 CHAPTER 44. A separation with the day, though not so early as the sun, uproads Miss Susan Nipper. There was a heaviness in this young maiden's exceedingly sharp black eyes, that abated somewhat of their sparkling, and suggested, which was not their usual character, the possibility of their being sometimes shut. There was likewise a swollen look about them, as if they had been crying overnight. But the Nipper, so far from being cast down, was singularly brisk and bold, and all her energies appeared to be braced up for some great feat. This was noticeable even in her dress, which was much more tight and trim than usual, and in occasional twitches of her head, as she went about the house, which were mightily expressive of determination. In a word she had formed a determination, and an aspiring one, it being nothing less than this, to penetrate to Mr. Dombie's presence, and have speech of that gentleman alone. I have often said I would, she remarked in a threatening manner, to herself that morning, with many twitches of her head. And now I will. Spurring herself on to the accomplishment of this desperate design, with a sharpness that was peculiar to herself, Susan Nipper haunted the hall and staircase during the whole forenoon, without finding a favorable opportunity for the assault. Not at all baffled by this discomforture, which indeed had a stimulating effect, and put her on her metal. She diminished nothing of her vigilance, and at last discovered toward evening that her sworn foe, Mrs. Pipchin, under pretense of having sat up all night, was dozing in her own room, and that Mr. Dombie was lying on his sofa, unattended. With a twitch, not of her head merely this time, but of her whole self, the Nipper went on tiptoe to Mr. Dombie's door and knocked. Come in, said Mr. Dombie. Susan encouraged herself with a final twitch, and went in. Mr. Dombie, who was eyeing the fire, gave an amazed look at his visitor, and raised himself a little on his arm. The Nipper dropped a curtsy. What do you want? said Mr. Dombie. If you please, sir, I wish to speak to you, said Susan. Mr. Dombie moved his lips as if he were repeating the words, but he seemed so lost in astonishment at the presumption of the young woman as to be incapable of giving them utterance. I have been in your service, sir, said Susan Nipper, with her usual rapidity. Now, twelve year awaiting on Miss Floyd, my own young lady who couldn't speak plain, when I first come here, and I was old in this house when Mrs. Richards was new. I may not be Methuselum, but I am not a child in arms. Mr. Dombie raised upon his arm, and, looking at her, offered no comment on this preparatory statement of facts. There never was a dear or blessed or young lady than is my young lady, sir, said Susan, and I ought to know a great deal better than some, for I have seen her in her grief, and I have seen her in her joy. There's not been much of it, and I have seen her with her brother, and I have seen her in her loneliness, and some have never seen her, and I say to some and all I do. And here the black-eyed shook her head and slightly stamped her foot. That she's the blessedest and dearest angel is Miss Floyd, that ever drew the breath of life, the more that I was torn to pieces, sir, the more I'd say it, though I may not be a fox's martyr. Mr. Dombie turned yet paler than his fall had made him, with indignation and astonishment, and kept his eyes upon the speaker as if he accused them, and his ears too, of playing him false. No one could be anything but true and faithful to Miss Floyd, sir, pursued Susan, and I take no merit for my service of twelve year, for I love her. Yes, I say to some and all I do. And here the black-eyed shook her head again, and slightly stamped her foot again, and checked a sob. But true and faithful service gives me right to speak, I hope, and speak I must, and will now right or wrong. What do you mean, woman? said Mr. Dombie, glaring at her. How do you dare? What I mean, sir, is to speak respectful and without offense, but out, and how I dare I know not, but I do, said Susan. Oh, you don't know my young lady, sir, you don't indeed. You'd never know so little of her if you did. Mr. Dombie, in a fury, put his hand out for the bell-rope, but there was no bell-rope on that side of the fire, and he could not rise and cross to the other without assistance. The quick eye of the nipper detected his helplessness immediately, and now, as she afterwards observed, she felt that she had got him. Miss Floyd, sits Susan Nipper, is the most devoted and the most patient and most dutiful and beautiful of daughters. There ain't no gentlemen, sir, though, as great and rich as all the greatest and richest of England put together but might be proud of her and would and ought. If he knew her value right, he'd rather lose his greatness and his fortune piece by piece and beg his way in rags from door to door, I say, to some and all he would, cried Susan Nipper, bursting into tears, then bring the sorrow on her tender heart that I have seen it suffer in this house. Woman, cried Mr. Dombie, leave the room. Begging your pardon, not even if I am to leave the situation, sir, replied the steadfast nipper, in which I have been so many years and seen so much, although I hope you'd never have the heart to send me from Miss Floyd for such a cause. Will I go now till I have said the rest? I may not be an Indian widow, sir, and I am not and I would not so become, but if I once made up my mind to burn myself alive, I'd do it, and I've made my mind up to go on. Which was rendered no less clear by the expression of Susan Nipper's countenance than by her words. There ain't a person in your service, sir, pursued the black-eyed, that has always stood more in awe of you than me, and you may think how true it is when I make so bold as say that I have hundreds and hundreds of times thought of speaking to you and never been able to make my mind up to it till last night, but last night decided of me. Mr. Dombie, in a paroxysm of rage, made another grasp at the bell-rope that was not there, and in its absence pulled his hair rather than nothing. I have seen, said Susan Nipper, Miss Floyd strive and strive, when nothing but a child so sweet and patient that the best of women might have copied from her. I've seen her sitting nights together, half the night through, to help her delicate brother with his learning. I've seen her helping him and watching him at other times. Some well know when. I've seen her with no encouragement and no help grow up to be a lady, thank God, that is the grace and pride of every company she goes in, and I've always seen her cruelly neglected and keenly feeling of it. I say to some and all I have, and never said one word, but ordering oneself lowly and reverently towards one's betters, is not to be a worshipper of graven images, and I will and must speak. Is there anybody there? cried Mr. Dombie, calling out. Where are the men? Where are the women? Is there no one there? I left my dear young lady out of bed late last night, said Susan. And I knew why. For you was ill, sir, and she didn't know how ill, and that was enough to make her wretched, as I saw it did. I may not be a peacock, but I have my eyes, and I sat up a little in my own room, thinking she might be lonesome and might want me. And I saw her steal downstairs and come to this door, as if it was a guilty thing to look at her own pot, and then steal back again, and go into them lonely drawing-rooms, a crying so that I could hardly bear to hear it. I cannot bear to hear it, said Susan Nipper, wiping her black eyes and fixing them, undauntingly on Mr. Dombie's infuriated face. It's not the first time I have heard it. Not by many and many a time. You don't know your own daughter, sir. You don't know what you're doing, sir, I say to some and all, cried Susan Nipper in a final burst, that it's a sinful shame. Why, hoity-toity, cried the voice of Mrs. Pipchin, as the black bombocene garments of that fair Peruvian miner swept into the room. What's this indeed? Susan favored Mrs. Pipchin with a look she had invented expressly for her when they first became acquainted and resigned the reply to Mr. Dombie. What's this? repeated Mr. Dombie, almost foaming. What's this, madam? You, who are at the head of this household and bound to keep it in order, have reason to inquire. Do you know this woman? I know very little good of her, sir, croaked Mrs. Pipchin. How dare you come here, you hussy! Go along with you. But the inflexible Nipper, merely honoring Mrs. Pipchin with another look, remained. Do you call it managing this establishment, madam? said Mr. Dombie, to leave a person like this at liberty to come and talk to me? A gentleman in his own house, in