CHAPTER thirty-seven of DOMBIAN SUN Florence, Edith, and Mrs. Scuton were together next day, and the carriage was waiting at the door to take them out. For Cleopatra had her galley again now, and withers no longer the one stood upright in a pigeon-breasted jacket and military trousers behind her wheelless chair at dinnertime and buttered no more. The hair of withers was radiant with permatum in these days of down, and he wore kid-gloves and smelt of the water of cologne. They were assembled in Cleopatra's room. The serpent of old Nile, not to mention her disrespectfully, was reposing on her sofa, sipping her morning chocolate at three o'clock in the afternoon, and flowers the maid was fastening on her youthful cuffs and frills, and performing a kind of private coronation ceremony on her, with a peach-coloured velvet bonnet, the artificial roses in which nodded to uncommon advantage as the palsy trifled with them, like a breeze. I think I am a little nervous this morning, flowers, said Mrs. Scuton. My hand quite shakes.  Edith, who had beckoned Florence to the window, and was looking out, with her back turned on the toilet of her esteemed mother, suddenly withdrew from it as if it had lightened. My darling child, cried Cleopatra languidly, you are not nervous.  Wither's, someone at the door. Card, ma'am, said Wither's, taking it towards Mrs. Dombie. I am going out, she said, without looking at it. My dear love, drawed Mrs. Scuton, how very odd to send that message without seeing the name. Bring it here with us. Dear me, my love, Mr. Carca, too, that very sensible person. I am going out, repeated Edith, in so imperious a tone that Wither's going to the door imperiously informed the servant who was waiting. Mrs. Dombie is going out.  But the servant came back, after a short absence, and whispered to Wither's again, who once more, and not very willingly, presented himself before Mrs. Dombie. If you please, ma'am, Mr. Carca sends his respectful compliments, and begs you would spare him one minute if you could, for business, ma'am, if you please. Really, my love, said Mrs. Scuton, in her mildest manner, for her daughter's face was threatening. If you would allow me to offer a word, I should recommend— Show him this way, said Edith, as Wither's disappeared, to execute the command.  As he comes at your recommendation, let him come to your room. May I—shall I go away? asked Florence hurriedly. Edith nodded yes. But on her way to the door Florence met the visitor, coming in. With the same disagreeable mixture of familiarity and forbearance, with which he had first addressed her, he addressed her now, in his softest manner, hoped she was quite well, needed not to ask, with such looks to anticipate the answer, had scarcely had the honour to know her last night, she was so greatly changed, and held the door open for her to pass out, with a secret sense of power in her shrinking from him, that all the deference and politeness of his manner could not quite conceal. He then bowed himself for a moment over Mrs. Scuton's condescending hand, and lastly bowed to Edith. Coldly returning his salute without looking at him, and neither seating herself nor inviting him to be seated, she waited for him to speak. Entrenched in her pride and power, and with all the obduracy of her spirit summoned about her, still her old conviction that she and her mother had been known by this man in their worst colours from their first acquaintance, that every degradation she had suffered in her own eyes was as plain to him as to herself, that he read her life as though it were a vile book, and fluttered the leaves before her in slight looks, and tones of voice, which no one else could detect, weakened and undermined her. Proudly as she opposed herself to him, with her commanding face exacting his humility, her disdainful lip repulsing him, her bosom angry at his intrusion, and the dark lashes of her eyes sullenly veiling their light, that no ray of it might shine upon him, and submissively as he stood before her with an entreating injured manner, but with complete submission to her will, she knew in her own soul that the cases were reversed, and that the triumph and superiority were his, and that he knew it full well. "'I have presumed,' said Mr. Carker, "'to solicit an interview, and I have ventured to describe it as being one of business, because, "'Perhaps you were charged by Mr. Dombie with some message of reproof,' said Edith. "'You possess Mr. Dombie's confidence in such an unusual degree, sir, that you would scarcely surprise me if that were your business. "'I have no message to the lady who sheds a luster upon his name,' said Mr. Carker. "'But I entreat that lady on my own behalf to be just to a very humble claimant for justice at her hands, and mere dependent on Mr. Dombie's, which is a position of humility, and to reflect upon my perfect helplessness last night, and the impossibility of my avoiding the share that was forced upon me in a very painful occasion.' "'My dearest Edith,' hinted Cleopatra in a low voice, as she held her eyeglass aside, really very charming of Mr. What's-his-name, and full of heart. "'For I do,' said Mr. Carker, appealing to Mrs. Scuton with a look of grateful deference, "'I do venture to call it a painful occasion, though merely because it was so to me who had the misfortune to be present. So slight a difference as between the principles, between those who love each other with disinterested devotion, and would make any sacrifice of self in such a cause, is nothing. As Mrs. Scuton herself expressed with so much truth and feeling last night, it is nothing. Edith could not look at him, but she said, after a few moments, "'And your business, sir?' "'Edith, my pet,' said Mrs. Scuton, "'all this time Mr. Carker is standing. My dear Mr. Carker, take a seat, I beg.' He offered no reply to the mother, but fixed his eyes on the proud daughter, as though he would only be bitten by her, and was resolved to be bitten by her. Edith, in spite of herself, sat down, and slightly motioned with her hand to him to be seated too. No action could be colder, haughtier, more insolent in its air of supremacy and disrespect. But she had struggled against even that concession ineffectually, and it was rested from her. That was enough. Mr. Carker sat down. "'May I be allowed, madam?' said Carker, turning his white teeth on Mrs. Scuton like a light. "'A lady of your excellent sense and quick feeling will give me credit for good reason, I am sure, to address what I have to say to Mrs. Dombie, and to leave her to impart it to you, who are her best and dearest friend, next to Mr. Dombie.' Mrs. Scuton would have retired, but Edith stopped her. Edith would have stopped him, too, and indignantly ordered him to speak openly, or not at all, but that he said in a low voice, Miss Florence, the young lady who has just left the room. Edith suffered him to proceed. She looked at him now. As he bent forward to be nearer with the utmost show of delicacy and respect, and with his teeth persuasively arrayed in a self-depreciating smile, she felt as if she could have struck him dead. "'Miss Florence's position,' he began, "'has been an unfortunate one. I have a difficulty in alluding to it to you, whose attachment to her father is naturally watchful and jealous of every word that applies to him. Always distinct and soft in speech. No language could describe the extent of his distinctness and softness when he said these words, or came to any others of a similar import. But as one who is devoted to Mr. Dombie in his different way, and whose life is passed in admiration of Mr. Dombie's character, may I say, without offence to your tenderness as a wife, that Miss Florence has unhappily been neglected by her father? May I say by her father?' Edith replied, "'I know it.' "'You know it,' said Mr. Carker, with a great appearance of relief. It removes a mountain from my breast. May I hope you know how the neglect originated, in what an amiable phase of Mr. Dombie's pride—character, I mean. "'You may pass that by, sir,' she returned, "'and come the sooner to the end of what you have to say.' "'Indeed, I am sensible, madam,' replied Carker. "'Trust me, I am deeply sensible, that Mr. Dombie can require no justification in anything to you. But kindly judge of my breast by your own, and you will forgive my interest in him, if in its excess it goes at all astray.'  