 32 The Wooden midshipman goes to pieces. First Captain Cattle, as the weeks flew over him in his fortified retreat, by no means abated any of his prudent provisions against surprise, because of the non-appearance of the enemy. The Captain argued that his present security was too profound and wonderful to endure much longer. He knew that when the wind stood in a fair quarter, the weather-cock was seldom nailed there, and he was too well acquainted with the determined and dauntless character of Mrs. McStinger, to doubt that that heroic woman had devoted herself to the task of his discovery and capture. Trembling beneath the weight of these reasons, Captain Cattle lived a very close and retired life, seldom staring abroad until after dark, venturing even then only into the obscurest streets, never going forth at all on Sundays, and both within and without the walls of his retreat avoiding bonnets, as if they were worn by raging lions. The Captain never dreamed that in the event of his being pounced upon by Mrs. McStinger in his walks, it would be possible to offer resistance. He felt that it could not be done. He saw himself in his mind's eye, put meekly into a hackney-coach, and carried off to his old lodgings. He foresaw that once amured there, he was a lost man, his hat gone. Mrs. McStinger, watchful of him day and night, reproaches heaped upon his head before the infant family, himself the guilty object of suspicion and distrust and ogre in the children's eyes, and in their mothers a detected traitor. Of violent perspiration and aloneness of spirits, always came over the Captain, as this gloomy picture presented itself to his imagination. It generally did so previous to his stealing out of doors at night, for air and exercise. Sensible of the risky ran, the Captain took leave of Robb at those times, with the solemnity which became a man who might never return, exhorting him in the event of his, the Captain's, being lost sight of, for a time, to tread in the paths of virtue, and keep the brazen instruments well polished. But not to throw away a chance, and to secure himself a means, in case of the worst, of holding communication with the external world, Captain Cattle soon conceived the happy idea of teaching Robb the grinder some secret signal, by which that adherent might make his presence and fidelity known to his commander in the hour of adversity. After much cogitation, the Captain decided in favour of instructing him to whistle the marine melody, O cheerily cheerily, and Robb the grinder attaining a point as near perfection in that accomplishment, as a landsman could hope to reach, the Captain impressed these mysterious instructions on his mind. No, my lad, stand by. If ever I'm took. Took, Captain! Supposed Robb, with his round eyes wide open. Arr! said Captain Cattle darkly. If ever I goes away, meaning to come back to supper, and don't come within hail again, 24 hours after my loss, go you to brig place, and whistle that ear tune near my old moorins. Not as if you was a meaning of it, you understand, but as if you'd drifted there, promiscuous. If I answer in that tune, you shear off my lad, and come back four and twenty hours afterwards. If I answer in another tune, do you stand off and on, and wait till I throw out further signals? Do you understand them orders now? What am I to stand off and on of, Captain, inquired Robb? The horse rowed. Here's a smart lad for you, cried the Captain, eyeing him sternly. As don't know his own native alphabet. Go away a bit, and come back again open it. Do you understand that? Yes, Captain! said Robb. Very good, my lad, then, said the Captain relenting. Do it. That he might do it the better. Captain Cattle sometimes condescended up an evening after the shop was shut, to rehearse this scene, retiring into the parlour for the purpose, as into the lodgings of a supposititious mech Stinger, and carefully observing the behaviour of his ally from the whole of a spiral he had cut in the wall. Robb the grinder discharged himself of his duty with so much exactness and judgement, when thus put to the proof that the Captain presented him at diverse times with seven sixpences in token of satisfaction, and gradually felt stealing over his spirit the resignation of a man who had made provision for the worst, and taken every reasonable precaution against an unrelenting fate. Nevertheless, the Captain did not tempt ill fortune by being a witt more venturesome than before, though he considered it a point of good breeding in himself, as a general friend of the family, to attend Mr. Dombie's wedding, of which he heard from Mr. Perch, and to show that gentleman a pleasant and approving countenance from the gallery, he had repaired to the church in a hackney cabriolet with both windows up, and might have strupled even to make that venture in his dread of Mrs. Mech Stinger, but that the lady's attendance on the ministry of the Reverend Melchizedek rendered it peculiarly unlikely that she would be found in communion with the establishment. The Captain got safe home again, and fell into the ordinary routine of his new life, without encountering any more direct alarm from the enemy than was suggested to him by the daily bonnets in the street. But other subjects began to lay heavy on the Captain's mind. Walter's ship was still unheard of. No news came of old Sol Gills. Florence did not even know of the old man's disappearance, and Captain Cattle had not the heart to tell her. Indeed the Captain, as his own hopes of the generous, handsome, gallant-hearted youth whom he had loved, according to his rough manner from a child, began to fade, and faded more and more from day to day, shrunk with instinctive pain from the thought of exchanging a word with Florence. If he had had good news to carry to her, the honest Captain would have braved the newly decorated house and splendid furniture, though these connected with the lady he had seen at church were awful to him, and made his way into her presence. With the dark horizon gathering around their common hopes, however, that darkened every hour. The Captain almost felt as if he were a new misfortune and affliction to her, and was scarcely less afraid of a visit from Florence than from Mrs. Mac Stinger herself. It was a chill dark autumn evening, and Captain Cattle had ordered a fire to be kindled in the little back parlour, now more than ever like the cabin of a ship. The rain fell fast, and the wind blew hard, and straying out on the housetop by that stormy bedroom of his old friend to take an observation of the weather, the Captain's heart had died within him when he saw how wild and desolate it was. Not that he associated the weather of that time with poor Walter's destiny, or doubted that if Providence had doomed him to be lost and shipwrecked, it was over long ago. But that beneath an outward influence quite distinct from the subject matter of his thoughts, the Captain's spirits sank, and his hopes turned pale, as those of wiser men had often done before him, and will often do again. Captain Cattle, addressing his face to the sharp wind and slanting rain, looked up at the heavy scud that was flying fast over the wilderness of housetops, and looked for something cheery there in vain. The prospect near at hand was no better. In sundry tea-chests and other rough boxes at his feet, the pigeons of Robb the Grinder were cooing like so many dismal breezes getting up. A crazy weather-cock of a midshipman, with a telescope at his eye, once visible from the street, but long bricked out, creaked and complained upon his rusty pivot, as the shrill blast spun him round and round, and sported with him cruelly. Upon the Captain's coarse blue vest, the cold raindrops started like steel beads, and he could hardly maintain himself a slant against the stiff Norwester that came pressing against him, importunate to topple him over the parapet, and throw him on the pavement below. If there were any hope alive that evening, the Captain thought, as he held his hat on, it certainly kept house, and wasn't out of doors, so the Captain, shaking his head in a despondent manner, went in to look for it. Captain Cattle descended slowly to the little back parlour, and seated in his accustement chair, looked for it in the fire, but it was not there, though the fire was bright. He took out his tobacco-box and pipe, and composing himself to smoke, looked for it in the red glow from the bowl, and in the wreaths of vapour that curled upward from his lips. But there was not so much as an atom of the rust of hope's anchor in either. He tried a glass of grog, but melancholy truth was at the bottom of that well, and he couldn't finish it. He made a turn or two in the shop, and looked for hope among the instruments, but they obstinately worked out reckonings for the missing ship, in spite