his own room, assailed with the impertenences of women's servants? Well, sir, returned Mrs. Pipchin with vengeance in her hard grey eye. I exceedingly deplore it. Nothing can be more irregular. Nothing can be more out of all bounds and reason. But I regret to say, sir, that this young woman is quite beyond control. She has been spoiled by Mrs. Dombie and is amenable to nobody. You know you're not, said Mrs. Pipchin sharply, and shaking her head at Susan Nipper. For shame, you hussy, go along with you. If you find people in my service who are not to be controlled, Mrs. Pipchin, said Mr. Dombie, turning back towards the fire, you know what to do with them, I presume. You know what you are here for. Take her away. Sir, I know what to do, retorted Mrs. Pipchin, and of course shall do it. Susan Nipper, snapping her up particularly short, a month's warning from this hour. Oh, indeed, cried Susan loftily. Yes, returned Mrs. Pipchin, and don't smile at me, you minx, or I'll know the reason why. Go along with you this minute. I intend to go this minute, you may rely upon it, said the voluble Nipper. I have been in this house waiting on my young lady a dozen year, and I won't stop it in one hour under notice from a person owning to the name of Pipchin. Trust me, Mrs. P. A good riddance of bad rubbish, said that wrathful old lady. Get along with you, or I'll have you carried out. My comfort is, said Susan, looking back at Mr. Dombie, that I have told a piece of truth this day, which ought to have been told long before and can't be told too often or too plain, and that no amount of Pipchins is. I hope the number of a maint be great. Here Mrs. Pipchin uttered a very sharp, go along with you. And Miss Nipper repeated the look. Can unsay what I have said, though they gave a whole year full of warnings, beginning at ten o'clock in the four noon, and never leaving off till twelve at night, and died of the exhaustion which would be a jubilee. With these words, Miss Nipper preceded her foe out of the room, and walking upstairs to her own apartments in great state, to the choking exasperation of the ireful Pipchin sat down among her boxes and began to cry. From this soft mood she was soon aroused with a very wholesome and refreshing effect by the voice of Mrs. Pipchin outside the door. Does that bold-faced slut, said the fell Pipchin, intend to take her warning, or does she not? Miss Nipper replied from within that the person described did not inhabit that part of the house, but that her name was Pipchin, and she was to be found in the housekeeper's room. You, saucy baggage, retorted Mrs. Pipchin, rattling at the handle of the door. Go along with you this minute, pack up your things directly. How dare you talk in this way to a gentlewoman who has seen better days? To which Miss Nipper rejoined from her castle that she pitied the better days that had seen Mrs. Pipchin, and that for her part she considered the worst days in the year to be about that lady's mark, except that they were much too good for her. But you needn't trouble yourself to make a noise at my door, did Susan Nipper, nor to contaminate the keyhole with your eye on packing up and going you may take your affidavit. The dowager expressed her lively satisfaction at this intelligence, and with some general opinions upon young hussies as a race, and especially upon their demerits after being spoiled by Miss Dombie, withdrew to prepare the Nipper's wages. Susan then bestowed herself to get her trunks in order that she might take an immediate and dignified departure, sobbing heartily all the time as she thought of Florence. The object of her regret was not long in coming to her, for the news soon spread over the house that Susan Nipper had had a disturbance with Mrs. Pipchin, and that they had both appealed to Mr. Dombie, and that there had been an unprecedented piece of work in Mr. Dombie's room, and that Susan was going. The latter part of this confused rumor Florence found to be so correct that Susan had locked the last trunk and was sitting upon it with her bonnet on when she came into her room. Susan cried Florence, going to leave me? You? Oh, for goodness gracious sake, Miss Floy, said Susan sobbing. Don't speak a word to me, or I shall demean myself before them Pipchins, and I wouldn't have them see me cry Floy for worlds. Susan said Florence, my dear girl, my old friend, what shall I do without you? Can you bear to go away so? No, my darling dear Miss Floy, I can't indeed sob, Susan, but it can't be helped. I've done my duty, Miss. I have indeed, it's no fault of mine, I am quite resigned. I couldn't stay my month, or I could never leave you then, my darling, and I must at last, as well as at first. Don't speak to me, Miss Floy, for though I'm pretty firm, I'm not a marble door-post, my own dear. What is it? Why is it? said Florence. Won't you tell me? For Susan was shaking her head. No, no, no, my darling, return, Susan. Don't ask me, for I mustn't, and whatever you do, don't put in a word for me to stop, for it couldn't be, and you'd only wrong yourself, and so God bless you, my own precious, and forgive me any harm I have done, or any temper I have showed in all these many years. With which, in treaty, very heartily delivered, Susan hugged her mistress in her arms. My darling, there's a many that may come to serve you, and be glad to serve you, and who'll serve you well and true, said Susan. But there can't be one who'll serve you so affectionate as me, or love you half as dearly, that's my comfort. Goodbye, sweet Miss Floy. Where will you go, Susan? asked her weeping mistress. I've got a brother down in the country, Miss, a farmer in Essex, said the heartbroken nipper, that keeps ever so many cows and pigs, and I shall go down there by the coach, and stop with him. And don't mind me, for I've got money in the savings-bank, my dear, and needn't take another service just yet, which I couldn't do my heart's own mistress. Susan finished with a burst of sorrow, which was opportunely broken by the voice of Mrs. Pipchin talking downstairs, on hearing which she dried her red and swollen eyes, and made a melancholy faint of calling jauntily to Mr. Talonson to fetch a cab and carry down her boxes. Florence, pale and hurried and distressed, but withheld from useless interference even here by her dread of causing any new division between her father and his wife, whose stern, indignant face had been a warning to her a few moments since, and by her apprehension of being in some way unconsciously connected already with the dismissal of her own servant and friend, followed weeping downstairs to Edith's dressing-room, neither Susan but took herself to make her parting curtsy. Now, here's the cab, and here's the boxes. Get along with you, do, said Mrs. Pipchin, presenting herself at the same moment. I beg your pardon, ma'am, but Mr. Dombie's orders are imperative. Edith, sitting under the hands of her maid, she was going out to dinner, preserved her haughty face, and took not the least notice. There's your money, said Mrs. Pipchin, who, in pursuance of her system, and in recollection of the mines, was accustomed to rout the servants about, as she had routed her young, brightened borders to the everlasting assiduation of Master Bitherstone. The sooner this house sees your back, the better. Susan had no spirits, even for the look that belonged to Mrs. Pipchin by right, so she dropped her curtsy to Mrs. Dombie, who inclined her head without one word, and whose eye avoided everyone but Florence, and gave one last parting hug to her young mistress, and received her parting embrace in return. Poor Susan's face at this crisis, in the intensity of her feelings and the determined suffocation of her sobs, lest one should become audible and be a triumph to Mrs. Pipchin, presented as series of the most extraordinary physiognomical phenomena ever witnessed. I beg your pardon, Miss, I'm sure," said Towlinson, outside the door with the boxes, addressing Florence. But Mr. Toots is in the drawing-room, and sends his compliments, and begs to know how diogenes and master is. Quick as thought, Florence glided out and hastened downstairs, where Mr. Toots, in the most splendid vestments, was breathing very hard with doubt and agitation on the subject of her coming. Oh, how do you do, Miss Dombie, said Mr. Toots? God bless my soul! This last ejaculation was occasioned by Mr. Toots's deep concern at the distress he saw in Florence's face, which caused him to stop short in a fit of chuckles, and become an image of despair. Dear Mr. Toots, said Florence, you are so friendly to me, and so honest that I am sure I may ask a favor of you. Miss Dombie returned Mr. Toots, if you'll only name one, you'll give me an