Amazing Artfulness of Captain Cuttle, and a new Pursuit for
Walter Gay
WALTER could not, for several days, decide what to do in the Barbados
business; and even cherished some faint hope that Mr. Dombey might not have
meant what he had said, or that he might change his mind, and tell him he was
not to go. But as nothing occurred to give this idea (which was sufficiently
improbable in itself) any touch of confirmation, and as time was slipping by,
and he had none to lose, he felt that he must act, without hesitating any
longer.
Walter's chief difficulty was, how to break the change in his affairs to
Uncle Sol, to whom he was sensible it would be a terrible blow. He had the
greater difficulty in dashing Uncle Sol's spirits with such an astounding piece
of intelligence, because they had lately recovered very much, and the old man
had become so cheerful, that the little back parlour was itself again. Uncle Sol
had paid the first appointed portion of the debt to Mr. Dombey, and was hopeful
of working his way through the rest; and to cast him down afresh, when he had
sprung up so manfully from his troubles, was a very distressing necessity.
Yet it would never do to run away from him. He must know of it beforehand:
and how to tell him was the point. As to the question of going or not going,
Walter did not consider that he had any power of choice in the matter. Mr.
Dombey had truly told him that he was young, and that his uncle's circumstances
were not good; and Mr. Dombey had plainly expressed, in the glance with which he
had accompanied that reminder, that if he declined to go he might stay at home
if he chose, but not in his counting-house. His uncle and he lay under a great
obligation to Mr. Dombey, which was of Walter's own soliciting. He might have
begun in secret to despair of ever winning that gentleman's favour, and might
have thought that he was now and then disposed to put a slight upon him, which
was hardly just. But what would have been duty without that, was still duty with
it--or Walter thought so--and duty must be done.
When Mr. Dombey had looked at him, and told him he was young, and that his
uncle's circumstances were not good, there had been an expression of disdain in
his face; a contemptuous and disparaging assumption that he would be quite
content to live idly on a reduced old man, which stung the boy's generous soul.
Determined to assure Mr. Dombey, in so far as it was possible to give him the
assurance without expressing it in words, that indeed he mistook his nature,
Walter had been anxious to show even more cheerfulness and activity after the
West Indian interview than he had shown before: if that were possible, in one of
his quick and zealous disposition. He was too young and inexperienced to think,
that possibly this very quality in him was not agreeable to Mr. Dombey, and that
it was no stepping-stone to his good opinion to be elastic and hopeful of
pleasing under the shadow of his powerful displeasure, whether it were right or
wrong. But it may have been--it may have been--that the great man thought
himself defied in this new exposition of an honest spirit, and purposed to bring
it down.
`Well! at last and at least, Uncle Sol must be told,' thought Walter, with a
sigh. And as Walter was apprehensive that his voice might perhaps quaver a
little, and that his countenance might not be quite as hopeful as he could wish
it to be, if he told the old man himself, and saw the first effects of his
communication on his wrinkled face, he resolved to avail himself of the services
of that powerful mediator, Captain Cuttle. Sunday coming round, he set off
therefore, after breakfast, once more to beat up Captain Cuttle's quarters.
It was not unpleasant to remember, on the way thither, that Mrs. MacStinger
resorted to a great distance every Sunday morning, to attend the ministry of the
Reverend Melchisedech Howler, who, having been one day discharged from the West
India Docks on a false suspicion (got up expressly against him by the general
enemy) of screwing gimlets into puncheons, and applying his lips to the orifice,
had announced the destruction of the world for that day two years, at ten in the
morning, and opened a front parlour for the reception of ladies and gentlemen of
the Ranting persuasion, upon whom, on the first occasion of their assemblage,
the admonitions of the Reverend Melchisedech had produced so powerful an effect,
that, in their rapturous performance of a sacred jig, which closed the service,
the whole flock broke through into a kitchen below, and disabled a mangle
belonging to one of the fold.
This the Captain, in a moment of uncommon conviviality, had confided to
Walter and his uncle, between the repetitions of lovely Peg, on the night when
Brogley the broker was paid out. The Captain himself was punctual in his
attendance at a church in his own neighbourhood, which hoisted the Union Jack
every Sunday morning; and where he was good enough--the lawful beadle being
infirm--to keep an eye upon the boys, over whom he exercised great power, in
virtue of his mysterious hook. Knowing the regularity of the Captain's habits,
Walter made all the haste he could, that he might anticipate his going out; and
he made such good speed, that he had the pleasure, on turning into Brig Place,
to behold the broad blue coat and waistcoat hanging out of the Captain's open
window, to air in the sun.
