before that confidential
agent, the objection I had to your mode of receiving my visitors, you were
pleased to object to his presence. You will have to get the better of that
objection, Madam, and to accustom yourself to it very probably on many
similar occasions; unless you adopt the remedy which is in your own hands,
of giving me no cause of complaint. Mr Carker,' said Mr Dombey, who, after
the emotion he had just seen, set great store by this means of reducing his
proud wife, and who was perhaps sufficiently willing to exhibit his power to
that gentleman in a new and triumphant aspect, 'Mr Carker being in my
confidence, Mrs Dombey, may very well be in yours to such an extent. I hope,
Mrs Dombey,' he continued, after a few moments, during which, in his
increasing haughtiness, he had improved on his idea, 'I may not find it
necessary ever to entrust Mr Carker with any message of objection or
remonstrance to you; but as it would be derogatory to my position and
reputation to be frequently holding trivial disputes with a lady upon whom I
have conferred the highest distinction that it is in my power to bestow, I
shall not scruple to avail myself of his services if I see occasion.'
'And now,' he thought, rising in his moral magnificence, and rising a
stiffer and more impenetrable man than ever, 'she knows me and my
resolution.'
The hand that had so pressed the bracelet was laid heavily upon her
breast, but she looked at him still, with an unaltered face, and said in a
low voice:
'Wait! For God's sake! I must speak to you.'
Why did she not, and what was the inward struggle that rendered her
incapable of doing so, for minutes, while, in the strong constraint she put
upon her face, it was as fixed as any statue's - looking upon him with
neither yielding nor unyielding, liking nor hatred, pride not humility:
nothing but a searching gaze?
'Did I ever tempt you to seek my hand? Did I ever use any art to win
you? Was I ever more conciliating to you when you pursued me, than I have
been since our marriage? Was I ever other to you than I am?'
'It is wholly unnecessary, Madam,' said Mr Dombey, 'to enter upon such
discussions.'
'Did you think I loved you? Did you know I did not? Did you ever care,
Man! for my heart, or propose to yourself to win the worthless thing? Was
there any poor pretence of any in our bargain? Upon your side, or on mine?'
'These questions,' said Mr Dombey, 'are all wide of the purpose,
Madam.'
She moved between him and the door to prevent his going away, and
drawing her majestic figure to its height, looked steadily upon him still.
'You answer each of them. You answer me before I speak, I see. How can
you help it; you who know the miserable truth as well as I? Now, tell me. If
I loved you to devotion, could I do more than render up my whole will and
being to you, as you have just demanded? If my heart were pure and all
untried, and you its idol, could you ask more; could you have more?'
'Possibly not, Madam,' he returned coolly.
'You know how different I am. You see me looking on you now, and you
can read the warmth of passion for you that is breathing in my face.' Not a
curl of the proud lip, not a flash of the dark eye, nothing but the same
intent and searching look, accompanied these words. 'You know my general
history. You have spoken of my mother. Do you think you can degrade, or bend
or break, me to submission and obedience?'
Mr Dombey smiled, as he might have smiled at an inquiry whether he
thought he could raise ten thousand pounds.
'If there is anything unusual here,' she said, with a slight motion of
her hand before her brow, which did not for a moment flinch from its
immovable and otherwise expressionless gaze, 'as I know there are unusual
feelings here,' raising the hand she pressed upon her bosom, and heavily
returning it, 'consider that there is no common meaning in the appeal I am
going to make you. Yes, for I am going;' she said it as in prompt reply to
something in his face; 'to appeal to you.'
Mr Dombey, with a slightly condescending bend of his chin that rustled
and crackled his stiff cravat, sat down on a sofa that was near him, to hear
the appeal.
'If you can believe that I am of such a nature now,' - he fancied he
saw tears glistening in her eyes, and he thought, complacently, that he had
forced them from her, though none fell on her cheek, and she regarded him as
steadily as ever, - 'as would make what I now say almost incredible to
myself, said to any man who had become my husband, but, above all, said to
you, you may, perhaps, attach the greater weight to it. In the dark end to
which we are tending, and may come, we shall not involve ourselves alone
(that might not be much) but others.'
Others! He knew at whom that word pointed, and frowned heavily.