appetite, to which, said Mr. Toots with some sentiment, I have long been a stranger. Susan, who is an old friend of mine, the oldest friend I have, said Florence, is about to leave here suddenly, and quite alone, poor girl. She is going home, a little way into the country. Might I ask you to take care of her until she is in the coach? Miss Dombie returned Mr. Toots, you really do me an honor and a kindness, this proof of your confidence, after the manner in which I was beast enough to conduct myself at Brighton. Yes, said Florence hurriedly. No, don't think of that. Then would you have the kindness, too, to go, and to be ready to meet her when she comes out? Thank you a thousand times, you ease my mind so much. She doesn't seem so desolate. You cannot think how grateful I feel to you, or what a good friend I am sure you are. Then Florence, in her earnestness, thanked him again and again, and Mr. Toots, in his earnestness, hurried away, but backwards, that he might lose no glimpse of her. Florence had not the courage to go out, and when she saw poor Susan in the hall with Mrs. Pipschyn driving her fourth and Diogenes jumping about her and terrifying Mrs. Pipschyn to the last degree by making snaps at her bombazine skirts and howling with anguish at the sound of her voice, for the good duena was the dearest and most cherished aversion of his breast. But she saw Susan shake hands with the servants all round and turn once to look at her old home, and she saw Diogenes bound out after the cab and want to follow it and testify an possibility of conviction that he had no longer any property in the fair, and the door was shut and the hurry over, and her tears flowed fast for the loss of an old friend whom no one could replace, no one, no one. Mr. Toots, like the leal and trusty soul he was, stopped the cabriolet in a twinkling and told Susan Nipper of his commission at which she cried more than before. Upon my soul and body, said Mr. Toots, taking his seat beside her, I feel for you upon my word and honor I think you can hardly know your own feelings better than I imagine them. I can conceive nothing more dreadful than to have to leave Miss Domby. Susan abandoned herself to her grief now, and it really was touching to see her. I say, said Mr. Toots, now don't, at least I mean now do, you know. Do what, Mr. Toots, cried Susan? Why, come home to my place and have some dinner before you start, said Mr. Toots, my cook's a most respectable woman, one of the most motherly people I ever saw, and she'll be delighted to make you comfortable. Her son, said Mr. Toots, as an additional recommendation, was educated in the Blue Coat School and blown up in a powder mill. Susan, accepting this kind offer, Mr. Toots conducted her to his dwelling, where they were received by the matron in question, who fully justified his character of her, and by the chicken, who, at first supposed, on seeing a lady in the vehicle, that Mr. Domby had been doubled up agreeably to his old recommendation and Miss Domby abducted. This gentleman awakened in Miss Nipper some considerable astonishment, for having been defeated by the larky boy, his visage was in a state of such great dilapidation as to be hardly presentable in society with comfort to the beholders. The chicken himself attributed this punishment to his having had the misfortune to get into chancery early in the proceedings, when he was severely fibbed by the larky one and heavily grasped. But it appeared from the published records of that great contest that the larky boy had had it all his own way from the beginning, and that the chicken had been tapped and bunged, and had received pepper, and had been made groggy, and had come up piping, and had endured a complication of similar strange inconveniences until he had been gone into and finished. After a good repast and much hospitality, Susan set out for the coach office in another cabriolet, with Mr. Toots inside as before, and the chicken on the box, who, whatever distinction he conferred on the little party by the moral weight and heroism of his character, was scarcely ornamental to it, physically speaking, on account of his plasters which were numerous. But the chicken had registered a vow in secret that he would never leave Mr. Toots, who was secretly pining to get rid of him, for any less consideration than the goodwill and fixtures of a public house, and being ambitious to go into that line and drink himself to death as soon as possible, he felt at his cue to make his company unacceptable. The night coach by which Susan was to go was on the point of departure, Mr. Toots having put her inside, lingered by the window irresolutely until the driver was about to mount, when standing on the step and putting in a face that by the light of the lamp was anxious and confused, he said abruptly, I say, Susan, Miss Domby, you know, Yes, sir. Do you think she could, you know, eh? I beg your pardon, Mr. Toots, said Susan, but I don't hear you. Do you think she could be brought, you know, not exactly at once, but in time, in a long time, to love me, you know? There, said poor Mr. Toots. Oh, dear no, returned Susan, shaking her head. I should say, never. Never. Thank ye, said Mr. Toots, it's of no consequence. Good night. It's of no consequence, thank ye. End of Chapter 44. Chapter 45 of Domby and Son. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Cynthia Lyons. Domby and Son by Charles Dickens. Chapter 45, The Trustee Agent. Edith went out alone that day and returned home early. It was but a few minutes after ten o'clock when her carriage rolled along the street in which she lived. There was the same enforced composure on her face that there had been when she was dressing, and the wreath upon her head encircled the same cold and steady brow. But it would have been better to have seen its leaves and flowers refved into fragments by her passionate hand, or rendered shapeless by the fitful searches of a throbbing and bewildered brain for any resting place, then adorning such tranquility. So obdurate, so unapproachable, so unrelenting, one would have thought that nothing could soften such a woman's nature, and that everything in life had hardened it. Arrived at her own door, she was alighting when someone, coming quietly from the hall and standing bare-headed, offered her his arm. The servant being thrust aside, she had no choice but to touch it, and she knew then whose arm it was. How is your patience, sir? she said with a curled lip. He is better, returned Carker. He is doing very well. I have left him for the night. She bent her head and was passing up the staircase when he followed and said, speaking at the bottom. Madam, may I beg the favour of a minute's audience? She stopped and turned her eyes back. It is an unreasonable time, sir, and I am fatigued. Is your business urgent? It is very urgent, returned Carker, as I am so fortunate as to have met you. Let me press my petition. She looked down for a moment at his glistening mouth, and he looked up at her, standing above him in her stately dress and thought again how beautiful she was. Where is Miss Dombie? she asked the servant aloud. In the morning-room, ma'am. Show the way there. Turning her eyes again on the attentive gentleman at the bottom of the stairs and informing him with a slight motion of her head that he was at liberty to follow, she passed on. I beg your pardon, madam, Mrs. Dombie cried the soft and nimble Carker at her side in a moment. May I be permitted to entreat that Miss Dombie is not present? She confronted him with a quick look, but with the same self-possession and steadiness. I would spare Miss Dombie, said Carker in a low voice, the knowledge of what I have to say. At least, madam, I would leave it to you to decide whether she should know it or not. I owe that to you. It is my bounden duty to you. After our former interview it would be monstrous in me if I did otherwise. She slowly withdrew her eyes from his face and, turning to the servant, said, some other room. He led the way to a drawing-room, which he speedily lighted up and then left them. While he remained, not a word was spoken. Edith enthroned herself upon a couch by the fire, and Mr. Carker, with his hat in his hand, and his eyes bent upon the carpet, stood before her at some little distance. Before I hear you, sir, said Edith, when the door was closed. I wish you to hear me. To be addressed by Mrs. Dombie, he returned, even in accents of unmerited reproach, is an honor I so greatly esteem, that although I were not her servant in all things, I should defer to such a wish, most readily. If you are charged by the man whom you have just now left, sir, Mr. Carker raised his eyes as if he were going to counterfeit surprise, but she