It appeared incredible that the coat and waistcoat could be seen by mortal
eyes without the Captain: but he certainly was not in them, otherwise his
legs--the houses in Brig Place not being lofty--would have obstructed the street
door, which was perfectly clear. Quite wondering at this discovery, Walter gave
a single knock.
`Stinger,' he distinctly heard the Captain say, up in his room, as if that
were no business of his. Therefore Walter gave two knocks.
`Cuttle,' he heard the Captain say upon that; and immediately afterwards the
Captain, in his clean shirt and braces, with his neckerchief hanging loosely
round his throat like a coil of rope, and his glazed hat on, appeared at the
window, leaning out over the broad blue coat and waistcoat.
`Wal'r!' cried the Captain, looking down upon him in amazement.
`Ay, ay, Captain Cuttle,' returned Walter, `only me.'
`What's the matter, my lad?' inquired the Captain, with great concern. `Gills
an't been and sprung nothing again?'
`No, no,' said Walter. `My uncle's all right, Captain Cuttle.'
The Captain expressed his gratification, and said he would come down below
and open the door, which he did.
`Though you're early, Wal'r,' said the Captain, eyeing him still doubtfully,
when they got upstairs.
`Why, the fact is, Captain Cuttle,' said Walter, sitting down, `I was afraid
you would have gone out, and I want to benefit by your friendly counsel.'
`So you shall,' said the Captain; `what'll you take?'
`I want to take your opinion, Captain Cuttle,' returned Walter, smiling.
`That's the only thing for me.'
`Come on then,' said the Captain. `With a will, my lad!'
Walter related to him what had happened; and the difficulty in which he felt
respecting his uncle, and the relief it would be to him if Captain Cuttle, in
his kindness, would help him to smooth it away; Captain Cuttle's infinite
consternation and astonishment at the prospect unfolded to him, gradually
swallowing that gentleman up, until it left his face quite vacant, and the suit
of blue, the glazed hat, and the hook, apparently without an owner.
`You see, Captain Cuttle,' pursued Walter, `for myself, I am young, as Mr.
Dombey said, and not to be considered. I am to fight my way through the world, I
know; but there are two points I was thinking, as I came along, that I should by
very particular about, in respect to my uncle. I don't mean to say that I
deserve to be the pride and delight of his life--you believe me, I know--but I
am. Now, don't you think I am?'
The Captain seemed to make an endeavour to rise from the depths of his
astonishment, and get back to his face; but the effort being ineffectual, the
glazed hat merely nodded with a mute, unutterable meaning.
`If I live and have my health,' said Walter, `and I am not afraid of that,
still, when I leave England I can hardly hope to see my uncle again. He is old,
Captain Cuttle; and besides, his life is a life of custom'
`Steady, Wal'r! Of a want of custom?' said the Captain, suddenly reappearing.
`Too true,' returned Walter, shaking his head: `but I meant a life of habit,
Captain Cuttle--that sort of custom. And if (as you very truly said, I am sure)
he would have died the sooner for the loss of the stock, and all those objects
to which he has been accustomed for so many years, don't you think he might die
a little sooner for the loss of'
`Of his Nevy,' interposed the Captain. `Right!'
`Well then,' said Walter, trying to speak gaily, `we must do our best to make
him believe that the separation is but a temporary one, after all; but as I know
better, or dread that I know better, Captain Cuttle, and as I have so many
reasons for regarding him with affection, and duty, and honour, I am afraid I
should make but a very poor hand at that, if I tried to persuade him of it.
That's my great reason for wishing you to break it out to him; and that's the
first point.'
`Keep her off a point or so!' observed the Captain, in a contemplative voice.
`What did you say, Captain Cuttle?' inquired Walter.
`Stand by!' returned the Captain, thoughtfully.
Walter paused to ascertain if the Captain had any particular information to
add to this, but as he said no more, went on.
`Now, the second point, Captain Cuttle. I am sorry to say, I am not a
favourite with Mr. Dombey. I have always tried to do my best, and I have always
done it; but he does not like me. He can't help his likings and dislikings,
perhaps. I say nothing of that. I only say that I am certain he does not like
me. He does not send me to this post as a good one; he disdains to represent it
as being better than it is; and I doubt very much if it will ever lead me to
advancement in the House--whether it does not, on the contrary, dispose of me
for ever, and put me out of the way. Now, we must say nothing of this to my
uncle, Captain Cuttle, but must make it out to be as favourable and promising as
we can; and when I tell you what it really is, I only do so, that in case any
means should ever arise of lending me a hand, so far off, I may have one friend
at home who knows my real situation.'