of any opposition he could offer, that ended at the bottom of the Lone Sea. The wind still rushing, and the rain still pattering against the closed shutters. The Captain brought two before the wooden midshipman upon the counter, and thought, as he dried the little officer's uniform with his sleeve, how many years the midshipman had seen, during which few changes, hardly any, had transpired among his ship's company, how the changes had come all together one day as it might be, and of what a sweeping kind they were. Here was the little society of the backpawler broken up, and scattered far and wide. Here was no audience for lovely peg, even if there had been anybody to sing it, which there was not. For the Captain was as morally certain that nobody but he could execute that ballad, as he was that he had not the spirit under existing circumstances to attempt it. There was no bright face of waller in the house. Here the Captain transferred his sleeve for a moment, from the midshipman's uniform to his own cheek. The familiar wig and buttons of Sol Gills were a vision of the past. Richard Whittington was knocked on the head, and every plan and project in connection with the midshipman lay drifting, without mast or rudder, on the waist of waters. As the Captain, with a dejected face, stood revolving these thoughts, and polishing the midshipman, partly in the tenderness of old acquaintance, and partly in the absence of his mind, and knocking at the shop door communicated a frightful start to the frame of Rob the Grinder seated on the counter, whose large eyes had been tently fixed on the Captain's face, and who had been debating within himself, for the five hundredth time, whether the Captain could have done a murder, that he had such an evil conscience, and was always running away. What's that? said Captain Cuddle softly. Somebody's knuckles, Captain! answered Rob the Grinder. The Captain, with an abashed and guilty air, immediately walked on tiptoe to the little parlor, and locked himself in. Rob, opening the door, would have parlayed with the visitor on the threshold, if the visitor had come in female guise. But the figure being of the male sex, and Rob's orders only applying to women, Rob held the door open, and allowed it to enter, which it did very quickly, glad to get out of the driving rain. Good job for Burgess and Co at any rate! said the visitor, looking over his shoulder compassionately at his own legs, which were very wet, and covered with splashes. Oh! how'd you do, Mr. Gills? The salutation was addressed to the Captain, now emerging from the back parlor, with the most transparent and utterly futile affectation of coming out by accident. Thank ye! the gentleman went on to say in the same breath, I'm very well indeed myself, I much obliged to you, my name is Toots, Mr. Toots. The Captain remembered to have seen this young gentleman at the wedding, and made him a bow. Mr. Toots replied with a chuckle, and, being embarrassed, as he generally was, breathed hard, shook hands with the Captain for a long time, and then falling on Rob the grinder, in the absence of any other resource, shook hands with him in a most affectionate and cordial manner. I say, I should like to speak a word to you, Mr. Gills, if you please. Said Toots at length, with surprising presence of mind. I say, Miss D-O-M, you know. The Captain, with a responsive gravity and mystery, immediately waved his hook towards the little parlor, where the Mr. Toots followed him. Oh! I beg your pardon, though. Said Mr. Toots, looking up in the Captain's face, as he sat down in a chair by the fire, which the Captain placed for him. You don't happen to know the chicken at all, do you, Mr. Gills? The chicken. Said the Captain. The game-chicken. Said Mr. Toots. The Captain, shaking his head, Mr. Toots explained that the man alluded to was the celebrated public character who had covered himself and his country with glory in his contest with the Nobby Shropshire One. But this piece of information did not appear to enlighten the Captain very much. Because he's outside. That's all, said Mr. Toots. But it's of no consequence. He won't get very wet, perhaps. I can pass the word for him in a moment, said the Captain. Well, if you would have the goodness to let him sit in the shop with your young man, Chaco of Mr. Toots, I should be glad, because you know he's easily offended and the damp's rather bad for his stamina. I'll call him in, Mr. Gills. With that, Mr. Toots, repairing to the shop door, sent a peculiar whistle into the night, which produced a stoical gentleman in a shaggy white great coat and a flat-brimmed hat, with very short hair, a broken nose, and a considerable tract of bare and sterile country between each ear. Sit down, chicken, said Mr. Toots. The compliant chicken spat out some small pieces of straw on which he was regaling himself, and took in a fresh supply from a reserve he carried in his hand. There ain't no drain of nothing short-handy, is there? Said the chicken, generally. This is loosey night, his hard lines to a man as leaves on his condition. Mr. Captain Cattle proffered a glass of rum, which the chicken, throwing back his head, emptied into himself as into a cask after proposing the brief sentiment. Towards us! Mr. Toots and the captain, returning then to the parlour, and taking their seats before the fire, Mr. Toots began. Mr. Gills, awest! said the captain, my name's Cattle. Mr. Toots looked greatly disconcerted while the captain proceeded gravely. Captain Cattle's my name, and England is my nation. This ear is my dwelling-place, and blessed be creation. Job said the captain as an index to his authority. Oh, I couldn't see Mr. Gills, could I? Said Mr. Toots. Because if you could see, Saul Gills, young gentleman, said the captain impressively and laying his heavy hand on Mr. Toots' knee. Oh, Saul, mind ye, with your eyes as you sit there, you'd be welcomeer to me than a wind of stern to a ship becombed. But you can't see Saul Gills. And why can't you see Saul Gills? Said the captain, apprised by the face of Mr. Toots, that he was making a profound impression on that gentleman's mind. Because he's invisible. Mr. Toots, in his agitation, was going to reply that it was of no consequence at all. But he corrected himself and said, no, bless me. That there man, said the captain, had left me in charge here by a piece of writing. But though he was almost as good as my swan brother, I know no more where he's gone or why he's gone. If so be to seek his nevy, or if so be a long of being not quite settled in his mind than you do. One morning, a daybreak, he went over at the side, said the captain, without a splash, without a ripple, I have looked for that man high and low, and never set eyes nor ears nor nothing else upon him from that hour. But, good gracious, Miss Miss Dombie don't know. Mr. Toots began, why, I ask you as a feeling heart, said the captain, dropping his voice. Why should she know? Why should she be made to know, until such time as there weren't any help for it? She took to old Saul Gilles, did that sweet creature, with a kindness, with affability, with a, oh, what's the good of saying, so you know her? I should hope so, juggled Mr. Toots with a conscious blush that suffused his whole countenance. And you come here from her, said the captain. I should think so, juggled Mr. Toots. Then all I need observe is, said the captain, that you know an angel, and are chartered an angel. Mr. Toots instantly seized the captain's hand and requested the favour of his friendship. Upon my word and honour, said Mr. Toots earnestly, I should be very much obliged to you, if you would improve my acquaintance. I should like to know you, captain, very much. I really am and want of a friend I am. Little Dombie was my friend at old Blimbers and would have been now if he'd have lived. The chicken, said Mr. Toots in a full-on whisper, is very well admirable in his way, sharpest man perhaps, in the world, is not a move he isn't up to, everybody says so, but I don't know, he's not everything. So she is an angel, captain. If there is an angel anywhere, it's Mr. Dombie. That's what I've always said. Really, though, you know, said Mr. Toots, I should be very much obliged to you, if you'd cultivate my acquaintance. Captain Cattle received this proposal in a polite manner, but still without committing himself to its acceptance, merely observing, I, my lad, we shall see, we shall see, and reminding Mr. Toots of his immediate mission by inquiring to what he was indebted for the honour of that visit. Why, the fact is, replied Mr. Toots, that it's the young woman I come from, not Miss Dombie, Susan, you know. The captain nodded his head once with a grave expression of face indicative of his regarding that young woman with serious respect. And I'll tell you how it happens, said