How shame, remorse, and passion raged within her, when upright and majestic in her beauty before him, she knew that in her spirit she was down at his feet. "'Miss Florence,' said Carker, left to the care, if one may call it care, of servants and mercenary people, in every way her inferiors, necessarily wanted some guide and compass in her younger days, and naturally, for want of them, has been in discreet, and has in some degree forgotten her station. There was some folly about one Walter, a common lad, who is fortunately dead now, and some very undesirable association, I regret to say, with certain coasting sailors of anything but good repute, and a runaway old bankrupt. "'I have heard the circumstances, sir,' said Edith, flashing her disdainful glance upon him. "'And I know that you pervert them. You may not know it. I hope so.' "'Pardon me,' said Mr. Carker. "'I believe that nobody knows them so well as I. Your generous and ardent nature, madam, the same nature which is so nobly imperative in vindication of your beloved and honoured husband, and which has blessed him as even his merits deserve, I must respect, defer to, bar before. But as regards the circumstances, which is indeed the business I presumed to solicit your attention to, I can have no doubt, since in the execution of my trust, as Mr. Donby is confidential, I presume to say, friend, I have fully ascertained them. In my execution of that trust, in my deep concern, which you can so well understand for everything relating to him, intensified, if you will, for I fear I labour under your displeasure, by the lower motive of desire to prove my diligence, and make myself the more acceptable. I have long pursued these circumstances by myself, and trustworthy instruments, and have innumerable and most minute proofs. She raised her eyes no higher than his mouth, but she saw the means of mischief vaunted in every tooth it contained. "'Pardon me, madam,' he continued, "'if in my perplexity I presume to take counsel with you, and to consult your pleasure, I think I have observed that you are greatly interested in Miss Florence.' What was there in her he had not observed, and did not know? Humbled and yet maddened by the thought, in every new presentment of it, however faint, she pressed her teeth upon her quivering lip to force composure on it, and distantly inclined her head in reply. "'This interest, madam, so touching and evidence of everything associated with Mr. Dombie being dear to you, induces me to pause before I make him acquainted with these circumstances, which, as yet, he does not know. It so shakes me, if I may make the confession, in my allegiance, that on the intimation of the least desire to that effect from you, I would suppress them.' Edith raised her head quickly, and, starting back, bent her dark glance upon him. He met it with his blandest and most deferential smile, and went on. "'You say, that as I describe them, they are perverted? I fear not. I fear not. But let us assume that they are. The uneasiness I have, for some time, felt on the subject, arises in this, that the mere circumstance of such association often repeated, on the part of Miss Florence, however innocently and confidingly, would be conclusive with Mr. Dombie, already predisposed against her, and will lead him to take some step. I know he has occasionally contemplated it, of separation and alienation of her from his home. Madam, bear with me, and remember my intercourse with Mr. Dombie, and my knowledge of him, and my reverence for him, almost from childhood, when I say that if he has a fault, it is a lofty stubbornness, rooted in that noble pride and sense of power which belong to him, and which we must all defer to, which is not assailable, like the obstinacy of other characters, which grows upon itself from day to day, and year to year. She bent her glance upon him still. But look as steadfast as she would. Her haughty nostrils dilated, and her breath came somewhat deeper, and her lip would slightly curl, as he described that in his patron to which they must all bow down. He saw it. And though his expression did not change, she knew he saw it. Even so slight an incident as last night, he said, if I might refer to it once more, would serve to illustrate my meaning better than a greater one.  But I rejoice in its occurrence, for it has opened the way for me to approach Mrs. Dombie with this subject to-day, even if it has entailed upon me the penalty of her temporary displeasure. Madam, in the midst of my uneasiness and apprehension on this subject, I was summoned by Mr. Dombie to Lemmington. There I saw you. There I could not help knowing what relation you would shortly occupy towards him, to his enduring happiness and yours. There I resolved to await the time of your establishment at home here, and to do as I have now done. I have at heart no fear that I shall be wanting in my duty to Mr. Dombie, if I bury what I know in your breast, for where there is but one heart and mind between two persons, as in such a marriage, one almost represents the other. I can acquit my conscience therefore almost equally by confidence on such a theme in you or him. For the reasons I have mentioned I would select you. May I aspire to the distinction of believing that my confidence is accepted and that I am relieved for my responsibility? He long remembered the look she gave him. Who could see it and forget it? And the struggle that ensued within her? At last she said, I accept it, sir. You are pleased to consider this matter at an end, and that it goes no farther. He bowed low and rose. She rose too, and he took leave with all humility. But withers, meeting him on the stairs, stood amazed at the beauty of his teeth, and at his brilliant smile. And as he rode away upon his white-legged horse, the people took him for a dentist, such was the dazzling show he made. The people took her when she rode out in her carriage presently, for a great lady, as happy as she was rich and fine. But they had not seen her just before, in her own room, with no one by, and they had not heard her utterance of the three words. Oh Florence! Florence! Mrs. Scuton, reposing on her sofa and sipping her chocolate, had heard nothing but the low-word business, for which she had a mortal aversion, in so much that she had long banished it from her vocabulary, and had gone nigh in a charming manner, and with an immense amount of heart, to say nothing of soul, to ruin diverse milleners and others in consequence. Therefore Mrs. Scuton asked no questions, and showed no curiosity. Indeed, the peach-velvet bonnet gave her sufficient occupation out of doors, for being perched on the back of her head, and the day being rather windy, it was frantic to escape from Mrs. Scuton's company, and would be coaxed into no sort of compromise. When the carriage was closed, and the wind shut out, the palsy played among the artificial roses again, like an arms-house full of superannuated zeffers, and altogether Mrs. Scuton had enough to do, and got on but indifferently. She got on no better towards night, for when Mrs. Dombie, in her dressing-room, had been dressed, and waiting for her half an hour, and Mr. Dombie, in the drawing-room, had berated himself into a state of solemn fretfulness—they were all three going out to dinner—flowers the maid appeared, with a pale face, to Mrs. Dombie, saying, If you please, ma'am, I beg your pardon, but I can't do nothing with Mrs. What do you mean? asked Edith. Well, Bob, replied the frightened maid, I hardly know, she's making faces. Edith hurried with her to her mother's room. Cleopatra was arrayed in full dress, with the diamonds, short sleeves, rouge, curls, teeth, and other juvenility all complete. But paralysis was not to be deceived. Had known her for the object of its errand, and had struck her at her glass, where she'd lay like a horrible doll that had tumbled down. They took her to pieces in very shame, and put the little of her that was real on a bed. Doctors were sent for, and soon came. Powerful remedies were resorted to, opinions given that she would rally from this shock, but would not survive another. And there she lay, speechless and staring at the ceiling, for days, sometimes making inarticulate sound in answer to such questions as, did she know who were present and the like, sometimes giving no reply, either by sign or gesture, or in her unwinking eyes. At length she began to recover consciousness, and in some degree the power of motion, though not yet of speech. One day the use of her right hand returned, and showing it to her maid, who was in attendance on her, and appearing very uneasy in her mind, she made signs for a pencil and some paper. This the maid immediately provided, thinking she was going to make a will, or write some last request, and Mrs. Dombie being from home, the maid awaited the result with solemn feelings. After much painful scrawling and erasing, and putting in of wrong characters, which seemed to tumble out of the pencil of their own accord, the old woman produced this document, Rose-Coloured Curtains. The maid being perfectly transfixed, and with tolerable reason, Cleopatra amended the manuscript by adding two words more, when it stood thus. The maid now perceived remotely that she wished these articles to be provided for the better presentation of her complexion to the faculty, and as those in the house who knew her best had no doubt of the correctness of this opinion, which she was soon able to establish for herself that Rose-Coloured Curtains were added to her bed, and she mended with increased rapidity from that hour. She was soon able to sit up, in curls and a laced cap and night-gown, and have a little artificial bloom dropped into the hollow caverns of her cheeks. It was a tremendous sight to see this old woman in her finery, leering and mincing death, and playing off her youthful tricks upon him as if he had been the major. But an alteration in her mind that ensued on the paralytic stroke was fraught with as much matter for reflection, and was quite as ghastly. Whether the weakening of her intellect made her more cunning and false than before, or whether it confused her between what she had assumed to be and what she really had been, or whether it had awakened any glimmering of remorse which could neither struggle into light nor get back into total darkness, or whether, in the jumble of her faculties, a combination of these effects had been shaken up, which is perhaps the more