the truest book as a man can write. To-morrow | the Chicken's penetrating glance, rejoined that morning," said the Captain, "I'll step out and eminent gentleman in the shop. The Chicken, make inquiries; but they'll lead to no good. They can't do it. If you'll give me a look-in in the forenoon, you shall know what I have heerd; but tell the young woman from Cap'en Cuttle, that it's over. Over!" And the Captain, hooking off his glazed hat, pulled his handkerchief out of the crown, wiped his grizzled head despairingly, and tossed the handkerchief in again, with the indiffer.at ence of deep dejection. "Oh! I assure you," said Mr. Toots, "really I am dreadfully sorry. Upon my word I am, though I wasn't acquainted with the party. Do you think Miss Dombey will be very much affected, Captain Gills-I mean, Mr. Cuttle ?" 66 Why, Lord love you," returned the Captain, with something of compassion for Mr. Toots's innocence. "When she warn't no higher than that, they were as fond of one another as two young doves." "Were they though!" said Mr. Toots, with a considerably lengthened face. 66 "They were made for one another," said the Captain mournfully; " but what signifies that now!" Upon my word and honour," cried Mr. Toots, blurting out his words through a singular combination of awkward chuckles and emotion, "I'm even more sorry than I was before. You know Captain Gills, I-I positively adore Miss Dombey; -I-I am perfectly sore with loving her;" the burst with which this confession forced itself out of the unhappy Mr. Toots, bespoke the vehemence of his feelings; "but what would be the good of my regarding her in this manner, if I wasn't truly sorry for her feeling pain, whatever was the cause of it. Mine an't a selfish affection, you know," said Mr. Toots, in the confidence engendered by his having been a witness of the Captain's tenderness. "It's the sort of thing with me, Captain Gills, that if I could be run over-or- trampled upon-or- or thrown off a very high place-or anything of that Eort-for Miss Dombey's sake, it would be the most delightful thing that could happen to me." who was apt to be jealous of his ascendancy, eyed Captain Cuttle with anything but favour as he took leave of Mr. Toots, but followed his patron without being otherwise demonstrative of his ill-will: leav ing the Captain oppressed with sorrow; and Rob the Grinder elevated with joy, on account of having had the honour of staring for nearly half an hour, the conqueror of the Nobby Shropshire One. Long after Rob was fast asleep in his bed under the counter, the Captain sat looking at the fire; and long after there was no fire to look at, the Cap. tain sat gazing on the rusty bars, with unavailing thoughts of Walter and old Sol crowding through his mind. Retirement to the stormy chamber at the top of the house brought no rest with it; and the Captain rose up in the morning, sorrowful and unrefreshed. As soon as the city offices were opened, the Captain issued forth to the counting-house of Dombey and Son. But there was no opening of the Midshipman's windows that morning. Rob the Grinder, by the Captain's orders, left the shutters closed, and the house was as a house of death. It chanced that Mr. Carker was entering the office, as Captain Cuttle arrived at the door. Receiving the Manager's benison gravely and silently, Captain Cuttle made bold to accompany him into his own room. "Well, Captain Cuttle," said Mr. Carker, taking up his usual position before the fire-place, and keeping on his hat, "this is a bad business." "You have received the news as was in print yesterday, Sir?" said the Captain. "Yes," said Mr. Carker, "we have received it! It was accurately stated. The under-writers suffer a considerable loss. We are very sorry. No help! Such is life!" Mr. Carker pared his nails delicately with venknife, and smiled at the Captain, who was standing by the door looking at him. "I excessively regret poor Gay," said Carker, "and the crew. I understand there were some of All this, Mr. Toots said in a suppressed voice, to our very best men among 'em. It always happens prevent its reaching the jealous ears of the Chicken, so. Many men with families too. A comfort to who objected to the softer emotions; which effort reflect that poor Gay had no family, Captain Cutof restraint, coupled with the intensity of his feel- tle!" ings, made hin red to the tips of his ears, and caused him to present such an affecting spectacle of disinterested love to the eyes of Captain Cuttle, that the good Captain patted him consolingly on the back, and bade him cheer up. "Thankee Captain Gills," said Mr. Toots, "it's kind of you, in the midst of your own troubles, to say so. I'm very much obliged to you. As I said before, I really want a friend, and should be glad to have your acquaintance. Although I am very well off," said Mr. Toots with energy, "you can't think what a miserable Beast I am. The hollow crowd, you know, when they see me with the Chicken, and characters of distinction like that, suppose me to be happy; but I'm wretched. I suffer for Miss Dombey, Captain Gills. I can't get through my meals; I have no pleasure in my tailor; I often cry when I'm alone. I assure you it'll be a satisfaction to me to come back to-morrow, or to come back fifty times." Mr. Toots, with these words, shook the Captain's hand; and disguising such traces of his agitation as could be disguised on so short a notice, before The Captain stood rubbing his chin, and looking at the Manager. The Manager glanced at the unopened letters lying on his desk, and took up the newspaper. "Is there anything I can do for you, Captain Cuttle?" he asked, looking off it, with a smiling and expressive glance at the door. "I wish you could set my mind at rest, Sir, on something it's uneasy about," returned the Captain. "Aye!" exclaimed the Manager, "what's that? Come, Captain Cuttle, I must trouble