 CHAPTER XX. Mr. Dombie, Sir." said Major Bagstock. Joey B. is not in general a man of sentiment, but Joseph is tough. But Joe has his feelings, sir, and when they are awakened, damn Mr. Dombie! cried the Major with sudden ferocity. This is a weakness, and I won't submit to it. Major Bagstock delivered himself of these expressions on receiving Mr. Dombie as his guest at the head of his own staircase in Princess's place. Mr. Dombie had come to breakfast with the Major, previous to their setting forth on their trip, and the ill-starved native had already undergone a world of misery arising out of the muffins, while in connection with the general question of boiled eggs, life was a burden to him. "'It is not for an old soldier of the Bagstock breed,' observed the Major, relapsing into a mild state, to deliver himself up a prey to his own emotions. "'But damn, sir!' cried the Major in another spasm of ferocity. "'I condole with you.'" The Major's purple visage deepened in its hue, and the Major's lobster eyes stood out in bolder relief, as she shook Mr. Dombie by the hand, imparting to that peaceful action as defiant a character as if it had been the prelude to his immediately boxing Mr. Dombie for a thousand pounds aside and the championship of England. With a rotatory motion of his head, and a wheeze very like the calf of a horse, the Major then conducted his visitor to the sitting-room, and there welcomed him, having now composed his feelings with the freedom and frankness of a travelling companion. "'Dombie,' said the Major, "'I'm glad to see you. I'm proud to see you. There are not many men in Europe to whom J. Backstock would say that, for Josh is blunt, sir. It's his nature. Joey B. is proud to see you, Dombie.'" "'Major,' returned Mr. Dombie, "'you are very obliging.'" "'No, sir,' said the Major, "'delebit, that's not my character. If that had been Joe's character, Joe might have been by this time, Lieutenant General Sir Joseph Backstock K.C.B., and might have received you in very different quarters. You don't know old Joe yet, I find, but this occasion, being special, is a source of pride to me. By the Lord, sir,' said the Major resolutely, "'it's an honour to me.'" Mr. Dombie, in his estimation of himself and his money, felt that this was very true, and therefore did not dispute the point. But the instinctive recognition of such a tooth by the Major, and his plain avowel of it, were very able. It was a confirmation to Mr. Dombie if he had required any of his not being mistaken in the Major. It was an assurance to him that his power extended beyond his own immediate sphere, and that the Major, as an officer and a gentleman, had a no less becoming sense of it than the beetle of the royal exchange. And if it were ever consolatory to know this, or the like of this, it was consolatory then, when the impotence of his will, the instability of his hopes, the feebleness of wealth, had been so direfully impressed upon him. What could it do, his boy had asked him. Sometimes thinking of the baby question, he could hardly forbear inquiring himself, what could it do, indeed? What had it done? But these were lonely thoughts, bred late at night, in the sullen despondency and gloom of his retirement, and pride easily found its reassurance in many testimonies to the truth, as unimpeachable and precious as the Major's. Mr. Dombie, in his friendlessness, inclined to the Major. It cannot be said that he warmed towards him, but he thawed a little. The Major had had some part, and not too much, in the days by the seaside. He was a man of the world, and knew some great people. He talked much, and told stories, and Mr. Dombie was disposed to regard him as a choice spirit who shone in society, and who had not that poisonous ingredient of poverty with which choice spirits in general are too much adulterated. His station was undeniable. All together the Major was a creditable companion, well accustomed to a life of leisure, and to such places as that they were about to visit, and having an air of gentlemanly ease about him had mixed well enough with his own city character, and did not compete with it at all. If Mr. Dombie had any lingering idea that the Major, as a man accustomed in the way of his calling to make light of the ruthless hand that had lately crushed his hopes, might unconsciously impart some useful philosophy to him, and scare away his weak regrets, he hid it from himself, and left it lying at the bottom of his pride, unexamined. Where is my scoundrel? said the Major, looking wrathfully round the room. The native, who had no particular name, but answered to any betuprative epithet, presented himself instantly at the door, and ventured to come no nearer. You villain! said the Coloric Major, where is the breakfast? The dark servant disappeared in search of it, and was quickly heard, re-ascending the stairs in such a tremulous state, at the plates and dishes on the tray he carried, trembling sympathetically as he came, rattled again all the way up. Dombie! said the Major, glancing at the native as he arranged the table, and encouraging him with an awful shake of his fist when he upset a spoon. Here is a devil-drill, a savoury pie, a dish of kidneys, and so forth. Place it down! O Joe, can give you nothing but camp-fair, you see! Very excellent fair Major! replied his guest, and not in mere politeness either, for the Major always took the best possible care of himself, and indeed ate rather more of rich meats, and was good for him, in so much that his imperial complexion was mainly referred by the faculty to that circumstance. You have been looking over the way, sir! I've served the Major. Have you seen our friend? You mean Miss Tox? You taunted Mr. Dombie. No. Charming woman sir! said the Major, with a fat laugh rising in his short throat, and nearly suffocating him. Miss Tox is a very good sort of person, I believe, replied Mr. Dombie. The haughty coldness of the reply seemed to afford Major Bagstock infinite delight. He swelled and swelled exceedingly, and even laid down his knife and fork for a moment to rub his hands. O Joe, sir! said the Major, was a bit of a favourite in that quarter once, but Joe has had his day. Jay Bagstock is extinguished, outrivaled, flawed, sir. I should have supposed, Mr. Dombie replied, that the lady's day for favourites was over, but perhaps you are justing, Major. Perhaps you were justing, Dombie, was the Major's rejoinder. There never was a more unlikely possibility. It was so clearly expressed in Mr. Dombie's face that the Major apologised. I beg your pardon, he said. I see you are in earnest. I tell you what, Dombie. The Major paused in his eating, and looked mysteriously indignant. That's a devilish, ambitious woman, sir. Mr. Dombie said, indeed, with frigid indifference, mingled perhaps with some contemptuous incredulity as to Miss Tox having the presumption to harbour such a superior quality. That woman, sir, said the Major, is in her way a Lucifer. Joey B. has had his day, sir, but he keeps his eyes. He sees, does Joe, his royal highness, the late Duke of York, observed of Joey at a levy that he saw. The Major accompanied this with such a look, and between