likely supposition. The result was this—that she became hugely exacting in respect of Edith's affection and gratitude and attention to her, highly laudatory of herself as a most inestimable parent, and very jealous of having any rival in Edith's regard. Further, in place of remembering that compact made between them for an avoidance of the subject, she constantly alluded to her daughter's marriage, as a proof of her being an incomparable mother, and all this with the weakness and peevishness of such a state, always serving for a sarcastic commentary on her levity and youthfulness. —Where is Mrs. Donby? she would say to her maid. —Gone out, ma'am. —Gone out? Let you go out to shun her, ma'am, flowers. —Lah, bless you now, ma'am. Mrs. Donby's only gone out for a ride with Miss Florence. Miss Florence? Who's Miss Florence? Don't tell me about Miss Florence. What's Miss Florence to her compared to me? The opposite display of the diamonds, or the peach velvet bonnet. She sat in the bonnet to receive visitors weeks before she could stir out of doors, or the dressing of her up in some gourd or other, usually stopped the tears that began to flow hereabouts, and she would remain in a complacent state until Edith came to see her, when, at a glance of the proud face, she would relapse again. —Well, I'm sure, Edith. —She would cry, shaking her head. —What is the matter, mother? —Matter? I really don't know what is the matter. The world is coming to such an artificial and ungrateful state that I begin to think there's no heart or anything of that sort left in it positively. Withers is more a child to me than you are. He attends to me much more than my own daughter. I almost wish I didn't look so young, and all that kind of thing, and then perhaps I should be more considered. —What would you have, mother? —Oh, a great deal, Edith, impatiently. —Is there anything you want that you have not? —It is your own fault, if there be. —My own fault? —Beginning to whimper. —The parent I have been to you, Edith, making you a companion from your cradle, and when you neglect me and have no more natural affection for me than if I was a stranger, not a twentieth part of the affection that you have for Florence. But I'm only your mother, and should corrupt her in a day. You reproach me with its being my own fault. —Mother, mother, I reproach you with nothing. Why will you always dwell on this? —Isn't it natural that I should dwell on this, when I'm all affection and sensitiveness and am wounded in the cruelest way whenever you look at me? —I do not mean to wound you, mother. Have you no remembrance of what has been said between us? —Let the past rest. —Yes, rest, and let gratitude to me rest, and let affection for me rest, and let me rest in my out-of-the-way room with no society and no attention, while you find new relations to make much of, who have no earthly claim upon you. Be gracious, Edith, do you know what an elegant establishment you are at the head of? —Yes, hush. —And that gentlemanly creature Donby, do you know that you are married to him, Edith, and that you have a settlement and a position and a carriage, and I don't know what? —Indeed, I know it, mother, well. —As you would have had with that delightful good soul, what did they call him, danger if he hadn't died, and who have you to thank for all this, Edith? —You, mother, you. Then put your arms around my neck and kiss me, and show me, Edith, that you know there never was a better mamar than I have been to you, and don't let me become a perfect fright with teasing and wearing myself at your ingratitude, or when I'm out again in society no soul will know me, not even that hateful animal the major. —But sometimes when Edith went nearer to her, and bending down her stately head, put her cold cheek to hers, the mother would draw back, as if she were afraid of her, and would fall into a fit of trembling and cry out that there was a wandering in her wits, and sometimes she would entreat her with humility to sit down on the chair beside her bed, and would look at her, as she sat there brooding, with a face that even the rose-colored curtains could not make otherwise and scared and wild. The rose-colored curtains blushed, in course of time, on Cleopatra's bodily recovery, and on her dress, more juvenile than ever, to repair the ravages of illness, and on the rouge, and on the teeth, and on the curls, and on the diamonds, and the short sleeves, and the whole wardrobe of the doll that had tumbled down before the mirror. They blushed, too, now and then, upon an indistinctness in her speech, which she turned off with the girlish giggle, and on an occasional failing in her memory that had no rule in it, but came and went fantastically, as if in mockery of her fantastic self. But they never blushed upon a change in the new manner of her thought and speech towards her daughter. And though that daughter often came within their influence, they never blushed upon her loveliness, irradiated by a smile, or softened by the light of filial love in its stem beauty. Recorded by Mill Nicholson Dombie and Son by Charles Dickens Chapter 38 Miss Tox Improves an Old Acquaintance The forlorn Miss Tox, abandoned by her friend Louisa Chick, and bereft of Mr. Dombie's countenance, for no delicate pair of wedding cards, united by a silver thread, graced the chimney-glass in Princess's place, or the harpsichord, or any of those little posts of display which Lucretia reserved for holiday occupation, became depressed in her spirits, and suffered much from melancholy. For a time the bird-walls was unheard in Princess's place, the plants were neglected, and dust collected on the miniature of Miss Tox's ancestor with the powdered head and pigtail. Miss Tox, however, was not of an age or of a disposition long to abandon herself to unavailing regrets. Only two notes of the harpsichord were dumb from disuse, when the bird-walls again warbled and trilled in the crooked drawing-room. Only one slip of geranium fell a victim to imperfect nursing, before she was gardening at her green baskets again, regularly, every morning. The powdered-headed ancestor had not been under a cloud for more than six weeks, when Miss Tox breathed on his benign and visage, and polished him up with a piece of wash leather. Still, Miss Tox was lonely and at a loss. Her attachments, however ludicrously shown, were real and strong, and she was, as she expressed it, deeply hurt by the unmerited contumely she had met with from Louisa. But there was no such thing as anger in Miss Tox's composition. If she had ambled on through life in her soft-spoken way without any opinions, she had at least got so far without any harsh passions. The mere sight of Louisa Chick in the street one day, at considerable distance, so overpowered her milky nature, that she was feigned to seek immediate refuge in a pastry-cooks, and there, in a musty little back-room, usually devoted to the consumption of soups, and pervaded by an oxtail atmosphere, relieve her feelings by weeping plentifully. Against Mr. Donby, Miss Tox hardly felt that she had any reason of complaint. Her sense of that gentleman's magnificence was such that once removed from him, she felt as if her distance always had been immeasurable, and as if he had greatly condescended in tolerating her at all. No wife could be too handsome or too stately for him, according to Miss Tox's sincere opinion. It was perfectly natural that, in looking for one, he should look high. Miss Tox, with tears laid down this proposition, and fully admitted it twenty times a day. She never recalled the lofty manner in which Mr. Donby had made her subservient to his convenience in caprices, and had graciously permitted her to be one of the nurses of his little son. She only thought, in her own words, that she had passed a great many happy hours in that house, which she must ever remember with gratification, and that she could never cease to regard Mr. Donby as one of the most impressive and dignified of men. Cut off, however, from the implacable Louisa, and being shy of the major, whom she viewed with some distrust now, Miss Tox founded very irksome to know nothing of what was going on in Mr. Donby's establishment. And as she really had got into the habit of considering Donby and Sun as the pivot on which the world in general turned, she resolved, rather than be ignorant of intelligence, which so strongly interested her, to cultivate her old acquaintance, Mrs. Richards, who she knew since her last memorable appearance before Mr. Donby, was in the habit of sometimes holding communication with his servants. Perhaps Miss Tox, in seeking out the Toodle family, had the tender motive hidden in her breast of having somebody to whom she could talk about Mr. Donby, no matter how humble that somebody might be. At all events, towards the Toodle habitation, Miss Tox directed her steps one evening. What time, Mr. Toodle, cindery and swat, was refreshing himself with tea in the bosom of his family. Mr. Toodle had only three stages of existence. He was either taking refreshment in the bosom, just mentioned, or he was tearing through the country at from 25 to 50 miles an hour, or he was sleeping after his fatigues. He was always in a whirlwind or a calm, and a peaceable, contented, easygoing man Mr. Toodle was in either state, who seemed to have made over all his own inheritance of fuming and fretting to the engines with which he was connected, which