you to be quick, if you please. I am much engaged." "Looke'e here, Sir," said the Captain, advancing a step. "Afore my friend Wal'r went on this here disastrous voyage "Come, come, Captain Cuttle," interposed the smiling Manager, "don't talk about disastrous voyages in that way. We have nothing to do with disastrous voyages here, my good fellow. You must have begun very early on your day's allow. ance, Captain, if you don't remember that there are hazards in all voyages, whether by sea or lane You are not made uneasy by the supposition th young what's-his-name was lost in bad weather that was got up against him in these offices, are you? Fie, Captain! Sleep, and soda-water, are the best cures for such uneasiness as that." "My lad," returned the Captain, slowly,-"you are a'most a lad to me, and so I don't ask your pardon for that slip of a word,-if you find any pleasure in this here sport, you an't the gentleman I took you for. And if you an't the gentleman I took you for, may be my mind has call to be uneasy. Now this is what it is, Mr. Carker.-Afore that poor lad went away, according to orders, he told me that he warn't a going away for his own good, or for promotion, he know'd. It was my belief that he was wrong, and I told him so, and I come here, your head governor being absent, to ask a question or two of you in a civil way, for my own satisfaction. Them questions you answered-free. Now it 'ill ease my mind to know, when all is over, as it is, and when what can't be cured must be endoored-for which, as a scholar, you'll overhaul the book it's in, and thereof make a note-to know once more, in a word, that I warn't mistaken; that I warn't back'ard in my duty when I didn't tell the old man what Wal'r told me; and that the wind was truly in his sail, when he highsted of it for Barbadoes Harbour. Mr. Carker," said the Captain, in the goodness of his nature," when I was here last, we was very pleasant together. If I ain't been altogether so pleasant myself this morning, on account of this poor lad, and if I have chafed again any observation of yours that I might have fended off, my name is Ed'ard Cuttle, and I ask your par don." "Captain Cuttle," returned the Manager, with all possible politeness, "I must ask you to do me a favour." "And what is it, Sir?" inquired the Captain. "To have the goodness to walk off, if you please," rejoined the Manager, stretching forth his arm, "and to carry your jargon somewhere else." Every knob in the Captain's face turned white with astonishment and indignation; even the red rim on his forehead faded, like a rainbow among the gathering clouds. "I tell you what, Captain Cuttle," said the Manager, shaking his forefinger at him, and show. ing him all his teeth, but still amiably smiling, "I was much too lenient with you when you came here before. You belong to an artful and audacious set of people. In my desire to save young what's-hisname from being kicked out of this place, neck and crop, my good Captain, I tolerated you; but for once, and only once. Now, go, my friend!" The Captain was absolutely rooted to the ground, and speechless. "Go," said the good-humoured Manager, gathering up his skirts, and standing astride upon the hearth-rug, "like a sensible fellow, and let us have no turning out, or any such violent measures. If Mr. Dombey were here, Captain, you might be obliged to leave in a more ignominious manner, possibly. I merely say, Go!" The Captain, laying his ponderous hand upon his chest, to assist himself in fetching a deep breath, looked at Mr. Carker from head to foot, and looked round the little room, as if he did not clearly understand where he was, or in what company. "You are deep, Captain Cuttle!" pursued Carker, with the easy and vivacious frankness of a man of the world who knew the world too well to be affled by any discovery of misdoing, when it did not immediately concern himself; "but you are not quite out of soundings, either-neither you nor your absent friend, Captain. What have you done with your absent friend, hey?" Again the Captain laid his hand upon his chest. After drawing another deep breath, he conjured himself to "stand by!" But in a whisper"You hatch nice little plots, and hold nice little councils, and make nice little appointments, and receive nice little visitors, too, Captain, hey?" said Carker, bending his brows upon him, without showing his teeth any the less; "but it's a bold measure to come here afterwards. Not like your discretion! You conspirators, and hiders, and runners-away, should know better than that. Will you oblige me by going?" "My lad," gasped the Captain, in a choked and trembling voice, and with a curious action going on in the ponderous fist, "there's a many words I could wish to say to you, but I don't rightly know where they're stowed just at present. My young friend, Wal'r, was drownded only last night, ac cording to my reckoning, and it puts me out, you see. But you and me will come alongside o' one another again, my lad," said the Captain, holding up his hook, "if we live." "It will be anything but shrewd in you, my good fellow, if we do!" returned the Manager, with the same frankness; "for you may rely, I give you fair warning, upon my detecting and exposing you. I don't pretend to be a more moral man than my neighbours, my good Captain; but the confidence of this house, or of any member of this house, is not to be abused and undermined while I have eyes and ears. Good day!" said Mr. Carker, nodding his head. Captain Cuttle, looking at him steadily (Mr. Carker looked full as steadily at the Captain), went out of the office and left him standing astride before the fire, as calm and pleasant as if there were no more spots upon his soul than on his pure white linen, and his smooth sleek skin. The Captain glanced, in passing through the outer counting-house, at the desk where he knew poor Walter had been