met them and stopped him, if such were his intention. With any message to me, do not attempt to deliver it, for I will not receive it. I need scarcely ask you if you are come on such an errand. I have expected you some time. It is my misfortune, he replied, to be here, wholly against my will for such a purpose. Allow me to say that I am here for two purposes. That is one. That one, sir, she returned, is ended. Or if you return to it, can Mrs. Dombie believe, said Carker, coming nearer, that I would return to it in the face of her prohibition? Is it possible that Mrs. Dombie, having no regard to my unfortunate position, is so determined to consider me inseparable from my instructor as to do me great and willful injustice? Sir, returned Edith, bending her dark gaze full upon him, and speaking with a rising passion that inflated her proud nostril and her swelling neck, and stirred the delicate white down upon a robe she wore, thrown loosely over shoulders that could bear its snowy neighborhood. Why do you present yourself to me, as you have done, and speak to me of love and duty to my husband, and pretend to think that I am happily married and that I honor him? How dare you venture so to affront me, when you know? I do not know better, sir. I have seen it in your every glance, and heard it in your every word, that in place of affection between us, there is aversion and contempt, and that I despise him hardly less than I despise myself for being his. Injustice! If I had done justice to the torment you have made me feel, and to my sense of the insult you have put upon me I should have slain you. She had asked him why he did this. Had she not been blinded by her pride and wrath, and self-humiliation, which she was fiercely as she bent her gaze upon him, she would have seen the answer in his face to bring her to this declaration. She saw it not, and cared not, whether it was there or no. She saw only the indignities and struggles she had undergone, and had to undergo, and was writhing under them. As she sat looking fixedly at them, rather than at him, she plucked the feathers from opinion of some rare and beautiful bird, which hung from her wrist by a golden thread, to serve her as a fan, and rain them on the ground. He did not shrink beneath her gaze, but stood, until such outward sign of her anger as had escaped her control subsided, with the air of a man who had his sufficient reply in reserve and would presently deliver it, and he then spoke looking straight in her kindling eyes. Madam, he said, I know, and knew before to-day, that I have found no favor with you, and I knew why. Yes, I knew why. You have spoken so openly to me. I am so relieved by the possession of your confidence. Confidence, she repeated with disdain. He passed it over. That I will make no pretense of concealment, I did see, from the first, that there was no affection on your part for Mr. Dombie. How could it possibly exist between such different subjects? And I have seen, since, that stronger feelings than indifference have been engendered in your breast. How could that possibly be otherwise, either, circumstanced, as you have been? But was it for me to presume to avow this knowledge to you in so many words? Was it for you, sir, she replied, to feign that other belief and audaciously to thrust it on me day by day? Madam, it was, he eagerly retorted, if I had done less, if I had done anything but that, I should not be speaking to thus. And I foresaw who could better foresee, for who has had greater experience of Mr. Dombie than myself, that unless your character should prove to be as yielding and obedient as that of his first submissive lady, which I did not believe, a haughty smile gave him reason to observe that he might repeat this. I say, which I did not believe, the time was likely to come when such an understanding, as we have now arrived at, would be serviceable. Serviceable to whom, sir, she demanded scornfully? To you, I will not add to myself as warning me to refrain even from that limited commendation of Mr. Dombie, in which I can honestly indulge in order that I may not have the misfortune of saying anything distasteful to one whose aversion and contempt, with great expression, are so keen. Is it honest in you, sir, said Edith, to confess to your limited commendation, and to speak in that tone of disparagement, even of him, being his chief counselor and flatterer? Counselor, yes, said Cawker. Flatterer, no. A little reservation I fear I must confess to, but our interests and convenience commonly oblige many of us to make professions that we cannot feel. We have partnerships of interests and convenience, friendships of interest and convenience, dealings of interest and convenience, marriages of interest and convenience every day. She bit her blood-red lip, but without wavering in the dark, stern watch she kept upon him. Madam, said Mr. Cawker, sitting down in a chair that was near her, with an air of the most profound and most considerable respect, why should I hesitate now, being altogether devoted to your service, to speak plainly? It was natural that a lady, endowed as you are, should think it feasible to change her husband's character in some respects, and mold him to a better form. It was not natural to me, sir, she rejoined. I had never any expectation or intention of that kind. The proud, undaunted face showed him it was resolute to wear no mask he offered, but was set upon a reckless disclosure of itself, indifferent to any aspect in which it might present itself to such as he. At least it was natural, he resumed, that you should deem it quite possible to live with Mr. Domby as his wife at once without submitting to him, and without coming into such violent collision with him. But, Madam, you did not know Mr. Domby, as you have since ascertained, when you thought that. You did not know how exacting and how proud he is, or how he is, if I may say so, the slave of his own greatness, and goes yoked to his own triumphful car, like a beast of burden, with no idea on earth but that it is behind him and he is to be drawn on over everything and through everything. His teeth gleamed through his malicious relish of this conceit as he went on talking. Mr. Domby is really capable of no more true consideration for you, Madam, than for me. The comparison is an extreme one. I intend it to be so, but quite just. Mr. Domby, in the plenitude of his power, asked me, I had it from his own lips yesterday morning, to be his go-between to you, because he knows I am not agreeable to you, and because he intends that I shall be a punishment for your contumacy, and besides that, because he really does consider that I his paid servant and an ambassador to whom it is derogatory to the dignity, not of the lady to whom I have the happiness of speaking, she has no existence in his mind, but of his wife a part of himself to receive. You may imagine how regardless of me, how obtuse to the possibility of my having any individual sentiment or opinion he is, when he tells me openly that I am so employed. You know how perfectly indifferent to your feelings he is when he threatens you with such a messenger, as you, of course, have not forgotten that he did. She watched him still attentively, but he watched her too, and he saw that this indication of a knowledge on his part of something that had passed between herself and her husband, rankled and smarted in her haughty breast, like a poisoned arrow. I do not recall all this to widen the breach between yourself and Mr. Dombie. Madam, heaven forbid, what would it profit me, but as an example of the hopelessness of impressing Mr. Dombie with a sense that anybody is to be considered when he is in question. We, who are about him, have in our various positions done our part. I dare say to confirm him in his way of thinking, but if we had not done so others would, or they would not have been about him, and it has always been from the very beginning the very staple of his life. Mr. Dombie has had to deal, in short, with none but submissive and dependent persons, who have bowed the knee and bent the neck before him. He has never known what it is to have angry pride and strong resentment opposed to him. But he will know it now, she seemed to say, though her lips did not part nor her eyes falter. He saw the soft down tremble once again, and he saw her lay the plumage of the beautiful bird against her bosom for a moment, and he unfolded one more ring of the coil into which he had gathered himself. Mr. Dombie, though a most honorable gentleman, he said, is so prone to pervert even facts to his own view when he is at all opposed in consequence of the warp in his mind, that he can I give a better instance than this. He sincerely believes, you