panted and gasped and chafed and wore themselves out in a most unsparing manner, while Mr. Toodle led a mild and equitable life. Polly, my gal, said Mr. Toodle with a young Toodle on each knee, and two more making tea for him, and plenty more scattered about. Mr. Toodle was never out of children, but always kept a good supply on hand. You ain't seen our boiler lately, have you? No, replied Polly, but he's almost certain to look in tonight. It's his right evening, and he's very regular. I suppose, said Mr. Toodle, relishing his meal infinitely, as our boiler is a-doing now about as well as a boy can do, eh, Polly? Oh, he's a-doing beautiful, responded Polly. He ain't got to be at all secret-like, has he, Polly? inquired Mr. Toodle. No, said Mrs. Toodle, plumply. I'm glad he ain't got to be at all secret-like, Polly, observed Mr. Toodle in his slow and measured way, and shoveling in his bread and butter with a clasp-knife, as if he were stoking himself. Because that don't look well, do it, Polly. Why, of course it don't, Father. How can you ask? You see, my boys and gals, said Mr. Toodle, looking round upon his family, whatever you're up to, in an honest way, it's my opinion, as you can't do better than be open. If you find yourself as in cuttings, or in tunnels, don't you play no secret games. Keep your whistles going, and let's know where you are. The rising Toodles set up a shrill murmur, expressive of their resolution, to profit by the paternal advice. That what makes you say this along of Rob, Father? asked his wife anxiously. Polly, old woman, said Mr. Toodle, I don't know, as I said it, particular along of Rob, I'm sure. I start light with Rob only, I comes to a branch, I takes on what I find there, and a whole train of ideas gets cappled onto him, for I knows where I am, or where they come us from. What a junction a man's thoughts is, said Mr. Toodle, to be sure. This profound reflection, Mr. Toodle washed down with a pint mug of tea, and proceeded to solidify with a great weight of bread and butter, charging his young daughters, meanwhile, to keep plenty of hot water in the pot, as he was uncommon dry, and should take the indefinite quantity of a sight of mugs before his thirst was appeased. In satisfying himself, however, Mr. Toodle was not regardless of the younger branches about him, who, although they had made their own evening repast, were on the lookout for irregular morsels, as possessing a relish. These he distributed now and then to the expectant circle, by holding out great wedges of bread and butter to be bitten at by the family, in lawful succession, and by serving out small doses of tea in like manner with a spoon. Which snacks had such a relish in the mouths of these young Toodles, that, after partaking of the same, they performed private dances of ecstasy among themselves, and stood on one leg apiece, and hopped and indulged in other saltatory tokens of gladness. These vents for their excitement found they gradually closed about Mr. Toodle again, and eyed him hard as he got through more bread and butter and tea, affecting, however, to have no further expectations of their own in reference to those viands, but to be conversing on foreign subjects and whispering confidentially. Mr. Toodle, in the midst of this family group, and setting an awful example to his children in the way of appetite, was conveying the two young Toodles on his knees to Birmingham by special engine, and was contemplating the rest over a barrier of bread and butter, when Rob the grinder, in his sour-wester hat and morning slops, presented himself, and was received with the general rush of brothers and sisters. Well, mother! said Rob, dutifully kissing her. How are you, mother? There's my boy! cried Polly, giving him a hug and a pat on the back. Secret! bless you, father, not he! This was intended for Mr. Toodle's private edification, but Rob the grinder, whose withers were not unwrung, caught the words as they were spoken. What! father's been a sighting something more again me, has he? cried the injured innocent.  It's enough! cried Rob, resorting to his coat-cuff in anguish of spirit, to make a cove go and do something out of spite. My poor boy! cried Polly, father didn't mean anything. If father didn't mean anything, blubbered the injured grinder, why did he go and say anything, mother? Nobody thinks off so bad of me as my own father does. What a unnatural thing!  Father wouldn't mind doing it, I believe, and I much rather he did that than tether.  They ought, if they was good boys and girls, and this so touched the youngest Toodle, who was easily moved, that he touched him not only in his spirit, but in his wind too, making him so purple that Mr. Toodle, in consternation, carried him out to the water-butt, and would have put him under the tap, but for his being recovered by the sight of that instrument. Matters having reached this point, Mr. Toodle explained, and the virtuous feelings of his son being thereby calmed, they shook hands, and harmony reigned again. Will you do as I do, Byler, my boy? Enquired his father, returning to his tea with new strength. No, thank you, Father. Master and I had teed together. And how is Master Rob? said Polly. Well, I don't know, Mother. Not much to boast on.  He don't know anything about it, the captain don't. There was a man coming to the shop this very day, and says, I want a sow and sow, he says, some whole nine or another. A which, says the captain, a sow and sow, says the man. Brother, says the captain, will you take observation round a shop? Well, says the man, I've done. Do you see what you want? says the captain. Now I don't. says the man. Do you know it when you do see it? says the captain. Now I don't. says the man. Why, then, I told you what my lad? says the captain. You better go back and ask what it's like outside for no more don't I? That ain't the way to make money though, is it? said Polly. Money, Mother, he never make money. He has such ways as I'll never see. He ain't a bad master though, I'll say that for him. But that ain't much to me, for I don't think I shall stop with him long.  Not in that place, perhaps? returned the grinder with a wink. I shouldn't wonder. Friends at court, you know. But never you mind, Mother, just now. I'm all right, that's all. The indisputable proof afforded in these hints, and in the grinder's mysterious manner of his not being subject to that failing which Mr. Toodle had by implication attributed to him, might have led to a renewal of his wrongs, and of the sensation in the family, but for the opportune arrival of another visitor, who, to Polly's great surprise, appeared at the door smiling patronage and friendship on all there. How do you do, Mrs. Richards? said Miss Tox. I have come to see you. May I come in? The cheery face of Mrs. Richards shone with a hospitable reply, and Miss Tox, accepting the Prophet's chair and gracefully recognising Mr. Toodle on her way to it, untied her bonnet strings and said that in the first place she must beg the dear children one and all to come and kiss her. The ill-starred youngest Toodle but one, who would appear from the frequency of his domestic troubles to have been born under an unlucky planet, was prevented from performing his part in this general salutation by having fixed the sour-westered hat with which he had been previously trifling, deep on his head, hind side before, and being unable to get it off again. Which accident presenting to his terrified imagination a dismal picture of his passing the rest of his days in darkness, and in hopeless seclusion from his friends and family, caused him to struggle with great violence and to utter suffocating cries. Being released, his face was discovered to be very hot and red and damp, and Miss Tox took him on her lap much exhausted. You have almost forgotten me, sir, I dare say, said Miss Tox to Mr. Toodle. No, ma'am, no, said Mr. Toodle, but we've all on us, got a little older since then. And how do you find yourself, sir? inquired Miss Tox blandly. Haughty, ma'am, thank ye, replied Toodle. How do you find yourself, ma'am? Do the rheumatics keep off pretty well, ma'am? We must all expect to grow into him as we get on. Thank you, said Miss Tox. I have not felt any inconvenience from that disorder yet. You're very fortunate, ma'am, returned Mr. Toodle. Many people are your time of life, ma'am, his martyrs to it. There was my mother, but catching his wife's eye here, Mr. Toodle judiciously buried the rest in another mug of tea. You never mean to say, Mrs. Richards, cried Miss Tox, looking at Rob, that that is your eldest ma'am, said Polly. Yes, indeed it is. That's the little fellow, ma'am, that was the innocent cause of so much. This year, ma'am, said Toodle, is him with the short legs, and they was, said Mr. Toodle with a touch of poetry in his tone. Unusual short for leathers, as Mr. Donby made a grinder on. The recollection almost overpowered Miss Tox. The subject of it had a peculiar interest for her directly. She asked him to shake hands, and congratulated his mother on his frank, ingenuous face. Rob, overhearing her, called up a look to justify the eulogium, but it was hardly the right look.  