used to sit, now occupied by another young boy, with a face almost as fresh and hopeful as his on the day when they tapped the famous last bottle but one of the old Madeira, in the little back parlour. The association of ideas, thus awakened, did the Captain a great deal of good: it softened him in the very height of his anger, and brought the tears into his eyes. Arrived at the Wooden Midshipman's again, and sitting down in a corner of the dark shop, the Captain's indignation, strong as it was, could make no head against his grief. Passion seemed not only to do wrong and violence to the memory of the dead, but to be infected by death, and to droop and decline beside it. All the living knaves and liars in the world, were nothing to the honesty and truth of one dead friend. The only thing the honest Captain made out clearly, in this state of mind, besides the loss of Walter, was, that with him almost the whole world of Captain Cuttle had been drowned. If he reproached himself sometimes, and keenly too, for having ever connived at Walter's innocent deceit, he thought at least as often of the Mr. Carker whom no sea could ever render up; and the Mr. Dombey, whom he now began to perceive was as far beyond human recall; and the "Heart's Delight," with whom he must never foregather again; and the lovely Peg, that teak-built and trim ballad, that had | Toots. "I'm took aback, my lad, at present," said gone ashore upon a rock, and split into mere planks the Captain, "and will only confirm that there ill and beams of rhyme. The Captain sat in the dark news. Tell the young woman to break it gentle to shop, thinking of these things, to the entire exclu- the young lady, and for neither of 'em never to sion of his own injury; and looking with as sad an think of me no more-'special, mind you, that is— eye upon the ground, as if in contemplation of their though I will think of them, when night comes on actual fragments, as they floated past him. a hurricane and seas is mountains rowling, for which overhaul your Doctor Watts, brother, and when found make a note on." But the Captain was not unmindful, for all that, of such decent and respectful observances in memory of poor Walter, as he felt within his power. Rousing himself, and rousing Rob the Grinder (who in the unnatural twilight was fast asleep), the Captain sallied forth with his attendant at his heels, and the door-key in his pocket, and repairing to one of those convenient slopselling establishments of which there is abundant 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 and 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 inmediately arrayed themselves; present ing a spectacle fraught with wonder to all who be 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. Mac Stinger, 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 sympa. thy, 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 prayerbook 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 eide 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 admi⚫rably devised to suit the shapes and sizes of the small rooms; on the walls; upon the floors; tinging and subduing the light that comes in through the odd glass doors und 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, back-gammon, 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 is 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 por trait 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 every thing about him! It is Mr. Carker the Manager who sits in th easy chair. A gandy parrot in a burnished car 176 DOMBEY AND SON. 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 if 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 pendent 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 way. farers 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 birdcatcher 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 Harriet Carker has changed since then, and on 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, worn and grey, is she his sister, who, of all the patient figure, leaning on the man still young but hand in his, and with a sweet composure and deworld, went over to him in his shame and put her termination, led him hopefully upon his barren way. It is early, John," she said. "Why do you ge "Not many minutes earlier than usual, Harriet. so early?" -it's a fancy-to walk once by the house where I If I have the time to spare, I should like, I think took leave of him." "I wish I had ever seen or known him, John." It is better as it is, my dear, remembering his "But I could not regret it more, though I had And if I fate." known him. Is not your sorrow mine? had, perhaps you would feel that I was a better companion to you in speaking about him, than I may seem now." 66 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!" 66 "How could you be better to me, or nearer to me I feel that you did know him, Harriet, then, than you are in this, or anything ?" said her brother. She drew the hand which had been resting on and that you shared my feelings towards him.” 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?" 66 66 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 by'e!" "Good by'e, dear John! In the evening, at the old time and place, I shall meet you as usual on your way home. Good by'e." 