'I speak to you for the sake of others. Also your own sake; and for
mine. Since our marriage, you have been arrogant to me; and I have repaid
you in kind. You have shown to me and everyone around us, every day and
hour, that you think I am graced and distinguished by your alliance. I do
not think so, and have shown that too. It seems you do not understand, or
(so far as your power can go) intend that each of us shall take a separate
course; and you expect from me instead, a homage you will never have.'
Although her face was still the same, there was emphatic confirmation
of this 'Never' in the very breath she drew.
'I feel no tenderness towards you; that you know. You would care
nothing for it, if I did or could. I know as well that you feel none towards
me. But we are linked together; and in the knot that ties us, as I have
said, others are bound up. We must both die; we are both connected with the
dead already, each by a little child. Let us forbear.'
Mr Dombey took a long respiration, as if he would have said, Oh! was
this all!
'There is no wealth,' she went on, turning paler as she watched him,
while her eyes grew yet more lustrous in their earnestness, 'that could buy
these words of me, and the meaning that belongs to them. Once cast away as
idle breath, no wealth or power can bring them back. I mean them; I have
weighed them; and I will be true to what I undertake. If you will promise to
forbear on your part, I will promise to forbear on mine. We are a most
unhappy pair, in whom, from different causes, every sentiment that blesses
marriage, or justifies it, is rooted out; but in the course of time, some
friendship, or some fitness for each other, may arise between us. I will try
to hope so, if you will make the endeavour too; and I will look forward to a
better and a happier use of age than I have made of youth or prime.
Throughout she had spoken in a low plain voice, that neither rose nor
fell; ceasing, she dropped the hand with which she had enforced herself to
be so passionless and distinct, but not the eyes with which she had so
steadily observed him.
'Madam,' said Mr Dombey, with his utmost dignity, 'I cannot entertain
any proposal of this extraordinary nature.
She looked at him yet, without the least change.
'I cannot,' said Mr Dombey, rising as he spoke, 'consent to temporise
or treat with you, Mrs Dombey, upon a subject as to which you are in
possession of my opinions and expectations. I have stated my ultimatum,
Madam, and have only to request your very serious attention to it.'
To see the face change to its old expression, deepened in intensity! To
see the eyes droop as from some mean and odious object! To see the lighting
of the haughty brow! To see scorn, anger, indignation, and abhorrence
starting into sight, and the pale blank earnestness vanish like a mist! He
could not choose but look, although he looked to his dismay.
'Go, Sir!' she said, pointing with an imperious hand towards the door.
'Our first and last confidence is at an end. Nothing can make us stranger to
each other than we are henceforth.'
'I shall take my rightful course, Madam,' said Mr Dombey, 'undeterred,
you may be sure, by any general declamation.'
She turned her back upon him, and, without reply, sat down before her
glass.
'I place my reliance on your improved sense of duty, and more correct
feeling, and better reflection, Madam,' said Mr Dombey.
She answered not one word. He saw no more expression of any heed of
him, in the mirror, than if he had been an unseen spider on the wall, or
beetle on the floor, or rather, than if he had been the one or other, seen
and crushed when she last turned from him, and forgotten among the
ignominious and dead vermin of the ground.
He looked back, as he went out at the door, upon the well-lighted and
luxurious room, the beautiful and glittering objects everywhere displayed,
the shape of Edith in its rich dress seated before her glass, and the face
of Edith as the glass presented it to him; and betook himself to his old
chamber of cogitation, carrying away with him a vivid picture in his mind of
all these things, and a rambling and unaccountable speculation (such as
sometimes comes into a man's head) how they would all look when he saw them
next.
For the rest, Mr Dombey was very taciturn, and very dignified, and very
confident of carrying out his purpose; and remained so.
He did not design accompanying the family to Brighton; but he
graciously informed Cleopatra at breakfast, on the morning of departure,
which arrived a day or two afterwards, that he might be expected down, soon.
There was no time to be lost in getting Cleopatra to any place recommended
as being salutary; for, indeed, she seemed upon the wane, and turning of the
earth, earthy.
Without having undergone any decided second attack of her malady, the
old woman seemed to have crawled backward in her recovery from the first.
She was more lean and shrunken, more uncertain in her imbecility, and made
stranger confusions in her mind and memory. Among other symptoms of this
last affliction, she fell into the habit of confounding the names of her two
sons-in-law, the living and the deceased; and in general called Mr Dombey,
either 'Grangeby,' or 'Domber,' or indifferently, both.