You may be aware, Mrs. Richards, and possibly you may be aware too, sir, that a little distance has interposed itself between me and some of my friends, and that where I used to visit a good deal, I do not visit now. Polly, who, with a woman's tact, understood this at once, expressed as much in a little look. Mr. Toodle, who had not the faintest idea of what Miss Tox was talking about, expressed that also in a stare. Of course, said Miss Tox, how our little coolness has arisen is of no moment, and does not require to be discussed. It is sufficient for me to say that I have the greatest possible respect for and interest in Mr. Donby. Miss Tox's voice faltered, and everything that relates to him. Mr. Toodle enlightened shook his head, and said he had heard it said, and for his own part he did think, as Mr. Donby was a difficult subject. Pray don't say so, sir, if you please, turn Miss Tox. Let me entreat you not to say so, sir, either now or at any future time. Such observations cannot but be very painful to me, and to a gentleman whose mind is constituted as, I am quite sure yours is, can afford no permanent satisfaction. Mr. Toodle, who had not entertained the least doubt of offering a remark that would be received with acquiescence, was greatly confounded. All that I wish to say, Mrs. Richards, resumed Miss Tox, and I address myself to you too, sir, is this, that any intelligence of the proceedings of the family, of the welfare of the family, of the health of the family, that reaches you, will be always most acceptable to me. That I shall be always very glad to chat with Mrs. Richards about the family, and about all time. And as Mrs. Richards and I never had the least difference, though I could wish now that we had been better acquainted, but I have no one but myself to blame for that. I hope she will not object to our being very good friends now, and to my coming backwards and forwards here when I like, without being a stranger. Now I really hope, Mrs. Richards, said Miss Tox earnestly, that you will take this, as I mean it, like a good human creature as you always were. Polly was gratified and showed it. Mr. Toodle didn't know whether he was gratified or not, and preserved a stolid calmness. You see, Mrs. Richards, said Miss Tox, and I hope you see too, sir, there are many little ways in which I can be slightly useful to you, if you will make no stranger of me, and in which I shall be delighted to be so. For instance, I can teach your children something. I shall bring a few little books, if you'll allow me, and some work, and of an evening now and then they'll learn. Dear me, they'll learn a great deal, I trust, and be a credit to their teacher. Mr. Toodle, who had a great respect for learning, jerked his head approvingly at his wife, and moistened his hands with dawning satisfaction.  Thank ye, ma'am, said Mr. Toodle. Yes, I'll take my bit of bucka. Very good of you to say so, sir, rejoin Miss Tox. And I really do assure you now, unfainedly, that it will be a great comfort to me, and that whatever good I may be fortunate enough to do the children, you will more than pay back to me, if you'll enter into this little bargain comfortably and easily and good-naturedly without another word about it. The bargain was ratified on the spot, and Miss Tox found herself so much at home already that without delay she instituted a preliminary examination of the children all round, which Mr. Toodle much admired, and booked their ages, names, and requirements on a piece of paper. This ceremony, and a little attendant gossip, prolonged the time until after their usual hour of going to bed, and detained Miss Tox at the Toodle fireside until it was too late for her to walk home alone. The gallant grinder, however, being still there, politely offered to attend her to her own door, and as it was something to Miss Tox to be seen home by youth whom Mr. Dombie had first inducted into those manly garments which are rarely mentioned by name, she very readily accepted the proposal. After shaking hands with Mr. Toodle and Polly, and kissing all the children, Miss Tox left the house, therefore, with unlimited popularity, and carrying away with her so light a heart that it might have given Mrs. Chick offence if that good lady could have weighed it. Rob the grinder in his modesty would have walked behind, but Miss Tox desired him to keep beside her for conversational purposes, and, as she afterwards expressed it to his mother, drew him out upon the road. He drew out so bright and clear and shining that Miss Tox was charmed with him. The more Miss Tox drew him out, the finer he came, like wire. There never was a better or more promising youth, a more affectionate, steady, prudent, sober, honest, meek, candid young man than Rob drew out that night. I am quite glad, said Miss Tox, arrived at her own door, to know you. I hope you consider me your friend, and that you come and see me as often as you like. Do you keep a money box? Yes, ma'am, returned Rob. I'm saving up against I've got enough to put in the bank, ma'am. Very laudable indeed, said Miss Tox. I'm glad to hear it. Put this half-crown into it, if you please. Oh, thank you, ma'am, replied Rob, but really, I couldn't think of depriving you. I commend your independent spirit, said Miss Tox, but it's no deprivation, I assure you. I shall be offended if you don't take it as a mark of my good will. Good night, Robin. Good night, ma'am, said Rob, and thank you, who ran sniggering off to get change and tossed it away with a pie-man. But they never taught honour at the Grinders School, where the system that prevailed was particularly strong in the engendering of hypocrisy. In so much that many of the friends and masters of past Grinder said, if this were what came of education for the common people, let us have none. Some more rational said, let us have a better one. But the governing powers of the Grinders Company were always ready for them by picking out a few boys who had turned out well in spite of the system, and roundly asserting that they could have only turned out well because of it, which settled the business of those objectors out of hand, and established the glory of the Grinders Institution. CHAPTER 39 OF DOMBIAN SON This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Mill Nicholson. DOMBIAN SON by Charles Dickens. CHAPTER 39 Further Adventures of Captain Edward Cuddle Mariner Time, sure of foot and strong of will, had so pressed onward that the year enjoined by the old instrument maker as the term during which his friend should refrain from opening the sealed packet accompanying the letter he had left for him, was now nearly expired, and Captain Cuddle began to look at it of an evening with feelings of mystery and uneasiness. The Captain, in his honour, would as soon have thought of opening the parcel one hour before the expiration of the term, as he would have thought of opening himself to study his own anatomy. He merely brought it out at a certain stage of his first evening pipe, laded on the table, and sat gazing at the outside of it through the smoke in silent gravity for two or three hours at a spell. Sometimes when he had contemplated it thus for a pretty long while, the Captain would hitch his chair by degrees farther and farther off, as if to get beyond the range of its fascination. But if this were his design, he never succeeded, for even when he was brought up by the parlor wall, the packet still attracted him, or if his eyes, in thoughtful wandering, roved to the ceiling or the fire, its image immediately followed, and posted itself conspicuously among the coals, or took up an advantageous position on the whitewash. In respect of Hart's delight, the Captain's parental regard and admiration knew no change. But since his last interview with Mr. Karker, Captain Cattle had come to entertain doubts whether his former intervention in behalf of that young lady and his dear boy, Waller, had proved altogether so favourable as he could have wished, and as he, at the time, believed. The Captain was troubled with a serious misgiving that he had done more harm than good, in short. And in his remorse and modesty he made the best atonement he could think of, by putting himself out of the way of doing any harm to any one, and, as it were, throwing himself overboard for a dangerous person. Self-buried, therefore, among the instruments, the Captain never went near Mr. Donby's house, or reported himself in any way to Florence or Miss Nipper. He even severed himself from Mr. Perch, on the occasion of his next visit, by dryly informing that gentleman that he thanked him for his company, but had cut himself a drift from all such acquaintance, as he didn't know what magazine he mightn't blow up, without meaning of it. In this self-imposed retirement, the Captain passed whole days and weeks without interchanging a word with any one but Rob the Grinder, whom he esteemed as a pattern of disinterested attachment and fidelity. In this retirement, the Captain, gazing at the packet of an evening, would sit smoking and thinking of Florence and poor Walter, until they both seemed to his homely fancy to be dead, and to have passed away into eternal youth, the beautiful and innocent children of his first remembrance. The Captain did not, however, in his musings neglect his own improvement, or the mental culture of Rob the Grinder. That young man was generally required to read out of some book to the Captain, for one hour every evening, and as the Captain implicitly believed that all books were true, he accumulated by this means many remarkable facts. On Sunday nights, the Captain always read for himself, before going to bed, a certain divine sermon once