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 any radiant cloud at sunset-and in the constancy cloud he saw upon it-though serene and calm as 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 which lay before their house, which had once (and way over the frowzy and uneven patch of ground Yes. This slight, small, patient figure, neatly not long ago) been a pleasant meadow, and was dressed in homely stuffs, and indicating nothing now a very waste, with a disorderly crop of beginbut the dull, household virtues, that have so little innings of mean houses, rising out of the rubbish, as common with the received idea of heroism and if they had been unskilfully sown there. Whenunless indeed, any ray of them should ever 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 discharge, and daily work to do-for such common-place spirits that are not heroic, often work hard with their hands and Harriet was soon busy with her household tasks. These discharged, and the poor house made quite neat and orderly, she counted her little stock of money, with an anxious face, and went out thoughtfully to buy some necessaries for their table, planning and contriving, as she went, how to save. So sordid are the lives of such low natures, who are not only not heroic to their valets and waitingwomen, but have neither valets nor waiting-women to be heroic to withal! While she was absent, and there was no one in the house, there approached it by a different way from that the brother had taken, a gentleman, a very little past his prime of life perhaps, but of a healthy florid hue, an upright presence, and a bright clear aspect, that was gracious and good-humoured. His eyebrows were still black, and so was much of his hair; the sprinkling of grey observable among the latter, graced the former very much, and showed his broad frank brow and honest eyes to great advantage. After knocking once at the door, and obtaining no response, this gentleman sat down on a bench in the little porch to wait. A certain skilful action of his fingers as he hummed some bars, and beat time on the seat beside him, seemed to denote the musician; and the extraordinary satisfaction he seemed to derive from humming something very slow and long, which had no recognisable tune, seemed to denote that he was a scientific one. The gentleman was still twirling a theme, which seemed to go round and round and round, and in and in and in, and to involve itself like a corkscrew twirled upon a table, without getting any nearer to anything, when Harriet appeared returning. He rose up as she advanced, and stood with his head uncovered. "You are come again, Sir!" she said, faltering. "I take that liberty," he answered. "May I ask for five minutes of your leisure?" After a moment's hesitation, she opened the door, and gave him admission to the little parlour. The gentleman sat down there, drew his chair to the table over against her, and said, in a voice that perfectly corresponded to his appearance, and with a simplicity that was very engaging: "Miss Harriet, you cannot be proud. You sig. nified to me, when I called t' other morning, that you were. Pardon me if I say that I looked into your face while you spoke, and that it contradicted you. I look into it again," he added, laying his hand gently on her arm, for an instant, "and it contradicts you more and more." She was somewhat confused and agitated, and could make no ready answer. "It is the mirror of truth," said her visitor," and gentleness. Excuse my trusting to it, and returning." His manner of saying these words, divested them entirely of the character of compliments. It was so plain, grave, unaffected, and sincere that she bent her head, as if at once to thank him, and ac. knowledge his sincerity. 66 For myself." But-pardon me-" suggested the gentleman. "For your brother John ?"" "Proud of his love, I am," said Harriet, looking full upon her visitor, and changing her manner on the instant -not that it was less composed and quiet, but that there was a deep impassioned earn. estness in it that made the very tremble in her voice a part of her firmness, "and proud of him. Sir, you who strangely know the story of his life, and repeated it to me when you were here last-" Merely to make my way into your confidence," interposed the gentleman. "For Heaven's sake, don't suppose-" 46 "I am sure," she said, "you revived it, in my hearing, with a kind and good purpose. I am quite sure of it." "I thank you," returned her visitor, pressing her hand hastily. "I am much obliged to you. You do me justice, I assure you. You were going to say, that I, who know the story of John Carker's life-" "May think it pride in me," she continued, "when I say that I am proud of him. I am. You know the time was, when I was not-when I could not be-but that is past. The humility of many years, the uncomplaining expiation, the true repentance, the terrible regret, the pain I know he has even in my affection, which he thinks has cost me dear, though Heaven knows I am happy, but for his sorrow!-oh Sir, after what I have seen, let me conjure you, if you are in any place of power, and are ever wronged, never, for any wrong, inflict a punishment that cannot be recalled; while there is a God above us to work changes in the hearts He made." "Your brother is an altered man," returned the gentleman, compassionately. "I assure you I don't doubt it." "He was an altered man when he did wrong," said Harriet. "He is an altered man again, and is his true self now, believe me, Sir." "But we go on," said her visitor, rubbing his forehead, in an absent manner, with his hand, and then drumming thoughtfully on the table, "we go on in our clock-work routine, from day to day, and can't make out, or follow, these changes. Theythey're a metaphysical sort of thing. We- -we haven't leisure for it. We-we haven't courage. They're not taught at schools or colleges, and we don't know how to set about it. In short, we are so dd business-like," said the gentleman, walking to the window, and back, and sitting down again, in a state of extreme dissatisfaction and vexation. "I am sure," said the gentleman, rubbing his forehead again; and drumming on the table as before, "I have good reason to believe that a jogtrot life, the same from day to day, would reconcile one to anything. One don't see anything, one don't hear anything, one don't know anything; that's "The disparity between our ages," said the gen- the fact. We go on taking everything for granted |