But she was youthful, very youthful still; and in her youthfulness
appeared at breakfast, before going away, in a new bonnet made express, and
a travelling robe that was embroidered and braided like an old baby's. It
was not easy to put her into a fly-away bonnet now, or to keep the bonnet in
its place on the back of her poor nodding head, when it was got on. In this
instance, it had not only the extraneous effect of being always on one side,
but of being perpetually tapped on the crown by Flowers the maid, who
attended in the background during breakfast to perform that duty.
'Now, my dearest Grangeby,' said Mrs Skewton, 'you must posively prom,'
she cut some of her words short, and cut out others altogether, 'come down
very soon.'
'I said just now, Madam,' returned Mr Dombey, loudly and laboriously,
'that I am coming in a day or two.'
'Bless you, Domber!'
Here the Major, who was come to take leave of the ladies, and who was
staring through his apoplectic eyes at Mrs Skewton's face with the
disinterested composure of an immortal being, said:
'Begad, Ma'am, you don't ask old Joe to come!'
'Sterious wretch, who's he?' lisped Cleopatra. But a tap on the bonnet
from Flowers seeming to jog her memory, she added, 'Oh! You mean yourself,
you naughty creature!'
'Devilish queer, Sir,' whispered the Major to Mr Dombey. 'Bad case.
Never did wrap up enough;' the Major being buttoned to the chin. 'Why who
should J. B. mean by Joe, but old Joe Bagstock - Joseph - your slave - Joe,
Ma'am? Here! Here's the man! Here are the Bagstock bellows, Ma'am!' cried
the Major, striking himself a sounding blow on the chest.
'My dearest Edith - Grangeby - it's most trordinry thing,' said
Cleopatra, pettishly, 'that Major - '
'Bagstock! J. B.!' cried the Major, seeing that she faltered for his
name.
'Well, it don't matter,' said Cleopatra. 'Edith, my love, you know I
never could remember names - what was it? oh! - most trordinry thing that so
many people want to come down to see me. I'm not going for long. I'm coming
back. Surely they can wait, till I come back!'
Cleopatra looked all round the table as she said it, and appeared very
uneasy.
'I won't have Vistors - really don't want visitors,' she said; 'little
repose - and all that sort of thing - is what I quire. No odious brutes must
proach me till I've shaken off this numbness;' and in a grisly resumption of
her coquettish ways, she made a dab at the Major with her fan, but overset
Mr Dombey's breakfast cup instead, which was in quite a different direction.
Then she called for Withers, and charged him to see particularly that
word was left about some trivial alterations in her room, which must be all
made before she came back, and which must be set about immediately, as there
was no saying how soon she might come back; for she had a great many
engagements, and all sorts of people to call upon. Withers received these
directions with becoming deference, and gave his guarantee for their
execution; but when he withdrew a pace or two behind her, it appeared as if
he couldn't help looking strangely at the Major, who couldn't help looking
strangely at Mr Dombey, who couldn't help looking strangely at Cleopatra,
who couldn't help nodding her bonnet over one eye, and rattling her knife
and fork upon her plate in using them, as if she were playing castanets.
Edith alone never lifted her eyes to any face at the table, and never
seemed dismayed by anything her mother said or did. She listened to her
disjointed talk, or at least, turned her head towards her when addressed;
replied in a few low words when necessary; and sometimes stopped her when
she was rambling, or brought her thoughts back with a monosyllable, to the
point from which they had strayed. The mother, however unsteady in other
things, was constant in this - that she was always observant of her. She
would look at the beautiful face, in its marble stillness and severity, now
with a kind of fearful admiration; now in a giggling foolish effort to move
it to a smile; now with capricious tears and jealous shakings of her head,
as imagining herself neglected by it; always with an attraction towards it,
that never fluctuated like her other ideas, but had constant possession of
her. From Edith she would sometimes look at Florence, and back again at
Edith, in a manner that was wild enough; and sometimes she would try to look
elsewhere, as if to escape from her daughter's face; but back to it she
seemed forced to come, although it never sought hers unless sought, or
troubled her with one single glance.
The best concluded, Mrs Skewton, affecting to lean girlishly upon the
Major's arm, but heavily supported on the other side by Flowers the maid,
and propped up behind by Withers the page, was conducted to the carriage,