eating, drinking, hot tea, deviled grill, muffins, and meaning was altogether so swollen and inflamed about the head that even Mr. Dombie showed some anxiety for him. That ridiculous old spectacle, sir, pursued the Major, aspires. She aspires sky-high, sir, matrimonially, Dombie. I am sorry for her, said Mr. Dombie. Don't say that, Dombie! Turned the Major in a warning voice. Why should I not, Major? said Mr. Dombie. The Major gave no answer but the horse's cough and went on eating vigorously. She has taken an interest in your household, said the Major, stopping short again, and has been a frequent visitor at your house for some time now. Yes, replied Mr. Dombie, with great stateliness, Miss Tox was originally received there at the time of Mrs. Dombie's death as a friend of my sister's, and being a well-behaved person and showing a liking for the poor infant, she was permitted, may I say, encouraged to repeat her visits with my sister, and gradually to occupy a kind of footing of familiarity in the family. I have, said Mr. Dombie, in the tone of a man who was making a great and valuable concession, I have a respect for Miss Tox. She has been so obliging as to render many little services in my house, trifling and insignificant services perhaps, Major, but not to be disparaged on that account, and I hope I have had the good fortune to be enabled to acknowledge them by such attention and notice as it had been in my power to bestow. I hold myself indebted to Miss Tox, Major, added Mr. Dombie, with a slight wave of his hand, for the pleasure of your acquaintance. Dombie, said the Major warmly, No, no, sir! Yousef Bagstock can never permit that assertion to pass uncontradicted. Your knowledge of old Joe, sir, such as he is, and old Joe's knowledge of you, sir, had its origin in a noble therosa, in a great creature, sir, Dombie, said the Major, with a struggle which was not very difficult to parade, his whole life being a struggle against all kinds of apoplectic symptoms. We knew each other through your boy. Mr. Dombie seemed touched, as it is not improbable the Major designed he should be by this illusion. He looked down and sighed, and the Major, rousing himself fiercely again, said, in reference to the state of mind into which he felt himself in danger of falling, that this was weakness and nothing should induce him to submit to it. Our friend had a remote connection with that event, said the Major, and all the credit that belongs to her, JB, is willing to give us her, notwithstanding which man, he added, raising his eyes from his plate, and casting them across Princess's place, to where Ms. Tox was at that moment, visible at her window, watering her flowers. You're a scheming jade, ma'am, and your ambition is a piece of monstrous impudence, if it only made yourself ridiculous, ma'am, said the Major, rolling his head at the unconscious Ms. Tox, while his starting eyes appeared to make a leap towards her. You might do that to your heart's content, ma'am, without any objection. I assure you, on the part of back-stock. Here the Major laughed frightfully up in the tips of his ears and in the veins of his head. But when, ma'am, said the Major, you compromise other people, and generous, unsuspicious people, too, as a repayment for their condescension, you stir the blood of old Joe in his body. Major, said Mr. Donby, reddening, I hope you do not hint at anything so absurd on the part of Ms. Tox as, Donby, returned the Major, I hint at nothing, but Joe E. B. has lived in the world, sir, lived in the world with his eyes open, sir, and his ears cocked, and Joe tells you, Donby, that there's a devilish, artful, and ambitious woman over the way. Mr. Donby involuntarily glanced over the way, and an angry glance he sent in that direction, too. That's all on such a subject that shall pass the lips of Joseph back-stock, said the Major firmly. Joe is not a tale-bearer, but there are times when he must speak, when he will speak, confound your arts, ma'am, cried the Major, again apostaphising his fair neighbour with great ire, when the provocation is too strong to admit of his remaining silent. The emotion of this outbreak threw the Major into a paroxysm of horse's coughs, which held him for a long time. On recovering, he added, And now, Donby, as you have invited Joe, old Joe who has no other merits, sir, but that he is tough and hearty to be your guest and guide at Leamington, command him in any way you please, and he's wholly yours. I don't know, sir, said the Major, wagging his double chin with a jacose ire. What it is you people see in Joe to make you hold him in such great request, all of you. But this I know, sir, that if he wasn't pretty tough and obstinate in his refusals, you'd kill him among you with your invitations and so forth in double-quick time. Mr. Donby, in a few words, expressed his sense of the preference he received over those other distinguished members of society who were clamouring for the possession of Major Bagstock. But the Major cut him short by giving him to understand that he followed his own inclinations, and that they had risen up in a body and said with one accord, J. B., Donby is the man for you to choose as a friend. The Major being by this time in a state of repletion, with essence of savoury pie oozing out of the corner of his eyes, and devil-grill and kidneys tightening his cravat, and the time moreover approaching for the departure of the railway train to Birmingham, by which they were to leave town, the native got him into his great coat with immense difficulty, and buttoned him up until his face looked staring and gasping over the top of that garment as if he were in a barrel. The native then handed him separately, and with a decent interval between each supply, his wash-leather gloves, his thick stick, and his hat, which later article the Major wore with a rakish air on one side of his head, by way of toning down his remarkable visage. The native had previously packed, in all possible and impossible parts of Mr. Donby's chariot, which was in waiting, an unusual quantity of carpet bags and small portmantos, no less apoplectic in appearance than the Major himself, and having filled his own pockets with salsa water, East India sherry, sandwiches, shawls, telescopes, maps, and newspapers, any or all of which light baggage the Major might require at any instant of the journey, he announced that everything was ready. To complete the equipment of this unfortunate foreigner, currently believed to be a prince in his own country. When he took his seat in the rumble by the side of Mr. Townsend, a pile of the Major's cloaks and great coats was hurled upon him by the landlord, who aimed at him from the pavement with those great missiles like a titan, and so covered him up that he proceeded in a living tomb to the railroad station. But before the carriage moved away, and while the native was in the act of sepulchre, Miss Tox, appearing at her window, waved a lily-white handkerchief. Mr. Dombie received this parting salutation very coldly, very coldly even for him, and honouring her with the slightest possible inclination of his head, leaned back in the carriage with a very discontented