Dombey and Son
choice at the eastern end of London, purchased on the spot two suits of
mourning—one for Rob the Grinder, which was immensely too small, and
one for himself, which was immensely too large. He also provided Rob
with a species of hat, greatly to be admired for its symmetry and
usefulness, as well as for a happy blending of the mariner with the
coal-heaver; which is usually termed a sou’wester; and which was
something of a novelty in connexion with the instrument business. In
their several garments, which the vendor declared to be such a miracle
in point of fit as nothing but a rare combination of fortuitous
circumstances ever brought about, and the fashion of which was
unparalleled within the memory of the oldest inhabitant, the Captain
and Grinder immediately arrayed themselves: presenting a spectacle
fraught with wonder to all who beheld it.
In this altered form, the Captain received Mr Toots. “I’m took aback,
my lad, at present,” said the Captain, “and will only confirm that
there ill news. Tell the young woman to break it gentle to the young
lady, and for neither of ’em never to think of me no more—“special,
mind you, that is—though I will think of them, when night comes on a
hurricane and seas is mountains rowling, for which overhaul your Doctor
Watts, brother, and when found make a note on.”
The Captain reserved, until some fitter time, the consideration of Mr
Toots’s offer of friendship, and thus dismissed him. Captain Cuttle’s
spirits were so low, in truth, that he half determined, that day, to
take no further precautions against surprise from Mrs MacStinger, but
to abandon himself recklessly to chance, and be indifferent to what
might happen. As evening came on, he fell into a better frame of mind,
however; and spoke much of Walter to Rob the Grinder, whose attention
and fidelity he likewise incidentally commended. Rob did not blush to
hear the Captain earnest in his praises, but sat staring at him, and
affecting to snivel with sympathy, and making a feint of being
virtuous, and treasuring up every word he said (like a young spy as he
was) with very promising deceit.
When Rob had turned in, and was fast asleep, the Captain trimmed the
candle, put on his spectacles—he had felt it appropriate to take to
spectacles on entering into the Instrument Trade, though his eyes were
like a hawk’s—and opened the prayer-book at the Burial Service. And
reading softly to himself, in the little back parlour, and stopping now
and then to wipe his eyes, the Captain, in a true and simple spirit,
committed Walter’s body to the deep.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
Contrasts
Turn we our eyes upon two homes; not lying side by side, but wide
apart, though both within easy range and reach of the great city of
London.
The first is situated in the green and wooded country near Norwood. It
is not a mansion; it is of no pretensions as to size; but it is
beautifully arranged, and tastefully kept. The lawn, the soft, smooth
slope, the flower-garden, the clumps of trees where graceful forms of
ash and willow are not wanting, the conservatory, the rustic verandah
with sweet-smelling creeping plants entwined about the pillars, the
simple exterior of the house, the well-ordered offices, though all upon
the diminutive scale proper to a mere cottage, bespeak an amount of
elegant comfort within, that might serve for a palace. This indication
is not without warrant; for, within, it is a house of refinement and
luxury. Rich colours, excellently blended, meet the eye at every turn;
in the furniture—its proportions admirably devised to suit the shapes
and sizes of the small rooms; on the walls; upon the floors; tingeing
and subduing the light that comes in through the odd glass doors and
windows here and there. There are a few choice prints and pictures too;
in quaint nooks and recesses there is no want of books; and there are
games of skill and chance set forth on tables—fantastic chessmen, dice,
backgammon, cards, and billiards.
And yet amidst this opulence of comfort, there is something in the
general air that is not well. Is it that the carpets and the cushions
are too soft and noiseless, so that those who move or repose among them
seem to act by stealth? Is it that the prints and pictures do not
commemorate great thoughts or deeds, or render nature in the Poetry of
landscape, hall, or hut, but are of one voluptuous cast—mere shows of
form and colour—and no more? Is it that the books have all their gold
outside, and that the titles of the greater part qualify them to be
companions of the prints and pictures? Is it that the completeness and
the beauty of the place are here and there belied by an affectation of
humility, in some unimportant and inexpensive regard, which is as false
as the face of the too truly painted portrait hanging yonder, or its
original at breakfast in his easy chair below it? Or is it that, with
the daily breath of that original and master of all here, there issues
forth some subtle portion of himself, which gives a vague expression of
himself to everything about him?
It is Mr Carker the Manager who sits in the easy chair. A gaudy parrot
in a burnished cage upon the table tears at the wires with her beak,
and goes walking, upside down, in its dome-top, shaking her house and
screeching; but Mr Carker is indifferent to the bird, and looks with a
musing smile at a picture on the opposite wall.
“A most extraordinary accidental likeness, certainly,” says he.
Perhaps it is a Juno; perhaps a Potiphar’s Wife”; perhaps some scornful
Nymph—according as the Picture Dealers found the market, when they
christened it. It is the figure of a woman, supremely handsome, who,
turning away, but with her face addressed to the spectator, flashes her
proud glance upon him.
It is like Edith.