delivered on a mount, and although he was accustomed to quote the text without book, after his own manner, he appeared to read it with his reverent and understanding of its heavenly spirit, as if he had got it all by heart in Greek, and had been able to write any number of fierce theological dispositions on its every phrase. Rob the Grinder, whose reverence for the inspired writings under the admirable system of the Grinder's school, had been developed by a perpetual bruising of his intellectual shins against all the proper names of all the tribes of Judah, and by the monotonous repetition of hard verses, especially by way of punishment, and by the parading of him at six years old in leather britches, three times a Sunday, very high up in a very hot church, with a great organ buzzing against his drowsy head, like an exceedingly busy bee. Rob the Grinder made a mighty show of being edified when the Captain ceased to read, and generally yawned and nodded while the reading was in progress, the latter fact being never so much as suspected by the good Captain. Captain Cuttle also, as a man of business, took to keeping books. In these he entered observations on the weather, and on the currents of the wagons and other vehicles, which he observed in that quarter to set westward in the morning and during the greater part of the day, and eastward towards the evening. Two or three stragglers appearing in one week who spoke him, so the Captain entered it on the subject of spectacles, and who without positively purchasing said they would look in again. The Captain decided that the business was improving, and made an entry in the day-book to that effect. The wind then blowing, which he first recorded, pretty fresh, west and by north, having changed in the night. One of the Captain's chief difficulties was Mr. Toots, who called frequently, and who, without saying much, seemed to have an idea that the little back parlor was an eligible room to chuckle in, as he would sit and avail himself of its accommodations in that regard by the half hour together, without at all advancing in intimacy with the Captain. The Captain, rendered cautious by his late experience, was unable quite to satisfy his mind whether Mr. Toots was the mild subject he appeared to be, or was a profoundly artful and assimilating hypocrite. His frequent reference to Miss Donby was suspicious, but the Captain had a secret kindness for Mr. Toots's apparent reliance on him, and for more to decide against him for the present, merely eyeing him with a sagacity not to be described whenever he approached the subject that was nearest to his heart. Captain Gilles, blurted out Mr. Toots one day all at once, as his manner was, Do you think you could think favourably of that proposition of mine, and give me the pleasure of your acquaintance? Why, I tell you what it is, my lad, replied the Captain, who had at length concluded on course of action. I've been turning that there over. Captain Gilles, it's very kind of you, retorted Mr. Toots. I much obliged to you. Upon my word and honour, Captain Gilles, it would be a charity to give me the pleasure of your acquaintance, it really would. You say, brother? argued the Captain slowly. I don't know you. But you never can know me, Captain Gilles, replied Mr. Toots, steadfast to his point, if you don't give me the pleasure of your acquaintance. The Captain seemed struck by the originality and power of this remark, and looked at Mr. Toots as if he thought there was a great deal more in him than he had expected. Well said, my lad! observed the Captain, nodding his head thoughtfully. And true! No, looky here! You've made some observations to be, which gives me to understand, as you admire a certain sweet-creature. Hey! Captain Gilles, said Mr. Toots, gesticulating violently with a hand in which he held his hat. Admiration is not the word. Upon my honour, you have no conception what my feelings are. If I could be dyed black and made Miss Dumbie's slave, I should consider it a compliment. If, of the sacrifice of all my property, I could get tons migrated into Miss Dumbie's dog, I really think I should never leave off wagging my tail. I should be so perfectly happy, Captain Gilles. Mr. Toots said it with watery eyes, and pressed his hat against his bosom with deeper motion. My lad! returned the Captain, moved to compassion. If you're in earnest, Captain Gilles! cried Mr. Toots. I'm in such a state of mind, and am so dreadfully in earnest. That if I could swear to it upon a hot piece of iron, or a live coal, or melted lad, or burning sealing wax, or anything of that sort, I should be glad to hurt myself as a relief to my feelings. And Mr. Toots looked hurriedly about the room, as if for some sufficiently painful means of accomplishing his dread purpose.  If you're earnest, you see, my lad! said the Captain. You're an object of clemency, and clemency is the brightest jewel in the crown of a Britain's head, for which you overhaul the constitution as laid down in rule Britannia. And when found, that is the charter, as them garden angels was a-singing of, so many times over. Stand by! This year's proposal of yarn takes me a little aback. And why? Because I hold my own only, you understand, in these year waters. I haven't got no consort, and maybe don't wish for none. Steady! You hailed me first, along with a certain young lady as you was a chartered boy. Now, if you and me used to keep one another's company at all, that their young critter's name must never be named, nor referred to. I don't know what harm might have been done by naming of it too free for now. And, dear boy, I bring zip short. Do you make me out pretty clear, brother? Well, you look, excuse me, Captain Guilds, replied Mr. Toots, if I don't quite follow you sometimes. But upon my word I—it's a hard thing, Captain Guilds, not to be able to mention Miss Dumbie. I really have got such a dreadful load here. Mr. Toots pathetically touched his shirt front with both hands. That I feel, night and day, exactly as if somebody was sitting upon me. Them, said the Captain, is the terms I offer. If they're hard upon your brother, as me hap they are, give them a wide berth. Cheer off and part company cheerily. Captain Guilds, returned Mr. Toots. I hardly know how it is, but after what you told me when I came here for the first time, I feel that I'd rather think about Miss Dumbie in your society than talk about her in almost anybody else's. Therefore, Captain Guilds, if you'll give me the pleasure of your acquaintance, I shall be very happy to accept it on your own conditions. I wish to be honourable, Captain Guilds, said Mr. Toots, holding back his extended hand for a moment. And therefore I am obliged to say that I cannot help thinking about Miss Dumbie. It's impossible for me to make a promise not to think about her. My lad, said the Captain, whose opinion of Mr. Toots was much improved by this candid avowal. A man's thoughts is like the wind's. Nobody can answer for him for certain. Any length of time together. Is it a treaty as to words? As to words, Captain Guilds, returned Mr. Toots, I think I can bind myself. Mr. Toots gave Captain Cuttle his hand upon it, then and there, and the Captain, with a pleasant and gracious show of condescension, bestowed his acquaintance upon him formally. Mr. Toots seemed much relieved, and gladdened by the acquisition, and chuckled rapturously during the remainder of his visit. The Captain, for his part, was not ill-pleased to occupy that position of patronage, and was exceedingly well satisfied by his own prudence and foresight. But rich as Captain Cuttle was in the latter quality, he received a surprise that same evening, from a no less ingenuous and simple youth than Rob the Grinder. That artless lad, drinking tea at the same table, and bending meekly over his cup and saucer, having taken the side-long observations of his master for some time, who was reading the newspaper with great difficulty, but much dignity, through his glasses, broke silence by saying, Ow! I beg your pardon, Captain, but you might be in want of any pigeons, my user. No, my lad, replied the Captain. Because I was wishing to dispose of mine, Captain, said Rob. Aye, aye, cried the Captain, lifting up his bushy eyebrows a little. Yes, I'm going, Captain, if you please, said Rob. Going? Where are you going? asked the Captain, looking round at him over the glasses. Well, didn't you know that I was going to leave you, Captain? asked Rob with a sneaking smile. The Captain put down the paper, took off his spectacles, and brought his eyes to bear on the deserter. Oh, yes, Captain, I'm going to give you warning. I thought you'd have known that beforehand, perhaps, said Rob, rubbing his hands and getting up. If you could be so good as to briar yourself soon, Captain, it would be a great convenience to me. You couldn't briar yourself but tomorrow morning, I'm afraid, Captain, could you? Do you think?  Ow! He's very hard upon a cow, Captain! cried the tender Rob, injured and indignant in a moment. That he can't give lawful warning without being frowned out in that way and called a deserter. You haven't any right to call a poor cow names, Captain.  What wrong have I done? Cam, Captain, let me know what my crime is, will you? The stricken grinder wept and put his coat cuff in his eye. Cam, Captain, cried the injured youth, give my crime a name, all I've been and done. Have I stolen any of the property? Have I set the house afire?  