look. His marked behaviour seemed to afford the Major, who was all politeness in his recognition of Miss Tox, unbounded satisfaction, and he sat for a long time afterwards, leering and choking like an overfed Mephistopheles. During the bustle of preparation at the railway, Mr. Dombie and the Major walked up and down the platform side by side, the former taciturn and gloomy, and the latter entertaining him, or entertaining himself, with a variety of anecdotes and reminiscences, in most of which Joe Bagstock was the principal performer. Neither of the two observed that in the course of these walks, they attracted the attention of a working man who was standing near the engine, and who touched his hat every time they passed, for Mr. Dombie habitually looked over the vulgar herd, not at them, and the Major was looking at the time into the core of one of his stories. At length, however, this man stepped before them as they turned round, and pulling his hat off, and keeping it off, ducked his head to Mr. Dombie. Make your pardon, sir! said the man. Why, oh, you were doing pretty well, sir! He was dressed in a canvas suit, abundantly besmeared with cold-ust and oil, and had cinders in his whiskers, and a smell of half-slaked ashes all over him. He was not a bad-looking fellow, nor even what could be fairly called a dirty-looking fellow, in spite of this, and, in short, he was Mr. Toodle, professionally closed. I shall have the honour of stoking of you down, sir, said Mr. Toodle. Make your pardon, sir! I hope you find yourself a-coming round. Mr. Dombie looked at him, in return for his tone of interest, as if a man like that would make his very eye-sight dirty. Excuse your liberty, sir! said Toodle, seeing he was not clearly remembered, but my wife Polly, as was called Richard's, in your family. A change in Mr. Dombie's face, which seemed to express recollection of him, and so it did, but it expressed, in a much stronger degree, an angry sense of humiliation, stopped Mr. Toodle short. Your wife wants money, I suppose, said Mr. Dombie, putting his hand in his pocket, and speaking, but that he always did, haughtily. No! Thank ye, sir! returned Toodle. Ah! can't say she does! I don't! Mr. Dombie was stopped short now, in his turn, and awkwardly, with his hand in his pocket. No, sir! said Toodle, turning his oil-skin cap round and round. We're doing pretty well, sir. We haven't no cause. The complain in the worldly way, sir. We've had four more since then, sir, but we rubs on. Mr. Dombie would have rubbed on to his own carriage, though in so doing he had rubbed the stoker underneath the wheels. But his attention was arrested by something in connection with the cap, still going slowly round and round in the man's hand. We lost one, baby, observed Toodle. There's no denying. Lately, added Mr. Dombie, looking at the cap. No, sir, upward of three years ago. All the rest is hearty. And in the matter of reading, sir, said Toodle, ducking again, as if to remind Mr. Dombie of what had passed between them on that subject long ago. Them boys are mine. They learnt me among them, after all. They made a worry-tolerable scholar of me, sir. Them boys. Come, Major, said Mr. Dombie. Beg your pardon, sir, presumed Toodle, taking a step before them, and deferentially stopping them again, still cap in hand. I wouldn't have troubled you with such a point, except as a way of getting in the name of my son Baila, Christian Robin, image he was so good as to make a charitable grinder on. Well, man, said Mr. Dombie in his severest manner, what about him? Why, sir, returned Toodle, shaking his head with the face of great anxiety and distress, I'm forced to say, sir, that he's gone wrong. He has gone wrong, has he, said Mr. Dombie, with a hard kind of satisfaction. He has fell into bad company, you see, gentlemen, pursued the father, looking wistfully at both, and evidently taking the Major into the conversation with the hope of having his sympathy. He has gone into bad ways. God's send he may come to again, gentlemen, but he's on the wrong track now. You could hardly be all fearing of it somehow, sir, said Toodle, again addressing Mr. Dombie individually, and it's better I should out and say, my boy's gone rather wrong. Polly's dreadful down about it, gentlemen, said Toodle with the same dejected look and another appeal to the Major. A son of this man's whom I caused to be educated Major, said Mr. Dombie, giving him his arm, the usual return. Take advice from plain old Joe, and never educate that sort of people, sir. Returned the Major. Damn, sir, it never does. It always fails. The simple father was beginning to submit that he hoped his son, the quantum grinder, huffed and cuffed, and flogged and badged, and taught, as parrots are, by a brute, jobbed into his place of school-master with as much fitness for it as a hound, might not have been educated on quite a right plan, in some undiscovered respect, when Mr. Dombie angrily repeating, the usual return, led the Major away. And the Major, being heavy to hoist into Mr. Dombie's carriage, elevated in mid-air, and having to stop and swear that he would flay the native alive and break every bone in his skin, and visit other physical torments upon him, every time he couldn't get his foot on the step and fell back on that dark exile, had barely time before they started to repeat hoarsely that it would never do, that it always failed, and that if he were to educate his own vagabond, he would certainly be hanged. Mr. Dombie assented bitterly that there was something more in his bitterness, and in his moody way of falling back in the carriage, and looking with knitted brows at the changing objects without, than the failure of that noble education system administered by the Grinder's Company. He had seen upon the man's rough cap a piece of new crepe, and he had assured himself, from his manner and his answers, that he wore it for his son. So from high to low, at home or abroad, from Florence in his great house to the coarse churl who was feeding the fire then smoking before them, every one set up some claim or other to a share in his dead boy, and was a bidder against him. Could he ever forget how that woman had wept over his pillow, and called him her own child, or how he, waking from his sleep, had asked for her, and had raised himself in his bed and brightened when she came in? To think of this presumptuous raker among coals and ashes going on before there with his sign of mourning. To think that he dared to enter, even by a common show like that, into the trial and disappointment of a proud gentleman's secret heart. To think that this lost child, who was to have divided with him his riches, and his projects, and his power, and allied with whom he was to have shut out all the world, as with the double door of gold, should have let in such a herd to insult him with their knowledge of his defeated hopes and their boasts of claiming community of feeling with himself, so far removed, if not of having crept into the place wherein he would have lauded it alone. He found no pleasure or relief in the journey. Tortured by these thoughts, he carried monotony with him through the rushing