will excuse the folly of what I am about to say, it not being mine, that his severe expression of opinion to his present wife on a certain special occasion she may remember before the lamented death of Mrs. Scuton produced a withering effect, and for the moment quite subdued her. Edith laughed, how harshly and unmusically need not be described. It is enough that he was glad to hear her. Madam, he resumed, I have done with this. Your own opinions are so strong, and I am persuaded, so unalterable. He repeated those words slowly and with great emphasis, that I am almost afraid to incur your displeasure anew, when I say that in spite of these defects and my full knowledge of them, I have become habituated to Mr. Dombie and esteem him. But when I say so, it is not, believe me, for the mere sake of wanting a feeling that is so utterly at variance with your own, and for which you can have no sympathy. Oh, how distinct and plain and emphasized this was, but to give you an assurance of the zeal with which, in this unhappy matter, I am yours, and the indignation with which I regard the part I am required to fill. She sat as if she were afraid to take her eyes from his face, and now to unwind the last ring of the coil. It is growing late, said Corker, after a pause, and you are, as you said, fatigued. But the second object of this interview I must not forget. I must recommend you, I must entreat you, in the most earnest manner, for sufficient reasons that I have, to be cautious in your demonstration of regard for Miss Dombie. Cautious, what do you mean? To be careful how you exhibit too much affection for that young lady. Too much affection, sir? said Edith, knitting her broad brow and rising. Who judges my affection or measures it out, you? It is not I who do so. He was, or feigned to be, perplexed. Who then? Can you not guess who then? I do not choose to guess, she answered. Madam, he said after a little hesitation. Meantime they had been, and still were, regarding each other as before. I am in a difficulty here. You have told me you will receive no message, and you have forbidden me to return to that subject. But the two subjects are so closely entwined, I find, that unless you will accept this vague caution from one, who has now the honor to possess your confidence, though the way to it has been through your displeasure, I must violate the injunction you have laid upon me. You know that you are free to do so, sir, said Edith, do it. So pale, so trembling, so impassioned, he had not miscalculated the effect then. His instructions were, he said in a low voice, that I should inform you that your demeanor towards Miss Dombie is not agreeable to him, that it suggests comparisons to him which are not favorable to himself, that he desires it may be wholly changed, and that if you are in earnest he is confident it will be, for your continued show of affection will not benefit its object. That is a threat, she said. That is a threat, he answered, in his voiceless manner of assent, adding aloud, but not directed against you. Proud, erect, and dignified, as she stood confronting him, and looking through him as she did, with her full bright flashing eye, and smiling as she was, with scorn and bitterness, she sunk as if the ground had dropped beneath her, and in an instant would have fallen on the floor, but that he caught her in his arms. As instantaneously she threw him off the moment that he touched her, and drawing back, confronted him again, immovable with her hand stretched out. Pleased to leave me, say no more tonight. I feel the urgency of this, said Mr. Corker, because it is impossible to say when unforeseen consequences might arise or how soon, from your being unacquainted with his state of mind. I understand Miss Dombie is concerned now at the dismissal of her old servant, which is likely to have been a minor consequence in itself. You don't blame me for requesting that Miss Dombie might not be present. May I hope so? I do not. Please, to leave me, sir. I knew that your regard for the young lady, which is very sincere and strong, I am well persuaded, would render it a great unhappiness to you, ever to be a prey to the reflection that you had injured her position and ruined her future hopes, said Corker hurriedly but eagerly. No more tonight, leave me, if you please. I shall be here constantly in my attendance upon him, and in the transaction of business matters. You will allow me to see you again, and to consult what should be done and learn your wishes? She motioned him towards the door. I cannot even decide whether to tell him I have spoken to yet, or to lead him to suppose that I have deferred doing so, for want of opportunity, or for any other reason. It will be necessary that you should enable me to consult with you very soon. Any time but now, she answered. You will understand when I wish to see you, that Miss Dombie is not to be present, and that I seek an interview as one who has the happiness to possess your confidence, and who comes to render you every assistance in his power, and perhaps on many occasions to ward off evil from her. Looking at him still, with the same apparent dread of releasing him for a moment from the influence of her steady gaze, whatever that might be, she answered, yes, and once more bade him go. He bowed as if in compliance, but turning back, when he had nearly reached the door, said, I am forgiven and have explained my fault. May I, for Miss Dombie's sake and for my own, take your hand before I go. She gave him the gloved hand she had maimed last night. He took it in one of his and kissed it and withdrew. And when he had closed the door, he waved the hand with which he had taken hers, and thrust it in his breast. Edith saw no one that night, but locked her door and kept herself alone. She did not weep. She showed no greater agitation outwardly than when she was riding home. She laid as proud ahead upon her pillow as she had borne in her carriage, and her prayer ran thus. May this man be a liar, for if he has spoken the truth, she is lost to me, and I have no hope left. This man, meanwhile, went home using to bed, thinking, with a dainty pleasure, how imperious her passion was, how she had sat before him in her beauty, with the dark eyes that had never turned away but once, how the down had fluttered, how the bird's feathers had been strewn upon the ground. Dombie and Son by Charles Dickens Chapter 46 Recognizant and Reflective Among sundry, minor alterations in Mr. Carca's life and habits that began to take place at this time, none was more remarkable than the extraordinary diligence with which he applied himself to business, and the closeness with which he investigated every detail that the affairs of the house laid open to him. Always active and penetrating in such matters, his link's eyed vigilance now increased twentyfold. Not only did his weary watch keep pace with every present point that every day presented to him in some new form, but in the midst of these engrossing occupations, he found leisure—that is, he made it—to review the past transactions of the firm and his share in them, during a long series of years. Frequently, when the clocks were all gone, the offices dark and empty, and all similar places of business shut up, Mr. Carca, with the whole anatomy of the iron room laid bare before him, would explore the mysteries of books and papers with the patient progress of a man who was dissecting the minutest nerves and fibers of his subject. Perch, the messenger, who usually remained on these occasions to entertain himself with the perusal of the price current by the light of one candle, or to doze over the fire in the outer office at the imminent risk every moment of diving head-formist into the coal box, could not withhold the tributes of his admiration from this zealous conduct, although it much contracted his domestic enjoyments, and again and again expatiated to Mrs. Perch, now nursing twins, on the industry and acuteness of their managing gentleman in the city. The same increased and sharp attention that Mr. Carca bestowed on the business of the house, he applied to his own personal affairs, though not a partner in the concern, a distinction hitherto reserved solely to inheritors of the great name of Dombi. He was in the receipt of some percentage on its dealings, and participating in all its facilities for the employment of money to advantage was considered by the minnows among the tritons of the East a rich man. It began to be said, among these shrewd observers, that Jem Carca of Dombis was looking about him to see what he was worth, and that he was calling in his money at a good time, like the long-headed fellow he was, and bets were even offered on the stock exchange that