But to take away the character of a lad that's been a good servant to you because he can't afford to stand in his own light for your good, what an injury it is and what a bad return for faithful service. This is the way young coves is spiled and drove wrong. I wonder at you, Captain, I do. All of which the grinder hurled forth in a lacrimer's wine and backing carefully towards the door. And so you've got another birth, have you, my lad? said the Captain, eyeing him intently. Yes, Captain, since you've put in that shape, I've got another birth, cried Robb, backing more and more. A better birth than I've got here, and one where I don't so much as want your good word, Captain, which is fortunate for me after all the dirt you've thrown at me because I'm poor and can't afford to stand in my own light for your good. Yes, I've got another birth, and if it wasn't for leaving you unprovided, Captain, I'd go to it now, sooner than I take their names from you because I'm poor and can't afford to stand in my own light for your good. Why do you reproach me for being poor and not standing in my own light for your good, Captain? How can you so demean yourself? Look here, my boy, cried the peaceful, Captain, don't you pay out no more of them words? Well, then, don't you pay in no more of your words, Captain? Retorted the roused innocent, getting louder in his wine and backing into the shop. I'd sooner you took my blad than my character. Because, pursued the Captain calmly, you've heard, maybe, of such a thing as a rope's end. Oh, have I, though, Captain? cried the taunting grinder. No, I haven't. I never heared of any such article. Whoa! said the Captain. It's my belief, as you'll know more about it pretty soon, if you don't keep a bright look out. I can read your signals, my lad. You may go. I may go at once, may I, Captain? cried Robb, exulting in his success. But, mind, I never asked to go at once, Captain. You are not to take away my character again because you sent me off of your own accord, and you're not to stop any of my wages, Captain. His employer settled the last point, by producing the tin canister and telling the grinder's money out and full upon the table. Robb, snivelling and sobbing and grievously wounded in his feelings, took up the pieces one by one, with a sob and a snivel for each, and tied them up separately in knots in his pocket handkerchief. Then he ascended to the roof of the house, and filled his hat and pockets with pigeons. Then came down to his bed under the counter, and made up his bundle, snivelling and sobbing louder, as if he were cut to the heart by old associations. Then he whined, Good night, Captain! I leave you without mellies! And then, going out upon the doorstep, pulled the little midshipman's nose as a parting indignity, and went away down the street, grinning triumphantly. The Captain, left to himself, resumed his perusal of the news, as if nothing unusual or unexpected had taken place, and went reading on with the greatest assiduity. But never a word did Captain Cuttle understand, though he read a vast number, for Robb the Grinder was scampering up one column and down another, all through the newspaper. It is doubtful whether the worthy Captain had ever felt himself quite abandoned until now, but now old Sol Gills, Walter, and Heart's Delight were lost to him indeed, and now Mr. Carger deceived and jeered him cruelly. They were all represented in the false Robb, to whom he had held forth many a time on the recollections that were warm within him. He had believed in the false Robb, and had been glad to believe in him. He had made a companion of him, as the last of the old ship's company. He had taken the command of the little midshipman with him at his right hand. He had meant to do his duty by him, and had felt almost as kindly towards the boy, as if they had been shipwrecked, and cast upon a desert place together. And now that the false Robb had brought distrust, treachery, and meanness into the very parlour, which was a kind of sacred place, Captain Cuttle felt as if the parlour might have gone down next, and not surprised him much by it sinking, or given him any very great concern. Therefore Captain Cuttle read the newspaper with profound attention, and no comprehension. And therefore Captain Cuttle said nothing whatever about Robb to himself, or admitted to himself that he was thinking about him, or would recognise, in the most distant manner, that Robb had anything to do with his feeling as lonely as Robinson Crusoe. In the same composed business-like way, the Captain stepped over to Leddenhall Market in the dusk, and affected an arrangement with a private watchman on duty there, to come and put up, and take down the shutters of the wooden midshipmen every night and morning. He then called in at the eating-house, to diminish by one-half the daily rations their two-four supplied to the midshipmen, and at the public-house to stop the traitors' beer. My young man, said the Captain, in explanation to the young lady at the bar, My young man, I've been better at himself-miss! Lastly the Captain resolved to take possession of the bed under the counter, and to turn in there a-nights, instead of upstairs, a sole garden of the property. From this bed Captain Cuttle daily rose thenceforth, and clapped on his glazed hat at six o'clock in the morning, with the solitary air of Crusoe finishing his toilet with his goat-skin cap, and although his fears of a visitation from the savage tribe Mech Stinger were somewhat cooled as similar apprehensions on the part of that lone mariner used to be by the laps of a long interval without any symptoms of the cannibals, he still observed a regular routine of defensive operations, and never encountered a bonnet without previous survey from his castle of retreat. In the meantime, during which he received no call from Mr. Toots, who wrote to say he was out of town, his own voice began to have a strange sound in his ears, and he acquired such habits of profound meditation from much polishing and stowing away of the stock, and from much sitting behind the counter-reading, or looking out of window, that the red rim made on his forehead by the hard glazed hat sometimes ached again with excess of reflection. The year being now expired, Captain Cuttle deemed it expedient to open the packet. But as he had always designed doing this in the presence of Rob the Grinder, who had brought it to him, and as he had an idea that it would be regular and ship-shape to open it in the presence of somebody, he was sadly put to it for want of a witness. In this difficulty he hailed one day with unusual delight the announcement and the shipping intelligence of the arrival of the cautious Clara, Captain John Bunsby, from a coasting voyage, and to that philosopher immediately dispatched a letter by post, and joining in viable secrecy as to his place of residence and requesting to be favoured with an early visit in the evening season. Bunsby, who was one of those sages who act upon conviction, took some days to get the conviction thoroughly into his mind that he had received a letter to this effect. But when he had grappled with the fact, and mastered it, he promptly sent his boy with the message, He's a coming tonight, who being instructed to deliver those words and disappear, fulfilled his mission like a tarry spirit charged with a mysterious warning. The captain, well pleased to receive it, made preparation of pipes and rum and water, and awaited his visitor in the back parlor. At the hour of eight, a deep lowing, as of a nautical bull outside the shop door, succeeded by the knocking of a stick on the panel, announced to the listening ear of Captain Cattle that Bunsby was alongside, whom he instantly admitted, shaggy and loose, and with a stolid mahogany visage, as usual, appearing to have no consciousness of anything before it, but to be attentively observing something that was taking place in quite another part of the world. Bunsby, said the captain, grasping him by the hand, What cheer, my lad, what cheer! Shipment, replied the voice within Bunsby, unaccompanied by any sign on the part of the commander himself. Horty! Horty! Bunsby, said the captain, rendering irrepressible homage to his genius. Here you are, a man as can give an opinion as is brighter than diamonds, and give me the lad with the tarry trousers as shines to be like diamonds bright, for which you'll overhaul the Stanfell's budget, and when found, make a note. Here you are, a man as gave an opinion in this year very place that has come true every letter on it, which the captain sincerely believed. Aye, aye. Growled Bunsby. Every letter, said the captain. For why? Growled Bunsby, looking at his friend for the first time. Which way? If so, why not? Therefore. With these or regular words, they seemed almost to make the captain giddy. They launched him upon such a sea of speculation and conjecture. The sage submitted to be helped off with his pilot coat, and accompanied his friend into the back parlor, where his hand presently alighted on the rum bottle, from which he brewed a stiff glass of grog, and presently afterwards on a pipe, which he filled, lighted, and began to smoke. Captain Cuttle, imitating his visitor in the matter of these particulars, though the rapt and imperturbable manner of the great commander was far above his powers, sat in the opposite corner of the fireside, observing