landscape, and hurried headlong, not through a rich and varied country, but a wilderness of blighted plans and gnawing jealousies. The very speed at which the train was whirled along mocked the swift course of the young life that had been born away so steadily, and so inexorably to its fordoomed end. The power that forced itself upon its iron way, its own, defiant of all paths and roads, piercing through the heart of every obstacle, and dragging living creatures of all classes, ages, and degrees behind it, was a type of the triumphant monster, death. Away with a shriek and a roar and a rattle from the town, burrowing among the dwellings of men and making the streets hum, flashing out into the meadows for a moment, mining in through the damp earth, booming on in darkness and heavy air, bursting out again into the sunny day so bright and wide. Away with a shriek and a roar and a rattle through the fields, through the woods, through the corn, through the hay, through the chalk, through the mould, through the clay, through the rock, among objects close at hand and almost in the grasp, ever flying from the traveller, and a deceitful distance ever moving slowly within him, like as in the track of the remorseless monster, death. Through the hollow, on the height, by the heath, by the orchard, by the park, by the garden, over the canal, across the river, where the sheep are feeding, where the mill is going, where the barge is floating, where the dead are lying, where the factory is smoking, where the stream is running, where the village clusters, where the great cathedral rises, where the bleak moor lies, and the wild breeze smoothed or ruffles it at its inconstant will. Away with a shriek and a roar and a rattle and no trace to leave behind but dust and vapour, like as in the track of the remorseless monster, death. Breasting the wind and light, the shower and sunshine, away and still away, it rolls and roars, fierce and rapid, smooth and certain, and great works and massive bridges crossing up above, fall like a beam of shadow and inch broad upon the eye, and then are lost. Away and still away, onward and onward ever, glimpses of cottage homes, of houses, mansions, richer states, of husbandry and handicraft, of people, of old roads and paths that look deserted, small and insignificant as they're left behind, and so they do, and what else is there but such glimpses in the track of the indomitable monster, death. Away with a shriek and a roar and a rattle, plunging down into the earth again, and working on in such a storm of energy and perseverance, that amidst the darkness and whirlwind, the motion seems reversed, and to tend furiously backward until a ray of light upon the wet wall shows its surface, flying past like a fierce stream. Away once more into the day, and through the day, with a shrill yell of exultation, roaring, rattling, tearing on, spurning everything with its dark breath, sometimes pausing for a minute where a crowd of faces are, that in a minute or more are not, sometimes lapping water greedily, and before the spout at which it drinks has ceased to drip upon the ground, shrieking, roaring, rattling through the purple distance. Louder and louder yet, it shrieks and cries as it comes tearing on, resistless to the goal, and now its way, still like the way of death, is stewed with ashes, thickly. Everything around is blackened. There are dark pools of water, muddy lanes, and miserable habitations far below. There are jagged walls and falling houses close at hand, and through the battered roofs and broken windows, wretched rooms are seen where want and fever hide themselves in many wretched shapes, while smoke and crowded gables and distorted chimneys, and deformity of brick and mortar, penning up deformity of mind and body choke the murky distance. As Mr. Dombey looks out of his carriage window, it is never in his thoughts that the monster who has brought him there has let the light of day in on these things, not made or caused them. It was the journey's fitting end, and might have been the end of everything. It was so ruinous and dreary. So, pursuing the one course of thought, he had the one relentless monster still before him. All things looked black and cold and deadly upon him, and he on them. He found a likeness to his misfortune everywhere. There was a remorseless triumph going on about him, and it galled and stung him in his pride and jealousy whatever form it took, though most of all when it divided with him the love and memory of his lost boy. There was a face. He had looked upon it on the previous night, and it on him, with eyes that read his soul, though they were dim with tears, and hidden soon behind two quivering hands that often had attended him in fancy on this ride. He had seen it with the expression of last night, timidly pleading to him. It was not reproachful, but there was something of doubt, almost of hopeful incredulity in it, which, as he once more saw that fade away into a desolate certainty of his dislike, was like reproach. It was a trouble to him to think of this face of Florence. Because he felt any new compunction towards it? No. Because the feeling it awakened in him, of which he had had some old foreshadowing and older times, was full formed now, and spoke out plainly, moving him too much, and threatening to grow too strong for his composure. Because the face was abroad, and the expression of defeat and persecution had seemed to encircle him like the air. Because it barbed the arrow of that cruel and remorseless enemy on which his thoughts so ran, and put into its grasp a double-handed sword. Because he knew full well in his own breast, as he stood there, tinging the scene of transition before him with the morbid colours of his own mind, and making it a ruin and a picture of decay, instead of hopeful change and promise of better things, that life had quite as much to do with his complainings as death. One child was gone, and one child left. Why was the object of his hope removed instead of her? The sweet, calm, gentle presence in his fancy moved him to no reflection but that. She had been unwelcome to him from the first. She was an aggravation of his bitterness now. If his son had been his only child, and the same blow had fallen on him, it would have been heavy to bear. But infinitely lighter than now, when it might have fallen on her, whom he could have lost, or he believed it, without a pang, and had not. Her loving and innocent face rising before him had no softening or winning influence. He rejected the angel, and took up with the tormenting spirit crouching in his bosom. Her patience, goodness, youth, devotion, love, were as so many atoms in the ashes upon which he set his heel. He saw her image and the blight and blackness all around him, not irradiating, but deepening the gloom. More than once upon this journey, and now again as he stood pondering at this journey's end, tracing figures in the dust with his stick, the thought came into his mind. What was there he could interpose between himself and it? The major, who had been blowing and panting all the way down, like another engine, and whose eye had often wandered from his newspaper to leer