Mr. Toots. You know, I go and call sometimes on Miss Dombie. I don't go there on purpose, you know, but I happen to be in the neighbourhood very often, and when I find myself there, why, why I call. Naturally, observed the captain. Yes, said Mr. Toots. I called this afternoon, upon my word and honour, I don't think it's possible to form an idea of the angel Miss Dombie was this afternoon. The captain answered with a jerk of his head, implying that it might not be easy to some people, but was quite so to him. As I was coming out, said Mr. Toots, the young woman in the most unexpected manner took me into the pantry. The captain seemed for the moment to object to this proceeding, and leaning back in his chair, looked at Mr. Toots with a distrustful, if not threatening, visage. Where she brought out, said Mr. Toots, this newspaper, she told me that she had kept it from Miss Dombie all day on account of something that was in it, about somebody that she and Dombie used to know, and then she read the passage to me. Very well. Then she said, wait a minute, what was it she said, though? Mr. Toots, endeavouring to concentrate his mental powers on this question, unintentionally fixed the captain's eye, and was so much discomposed by its stern expression that his difficulty in resuming the thread of his subject was enhanced to a painful extent. Ooh, said Mr. Toots, after long consideration. Ooh, ah, ah, yes, ah. She said that she hoped there was a bare possibility that it mightn't be true, and that as she couldn't very well come out herself without surprising Miss Dombie, would I go down to Mr. Solomon Gill's the instrument-makers in this street, who was the party's uncle, and ask whether he believed it was true, or had heard anything else in the city. She said, if he couldn't speak to me, no doubt Captain Cuttle could. By the by, said Mr. Toots, as the discovery flashed upon him. You, you know. The captain glanced at the newspaper in Mr. Toots' hand and breathed short and hurriedly. Well, pursued Mr. Toots, the reason why I'm rather late is because I went up as far as Finchley first to get some uncommonly fine chickweed that grows there from Miss Dombie's bird. But I came on here directly afterwards. You've seen the paper, I suppose. The captain, who had become cautious of reading the news, lest he should find himself advertised at full length by Mrs. Max Stinger, shook his head. Shall I read the passage to you? inquired Mr. Toots. The captain making a sign in the affirmative. Mr. Toots read as follows from the shipping intelligence. South Hampton, the bark defiance, Henry James, commander, arrived in this port today with a cargo of sugar, coffee, and rum, reports that being becalmed on the sixth day of her passage home from Jamaica in such and such a latitude, you know, said Mr. Toots after making a feeble dash at the figures and tumbling over them. I cried the captain, striking his clenched hand on the table. Heaverhead, my lad! Latitude, repeated Mr. Toots with a startled glance at the captain, and longitude, so and so. The lookout observed half an hour before sunset, some fragments of a wreck drifting at about the distance of a mile, the weather being clear on the bark making no way, a boat was hoisted out with orders to inspect the same, when they were found to consist of sundry large spars and a part of the main rigging of an English brig of about 500 tonnes burden. Together with a portion of the stern on which the words and letters sun and H were yet plainly legible. No vestige of any dead body was to be seen upon the floating fragments. Log of the defiance states that a breeze springing up in the night, the wreck was seen no more. There can be no doubt that all surmises as to the fate of the missing vessel, the sun and air, port of London bound for Barbados are now set adressed forever, that she broke up in the last hurricane and that every soul on board perished. Captain Cuttle, like all mankind, little knew how much hope had survived within him under discouragement until he felt its death shock. During the reading of the paragraph and for a minute or two afterwards, he sat with his gaze fixed on the modest Mr. Toots, like a man entranced, then suddenly rising and putting on his glazed hat, which in his visitors' honour he had laid upon the table, the captain turned his back and bent his head down on the little chimney piece. Oh, upon my word and honour! cried Mr. Toots, whose tender heart was moved by the captain's unexpected distress. This is a most wretched sort of affair this world is. Somebody's always dying or going and doing something uncomfortable in it. I'm sure I never should have looked forward so much to coming into my property if I had known this. I never saw such a world. It's a great deal worse than blimbers. Captain Cuttle, without altering his position, signed to Mr. Toots not to mind him and presently turned round with his glazed hat thrust back upon his ears and his hand composing and smoothing his brown face. Waller, my dear lad, said the captain, farewell. Waller, my child, my boy and man, I loved you. He warrant my flesh and blood, said the captain, looking at the fire. I ain't got none but something of what a father feels when he loses a son I feel in losing Waller. For why, said the captain, because it ain't one loss but a round dozen. Where's that there, young schoolboy with the rosy face and curly hair that used to be as merry in this ear-parler, come round every week as a piece of music? Gone down with Waller. Where's that there, fresh lad, that nothing couldn't tire nor put out and that spackled up and blushed so when we joked with him about heart's delight, that he was beautiful to look at? Gone down with Waller. Where's that there, man's spirit, all a fire that wouldn't see the old man hold down for a minute and cared nothing for itself? Gone down with Waller. It ain't one Waller. There was a dozen Wallers that I knowed and loved all holding round his neck when he went down and there are holding round mine now. Mr. Toots sat silent, folding and refolding the newspaper as small as possible upon his knee. And Saul Gills, said the captain, gazing at the fire, poor, neveless old Saul, where are you got to? He was left in charge of me. His last words was, take care of my uncle. What came over you, Saul, when you went and gave the go-boy an ed-cattle and what am I to put in my accounts that he's looking down upon respecting you? Saul Gills. Saul Gills, said the captain, shaking his head slowly. Catch sight of that there newspaper away from home with no one as knowed Waller, boy, to say a word and broad sigh to you brooch and down you pitch head foremost. Drawing a heavy sigh, the captain turned to Mr. Toots and roused himself to a sustained consciousness of that gentleman's presence. My lad, said the captain, you must tell the young woman honestly that this year of fatal news is too correct. The young romance you see on such pints, it's entered on the ship's log and that's the truest book a man can write, tomorrow morning. Said the captain, I'll step out and make inquiries but they lead to no good, they can't do it. If you'll give me a look in, in the forenoon, you shall know what I've heared but tell the young woman from Captain Cattle that it's over, over. And the captain, hooking off his glazed hat, pulled his handkerchief out of the crown, wiped his grizzled head despairingly and tossed the handkerchief in again with the indifference of deep dejection. Oh, I assure you, said Mr. Toots, really I am dreadfully sorry, upon my word I am, though I wasn't acquainted with the party. Do you think Miss Dompey will be very much affected? Captain Gills, I mean, Mr. Cattle? Why, Lord, love you. You turned the captain with something of compassion for Mr. Toots' innocence. When she weren't no higher than that, they were as fond of one another as two young doves. Were they, though? said Mr. Toots, with a considerably lengthened face. They were made for one another, said the captain mournfully. But what signify is that now? Upon my word and honour, cried Mr. Toots, blurting out his words through a singular combination of awkward chuckles and emotion. I'm even more sorry than I was before. You know, Captain Gills, I, I positively adore Miss Dompey. I am perfectly sore with loving her. The burst with which this confession forced itself out of the unhappy Mr. Toots bespoke the vehemence of his feelings. But what would be the good of my regarding her in this manner, if I wasn't truly sorry for her feeling, pain, whatever was the cause of it? Mine ain't a selfish affection, you know, said Mr. Toots, in the confidence engendered by his having been a witness of the captain's tenderness. It's the sort of thing with me, Captain Gills, that if I could be run over or trampled upon or thrown off a very high