Jem was going to marry a rich widow. Yet these cares did not in the least interfere with Mr. Carca's watching of his chief, or with his cleanness, neatness, sleekness, or any cat-like quality he possessed. It was not so much that there was a change in him in reference to any of his habits, as that the whole man was intensified. Everything that had been observable in him before was observable now, but with a greater amount of concentration. He did each single thing as if he did nothing else, a pretty certain indication in a man of that range of ability and purpose that he is doing something which sharpens and keeps alive his keenest powers. The only decided alteration in him was that, as he rode to and fro along the streets, he would fall into deep fits of musing, like that in which he had come away from Mr. Dombis' house, on the morning of that gentleman's disaster. At such times he would keep clear of the obstacles in his way, mechanically, and would appear to see and hear nothing until arrival at his destination, or some sudden chance or effort roused him. Walking his white-legged horse thus to the counting-house of Dombian's son one day, he was as unconscious of the observation of two pairs of women's eyes as of the fascinated orbs of Rob the Grinder, who, in waiting a street length from the appointed place as a demonstration of punctuality, vainly touched and retouched his hat to attract attention and trotted along on foot by his master's side, prepared to hold his stirrup when he should alight. See where he goes! cried one of these two women, an old creature, who stretched out her shriveled arm to point him out to her companion, a young woman who stood close beside her, withdrawn like herself into a gateway. Mrs. Brown's daughter looked out at this bidding on the part of Mrs. Brown, and there were wrath and vengeance in her face. I never thought to look at him again, she said in a low voice, but it's well I should perhaps, I see, I see. Not changed, said the old woman with a look of eager malice. He changed, returned the other. What for? What has he suffered? There is change enough for twenty in me. Isn't that enough? See where he goes, muttered the old woman, watching her daughter with her red eyes, so easy and so trim, a horseback, while we are in the mud. And of it, said her daughter impatiently, we are mud underneath his horse's feet. What should we be? In the intentness with which she looked after him again, she made a hasty gesture with her hand when the old woman began to reply, as if her view could be obstructed by mere sound. Her mother, watching her and not him, remained silent, until her kindling glance subsided, and she drew a long breath, as if in relief of his being gone. Deary, said the old woman then, Alice, handsome gal, Ali! She gently shook her sleeve to arouse her attention. Will you let him go like that when you can ring money from him? Why, it's a wickedness, my daughter. Haven't I told you that I will not have money from him? She returned. And don't you yet believe me? Did I take his sister's money? Would I touch a penny, if I knew it, that had gone through his white hands, unless it was, indeed, that I could poison it and send it back to him? Peace, mother, and come away. And him so rich, murmured the old woman, and us so poor? Poor is not being able to pay him any of the harm we owe him, returned her daughter. Let him give me that sort of riches, and I'll take them from him and use them. Come away, it's no good looking at his horse. Come away, mother. But the old woman, for whom the spectacle of Robb the Grinder, returning down the street, leading the riderless horse, appeared to have some extraneous interest that it did not possess in itself, surveyed that young man with the utmost earnestness, and seeming to have whatever doubts she entertained, resolved, as he drew nearer, glanced at her daughter with brightened eyes and with her finger on her lip, and emerging from the gateway at the moment of his passing, touched him on the shoulder. Why, where's my Spritely Rob been all this time, she said, as he turned round. The Spritely Rob, whose sprightliness was very much diminished by the salutation, looked exceedingly dismayed, and said, with a water rising in his eyes. Oh, why can't you leave a poor cove alone, Mrs. Brown, when he's getting an honest livelihood and conducting himself respectable? Why do you come and deprive a cove of his character for, by talking to him in the streets, when he's taking his master's horse to an honest stable, a horse you'd go and sell for cats and dogs meet if you had your way? Why, I thought, said the Grinder, producing his concluding remark, as if it were the climax of all his injuries, that you was dead long ago. This is the way, cried the old woman, appealing to her daughter, that he talks to me, who knew him weeks and months together, my dearie, and have stood his friend, many and many a time, among the pigeon-fancing tramps and bird-catchers. Let the birds be, will you, Mrs. Brown, retorted Rob, in a tone of the acutest anguish. I think a cove had better have to do with lions than them little creatures, for they're always flying back in your face when you least expect it. Well, how do you do and what do you want? These polite inquiries the Grinder uttered, as it were under protest and with great exasperation and vindictiveness. Hark, how he speaks to an old friend, my dearie, said Mrs. Brown, again appealing to her daughter. But there are some of his old friends not so patient as me. If I was to tell some that he knows, and has sported and cheated with, where to find him, will you hold your tongue, Mrs. Brown, interrupted the miserable Grinder, glancing quickly round, as though he expected to see his master's teeth shining at his elbow. What do you take a pleasure in ruining a cove for, at your time of life too, when you ought to be thinking of a variety of things? What a gallant horse, said the old woman, patting the animal's neck. Let him alone, will you, Mrs. Brown, cried Rob, pushing away her hand. You're enough to drive a penitent cove mad. Why, what hurt do I do him, child, returned the old woman. Hurt, said Rob, he's got a master that would find it out if he was touched with a straw. And he blew upon the piece where the old woman's hand had rested for a moment, and smoothed it gently with his finger, as if he seriously believed what he said. The old woman, looking back to mumble and mouth at her daughter, who followed, kept close to Rob's heels as he walked on with the bridle in his hand, and pursued the conversation. A good place, Rob, eh, said she. You're in luck, my child. Oh, don't talk about luck, Mrs. Brown, returned the wretched grinder, facing round and stopping. If you'd never come, or if you'd go away, then indeed a cove might be considered tolerably lucky. Can't you go along, Mrs. Brown, and not follow me? Blubbered Rob, with sudden defiance. If the young woman's a friend of yours, why don't she take you away, instead of letting you make yourself so disgraceful? What, croaked the old woman, putting her face close to his, with a malevolent grin upon it that puckered up the loose skin down in her very throat. Do you deny your old chum? Have you lurked to my house fifty times and slept sound in a corner when you had no other bed but the paving stones? And do you talk to me like this? Have I bought and sold with you and helped you in my way of business, schoolboy, sneak, and what not? And do you tell me to go along? Could I raise a crowd of old company about you to-morrow morning that would follow you to ruin like copies of your own shadow? And do you turn on me with your bold looks? I'll go. Come, Alice. Stop, Mrs. Brown, cried the distracted grinder. What are you doing of? Don't put yourself in a passion. Don't let her go, if you please. I haven't meant any offense. I said, how do you do, at first, didn't I? But you wouldn't answer. How do you do? Besides, had robbed piteously. Look here. How can a cove stand talking in the street with his master's Pratt a wanting to be took to be rubbed down and his master up to every individual thing that can happen? The old woman made a show of being partially appeased but shook her head and mouth and murmured still. Come along to the stables and have a glass of something that's good for you, Mrs. Brown, can't you? said Robb, instead of going on like that, which is no good to you or anybody else. Come along with her. Will you be so kind? said Robb. I'm sure I'm delighted to see her if it wasn't for the horse. With this apology, Robb turned away a rueful picture of despair and walked his charge down a by-street. The old woman, mouthing at her daughter, followed close upon him. The daughter followed, turning