at the prospect, as if there were a procession of discomforted mistoxes pouring out in the smoke of the train, and flying away over the fields to hide themselves in any place of refuge, aroused his friend by informing him that the post-horses were harnessed and the carriage ready. Dombie, said the major, wrapping him on the arm of this cane, don't be thoughtful. It's a bad habit, old Joseph. Wouldn't be as tough as you see him if he had ever encouraged it. You're too great a man, Dombie, to be thoughtful. In your position, sir, you're far above that kind of thing. The major, even in his friendly remonstrances, thus consulting the dignity and honour of Mr. Dombie, and showing a livery sense of their importance, Mr. Dombie felt more than ever disposed to defer to a gentleman possessing so much good sense, and such a well-regulated mind. Accordingly he made an effort to listen to the major's stories, as they trotted along the Turnpike Road, and the major finding both the pace and the road a great deal better adapted to his conversational powers than the mode of travelling they had just relinquished, came out of his entertainment. But still the major, blunt and tough as he was, and as he so very often said he was, administered some palatable catering to his companion's appetite. He related, or rather suffered it to escape him, accidentally, as one might say, grudgingly and against his will, how there was great curiosity and excitement at the club in regard of his friend Dombie. How he was suffocated with questions, sir. How old Joe Bagstock was a greater man than ever there on the strength of Dombie. How they said, Bagstock, your friend Dombie now, what is the view he takes of such and such a question. Though by the router, said the major, with a broad stare, how they discovered that JB ever came to know you is un-mystery. In this flow of spirits and conversation, only interrupted by his usual plethoric symptoms, and by intervals of lunch and from time to time by some violent assault upon the native who wore a pair of earrings in his dark brown ears, and on whom his European clothes sat with an outlandish impossibility of adjustment. Being of their own accord, and without any reference to the tailor's art, long where they ought to be short, and short where they ought to be long, tight where they ought to be loose, and loose where they ought to be tight. And to which he imparted a new grace, whenever the major attacked him, by shrinking into them like a shriveled nut, or a cold monkey. In this flow of spirits and conversation the major continued all day, so that when evening came on and found them trotting through the green and leafy road near Lemmington, the major's voice, ought with talking and eating and chuckling and choking, appeared to be in the box under the rumble, or in some neighbouring haystack. Nor did the major improve it at the Royal Hotel, where rooms and dinner had been ordered, and where he so oppressed his organs of speech by eating and drinking, that when he retired to bed he had no voice at all, except to cough with, and could only make himself intelligible to the dark servant by gasping at him. He not only rose next morning, however, like a giant refreshed, but conducted himself, at breakfast, like a giant refreshing. At this meal they arranged their daily habits. The major was to take the responsibility of ordering everything to eat and drink, and they were to have a late breakfast together every morning, and a late dinner together every day. Mr. Dombey would prefer remaining in his own room, or walking in the country by himself, on that first day of their sojourn at Lemmington. But next morning he would be happy to accompany the major to the pump-room, and about the town. So they parted until dinner time. Mr. Dombey retired to nurse his wholesome thoughts in his own way. The major, attended by the native, carrying a camp stool, a great coat, and an umbrella, swaggered up and down through all the public places, looking into subscription books to find out who was there, looking up old ladies by whom he was much admired, reporting JB tougher than ever, and puffing his rich friend Dombey wherever he went. There never was a man who stood by a friend more staunchly than the major, when in puffing him he puffed himself. It was surprising how much new conversation the major had to let off at dinner time, and what occasion he gave Mr. Dombey to admire his social qualities. At breakfast next morning he knew the contents of the latest newspapers received, and mentioned several subjects in connection with them, on which his opinion had recently been sought by persons of such power and might, that they were only to be obscurely hinted at. Mr. Dombey, who had been so long shut up within himself, and who had rarely at any time overstepped the enchanted circle within which the operations of Dombey and Sun were conducted, began to think this an improvement on his solitary life, and in place of excusing himself for another day, as he had thought of doing well alone, walked out with the major arm in arm. End of Chapter 20 Chapter 21 of Dombey and Sun This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Mill Nicholson Dombey and Sun by Charles Dickens Chapter 21 New Faces The major, more blue-faced and staring, more over-ripe as it were than ever, and giving vent every now and then to one of the horse's coughs, not so much of necessity as in a spontaneous explosion of importance, walked arm in arm with Mr. Dombey up the sunny side of the way, with his cheeks swelling over his tight stock, his legs majestically wide apart, and his great head wagging from side to side, as if he were remonstrating within himself for being such a captivating object. They had not walked many yards before the major encountered somebody he knew, nor many yards farther before the major encountered somebody else he knew, but he merely shook his fingers at them as he passed, and led Mr. Dombey on, pointing out the localities as they went, and enlivening the walk with any current scandal suggested by them. In this manner, the major and Mr. Dombey were walking arm in arm, much to their own satisfaction, when they beheld advancing towards them a wheeled chair in which a lady was seated, indolently steering her carriage by a kind of rudder in front, while it was propelled by some unseen power in the rear. Although the lady was not young, she was very blooming in the face, quite rosy, and her dress and attitude worked perfectly juvenile. Walking by the side of the chair and carrying her gossamer parasol with a proud and weary air, as if so great an effort must be soon abandoned, and the parasol dropped, sauntered a much younger lady, very handsome, very haughty, very willful, who tossed her head and drooped her eyelids, as though if there were anything in all the world worth looking into, save a mirror, it certainly was not the earth or sky. Why, what the devil have we here, sir? cried the major, stopping as this little cavalcade drew near. My dearest Edith! drawled the lady in the chair, major bag-stock. The major no sooner heard the voice than he relinquished Mr. Dombie's arm, darted forward, took the hand of the