him respectfully, and as if he waited for some encouragement or expression of curiosity on Bunsby's part, which should lead him to his own affairs. But as the mahogany philosopher gave no evidence of being sentient of anything but warmth and tobacco, except once, when taking his pipe from his lips to make room for his glass, he incidentally remarked, with exceeding gruffness, that his name was Jack Bunsby. A declaration had presented but small opening for conversation. The captain, bespeaking his attention in a short complimentary exhortium, narrated the whole history of Uncle Sol's departure, with the change it had produced in his own life and fortunes, and concluded by placing the packet on the table. After a long pause, Mr. Bunsby nodded his head. Open, said the captain, Bunsby nodded again. The captain accordingly broke the seal and disclosed to view two folded papers, of which he severally read the endorsements thus. Last will and testament of Solomon Gill's letter for Ned Cuttle. Bunsby, with his eye on the coast of Greenland, seemed to listen for the contents. The captain therefore hemmed to clear his throat and read the letter aloud. My dear Ned Cuttle! When I left home for the West Indies, here the captain stopped and looked hard at Bunsby, who looked fixedly at the coast of Greenland. In foreign search of intelligence of my dear boy, I knew that if you were acquainted with my design you would thwart it, or accompany me, and therefore I kept it secret. If you ever read this letter, Ned, I am likely to be dead. You will easily forgive an old friend's folly then, and will feel for the restlessness and uncertainty in which he wandered away on such a wild voyage. So no more of that.  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 acknowledgement, and was feigned 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 saw long-timey bore, and let us overhaul the volume, and there find it. Physicians, observed Bunsby, was in vain. I, I, to be sure, said the captain, watched the good of them in two or three hundred fathons of water, and returning to the letter he read on. But if he should be by, when it is opened, the captain voluntarily 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 you make of this? There you sit, a man as his head broke from infancy upwards, and has got a new opinion into it at every seam as has been opened. Now, what you make of this? If so be, returned Bunsby, for the unusual promptitude, as he is 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 observation lays in the application on it. Bunsby, said Captain Cattle, 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 to this ear, 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, Saul Gills, is living and will come back, strange as it is that he ain't forwarded no dispatches. Now, what is your opinion, Bunsby, asked a stone of these ear papers away, again, and marking outside as they was opened, such a day, in the presence of John Bunsby and Edward Cattle. Bunsby, describing 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 Cattle, having attached his own left-handed signature, and locked up the packet in the iron safe, and treated his guest to mix another glass and smoke another pipe, and, doing the like himself, fell amusing over the fire on the possible fortunes of the poor old instrument-maker. And now a surprise occurred, so overwhelming and terrific that Captain Cattle, 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 forever remain mere points of speculation, or vague charges against destiny. But by that unlocked door, at this quiet moment, did the fell-mech-stinger dash into the parlour, bringing Alexander Mech-stinger in her parental arms, and confusion and vengeance, not to mention Julianne Mech-stinger, and the sweet-child's brother Charles Mech-stinger, popularly known about the scenes of his youthful sports as chowly, in her train. She came so swiftly, and so silently, like a rushing air from the neighbourhood of the East India Docks, that Captain Cattle 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 Cattle understood the full extent of his misfortune, self-preservation dictated an attempted 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 and the bowels of the earth. In this gallant effort he would probably have succeeded, but for the affectionate dispositions of Julianne and Chowly, 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. Mech-stinger, who never entered upon any action of importance without previously inverting Alexander Mech-stinger 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 it the Captain for the strength of purpose that appeared to threaten scratches to the interposing Bunsby. The cries of the two elder Mech-stingers, and the wailing of young Alexander, who may be said to have passed a pie-balled childhood, for as much 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. Mech-stinger, its terrors were at their height. Oh, Captain Cattle, Captain Cattle, said Mrs. Mech-stinger, 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, Captain Cattle, Captain Cattle, do you dare to look me in the face, and not be struck down in the hearth? The Captain, who looked anything but daring, feebly muttered, Stand by. Oh, I was a weak and trusting fool, when I took you under my roof, Captain Cattle, I was, Prime Mrs. Mech-stinger, to think of the benefits I've shared on that man, in the way in which I brought my children up to love and honour him, as if he was a father to him. When there ain't housekeeper, known or a lodger in our street, don't know that I lost money by that man, and by his gazlings and his muzzlings. Mrs. Mech-stinger 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 an individual might have ate his dinner, yes, and his tea, too, if he was so disposed, of any one of the floors or stairs, in spite of all his gazlings and his muzzlings, such was the care and pains bestowed upon him. Mrs. Mech-stinger stopped to fetch her breath, and her face flushed with triumph, in the second happy introduction of Captain Cattle's muzzlings. And he runs away, cried Mrs. Mech-stinger, for the lengthening out of the last syllable had 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! long syllable again, but steals away like a flion. Why, if that baby of mine, said Mrs. Mech-stinger, with sudden rapidity, was to offer to go and steal away, I do mind you is a mother by him till he was covered with wiles. 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. Mech-stinger 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 Captain Cattle, said Mrs. Mech-stinger, 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 for sooth, and to go up and down the blessed town like a mad woman asking questions after. Oh! a pretty sort of a man! Ha-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-ha-ha! Captain Cattle! said Mrs. Mech-stinger, 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. Captain Cattle! Repeated Mrs. Mech-stinger 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. Aye, aye, aye! said Bunsby, in a soothing tone. A wasst, my lass! A wasst! And who may you be, if you please? Retorted Mrs. Mech-stinger with chaste loftiness. Did you ever lodge at number nine big place, sir? My memory may be bad, but not with me, I think. There was a Mrs. Jolson 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, way less! A wasst! A wasst! 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. Mech-stinger, 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 am going to act as convoy home! And Captain Cuttle, more to his confusion, than if he had been put in ions himself for safe transport to big place, saw the family pacifically filing off with Mrs. Mech-stinger at their head. He had scarcely time to take down his canister, and selfily convey some money into the hands of Julianne Mech-stinger, 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 Hale-net 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 Parlor, and found himself alone. Illimitable faith in, and immeasurable admiration of, the commander of the cautious Clara succeeded, and threw the Captain into a wandering 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 bring 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. Mech-stinger, and was ashamed to show himself after his discomfiture, whether Mrs. Mech-stinger, 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 shortcut, was endeavouring to lose the family amid the wilds and savage places of the city. Above all, what it would behoove him, Captain Cuttle, to do, in case of his hearing no more, either of the Mech-stingers 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. Mech-stinger 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. Mech-stinger'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, went sober. Cuttle? Said the Commander, getting off the chest, and opening the lid. Are these ear-your-traps? Captain Cuttle looked in, and identified his property. Done pretty tort and trim, eh, shipment? 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 overbalance 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 solgills, and Bunsby's sentiments concerning him, and the hopes there were of his return. Much of such thinking strengthened the 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 power 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, ought 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.