into a silent little square or courtyard that had a great church tower rising above it and a packer's warehouse and a bottle-maker's warehouse for its places of business. Robb the grinder delivered the white-legged horse to the hustler of a quaint stable at the corner and inviting Mrs. Brown and her daughter to seat themselves upon a stone bench at the gate of that establishment soon reappeared from a neighboring public house with a pewter measure and a glass. Here's Master, Mr. Carker, child, said the old woman slowly, as her sentiment before drinking. Lord bless him. Why, I didn't tell you who he was, observed Robb with staring eyes. We know him by sight, said Mrs. Brown, whose working mouth and nodding head stopped for the moment. In fixedness of her attention we saw him pass this morning before he got off his horse when you were ready to take it. I, I, returned Robb, appearing to wish that his readiness had carried him to any other place. What's the matter with her, won't she drink? This inquiry had reference to Alice, who, folded in her cloak, sat a little apart profoundly inattentive to his offer of the replenished glass. The old woman shook her head. Don't mind her, she said. She's a strange creature, if you'd know her, Robb, but Mr. Carker. Hush, said Robb, glancing cautiously up at the packers and at the bottle-makers as if from any one of the tears of warehouses Mr. Carker might be looking down. Softly. Why, he ain't here, cried Mrs. Brown. I don't know that, muttered Robb, whose glance even wandered to the church tower as if he might be there with a supernatural power of hearing. Good Master, inquired Mrs. Brown. Robb nodded and added in a low voice. Precious, sharp. Lives out of town, don't he, lovey? said the old woman. When he's at home, returned Robb, but we don't live at home just now. Where, then? asked the old woman. Lodgings, up near Mr. Dombie's, returned Robb. The younger woman fixed her eyes so searchingly upon him and so suddenly that Robb was quite confounded and offered the glass again, but with no more effect upon her than before. Mr. Dombie, you and I used to talk about him. Sometimes, you know, said Robb to Mrs. Brown. You used to get me to talk about him. The old woman nodded. Well, Mr. Dombie, he's had a fall from his horse, said Robb unwillingly, and my master has to be up there, more than usual, either with him or Mrs. Dombie or some of him, and so we've come to town. Are they good friends, lovey? asked the old woman. Who, retorted Robb. He and she. What, Mr. and Mrs. Dombie, said Robb, how should I know? Not them, master and Mrs. Dombie, chick, replied the old woman coaxingly. I don't know, said Robb, looking round him again. I suppose so. How curious you are, Mrs. Brown. Least said, soon as mended. Why, there's no harm in it, exclaimed the old woman with a laugh and a clap of her hands. Spritely Robb has grown tame since he has been well off. There's no harm in it. No, there's no harm in it, I know, returned Robb, with the same distrustful glance at the packers and the bottle makers and the church. But, blabbing, if it's only about the number of buttons on my master's coat won't do. I tell you, it won't do with him. A cove had better drown himself. He says so. I shouldn't have so much as told you what his name was, if you hadn't known it. Talk about somebody else. As Robb took another cautious survey of the yard, the old woman made a secret motion to her daughter. It was momentary, but the daughter with a slight look of intelligence withdrew her eyes from the boy's face and sat folded in her cloak as before. Robb, lovey, said the old woman, beckoning him to the other end of the bench. You were always a pet and a favorite of mine. Now, weren't you? Don't you know you were? Yes, Mrs. Brown replied the grinder with a very bad grace. And you could leave me, said the old woman, flinging her arms about his neck. You could go away and grow almost out of knowledge and never come to tell your poor old friend how fortunate you were, proud lad. Oh, here's a dreadful go for a cove that's got a master wide awake in the neighborhood, exclaimed the wretched grinder, to be howled over like this here. Won't you come and see me, Robby, cried Mrs. Brown? Oh, won't you ever come and see me? Yes, I tell you. Yes, I will return the grinder. That's my own Robb. That's my lovey, said Mrs. Brown, drying the tears upon her shriveled face and giving him a tender squeeze. At the old place, Robb? Yes, replied the grinder. Soon, Robby dear, cried Mrs. Brown, and often, Yes, yes, yes, replied Robb. I will indeed upon my soul and body. And then, said Mrs. Brown, with her arms uplifted towards the sky, and her head thrown back and shaking, if he's true to his word, I'll never come and near him, though I know where he is, and never breathe a syllable about him, never. This ejaculation seemed a drop of comfort to the miserable grinder, who shook Mrs. Brown by the hand upon it, and implored her with tears in his eyes to leave a cove and not destroy his prospects. Mrs. Brown, with another fond embrace, assented, but in the act of following her daughter, turned back with her finger stealthily raised and asked in a hoarse whisper for some money. A shilling deer, she said, with her eager, avaricious face, or sixpence, for old acquaintance's sake, I'm so poor and my handsome gal, looking over her shoulder. She's my gal, Robb, half-starves me. But, as the reluctant grinder put it in her hand, her daughter, coming quietly back, caught the hand in hers and twisted out the coin. What, she said, mother, always money, money from the first and to the last, do you mind so little what I said but now, here, take it. The old woman uttered a moan as the money was restored, but without in any other way opposing its restoration, hobbled at her daughter's side out of the yard and along the by-street upon which it opened. The astonished and dismayed Robb, stared after them, saw that they stopped and fell to earnest conversation very soon, and more than once observed a darkly threatening action of the younger woman's hand, obviously having reference to someone of whom they spoke, and a crooning feeble imitation of it on the part of Mrs. Brown that made him earnestly hope he might not be subject of their discourse. With the present consolation that they were gone and with the prospective comfort that Mrs. Brown could not live forever and was not likely to live long to trouble him, the grinder not otherwise regretting his misdeeds than as they were attended with such disagreeable incidental consequences, composed his ruffled features to a more serene expression by thinking of the admirable manner in which he had disposed of Captain Cuddle, a reflection that seldom failed to put him in a flow of spirits, and went to the Dombie counting house to receive his master's orders. There his master, so subtle and vigilant of I, that Robb quaked before him, more than half expecting to be taxed with Mrs. Brown, gave him the usual morning's box of papers for Mr. Dombie, and a note for Mrs. Dombie, merely nodding his head as an enjoinder to be careful and to use dispatch, a mysterious admonition fraught in the grinder's imagination with dismal warnings and threats, and more powerful with him than any words. Alone again in his own room Mr. Carker applied himself to work and worked all day. He saw many visitors, overlooked a number of documents, went in and out, to and from sundry places of mercantile resort, and indulged in no more abstraction until the day's business was done. But when the usual clearance of papers from his table was made at last, he fell into his thoughtful mood once more. He was standing in his accustomed place and attitude, with his eyes intently fixed upon the ground, when his brother entered to bring back some letters that had been taken out in the course of the day. He put them quietly on the table, and was going immediately when Mr. Carker, the manager, whose eyes had rested on him, on his entrance, as if they had all this time had him for the subject of their contemplation, instead of the office floor, said, Well, John Carker, and what brings you here? His brother pointed to the letters and was again withdrawing. I wonder, said the manager, that you can come and go without inquiring how our master is. We had word this morning in the counting-house that Mr. Domby was doing well, replied his brother. You are such a meek fellow, said the manager, with a smile. But you have grown so, in the course of years, that if any harm came to him you'd be miserable, I dareswear now. I should be truly sorry, James, returned the other. He would be sorry, said the manager, pointing at him, as if there were some other person present to whom he was