lady in the chair, and pressed it to his lips. With no less gallantry the major folded both his gloves upon his heart, and bowed low to the other lady. And now the chair having stopped, the motive power became visible in the shape of a flushed page pushing behind, who seemed to have in part out-drawn, and in part out-pushed, his strength. For when he stood upright he was tall, and one, and thin, and his plight appeared the morpher lawn from his having injured the shape of his hat by butting at the carriage with his head to urge it forward, as is sometimes done by elephants in oriental countries. Joe Bagstock, said the major to both ladies, is a proud and happy man for the rest of his life. You false creature, said the old lady in the chair insipidly, where do you come from? I can't bear you. Then several Joe to present a friend, ma'am, said the major promptly, as a reason for being tolerated. Mr. Dombie, Mrs. Scootin. The lady in the chair was gracious. Mr. Dombie, Mrs. Granger. The lady with the parasol was faintly conscious of Mr. Dombie's taking off his hat and bowing low. I am delighted, sir, said the major, to have this opportunity. The major seemed an earnest, for he looked at all the three, and leered in his ugliest manner. Mrs. Scootin, Dombie, said the major, makes havoc in the heart of old Josh. Mr. Dombie signified that he didn't wonder at it. You perfidious goblin, said the lady in the chair, have done. How long have you been here, bad man? One day, replied the major. And can you be a day or even a minute? Returned the lady, slightly settling her false curls, and false eyebrows with her fan, and showing her false teeth, set off by her false complexion. In the garden of—what's its name? Eden, I suppose, ma'am, interrupted the younger lady scornfully. My dear Edith, said the other, I cannot help it. I never can remember those frightful names, without having your whole soul and being inspired by the sight of nature by the perfume, said Mrs. Scootin, rustling a handkerchief that was faint and sickly with assences, of her artless breath, you creature. The discrepancy between Mrs. Scootin's fresh enthusiasm of words, and forlornly faded manner, was hardly less observable than that between her age, which was about seventy, and her dress, which would have been youthful for twenty-seven. Her attitude in the wheeled chair, which she never varied, was one in which she had been taken in a barouche, some fifty years before, by a then fashionable artist who had appended to his published sketch the name of Cleopatra. In consequence of a discovery made by the critics of the time, that it bore an exact resemblance to that princess, as she reclined on board her galley, Mrs. Scootin was a beauty then, and bucks through wine-glasses over their heads by dozens in her honour. The beauty and the barouche had both passed away, but she still preserved the attitude, and for this reason expressly maintained the wheeled chair and the butting page, there being nothing whatever except the attitude to prevent her from walking. Mr. Dombey is devoted to nature, I trust, said Mrs. Scootin, settling her diamond brooch, and by the way she chiefly lived upon the reputation of some diamonds and her family connections. My friend Dombey-Marm, returned the major, may be devoted to her in secret, but a man who was paramount in the greatest city in the universe, no one can be a stranger, said Mrs. Scootin, to Mr. Dombey's immense influence. As Mr. Dombey acknowledged the compliment with the bend of his head, the younger lady glancing at him met his eyes. You reside here, madam? said Mr. Dombey, addressing her. No, we have been to a great many places. Farragut and Scarborough, and into Devonshire, we have been visiting and resting here and there. Amar likes change. Edith, of course, does not! said Mrs. Scootin, with a ghastly archeness. I have not found that there is any change in such places. Was the answer delivered with supreme indifference? They libel me. There is only one change, Mr. Dombey, observed Mrs. Scootin with a mincing sigh, for which I really care, and that I fear I shall never be permitted to enjoy. People cannot spare one, but seclusion and contemplation are my—what's his name? If you mean paradise, mamar, you would better say so to render yourself intelligible. Said the younger lady. My dearest Edith, return, Mrs. Scootin, you know that I am wholly dependent upon you for those odious names. I assure you, Mr. Dombey, nature intended me for an Arcadian. I am thrown away in society. Cows are my passion. What I have ever sired for has been to retreat to a Swiss farm and live entirely surrounded by cows—and China. This curious association of objects, suggesting a remembrance of the celebrated bull who got by mistake into a crockery shop, was received with perfect gravity by Mr. Dombey, who intimated his opinion that nature was, no doubt, a very respectable institution. What I want, drawed Mrs. Scootin, pinching her shriveled throat, is heart. It was frightfully true, in one sense, if not in that in which she used the phrase. What I want is frankness, confidence, less conventionality, and freer play of soul. We are also dreadfully artificial. We were, indeed. In short, said Mrs. Scootin, I want nature everywhere. It would be so extremely charming. Nature is inviting us away now, Mama, if you are ready, said the younger lady, curling her handsome lip. At this hint the one page who had been surveying the party over the top of the chair vanished behind it as if the ground had swallowed him up. Stop a moment with us! said Mrs. Scootin, as the chair began to move, calling to the page with all the languid dignity with which she had called in days of yore to a coachman with a wig, cauliflower, nose-gay, and silk stockings. Where are you staying, abomination? The Major was staying at the Royal Hotel with his friend Dombey. You may come and see us any evening, when you are good. Lest, Mrs. Scootin, if Mr. Dombey will honour us, we shall be happy. With us, go on. The Major again pressed to his blue lips the tips of the fingers that were disposed on the ledge of the wheeled chair with careful carelessness, after the Cleopatra model, and Mr. Dombey bowed. The elder lady honoured them both with a very gracious smile and a girlish wave of her hand, the younger lady with the very slightest inclination of her head that common courtesy allowed. The last glimpse of the wrinkled face of the mother, with that patched colour on it, which the sun made infinitely more haggard and dismal than any want of colour could have been, and of the proud beauty of the daughter with her graceful figure and erect deportment, engendered such an involuntary disposition on the part of both the Major and Mr. Dombey to look after them, that they both turned at the same moment. The page, nearly as much as slant as his own shadow, was toiling after the chair uphill like a slow battering ram. The top of Cleopatra's bonnet was fluttering in exactly the same corner to the inch as before, and the beauty loitering by herself a little in advance, expressed in all her elegant form from head to foot, the same supreme disregard of everything and everybody. I