`Wal'r, my boy,' replied the Captain, `in the Proverbs of Solomon you will
find the following words, `May we never want a friend in need, nor a bottle to
give him!' When found, make a note of.'
Here the Captain stretched out his hand to Walter, with an air of downright
good faith that spoke volumes; at the same time repeating (for he felt proud of
the accuracy and pointed application of his quotation), `When found, make a note
of.'
`Captain Cuttle,' said Walter, taking the immense fist extended to him by the
Captain in both his hands, which it completely filled, `next to my Uncle Sol, I
love you. There is no one on earth in whom I can more safely trust, I am sure.
As to the mere going away, Captain Cuttle, I don't care for that; why should I
care for that! If I were free to seek my own fortune--if I were free to go as a
common sailor--if I were free to venture on my own account to the farthest end
of the world--I would gladly go! I would have gladly gone, years ago, and taken
my chance of what might come of it. But it was against my uncle's wishes, and
against the plans he had formed for me; and there was an end of that. But what I
feel, Captain Cuttle, is that we have been a little mistaken all along, and
that, so far as any improvement in my prospects is concerned, I am no better off
now than I was when I first entered Dombey's House-perhaps a little worse, for
the House may have been kindly inclined towards me them, and it certainly is not
now.'
`Turn again, Whittington,' muttered the disconsolate Captain after looking at
Walter for some time.
`Aye,' replied Walter laughing, `and turn a great many times, too Captain
Cuttle, I'm afraid, before such fortune as his ever turns up again. Not that I
complain,' he added, in his lively, animated, energetic way. `I have nothing to
complain of. I am provided for. I can live. When I leave my uncle, I leave him
to you; and I can leave him to no one better, Captain Cuttle. I haven't told you
all this because I despair, not I; it's to convince you that I can't pick and
choose in Dombey's House, and that where I am sent, there I must go, and what I
am offered, that I must take. It's better for my uncle that I should be sent
away; for Mr. Dombey is a valuable friend to him, as he proved himself, you know
when, Captain Cuttle; and I am persuaded he won't be less valuable when he
hasn't me there, every day, to awaken his dislike. So hurrah for the West
Indies, Captain Cuttle! How does that tune go that the sailors sing?
`For the Port of Barbados, Boys!Cheerily!
Leaving old England behind us, Boys!Cheerily!'
Here the Captain roared in chorus--
`Oh cheerily, cheerily!Oh cheer--i--ly!'
The last line reaching the quick ears of an ardent skipper not quite sober,
who lodged opposite, and who instantly sprung out of bed, threw up his window,
and joined in, across the street, at the top of his voice, produced a fine
effect. When it was impossible to sustain the concluding note any longer, the
skipper bellowed forth a terrific `ahoy!' intended in part as a friendly
greeting, and in part to show that he was not at all breathed. That done, he
shut down his window, and went to bed again.
`And now, Captain Cuttle,' said Walter, handing him the blue coat and
waistcoat, and bustling very much, `if you'll come and break the news to Uncle
Sol (which he ought to have known, days upon days ago, by rights), I'll leave
you at the door, you know, and walk about until the afternoon.'
The Captain, however, scarcely appeared to relish the commission, or to be by
any means confident of his powers of executing it. He had arranged the future
life and adventures of Walter so very differently, and so entirely to his own
satisfaction; he had felicitated himself so often on the sagacity and foresight
displayed in that arrangement, and had found it so complete and perfect in all
its parts; that to suffer it to go to pieces all at once, and even to assist in
breaking it up, required a great effort of his resolution. The Captain, too,
found it difficult to unload his old ideas upon the subject, and to take a
perfectly new cargo on board, with that rapidity which the circumstances
required, or without jumbling and confounding the two. Consequently, instead of
putting on his coat and waistcoat with anything like the impetuosity that could
alone have kept pace with Walter's mood, he declined to invest himself with
those garments at all at present; and informed Walter that on such a serious
matter, he must be allowed to `bite his nails a bit.'
`It's an old habit of mine, Wal'r,' said the Captain, `any time these fifty
year. When you see Ned Cuttle bite his nails, Wal'r, then you may know that Ned
Cuttle's aground.'
