Dombey and Son - Charles Dickens (i love reading .TXT) 📗

said the Major, stopping short again, ‘and has been a frequent visitor at your house for some time now.’

‘Yes,’ replied Mr Dombey with great stateliness, ‘Miss Tox was originally received there, at the time of Mrs Dombey’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 Dombey, in the tone of a man who was making a great and valuable concession, ‘I have a respect for Miss Tox. She his 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 has been in my power to bestow. I hold myself indebted to Miss Tox, Major,’ added Mr Dombey, with a slight wave of his hand, ‘for the pleasure of your acquaintance.’

‘Dombey,’ said the Major, warmly: ‘no! No, Sir! Joseph 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 fellow, Sir—in a great creature, Sir. Dombey!’ said the Major, with a struggle which it 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 Dombey seemed touched, as it is not improbable the Major designed he should be, by this allusion. 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 connexion with that event,’ said the Major, ‘and all the credit that belongs to her, J. B. is willing to give her, Sir. Notwithstanding which, Ma’am,’ he added, raising his eyes from his plate, and casting them across Princess’s Place, to where Miss 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 Miss 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 Bagstock.’ 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 Dombey, reddening, ‘I hope you do not hint at anything so absurd on the part of Miss Tox as—’

‘Dombey,’ returned the Major, ‘I hint at nothing. But Joey B. has lived in the world, Sir: lived in the world with his eyes open, Sir, and his ears cocked: and Joe tells you, Dombey, that there’s a devilish artful and ambitious woman over the way.’

Mr Dombey 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 Bagstock,’ 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 apostrophising 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, Dombey, as you have invited Joe—old Joe, who has no other merit, 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 is wholly yours. I don’t know, Sir,’ said the Major, wagging his double chin with a jocose air, ‘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 Dombey, 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., Dombey 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 at the corners of his eyes, and devilled 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 washleather gloves, his thick stick, and his hat; which latter 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 Dombey’s chariot, which was in waiting, an unusual quantity of carpet-bags and small portmanteaus, no less apoplectic in appearance than the Major himself: and having filled his own pockets with Seltzer 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 Towlinson, 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 sepulture, Miss Tox appearing at her window, waved a lilywhite handkerchief. Mr Dombey 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 over-fed Mephistopheles.

During the bustle of preparation at the railway, Mr Dombey 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 Dombey 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 Dombey.

‘Beg your pardon, Sir,’ said the man, ‘but I hope you’re a doin’ pretty well, Sir.’

He was dressed in a canvas suit abundantly besmeared with coal-dust 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 clothed.

‘I shall have the honour of stokin’ of you down, Sir,’ said Mr Toodle. ‘Beg your pardon, Sir.—I hope you find yourself a coming round?’

Mr Dombey looked at him, in return for his tone of interest, as if a man like that would make his very eyesight dirty.

‘’Scuse the liberty, Sir,’ said Toodle, seeing he was not clearly remembered, ‘but my wife Polly, as was called Richards in your family—’

A change in Mr Dombey’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 Dombey, putting his hand in his pocket, and speaking (but that he always did) haughtily.

‘No thank’ee, Sir,’ returned Toodle, ‘I can’t say she does. I don’t.’

Mr Dombey was stopped short now in his turn: and awkwardly: with his hand in his pocket.

‘No, Sir,’ said Toodle, turning his oilskin cap round and round; ‘we’re a doin’ pretty well, Sir; we haven’t no cause to complain in the worldly way, Sir. We’ve had four more since then, Sir, but we rubs on.’

Mr Dombey 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 connexion with the cap still going slowly round and round in the man’s hand.

‘We lost one babby,’ observed Toodle, ‘there’s no denyin’.’

‘Lately,’ added Mr Dombey, looking at the cap.

‘No, Sir, up’ard of three years ago, but all the rest is hearty. And in the matter o readin’, Sir,’ said Toodle, ducking again, as if to remind Mr Dombey of what had passed between them on that subject long ago, ‘them boys o’ mine, they learned me, among ‘em, arter all. They’ve made a wery tolerable scholar of me, Sir, them boys.’

‘Come, Major!’ said Mr Dombey.

‘Beg your pardon, Sir,’ resumed Toodle, taking a step before them and deferentially stopping them again, still cap in hand: ‘I wouldn’t have troubled you with such a pint except as a way of gettin’ in the name of my son Biler—christened Robin—him as you was so good as to make a Charitable Grinder on.’

‘Well, man,’ said Mr Dombey in his severest manner. ‘What about him?’

‘Why, Sir,’ returned Toodle, shaking his head with a 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 Dombey, with a hard kind of satisfaction.

‘He has fell into bad company, you see, genelmen,’ pursued the father, looking wistfully at both, and evidently taking the Major into the conversation with the hope of having his sympathy. ‘He has got into bad ways. God send he may come to again, genelmen, but he’s on the wrong track now! You could hardly be off hearing of it somehow, Sir,’ said Toodle, again addressing Mr Dombey individually; ‘and it’s better I should out and say my boy’s gone rather wrong. Polly’s dreadful down about it, genelmen,’ 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 Dombey, giving him his arm. ‘The usual return!’

‘Take advice from plain old Joe, and never educate that sort of people, Sir,’ returned the Major. ‘Damme, Sir, it never does! It always fails!’

The simple father was beginning to submit