appealing. He would be truly sorry, this brother of mine, this junior of the place, this slighted piece of lumber, pushed aside with his face to the wall, like a rotten picture, and left so. For heaven knows how many years he's all gratitude and respect and devotion to. He would have me believe. I would have you believe nothing, James, returned the other. Be as just to me as you would to any other man below you. You ask a question, and I answered it. And have you nothing, Spaniel, said the manager, with unusual irascibility, to complain of in him? No proud treatment to resent, no insolence, no foolery of state, no exaction of any sort. What the devil are you man or mouse? It would be strange if any two persons could be together for so many years, especially as superior and inferior, without each having something to complain of in the other, as he thought at all events, replied John Parker. But, apart from my history here, his history here, exclaimed the manager. Why, there it is, the very fact that makes him an extreme case, puts him out of the whole chapter. Well, apart from that, which, as you hint, gives me a reason to be thankful that I alone, happily for all the rest, possess, surely, there is no one in the house who would not say and feel at least as much. You do not think that anybody here would be indifferent to a mischance or misfortune happening to the head of the house or anything, then truly sorry for it. You have good reason to be bound to him, too, said the manager contemptuously. Why, don't you believe that you are kept here as a cheap example and a famous instance of the clemency of Dombian's son, redounding to the credit of the illustrious house? No, replied his brother mildly. I have long believed that I am kept here for more kind and disinterested reasons. But you are going, said the manager, with the snarl of a tiger cat, to recite some Christian precept I observed. Nay, James, return the other, though the tie of brotherhood between us has been long broken and thrown away. Who broke it, good sir, said the manager. I, by my misconduct, I do not charge it upon you. The manager replied with that mute action of his bristling mouth. Oh, you don't charge it upon me? And bade him go on. I say, though there is not that tie between us, do not, I entreat, assail me with unnecessary taunts or misinterpret what I say or would say. I was only going to suggest to you that it would be a mistake to suppose that it is only you who have been selected here above all others for advancement, confidence, and distinction selected in the beginning I know for your great ability and trustfulness, and who communicate more freely with Mr. Dombie than anyone, and stand, it may said, on equal terms with him, and have been favored and enriched by him, that it would be a mistake to suppose that it is only you who are tender of his welfare and reputation. There is no one in the house from yourself down to the lowest. I sincerely believe who does not participate in that feeling. You lie, said the manager, read with sudden anger. You are a hypocrite, John Parker, and you lie. James, cried the other, flushing in his turn. What do you mean by these insulting words? Why do you so basely use them to me, unprovoked? I tell you, said the manager, that your hypocrisy and meekness, that all the hypocrisy and meekness of this place is not worth that to me, snapping his thumb and finger, and that I see through it as if it were air. There is not a man employed here, standing between myself and the lowest in place, of whom you are very considerate and with reason, for he is not far off, who wouldn't be glad at heart to see his master humbled, who does not hate him secretly, who does not wish him evil rather than good, and who would not turn upon him if he had the power and boldness. The nearer to his favour, the nearer to his insolence, the closer to him, the farther from him. That's the creed here. I don't know, said his brother, whose roused feelings had soon yielded to surprise. Who may have abused your ear with such representations, or why you have chosen to try me, rather than another. But that you have been trying me, and tampering with me, I am now sure. You have a different manner and a different aspect from any that I ever saw in you. I will only say to you once more you are deceived. I know I am, said the manager. I have told you so. Not by me, returned his brother. By your informant, if you have one. If not, by your own thoughts and suspicions. I have no suspicions, said the manager. Mine are certainties. You pusillanimous, abject, cringing dogs, all making the same show, all canting the same story, or whining the same professions, or harboring the same parent's secret. His brother withdrew without saying more and shut the door as he concluded. Mr. Cawker the manager drew a chair close before the fire, and fell to beating the coals softly with the poker. The faint-hearted, fawning knaves, he muttered, with his two shining rows of teeth laid bare. There's not one among them who wouldn't feign to be so shocked and outraged. Bah, there's not one among them, but if he had once the power and the wit and daring to use it, would scatter Domby's pride and lay it low, as ruthlessly as I rake out these ashes. As he broke them up and strewed them in the great, he looked on with a thoughtful smile at what he was doing. Without the same queen Beccaner, too, he added presently. And there is pride there not to be forgotten, witness our own acquaintance. With that he fell into a deeper reverie, and sat pondering over the blackening great, until he rose up like a man who had been absorbed in a book, and looking round him, he took his hat and gloves, went to where his horse was waiting, mounted, and rode away through the lighted streets for it was evening. He rode near Mr. Domby's house, and falling into a walk as he approached it looked up at the windows. The window where he had once seen Florence sitting with her dog attracted his attention first, though there was no light in it, but he smiled as he carried his eyes up the tall front of the house and seemed to leave that object superciliously behind. Time was, he said, when it was well to watch even your rising little star and know in what quarter there were clouds to shadow you, if needful, but a planet has arisen and you are lost in its light. He turned the white-legged horse round the street corner and sought one shining window from among those at the back of the house. Associated with it was a certain stately presence, a gloved hand, the remembrance how the feathers of a beautiful bird's wing had been showered down upon the floor, and how the light white down upon a robe had stirred and rustled as in the rising of a distant storm. These were the things he carried with him as he turned away again and rode through the darkening and deserted parks at a quick rate. In fatal truth these were associated with a woman, a proud woman who hated him, but who by slow and sure degrees had been led on by his craft and her pride and resentment to endure his company, and little by little to receive him as one who had the privilege to talk to her of her own defiant disregard of her own husband and her abandonment of high consideration for herself. They were associated with a woman who hated him deeply and who knew him and who mistrusted him because she knew him and because he knew her, but who fed her fierce resentment by suffering him to draw nearer and yet nearer to her every day in spite of the hate she cherished for him, in spite of it. For that very reason since in its depths too far down for her threatening eye to pierce though she could see into them dimly lay the dark retaliation whose faintest shadow seen once and shuddered at and never seen again would have been sufficient stain upon her soul. Did the phantom of such a woman flit about him on his ride true to the reality and obvious to him? Yes, he saw her in his mind exactly as she was. She bore him company with her pride, resentment, hatred, all as plain to him as her beauty, with nothing plainer to him than her hatred of him. He saw her sometimes haughty and repellent at his side and sometimes down among his horse's feet fallen and in the dust, but he always saw her as she was without disguise and watched her on the dangerous way that she was going. And when his ride was over and he was newly dressed and came into the light of her bright room with his bent head, soft voice and soothing smile, he saw her yet as plainly. He even suspected the mystery of the gloved hand and held it all the longer in his own for that suspicion. Upon the dangerous way that she was going, he was still, and not a footprint did she mark upon it, but he set his own there, straight.