place or anything of that sort, for Miss Dompey's sake, it would be the most delightful thing that could happen to me. All this, Mr. Toots said in suppressed voice to prevent its reaching the jealous ears of the chicken who objected to the softer emotions, which efforted for its strength, coupled with the intensity of his feelings, made him red to the tips of his ears and caused him to present such an affecting spectacle of disinterested love to the eyes of Captain Cuttle that the good captain patted him consolingly on the back and made him cheer up. Thank ye, Captain Gills, said Mr. Toots. It's kind of you in the midst of your own troubles to say so. I'm very much obliged to you. As I said before, I really want a friend and should be glad to have your acquaintance. Although I am very well off, said Mr. Toots with energy, you can't think what a miserable beast I am. The hollow crowd, you know, when they see me with the chicken and characters of distinction like that suppose me to be happy, but I'm wretched. I suffer from his zombie, Captain Gills. I can't get through my meals. I have no pleasure in my tailor. I often cry when I'm alone. I assure you it'll be a satisfaction to me to come back to-morrow or to come back fifty times. Mr. Toots, with these words, shook the captain's hand. And disguising such traces of his agitation as could be disguised on so short a notice before the chicken's penetrating glance, rejoined that eminent gentleman in the shop. The chicken, who was apt to be jealous of his ascendancy, eyed Captain Cuttle with anything but favour as he took leave of Mr. Toots, but followed his patron without being otherwise demonstrative of his ill will, leaving the captain oppressed with sorrow, and robbed the grinder elevated with joy, on account of having had the honour of staring for nearly half an hour at the conqueror of the knobby Shropshire One. Long after Rob was fast asleep in his bed under the counter, the captain sat looking at the fire, and long after there was no fire to look at, the captain sat gazing on the rusty bars with unavailing thoughts of Walter and old Sol crowding through his mind. Retirement to the stormy chamber at the top of the house brought no rest with it, and the captain rose up in the morning, sorrowful and unrefreshed. As soon as the city offices were opened, the captain issued forth to the counting-house of Dombian Sun. But there was no opening of the midshipman's windows that morning. Rob the grinder, by the captain's orders, left the shutters closed, and the house was as a house of death. It chanced that Mr. Cuddle was entering the office as Captain Cuddle arrived at the door. Receiving the manager's beneson gravely and silently, Captain Cuddle made bold to accompany him into his own room. Well, Captain Cuddle, said Mr. Cuddle, taking up his usual position before the fireplace and keeping on his hat. This is a bad business. You've received the news, as it was in print yesterday, sir? Said the captain. Yes, said Mr. Carca. We have received it. It was accurately stated. The underwriters suffer a considerable loss. They are very sorry. No help. Such is life. Mr. Carca paired his nails delicately with a pen-knife and smiled at the captain, who was standing by the door looking at him. I excessively regret poor Gay, said Carca, and the crew. I understand they were some of our very best men among them. What always happened so, many men with families too, the comfort to reflect that poor Gay had no family, Captain Cuddle. The captain stood rubbing his chin and looking at the manager. The manager glanced at the unopened letters lying on his desk and took up the newspaper. Is there anything I can do for you, Captain Cuddle? He asked, looking off it with a smiling and expressive glance at the door. I wish you could set my mind at rest, sir, on something it's uneasy about. Returned the captain. I exclaimed the manager. And once that, come, Captain Cuddle, I must trouble you to be quick, if you please. I'm much engaged. Lookie here, sir, said the captain, advancing a step. A former friend, Waller, went on this year disastrous voyage. Come, come, Captain Cuddle, interposed the smiling manager. Don't talk about disastrous voyages in that way. We have nothing to do with disastrous voyages here, my good fellow. You must have begun very early on your day's allowance, Captain, if you don't remember that there are hazards in all voyages, whether by sea or land. You are not made uneasy by the supposition that young Watts's name was lost in bad weather that was got up against him in these offices, are you? Far, Captain. Sleep and soda water are the best cures for such uneasiness as that. My lad, returned the captain slowly. You are almost a lad to me. And so I don't ask your pardon for that slip of a word. If you find any pleasure in this ear spot, you ain't the gentleman I took you for. And if you ain't the gentleman I took you for, maybe my mind has called to be uneasy. Now, this is what it is, Mr. Kaker. A far that poor lad went away, according to orders, he told me that he weren't going away for his own good or for promotion, he known. It was my belief that he was wrong, and I told him so. And I come here, your head governor being absent, to ask a question or two of you in a civil way for my own satisfaction. Them questions you answered free. Now it'll ease my mind to know when all is over, as it is, and when what can't be cured must be endured, for which, as a scholar, you'll overhaul the buckets in and thereof make a note to know once more, in a word, that I warn't mistaken, that I warn't backward in my duty, when I didn't tell the old man what Morrill told me, and that the wind was too late in his sail when he hoisted of it for Balbeda Saba, Mr. Kaker, said the captain and the goodness of his nature. When I was last here, we was very pleasant together. If I ain't been all together so pleasant myself this morning on account of this poor lad, and if I have chafed again any observation of yours that I might have fended off, my name is Edward Cuddle, and I ask your pardon. Captain Cuddle, turned the manager with all possible politeness, I must ask you to do me a favour. And what is it, sir? inquired the captain. To have the goodness to walk off, if you please, rejoined the manager, stretching forth his arm, and to carry your jargon somewhere else. Every knob in the captain's face turned white with astonishment and indignation, even the red rim on his forehead faded like a rainbow among the gathering clouds. I tell you what, Captain Cuddle, said the manager, shaking his forefinger at him and showing him all his teeth, but still amably smiling, I was much too lenient with you when you came here before. You belong to an artful and audacious set of people. In my desire to save young Wattie's name from being kicked out of this place, neck and crop, my good captain, I tolerated you, but for once and only once, now go, my friend. The captain was absolutely rooted to the ground and speechless. Go, said the good human manager, gathering up his skirts and standing astride upon the hearthrug. Like a sensible fellow, let us have no turning out or any such violent measures. If Mr. Dombie were here, Captain, you might be obliged to leave in a more ignominious manner, possibly. I merely say, go! The captain, laying his ponderous hand upon his chest, to assist himself in fetching a deep breath, looked at Mr. Carca from head to foot and looked round the little room as if he did not clearly understand where he was or in what company. You are deep, Captain Cuddle, pursued Carca with the easy and vivacious frankness of a man of the world who knew the world too well to be ruffled by any discovery of misdoing when it did not immediately concern himself. But you are not quite out of soundings, either. Neither you nor your absent friend, Captain. What have you done with your absent friend, eh? Again the captain laid his hand upon his chest. After drawing another deep breath, he conjured himself to stand by, but in a whisper. You hatch nice little plots and hold nice little councils and make nice little appointments and receive nice little visitors, too, Captain, eh? said Carca, bending his brows upon him without showing his teeth any the less. But it's a bold measure to come here afterwards, not like your discretion. You conspirators and hiders and runners away should know better than that. Will you oblige me by going? My lad, gasped the captain in a choked and trembling voice and with a curious action going on in the ponderous fist. There are many words I could wish to say to you, but I don't rightly know where they're stored just at present. My young friend, Waller, was drowned only last night according to my reckoning, and it puts me out, you see. But you and me will come alongside a one another again, my