tell you what, sir, said the Major, as they resumed their walk again, if Joe Bagstock were a younger man, there's not a woman in the world who would prefer for Mrs. Bagstock to that woman. Bye, George, sir, said the Major. She's superb. And do you mean the daughter, inquired Mr. Dombey? Is Joey B. a turnip, Dombey? said the Major, that he should mean the mother. You were a complementary to the mother, returned Mr. Dombey. An ancient flame, sir, shackled Major Bagstock, devilish ancient, I humour her. She impresses me as being perfectly genteel, said Mr. Dombey. Genteel, sir, said the Major, stopping short and staring in his companion's face. The honourable Mrs. Scootin, sir, is sister to the late Lord Phoenix, and aunt to the present Lord. The family are not wealthy, they're poor indeed, and she lives upon a small jointure. But if you come to blood, sir! The Major gave a flourish with his stick, and walked on again, in despair of being able to say what you came to if you came to that. You addressed the daughter, I observed, said Mr. Dombey, after a short pause, as Mrs. Granger. Edith Scootin, sir, returned the Major, stopping short again, and punching a mark in the ground with his cane, to represent her. Married at eighteen? Granger of ours, whom the Major indicated by another punch. Granger, sir, said the Major, tapping the last ideal portrait, and rolling his head emphatically, was Colonel of ours, a devilish handsome fellow, sir, of forty-one. He died, sir, in the second year of his marriage. The Major ran the representative of the deceased Granger through and through the body with his walking stick, and went on again, carrying his stick over his shoulder. How long is this ago? asked Mr. Dombey, making another halt. Edith Granger, sir, replied the Major, shutting one eye, putting his head on one side, passing his cane into his left hand, and smoothing his shirt filled with his right. Is at present time not quite thirty? And damn, sir, said the Major, shouldering his stick once more, and walking on again, she's a peerless woman. Was there any family? asked Mr. Dombey presently. Yes, sir, said the Major, there was a boy. Mr. Dombey's eyes sought the ground, and a shade came over his face. Who was Dranza? pursued the Major, when a child of four or five years old. Indeed, said Mr. Dombey, raising his head, by the upsetting of a boat in which his nurse had no business to output him, said the Major. That's his history. Edith Granger is Edith Granger still, but if tough old Joey Beesa were a little younger and a little richer, the name of that immortal paragon should be back-stock. The Major heaved his shoulders and his cheeks, and laughed more like an overfed Mephistopheles than ever, as he said the words. Provided the Lady made no objection, I suppose, said Mr. Dombey coldly. By God, sir, said the Major, the back-stock breed are not accustomed to that sort of obstacle. Though it's true enough that Edith might have married twenty times, but for being proud, sir, proud. Mr. Dombey seemed by his face to think no worse of her for that. It's a great quality, after all, said the Major. By the Lord it's a high quality, Dombey! You are proud yourself, and your friend old Joe respects you for it, sir. With this tribute to the character of his ally, which seemed to be rung from him by the force of circumstances and the irresistible tendency of their conversation, the Major closed the subject and glided into a general exposition of the extent to which he had been beloved and doted on by splendid women and brilliant creatures. On the next day but one Mr. Dombey and the Major encountered the honourable Mrs. Scooten and her daughter in the pump room. On the day after, they met them again very near the place where they had met them first. After meeting them thus three or four times in all, it became a point of mere civility to old acquaintances that the Major should go there one evening. Mr. Dombey had not originally intended to pay visits, but on the Major announcing his intention, he said he would have the pleasure of accompanying him. So the Major told the Native to go round before dinner and say, with his and Mr. Dombey's compliments, that they would have the honour of visiting the ladies at same evening if the ladies were alone. In answer to which message, the Native brought back a very small note with a very large quantity of scent about it, indicted by the honourable Mrs. Scooten to Major Backstock, and briefly saying, you are a shocking bear and I have a great mind not to forgive you, but if you are very good indeed, which was underlined, you may come, compliments in which Edith unites to Mr. Dombey. The honourable Mrs. Scooten and her daughter, Mrs. Granger, resided, while at Lamington, in lodgings that were fashionable enough and dear enough, but rather limited in point of space and conveniences, so that the honourable Mrs. Scooten, being in bed, had her feet in the window and her head in the fireplace, while the honourable Mrs. Scooten's maid was quartered in closet within the drawing-room, so extremely small that, to avoid developing the whole of its accommodations, she was obliged to writhe in and out of the door like a beautiful serpent. Withers, the one page, slept out of the house immediately under the tiles at a neighbouring milk-shop, and the wheeled chair, which was the stone of that young Sisyphus, passed the night in a shed belonging to the same dairy, where new-laid eggs were produced by the poultry connected with the establishment, who roosted on a broken donkey cart, persuaded to all appearance that it grew there, and was a species of tree. Mr. Dombey and the Major found Mrs. Scooten arranged, as Cleopatra, among the cushions of a sofa, very airily dressed, and certainly not resembling Shakespeare's Cleopatra, whom age could not wither. On their way upstairs they had heard the sound of a harp, but it had ceased on their being announced, and Edith now stood beside it handsomer and haughtier than ever. It was a remarkable characteristic of this lady's beauty that it appeared to vaunt and assert itself without her aid, and against her will. She knew that she was beautiful. It was impossible that it could be otherwise, but she seemed with her own pride to defy her very self. Whether she held cheap attractions that could only call forth admiration that was worthless to her, or whether she designed to render them more precious to admirers by this usage of them, those to whom they were precious seldom paused to consider. I hope, Mrs. Granger, said Mr. Dombey, advancing a step towards her, we are not the cause of your ceasing to play. You? Oh, no. Why do you not go on then, my dearest Edith? said Cleopatra. I left off as I began, of my own fancy. The exquisite indifference of her manner in saying this, an indifference quite removed from dullness or insensibility, for it was pointed with proud purpose, was well set off by the carelessness of which she drew her hand across the strings, and came from that part of the room. Do you know, Mr. Dombey? said her languishing mother, playing with a handscreen, that occasionally my dearest Edith and myself actually almost differ not quite