Thereupon the Captain put his iron hook between his teeth, as if it were a
hand; and with an air of wisdom and profundity that was the very concentration
and sublimation of all philosophical reflection and grave inquiry, applied
himself to the consideration of the subject in its various branches.
`There's a friend of mine,' murmured the Captain, in an absent manner, `but
he's at present coasting round to Whitby, that would deliver such an opinion on
this subject, or any other that could be named, as would give Parliament six and
beat 'em. Been knocked overboard, that man,' said the Captain, `twice, and none
the worse for it. Was beat in his apprenticeship, for three weeks (off and on),
about the head with a ringbolt. And yet a clearer-minded man don't walk.'
In spite of his respect for Captain Cuttle, Walter could not help inwardly
rejoicing at the absence of this sage, and devoutly hoping that his limpid
intellect might not be brought to bear on his difficulties until they were quite
settled.
`If you was to take and show that man the buoy at the Nore,' said Captain
Cuttle in the same tone, `and ask him his opinion of it, Wal'r, he'd give you an
opinion that was no more like that buoy than your uncle's buttons are. There
ain't a man that walks--certainly not on two legs--that can come near him. Not
near him!'
`What's his name, Captain Cuttle?' inquired Walter, determined to be
interested in the Captain's friend.
`His name's Bunsby,' said the Captain. `But Lord, it might be anything for
the matter of that, with such a mind as his!'
The exact idea which the Captain attached to this concluding piece of praise,
he did not further elucidate; neither did Walter seek to draw it forth. For on
his beginning to review, with the vivacity natural to himself and to his
situation, the leading points in his own affairs, he soon discovered that the
Captain had relapsed into his former profound state of mind; and that while he
eyed him steadfastly from beneath his bushy eyebrows, he evidently neither saw
not heard him, but remained immersed in cogitation.
In fact, Captain Cuttle was labouring with such great designs, that far from
being aground, he soon got off into the deepest of water, and could find no
bottom to his penetration. By degrees it became perfectly plain to the Captain
that there was some mistake here; that it was undoubtedly much more likely to be
Walter's mistake than his; that if there were really any West India scheme
afoot, it was a very different one from what Walter, who was young and rash,
supposed; and could only be some new device for making his fortune with unusual
celerity. `Or if there should be any little hitch between 'em,' thought the
Captain, meaning between Walter and Mr. Dombey, `it only wants a word in season
from a friend of both parties, to set it right and smooth, and make all taut
again.' Captain Cuttle's deduction from these considerations was, that as he
already enjoyed the pleasure of knowing Mr. Dombey, from having spent a very
agreeable half-hour in his company at Brighton (on the morning when they
borrowed the money); and that, as a couple of men of the world, who understood
each other, and were mutually disposed to make things comfortable, could easily
arrange any little difficulty of this sort, and come at the real facts; the
friendly thing for him to do would be, without saving anything about it to
Walter at present, just to step up to Mr. Dombey's house--say to the servant
`Would ye be so good, my lad, as report Cap'en Cuttle here?'--meet Mr. Dombey in
a confidential spirit--hook him by the button-hole--talk it over--make it all
right--and come away triumphant!
As these reflections presented themselves to the Captain's mind, and by slow
degrees assumed this shape and form, his visage cleared like a doubtful morning
when it gives place to a bright noon. His eyebrows, which had been in the
highest degree portentous, smoothed their rugged bristling aspect, and became
serene; his eyes, which had been nearly closed in the severity of his mental
exercise, opened freely; a smile which had been at first but three specks--one
at the right-hand corner of his mouth, and one at the corner of each
eye--gradually overspread his whole face, and rippling up into his forehead,
lifted the glazed hat: as if that too had been aground with Captain Cuttle, and
were now, like him, happily afloat again.
Finally the Captain left off biting his nails, and said, `Now, Wal'r, my boy,
you may help me on with them slops.' By which the Captain meant his coat and
waistcoat.
Walter little imagined why the Captain was so particular in the arrangement
of his cravat, as to twist the pendent ends into a sort of pigtail, and pass
them through a massive gold ring with a picture of a tomb upon it, and a neat
iron railing, and a tree, in memory of some deceased friend. Nor why the Captain
pulled up his shirt-collar to the utmost limits allowed by the Irish linen
below, and by so doing decorated himself with a complete pair of blinkers; nor
why he changed his shoes, and put on an unparalleled pair of ankle-jacks, which
he only wore on extraordinary occasions. The Captain being at length attired to
his own complete satisfaction, and having glanced at himself from head to foot
in a shaving-glass which he removed from a nail for that purpose, took up his
knotted stick, and said he was ready.