lad," said the captain, holding up his hook, if we live. It will be anything but shrewd in you, my good fellow, if we do, returned the manager with same frankness. For you may rely, I give you fair warning upon my detecting and exposing you. I don't pretend to be a more borrow man than my neighbors, my good captain. But the confidence of this house, or of any member of this house, is not to be abused and undermined while I have eyes and ears. Good day," said Mr. Karker, nodding his head. Captain Cuddle, looking at him steadily, Mr. Karker looked full as steadily at the captain, went out of the office, and left him standing as dried before the fire, as calm and pleasant as if there were no more spots upon his soul than on his pure white linen and his smooth, sleek skin. The captain glanced, and passing through the outer counting-house, at the desk where he knew poor Waller had been used to sit, now occupied by another young boy with a face almost as fresh and hopeful as his, on the day when they tapped the famous last bottle but one of the old Madeira in the little back parlour. The nation of ideas, thus awakened, did the captain a great deal of good. It softened him in the very height of his anger and brought the tears into his eyes. Arrived at the wooden midshipments again, and sitting down in a corner of the dark shop, the captain's indignation, strong as it was, could make no head against his grief. Passion seemed not only to do wrong and violence to the memory of the dead, but to be infected by death and to droop and decline beside it. All the living knaves and liars in the world were nothing to the honesty and truth of one dead friend. The only thing the honest captain made out clearly in this state of mind, besides the loss of Waller, was that with him almost the whole world of Captain Cuttle had been drowned. If he reproached himself sometimes and keenly too for having ever connived at Walter's innocent deceit, he thought at least as often of the Mr. Karker whom no sea could ever render up, and the Mr. Donby whom he now began to perceive was as far beyond human recall, and the heart's delight with whom he must never foregather again, and the lovely peg that teak-built and trim-ballard that had gone ashore upon a rock and split into mere planks and beams of rhyme. The captain sat in the dark shop, thinking of these things, to the entire exclusion of his own injury, and looking with a sad an eye upon the ground as if in contemplation of their actual fragments as they floated past. But the captain was not unmindful for all that of such decent and respectful observances in memory of poor Walter, as he felt within his power. Rousing himself and rousing Rob the Grinder, who in the unnatural twilight was fast asleep, the captain sallied forth with his attendant at his heels and the dorky in his pocket, and repairing to one of those convenient slop-selling establishments of which there is abundant choice at the eastern end of London, purchased on the spot two suits of moorling, one for Rob the Grinder, which was immensely too small, and one for himself, which was immensely too large. He also provided Rob with a species of hat, greatly to be admired for its symmetry and usefulness, as well as for a happy blending of the mariner with the coal-heaver, which is usually termed a sow-wester, and which was something of a novelty in connection with the instrument business. In their several garments, which the vendor declared to be such a miracle in point of fit, as nothing but a rare combination of fortuitous circumstances ever brought about, and the fashion of which was unparalleled within the memory of the oldest inhabitant, the captain and grinder immediately arrayed themselves, presenting a spectacle fraught with wonder to all who beheld it. In this altered form, the captain received Mr. Toots. "'I'm took aback, my lad, at present,' said the captain, "'and will only confirm that they are ill-news. "'Tell a young woman to break it gentle to the young lady, "'and for neither of them never think of me no more. "'Special, mind you, that is, though I will think of them "'when night comes on a hurricane and seizes mountains Rowland, "'for which overhaul your Dr. Watts, brother, "'and when found, make a note on.' The captain reserved, until some fitter time, the consideration of Mr. Toots's offer of friendship, and thus dismissed him. Captain Cuddle's spirits were so low in truth that he half determined that day to take no further precautions against surprise from Mrs. McStinger, but to abandon himself recklessly to chance, and be indifferent to what might happen. As evening came on, he fell into a better frame of mind, however, and spoke much of Walter to Rob the Grinder, whose attention and fidelity he likewise incidentally commended. Rob did not blush to hear the captain earnest in his praises, but sat staring at him and effecting to snivel with sympathy and making a faint of being virtuous, and treasuring up every word he said, like a young spy as he was, with very promising deceit. When Rob had turned in and was fast asleep, the captain trimmed the candle, put on his spectacles, he had felt it appropriate to take to spectacles on entering into the instrument trade, though his eyes were like a hawk's, and opened the prayer-book at the burial-service, and reading softly to himself in the little-back parlor and stopping now and then to wipe his eyes, the captain in a true and simple spirit committed Walter's body to the deep. End of chapter 32. Chapter 33 of Dumbian 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. Dumbian Sun by Charles Dickens. Chapter 33, Contrasts. Turn we our eyes upon two homes, not lying side by side, but wide apart, though both within easy range and reach of the great city of London. The first is situated in the green and wooded country near Norwood. It is not a mansion, it is of no pretensions as to size, but it is beautifully arranged and tastefully kept. The lawn, the soft smooth slope, the flower garden, the clumps of trees where graceful forms of ash and willow are not wanting, the conservatory, the rustic verandah with the sweet-smelling creeping plants entwined about the pillars, the simple exterior of the house, the well-ordered offices, though all upon the diminutive scale proper to a mere cottage, bespeak an amount of elegant comfort within that might serve for a palace. This indication is not without warrant, for within it is a house of refinement and luxury. Rich colors, excellently blended, meet the eye at every turn. In the furniture, its proportions admirably devised to suit the shapes and sizes of the small rooms, on the walls upon the floors, tinging and subduing the light that comes in through the odd glass doors and windows here and there. There are a few choice prints and pictures too, in quaint nooks and recesses, there is no want of books, and there are games of skill and chance set forth on tables, fantastic chessmen, dice, bat-gammon, cards, and billiards. And yet, amidst this opulence of comfort, there is something in the general air that is not well. Is it that the carpets and the cushions are too soft and noiseless, so that those who move or oppose among them seem to act by stealth? Is it that the prints and pictures do not commemorate great thoughts or deeds, or render nature in the poetry of landscape, hall or hut, but are of one voluptuous cast, mere shows of form and colour, and no more? Is it that the books have all their gold outside, and that the titles of the greater part qualify them to be companions of the prints and pictures? Is it that the completeness and the beauty of the place are here and there, belied by an affectation of humility in some unimportant and inexpensive regard, which is as false as the face of the two truly painted portrait hanging yonder, or its original, at breakfast in his easy chair below it? Or is it that, with the daily breath of that original and master of all here, there is used forth some subtle portion of himself, which gives a vague expression of himself to everything about him? It is Mr. Karka, the manager, who sits in the easy chair, a gaudy parrot and a burnished cage upon the table, tears at the wires with her beak, and goes walking upside down in its dome-top, shaking her house and screeching. But Mr. Karka is indifferent to the bird, and looks with amusing smile at a picture on the opposite wall. A most extraordinary accidental likeness, certainly, says he. Perhaps it is a Juneau, perhaps a Potiphar's wife, perhaps some scornful nymph, according as the picture-dealers found the market when they christened it. It is the figure of a woman, supremely handsome, who, turning away but with her face addressed to the spectator, flashes her proud glance upon him. It is like Edith. With a passing gesture of his hand at the