sometimes, mamar, said Edith. Oh, never quite by, darling, five-five, it would break my heart, returned her mother, making a faint attempt to pat her with the screen, which Edith made no movement to meet. About these old conventionalities of manner that are observed in little things, why are we not more natural, dear me, with all those yearnings and gushings and impulsive throbbing that we have implanted in ourselves, which are so very charming, why are we not more natural? Mr. Dombey said it was very true, very true. We could be more natural, I suppose, if we tried, said Mrs. Scuton. Mr. Dombey thought it possible. Devil a bit, mam, said the Major. We couldn't afford it. Unless the world was peopled with J.B.'s tough and blunt old Joes, mam, plain red herrings with hard rows, sir, we couldn't afford it. It wouldn't do. You naughty infidel, said Mrs. Scuton. Be mute. Cleopatra commands, returned the Major, kissing his hand, and Anthony, Bagstock, obeys. The man has no sensitiveness, said Mrs. Scuton, cruelly holding up the handscreen, so as to shut the Major out. No sympathy! And what do we live for, but sympathy? What else is so extremely charming? Without that gleam of sunshine on our cold, cold earth? said Mrs. Scuton, arranging her lace tucker, and complacently observing the effect of her bare, lean arm, looking upward from the wrist. How could we possibly bear it? In short, obdurate man, glancing at the Major round the screen, I would have my world all hot, and faith is so excessively charming, that I won't allow you to disturb it. Do you hear? The Major replied that it was hard in Cleopatra to require the world to be all heart, and yet to appropriate to herself the hearts of all the world, which obliged Cleopatra to remind him that flattery was insupportable to her, and that if he had the boldness to address her in that strain any more, she would positively send him home. Withers the one, at this period, handing round the tea, Mr. Dombey again addressed himself to Edith. There is not much company here, it would seem, said Mr. Dombey, in his own portentous, gentlemanly way. I believe not. We see none. Oh, I really! observed Mrs. Scuton from her couch. There are no people here just now, with whom we care to associate. They have not enough heart, said Edith with a smile, the very twilight of a smile, so singularly where its light and darkness blended. My dearest Edith rallies me, you see, said her mother, shaking her head, which shook a little of itself sometimes, as if the palsy twinkled now and then in opposition to the diamonds. Wicked one! You have been here before, if I am not mistaken, said Mr. Dombey, still to Edith. Oh, several times. I think we've been everywhere. A beautiful country. I suppose it is, everybody says so. Your cousin Phoenix raves about it, Edith, interposed her mother from her couch. The daughter slightly turned her graceful head, and raising her eyebrows by a hair's breadth, as if her cousin Phoenix were of all the mortal world the least to be regarded, turned her eyes again towards Mr. Dombey. I hope, for the credit of my good taste, that I am tired of the neighborhood, she said. You have almost reason to be, madam, he replied, glancing at a variety of landscape drawings, of which he had already recognized several as representing neighboring points of view, and which were strewn abundantly about the room. If these beautiful productions are from your hand, she gave him no reply, but sat in a disdainful beauty quite amazing. Have they that interest, said Mr. Dombey? Are they yours? Yes. And you play, I already know. Yes. And sing. Yes. She answered all these questions with a strange reluctance, and with that remarkable air of opposition to herself, already noticed as belonging to her beauty. Yet she was not embarrassed, but wholly self-possessed. Neither did she seem to wish to avoid the conversation, for she addressed her face, and, so far as she could, her men are also to him, and continue to do so when he was silent. You have many resources against weariness, at least, said Mr. Dombey. Whatever their efficiency may be, she returned, you know them all now, I have no more. May I hope to prove them all, said Mr. Dombey, with solemn gallantry, laying down a drawing he had held and motioning towards the harp. Oh, certainly, if you desire it. She rose as she spoke, and crossing by her mother's couch, and directing a stately look towards her, which was instantaneous in its duration, but inclusive, if anyone had seen it, of a multitude of expressions, among which that of the twilight smile, without the smile itself, overshadowed all the rest, went out of the room. The Major, who was quite forgiven by this time, had wheeled a little table up to Cleopatra, and were sitting down to play P.K. with her. Mr. Dombey, not knowing the game, sat down to watch them for his edification, until Edith should return. We're going to have some music, Mr. Dombey, I hope, said Cleopatra. Mrs. Granger has been kind enough to promise so, said Mr. Dombey. Ah, that's very nice. Do you propose, Major? No, ma'am, said the Major, couldn't do it. You're a barbarous being, replied the lady, and my hands destroyed. You're fond of music, Mr. Dombey? Eminently so, was Mr. Dombey's answer. Yes, it's very nice, said Cleopatra, looking at her cards, so much heart in it, undeveloped recollections of a previous state of existence, and all that, which is so truly charming. Do you know, simply Cleopatra, reversing the nave of clubs, who had come into her game with his heels uppermost, that if anything could tempt me to put a period to my life, it would be curiosity to find out what it's all about, and what it means. There are so many provoking mysteries, really, that are hidden from us. Major, you to play. The Major played, and Mr. Dombey, looking on for his instruction, would soon have been in a state of dire confusion, but that he gave no attention to the game whatever, and sat wondering instead when Edith would come back. She came at last, and sat down to her harp, and Mr. Dombey rose, and stood beside her, listening. He had little taste for music, and no knowledge of the strain she played, but he saw her bending over it, and perhaps he heard among the sounding strings some distant music of his own, that tamed the monster of the iron road, and made it less inexorable. Cleopatra had a sharp eye, verily, at piquet. It listened like a bird's, and did not fix itself upon the game, but pierced the room from end to end, and gleamed on harp, performer, listener, everything. When the haughty beauty had concluded, she rose, and receiving Mr. Dombey's thanks and compliments in exactly the same manner as before, went with scarcely any pause to the piano, and began there. Edith Granger, any song but that. Edith Granger, you are very handsome, and your touch upon the keys is brilliant, and your voice is deep and rich. But not the air that his neglected daughter sang to his dead son. Alas, he knows it not, and if he did, what air of hers would stir him, rigid man? Sleep, lonely Florence, sleep. Peace in thy dreams, although the night has turned dark, and the clouds are gathering, and threaten to discharge themselves in hail.