With a passing gesture of his hand at the picture—what! a menace? No;
yet something like it. A wave as of triumph? No; yet more like that. An
insolent salute wafted from his lips? No; yet like that too—he resumes
his breakfast, and calls to the chafing and imprisoned bird, who coming
down into a pendant gilded hoop within the cage, like a great
wedding-ring, swings in it, for his delight.
The second home is on the other side of London, near to where the busy
great north road of bygone days is silent and almost deserted, except
by wayfarers who toil along on foot. It is a poor small house, barely
and sparely furnished, but very clean; and there is even an attempt to
decorate it, shown in the homely flowers trained about the porch and in
the narrow garden. The neighbourhood in which it stands has as little
of the country to recommend it, as it has of the town. It is neither of
the town nor country. The former, like the giant in his travelling
boots, has made a stride and passed it, and has set his
brick-and-mortar heel a long way in advance; but the intermediate space
between the giant’s feet, as yet, is only blighted country, and not
town; and, here, among a few tall chimneys belching smoke all day and
night, and among the brick-fields and the lanes where turf is cut, and
where the fences tumble down, and where the dusty nettles grow, and
where a scrap or two of hedge may yet be seen, and where the
bird-catcher still comes occasionally, though he swears every time to
come no more—this second home is to be found.”
She who inhabits it, is she who left the first in her devotion to an
outcast brother. She withdrew from that home its redeeming spirit, and
from its master’s breast his solitary angel: but though his liking for
her is gone, after this ungrateful slight as he considers it; and
though he abandons her altogether in return, an old idea of her is not
quite forgotten even by him. Let her flower-garden, in which he never
sets his foot, but which is yet maintained, among all his costly
alterations, as if she had quitted it but yesterday, bear witness!
Harriet Carker has changed since then, and on her beauty there has
fallen a heavier shade than Time of his unassisted self can cast,
all-potent as he is—the shadow of anxiety and sorrow, and the daily
struggle of a poor existence. But it is beauty still; and still a
gentle, quiet, and retiring beauty that must be sought out, for it
cannot vaunt itself; if it could, it would be what it is, no more.
Yes. This slight, small, patient figure, neatly dressed in homely
stuffs, and indicating nothing but the dull, household virtues, that
have so little in common with the received idea of heroism and
greatness, unless, indeed, any ray of them should shine through the
lives of the great ones of the earth, when it becomes a constellation
and is tracked in Heaven straightway—this slight, small, patient
figure, leaning on the man still young but worn and grey, is she, his
sister, who, of all the world, went over to him in his shame and put
her hand in his, and with a sweet composure and determination, led him
hopefully upon his barren way.
“It is early, John,” she said. “Why do you go so early?”
“Not many minutes earlier than usual, Harriet. If I have the time to
spare, I should like, I think—it’s a fancy—to walk once by the house
where I took leave of him.”
“I wish I had ever seen or known him, John.”
“It is better as it is, my dear, remembering his fate.”
“But I could not regret it more, though I had known him. Is not your
sorrow mine? And if I had, perhaps you would feel that I was a better
companion to you in speaking about him, than I may seem now.”
“My dearest sister! Is there anything within the range of rejoicing or
regret, in which I am not sure of your companionship?”
“I hope you think not, John, for surely there is nothing!”
“How could you be better to me, or nearer to me then, than you are in
this, or anything?” said her brother. “I feel that you did know him,
Harriet, and that you shared my feelings towards him.”
She drew the hand which had been resting on his shoulder, round his
neck, and answered, with some hesitation:
“No, not quite.”
“True, true!” he said; “you think I might have done him no harm if I
had allowed myself to know him better?”
“Think! I know it.”
“Designedly, Heaven knows I would not,” he replied, shaking his head
mournfully; “but his reputation was too precious to be perilled by such
association. Whether you share that knowledge, or do not, my dear—”
“I do not,” she said quietly.
“It is still the truth, Harriet, and my mind is lighter when I think of
him for that which made it so much heavier then.” He checked himself in
his tone of melancholy, and smiled upon her as he said “Good-bye!”
“Good-bye, dear John! In the evening, at the old time and place, I
shall meet you as usual on your way home. Good-bye.”
The cordial face she lifted up to his to kiss him, was his home, his
life, his universe, and yet it was a portion of his punishment and
grief; for in the cloud he saw upon it—though serene and calm as any
radiant cloud at sunset—and in the constancy and devotion of her life,
and in the sacrifice she had made of ease, enjoyment, and hope, he saw
the bitter fruits of his old crime, for ever ripe and fresh.
She stood at the door looking after him, with her hands loosely clasped
in each other, as he made his way over the frowzy and uneven patch of
ground which lay before their house, which had once (and not long ago)
been a pleasant meadow, and was now a very waste, with a disorderly
crop of beginnings of mean houses, rising out of the rubbish, as if
they had been unskilfully sown there. Whenever he looked back—as once
or twice he did—her cordial face shone like a light upon his heart; but
when he plodded on his way, and saw her not, the tears were in her eyes
as she stood watching him.
Her pensive form was not long idle at the door. There was daily duty to