picture, what, a menace? No, yet something like it. A wave as of triumph? No, yet more like that. An insolent salute wafted from his lips? No, yet like that, too. He resumes his breakfast, and calls to the chafing and imprisoned bird, who, coming down into a pendant-gilded hoop within the cage, like a great wedding-ring, swings in it for his delight. The second home is on the other side of London, near to where the busy Great North Road of Bygone Days is silent and almost deserted, except by wayfarers who toil along on foot. It is a poor small house, barely and spaley furnished, but very clean, and there is even an attempt to decorate it, shown in the homely flowers trained about the porch and in the narrow garden. The neighborhood in which it stands has as little of the country to recommend it as it has of the town. It is neither of the town nor country. The former, like the giant in his travelling boots, has made a stride and passed it, and has set his brick and mortar heel a long way in advance. But the intermediate space between the giant's feet, as yet, is only blighted country and not town. And here, among a few tall chimneys belching smoke all day and night, and among the brick fields and the lanes where turf is cut, and where the fences tumble down, and where the dusty nettles grow, and where a scrap or two of hedge may yet be seen, and where the birdcatcher still comes occasionally, though he swears every time to come no more, this second home is to be found. She who inhabits it is she who left the first in her devotion to an outcast brother. She withdrew from that home its redeeming spirit, and from its master's breast his solitary angel. But though his liking for her is gone, after this ungrateful slight, as he considers it, and though he abandons her altogether in return, an old lie dear of her is not quite forgotten, even by him. Let her flower garden, in which he never sets his foot, but which is yet maintained among all his costly alterations, as if she had quitted it but yesterday, bare witness. Harriet Karker has changed since then, and on her beauty there has fallen a heavier shade than time of his unassisted self-concapt. All potent as he is, the shadow of anxiety and sorrow, and the daily struggle of a poor existence. But it is beauty still, and still a gentle, quiet, and retiring beauty that must be sought out, for it cannot warrant itself. If it could, it would be what it is no more. Yes, this slight, small, patient figure, neatly dressed in homely stuffs, and indicating nothing but the dull household virtues that have so little in common with the received idea of heroism and greatness, unless indeed any ray of them should shine through the lives of the great ones of the earth, when it becomes a constellation, and is tracked in heaven straight away. This slight, small, patient figure, leaning on the man still young but worn in gray, is she, his sister, who of all the world went over to him in his shame, and put her hand in his, and with a sweet composure and determination, led him, hopefully, upon his barren way. "'It is early, John,' she said. "'Why do you go so early?' "'Not many minutes earlier than usual, Harriet. "'If I have the time to spare, "'I should like, I think, it's a fancy, "'to walk once by the house where I took leave of him.' "'I wish I had ever seen or known him, John.' "'It is better as it is, my dear, remembering his fate. "'But I could not regret it more, though I had known him. "'Is not your sorrow mine? "'And if I had, perhaps you would feel "'that I was a better companion to you "'when speaking about him, that I may seem now.' "'My dearest sister, "'is there anything within the range of rejoicing or regret, "'in which I am not sure of your companionship? "'I hope you think not, John, for surely there is nothing. "'How could you be better to me, "'or nearer to me then than you are in this or anything?' said her brother. "'I feel that you did know him, Harriet, "'and that you shared my feelings towards him. "'She drew the hand which had been resting on his shoulder "'round his neck, and answered with some hesitation. "'No, not quite.' "'Drew, drew,' he said. "'You think I might have done him no harm "'if I had allowed myself to know him better? "'Think, I know it. "'Designedly. Heaven knows I would not,' he replied, "'shaking his head mournfully. "'But his reputation was too precious to be periled "'by such association. "'Whether you share that knowledge or do not, my dear, "'I do not,' she said quietly. "'It is still the truth, Harriet, "'and my mind is lighter when I think of him for that, "'which made it so much heavier then.' "'He checked himself in his tone of melancholy "'and smiled upon her, as he said, "'Good-bye. "'Good-bye, dear John. "'In the evening at the old time and place "'I shall meet you as usual on your way home. "'Good-bye.' "'The cordial face she lifted up to his to kiss him "'was his home, his life, his universe, "'and yet it was a portion of his punishment and grief, "'for in the cloud he saw upon it, "'though serene and calm as any radiant cloud at sunset, "'and in the constancy and devotion of her life, "'and in the sacrifice she had made of ease "'and enjoyment and hope, "'he saw the bitter fruits of his old crime "'forever ripe and fresh.' "'She stood at the door looking after him, "'with her hands loosely clasped in each other, "'as he made his way over the frowsy and uneven patch of ground "'which lay before their house, "'which had once, and not long ago, "'been a pleasant meadow, "'and was now a very waste "'of the disorderly crop of beginnings of mean houses "'rising out of the rubbish, "'as if they had been unskillfully sown there. "'Whenever he looked back, as once or twice he did, "'her cordial face shone like a light upon his heart, "'but when he plodded on his way and saw her not, "'the tears were in her eyes as she stood watching him. "'Her pensive form was not long idle at the door. "'There was daily duty to discharge and daily work to do. "'For such commonplace spirits that are not heroic "'often work hard with their hands, "'and Harriet was soon busy with her household tasks. "'These discharged, "'and the poor house made quite neat and orderly, "'she counted her little stock of money with an anxious face, "'and went out thoughtfully to buy some necessaries for their table, "'planning and conniving, as she went, how to save. "'So sordid are the lives of such low natures, "'who are not only not heroic to their valets and waiting women, "'but have neither valets nor waiting women "'to be heroic too with all. "'While she was absent, and there was no one in the house, "'there approached it by a different way from that the brother had taken, "'a gentleman, a very little past his prime of life perhaps, "'but of a healthy, florid hue, an upright presence, "'and a bright, clear aspect that was gracious and good-humoured. "'His eyebrows were still black, and so was much of his hair, "'the sprinkling of grey observable among the latter, "'graced the former very much, "'and showed his broad, frank brow and honest eyes "'to great advantage. "'After knocking once at the door, and obtaining no response, "'this gentleman sat down on a bench in the little porch, to wait. "'A certain skillful action of his fingers, as he hummed some bars, "'and beat time on the seat beside him, seemed to denote the musician, "'and the extraordinary satisfaction he derived "'from humming something very slow and long, "'which had no recognisable tune, "'seemed to denote that he was a scientific one. "'The gentleman was still twirling a theme, "'which seemed to go round and round and round, "'and in and in and in, "'and to involve itself like a corkscrew twirled upon a table, "'without getting any nearer to anything, "'when Harriet appeared returning. "'He rose up as she advanced, and stood with his head uncovered. "'You are come again, sir,' he said, faltering. "'I take that liberty,' he answered. "'May I ask for five minutes of your leisure?' "'After a moment's hesitation, she opened the door, "'and gave him admission to the little parlor. "'The gentleman sat down there, "'drew his chair to the table over against her, "'and said, in a voice that perfectly corresponded "'to his appearance, "'and with a simplicity that was very engaging.' "'Miss Harriet, you cannot be proud. "'You signify to me when I called to the morning that you were. "'Pardon me if I say that I looked into your face while you spoke, "'and that it contradicted you. "'I look into it again,' he added, "'laying his hand gently on her arm for an instant, "'and it contradicts you more and more. "'She was somewhat confused and agitated, "'and could make no ready answer. "'It is the mirror of truth,' said her visitor, "'and gentleness, excuse my trusting to it, and returning.' "'His manner of saying these words "'divested them entirely of the character of compliments. "'It was so plain, grave, unaffected, and sincere "'that she bent her head as if it wants to thank him "'and acknowledge his sincerity. "'The disparity between our ages,' said the gentleman, "'and the plainness of my purpose, "'empower me, I am glad to think, to speak my mind. "'That is my mind, and so you see me for the second time.' "'There is a kind of pride, sir,' she returned, "'after a moment's silence. "'Or what may be supposed to be pride, which is mere duty? "'I hope I cherish no other.' "'For yourself,' he said. "'For myself.' "'But, pardon me,' suggested the gentleman, "'for your brother, John. "'Proud of his love, I am,' said Harriet, "'looking full upon her visitor, "'and changing her manner on the instant. "'Not that it was less composed and quiet, "'but there was a deep impassioned earnestness in it, "'that made the very tremble in her voice a part of her firmness. "'And proud of him, sir. "'You, who strangely know the story of his life, "'and repeated it to me when you were here last, "'merely to make my way into your confidence,' "'interposed the gentleman, for heaven's sake, "'don't suppose. "'I am sure,' she said, "'you revived it in my hearing with a kind and good purpose. "'I'm quite sure of it.' "'I thank you,' returned her visitor, pressing her hand hastily. "'I am much obliged to you. "'You do me justice, I assure you. "'You are going to say that I, "'who know the story of John Carca's life, "'may think it pride in me,' she continued, "'when I say that I am proud of him, I am. "'You know the time was when I was not, "'when I could not be, but that is past. "'The humility of many years, the uncomplaining expiation, "'the true repentance, the terrible regret, "'the pain I know he has even in my affection, "'which he thinks has cost me dear, "'though heaven knows I am happy. "'But for his sorrow I—' "'Oh, sir, after what I have seen, "'let me conjure you, if you are in any place of power "'and are ever wronged, never for any wrong "'inflict of punishment that cannot be recalled. "'While there is a God above us to work changes "'in the hearts he made, "'Your brother is an altered man,' returned the gentleman "'compassionately, I assure you, I don't doubt it. "'He was an altered man when he did wrong,' said Harriet. "'He is an altered man again, and is his true self now. "'Believe me, sir.' "'But we go on,' said her visitor, rubbing his forehead "'in an absent manner with his hand, "'and then drumming thoughtfully on the table. "'We go on in our clockwork routine from day to day "'and can't make out or follow these changes. "'They—' "'They're a metaphysical sort of thing. "'We—we haven't leisure for it. "'We—we haven't courage. "'They're not taught at schools or colleges, "'and we don't know how to set about it. "'In short, we are so damn business-like,' said the gentleman, "'walking to the window and back and sitting down again "'in a state of extreme dissatisfaction and vexation. "'I am sure,' said the gentleman, "'rubbing his forehead again and drumming on the table as before, "'I have good reason to believe that a jog-trot life, "'the same from day to day, would reconcile one to anything. "'One don't see anything. "'One don't hear anything. "'One don't know anything. "'That's the fact. "'We go on taking everything for granted, "'and so we go on until whatever we do, "'good, bad, or indifferent we do from Abbott. "'Abott is all I shall have to report "'when I am called upon to plead to my conscience on my death-ben. "'Abott,' says I, "'I was deaf, dumb, blind, and paralytic "'to a million things from Abbott. "'Very business-like indeed, Mr. What's your name?' says conscience, "'but it won't do here.' The gentleman got up and walked to the window again and back. Seriously uneasy, though giving his uneasiness this peculiar expression. "'Miss Ariette,' he said, resuming his chair, "'I wish you would let me serve you. "'Look at me. I ought to look honest, "'for I know I am so at present, do I?' "'Yes,' she answered with a smile. "'I believe every word you have said,' he returned. "'I am full of self-reportch, "'that I might have known this and seen this, "'and known you and seen you any time these dozen years, "'and that I never have. "'I hardly know how I ever got a creature that I am, "'not only of my own habit, but of other peoples. "'But having done so, let me do something. "'I ask it in all honour and respect. "'You inspire me with both in the highest degree. "'Let me do something.' "'We are contented, sir. "'No, no, not quite,' returned the gentleman. "'I think not quite. "'There are some little comforts "'that might smooth your life, and is.' "'And is,' he repeated, "'fancying that had made some impression on her. "'I have been in the habit of thinking "'that there was nothing wanting to be done for him, "'that it was all settled and over, "'in short, of not thinking at all about it. "'I am different now. "'Let me do something for him. "'You, too,' said the visitor, with careful delicacy. "'I have need to watch your health closely for his sake, "'and I fear it fails. "'Whoever you may be, sir,' answered Harriet, raising her eyes to his face, "'I am deeply grateful to you. "'I feel certain that in all you say, "'you have no object in the world but kindness to us. "'But years have passed since we began this life, "'and to take from my brother any part "'of what has so endeared him to me, "'and so proved his better resolution, "'any fragment of the merit of his unassisted, obscure, "'and forgotten reparation would be to diminish "'the comfort it will be to him and me "'when that time comes to each of us, "'of which you spoke just now. "'I thank you better with these tears than any words. "'Believe it, pray.' The gentleman was moved, and put the hand she held out to his lips, much as a tender father might kiss the hand of a dutiful child, but more reverently. "'If the day should ever come,' said Harriet, "'when he is restored, in part, to the position he lost—' "'Restored,' cried the gentleman quickly, "'how can that be hoped for? "'In whose hands does the power of any restoration lie? "'It is no mistake of mine, surely, "'to suppose that his having gained the priceless blessing of his life is one cause of the animosity "'shown to him by his brother. "'You touch upon a subject that is never breathed between us, "'not even between us,' said Harriet. "'I beg your forgiveness,' said the visitor. "'I should have known it. "'I entreat you to forget that I have done so inadvertently. "'And now, as I dare urge no more, "'as I am not sure that I have a right to do so, "'though heaven knows even that doubt may be habit,' said the gentleman, rubbing his head as despondently as before, "'let me, though stranger, yet no stranger, ask two favours.' "'What are they?' she inquired. "'The first, that if you should see cause to change your resolution, "'you will suffer me to be as your right hand. "'My name shall then be at your service. "'It is useless now, and always insignificant.' "'Our choice of friends,' she answered, smiling faintly, "'is not so great that I need any time for consideration. "'I can promise that. "'The second, that you will allow me sometimes, "'say every Monday morning at nine o'clock, "'happy to again, I must be business-like,' said the gentleman, with a whimsical inclination to quarrel with himself on that head. "'In walking past, to see you at the door or window, "'I don't ask to come in, as your brother will be gone out at that hour. "'I don't ask to speak to you. "'I merely ask to see, for the satisfaction of my own mind, "'that you are well, and without intrusion to remind you, "'by the sight of me, that you have a friend, "'an elderly friend, gray-aid already, fast-growing grayer, "'whom you may ever command.' "'The cordial face looked up in his, confided in it, and promised. "'I understand, as before,' said the gentleman rising, "'that you purpose not to mention my visit to John Carca, "'lest he should be at all distressed "'by my acquaintance with his history. "'I am glad of it, for it is out of the ordinary course of things, "'and happy again,' said the gentleman, checking himself impatiently, "'as if there were no better course than the ordinary course.' "'With that he turned to go, and walking bare-headed "'to the outside of the little porch, took leave of her "'with such a happy mixture of unconstrained respect "'and unaffected interest, as no breeding could have taught, "'no truth mistrusted, and nothing but a pure "'and single heart expressed.' "'Many half-forgotten emotions were awakened "'in the sister's mind by this visit. "'It was so very long, since any other visitor "'had crossed their threshold. "'It was so very long, since any voice of apathy "'had made sad music in her ears, "'that the stranger's figure remained present to her, "'hours afterwards, when she sat at the window, "'plying her needle. "'And his words seemed newly spoken again and again. "'He had touched the spring that opened her whole life, "'and if she lost him for a short space, "'it was only among the many shapes of the one great recollection "'of which that life was made. "'Musing and working by turns, "'now constraining herself to be steady at her needle "'for a long time together, "'and now letting her work fall unregarded on her lap, "'and straying wheresoever her busier thoughts led, "'Harriet Karker found the hours glide by her, "'and the day steel on. "'The morning, which had been bright and clear, "'gradually became overcast, "'a sharp wind set in, the rain fell heavily, "'and a dark mist drooping over the distant town "'hid it from the view. "'She often looked with compassion, "'at such a time, upon the stragglers "'who came wandering into London "'by the great highway hard by, "'and who, foot-saw and weary, "'and gazing fearfully at the huge town before them, "'as if foreboding that their misery there would be, "'but as a drop of water in the sea, "'or as a grain of sea-sand on the shore, "'went shrinking on, cowering before the angry weather, "'and looking as if the very elements rejected them. "'Day after day, such travellers kept past, "'but always, as she thought, in one direction, "'always towards the town. "'Swallowed up in one phase, or rather of its immensity, "'to watch which they seemed impelled "'by a desperate fascination, they never returned. "'Food for the hospitals, the churchyards, "'the prisons, the river, fever, madness, "'vice and death, they passed on to the monster, "'roaring in the distance, and were lost. "'The chill wind was howling, and the rain was falling, "'and the day was darkening moodily, "'when Harriet, raising her eyes from the work "'on which she had long since been engaged "'with unremitting constancy, "'saw one of these travellers approaching. "'A woman, a solitary woman of some thirty years of age, "'tall, well-formed, handsome, miserably dressed, "'the soil of many country roads and varied weather, "'dust, chalk, clay, gravel, "'clotted on her grey cloak by the streaming wet, "'no bonnet on her head, "'nothing to defend her rich black hair from the rain, "'but a torn handkerchief, "'but the fluttering ends of which, "'and with her hair the wind blinded her "'so that she often stopped to push them back, "'and look upon the way she was going. "'She was in the act of doing so, "'when Harriet observed her. "'As her hands, parting on her sunburnt forehead, "'swept across her face, "'and threw aside the hindrances that encroached upon it, "'there was a reckless and regardless beauty in it, "'a dauntless and depraved indifference to more than weather, "'a carelessness of what was cast upon her bare head "'from heaven or earth, "'that, coupled with her misery and loneliness, "'touched the heart of her fellow woman. "'She thought of all that was perverted "'and debased within her, no less than without, "'of modest graces of the mind, "'hardened and steeled, "'like these attractions of the person, "'of the many gifts of the Creator "'flung to the winds like the wild hare, "'of all the beautiful ruin upon which "'the storm was beating and the night was coming. "'Thinking of this, "'she did not turn away with a delicate indignation. "'Too many of her own compassionate "'and tender sex too often do, "'but pitied her. "'Her fall and sister came on, "'looking far before her, "'trying with her eager eyes to pierce the mist "'in which the city was enshrouded, "'and glancing now and then from side to side "'with the bewildered and uncertain aspect of a stranger. "'Though her tread was bold and courageous, "'she was fatigued, "'and after a moment of irresolution, "'sat down upon a heap of stones, "'seeking no shelter from the rain, "'but letting it rain on her as it would. "'She was now opposite the house, "'raising her head after resting it for a moment on both hands, "'her eyes met those of Harriet. "'In a moment Harriet was at the door, "'and the other, rising from her seat at her back, "'came slowly and with no conciliatory look towards her. "'Why do you rest in rain?' said Harriet gently. "'Because I have no other resting place,' was the reply. "'But there are many places of shelter near here. "'This, referring to the little porch, "'is better than where you were. "'You're very welcome to rest here.' The wanderer looked at her in doubt and surprise, but without any expression of thankfulness, and sitting down and taking off one of her worn shoes to beat out the fragments of stone and dust that were inside, showed that her foot was cut and bleeding. Harriet uttering an expression of pity, the traveler looked up with a contemptuous and incredulous smile. "'Why, what's a torn foot to such as me?' she said. "'And what's a torn foot in such as me to such as you?' "'Come in and wash it,' answered Harriet mildly, "'and let me give you something to bind it up.' The woman caught her arm, and drawing it before her own eyes, hid them against it, and wept. Not like a woman, but like a stern man surprised into that weakness, with a violent heaving of her breast and struggle for recovery that showed how unusual the emotion was with her. She's admitted to be led into the house, and evidently more in gratitude than in any care for herself, washed and bound the injured place. Harriet then put before her fragments of her own frugal dinner, and when she had eaten of them, though sparingly, besault her before resuming her road, which she showed her anxiety to do, to dry her clothes before the fire. Again, more in gratitude than with any evidence of concern in her own behalf, she sat down in front of it, and unbinding the handkerchief about her head, and letting her thick wet hair fall down below her waist, sat drying it with the palms of her hands, and looking at the blaze. "'I dare say you are thinking,' she said, lifting her head suddenly. That I used to be handsome once. I believe I was. I know I was. Look here.' She held up her hair roughly with both hands, seizing it as if she would have torn it out, and threw it down again, and flung it back as though it were a heap of serpents. "'Are you a stranger in this place?' asked Harriet. "'A stranger?' she returned, stopping between each short reply, and looking at the fire. "'Yes. Ten or a dozen years, a stranger. I have had no almanac where I have been. Ten or a dozen years. I don't know this part. It's much altered since I went away.' "'Have you been far?' "'Very far. Months upon months over the sea, and far away even then. "'I have been where convicts go,' she added, looking full upon her entertainer. "'I have been one myself.' "'Heaven help you and forgive you,' was the gentle answer. "'Ah! Heaven help me and forgive me,' she returned, nodding her head at the fire. If man would help some of us a little more, God would forgive us all the sooner, perhaps.' "'But she was softened by the earnest manner, and the cordial face so full of mildness, and so free from judgment of her, and said, less heartily, "'We may be about the same age, you and me. "'If I am older, it is not above a year or two.' "'Oh! Think of that!' "'She opened her arms, as though the exhibition of her outward form would show the moral wretch she was, and letting them drop at her sides, hung down her head. "'There is nothing we may not hope to repair. It is never too late to amend,' said Harriet. "'You are penitent?' "'No,' she answered. "'I am not. I can't be. I am no such thing. Why should I be penitent, and all the world go free? They talk to me of my penitence. "'Who's penitent for the wrongs that have been done to me?' She rose up, bound her handkerchief about her head, and turned to move away. "'Where are you going?' said Harriet. "'Yonder,' she answered, pointing with her hand, to London. "'Have you any home to go to?' "'I think I have a mother. She is much a mother, as her dwelling is a home,' she answered with a bitter laugh. "'Take this,' cried Harriet, putting money in her hand. "'Try to do well. It is very little, but for one day it may keep you from harm. "'Are you married?' said the other faintly, as she took it. "'No. I live here with my brother. We have not much to spare, or I would give you more. "'Will you? Let me kiss you.' Seeing no scorn or repugnance in her face, the object of her charity bent over her, as she asked the question, and pressed her lips against her cheek. Once more she caught her arm, and covered her eyes with it, and then was gone. Gone into the deepening night and howling wind and pelting rain, urging her way on towards the mist and shrouded city where the blurred lights gleamed, and with her black hair and disordered headgear fluttering round her reckless face. End of chapter 33