The Captain's walk was more complacent than usual when they got out into the
street; but this Walter supposed to be the effect of the ankle-jacks, and took
little heed of. Before they had gone very far, they encountered a woman selling
flowers; when the Captain stopping short, as if struck by a happy idea, made a
purchase of a largest bundle in her basket: a most glorious nosegay, fan-shaped,
some two feet and a half round, and composed of all the jolliest-looking flowers
that blow.
Armed with this little token which he designed for Mr. Dombey, Captain Cuttle
walked on with Walter until they reached the Instrument-maker's door, before
which they both paused.
`You're going in?' said Walter.
`Yes,' returned the Captain, who felt that Walter must be got rid of before
he proceeded any further, and that he had better time his projected visit
somewhat later in the day.
`And you won't forget anything?'
`No,' returned the Captain.
`I'll go upon my walk at once,' said Walter, `and then I shall be out of the
way, Captain Cuttle.'
`Take a good long 'un, my lad!' replied the Captain, calling after him.
Walter waved his hand in assent, and went his way.
His way was nowhere in particular; but he thought he would go out into the
fields, where he could reflect upon the unknown life before him, and resting
under some tree, ponder quietly. He knew no better fields than those near
Hampstead, and no better means of getting at them than by passing Mr. Dombey's
house.
It was as stately and as dark as ever, when he went by and glanced up at its
frowning front. The blinds were all pulled down, but the upper windows stood
wide open, and the pleasant air stirring those curtains and waving them to and
fro, was the only sign of animation in the whole exterior. Walter walked softly
as he passed, and was glad when he had left the house a door or two behind.
He looked back then; with the interest he had always felt for the place since
the adventure of the lost child, years ago; and looked especially at those upper
windows. While he was thus engaged, a chariot drove to the door, and a portly
gentleman in black, with a heavy watch-chain, alighted, and went in. When he
afterwards remembered this gentleman and his equipage together, Walter had no
doubt he was a physician; and then he wondered who was ill; but the discovery
did not occur to him until he had walked some distance, thinking listlessly of
other things.
Though still, of what the house had suggested to him; for Walter pleased
himself with thinking that perhaps the time might come, when the beautiful child
who was his old friend and had always been so grateful to him and so glad to see
him since, might interest her brother in his behalf and influence his fortunes
for the better. He liked to imagine this--more, at that moment, for the pleasure
of imagining her continued remembrance of him, than for any worldly profit he
might gain: but another and more sober fancy whispered to him that if he were
alive then, he would be beyond the sea and forgotten; she married, rich, proud,
happy. There was no more reason why she should remember him with any interest in
such an altered state of things, than any plaything she ever had. No, not so
much.
Yet Walter so idealised the pretty child whom he had found wandering in the
rough streets, and so identified her with her innocent gratitude of that night
and the simplicity and truth of its expression, that he blushed for himself as a
libeller when he argued that she could ever grow proud. On the other hand, his
meditations were of that fantastic order that it seemed hardly less libellous in
him to imagine her grown a woman: to think of her as anything but the same
artless, gentle, winning little creature, that she had been in the days of good
Mrs. Brown. In a word, Walter found out that to reason with himself about
Florence at all, was to become very unreasonable indeed; and that he could do
not better than preserve her image in his mind as something precious,
unattainable, unchangeable, and indefinite--indefinite in all its power of
giving him pleasure, and restraining him like an angel's hand from anything
unworthy.
It was a long stroll in the fields that Walter took that day, listening to
the birds, and the Sunday bells, and the softened murmur of the town--breathing
sweet scents; glancing sometimes at the dim horizon beyond which his voyage and
his place of destination lay; then looking round on the green English grass and
the home landscape. But he hardly once thought, even of going away, distinctly;
and seemed to put off reflection idly, from hour to hour, and from minute to
minute, while he yet went on reflecting all the time.
Walter had left the fields behind him, and was plodding homeward in the same
abstracted mood, when he heard a shout from a man, and then a woman's voice
calling to him loudly by name. Turning quickly in his surprise, he saw that a
hackney-coach, going in the contrary direction, had stopped at no great
distance; that the coachman was looking back from his box and making signals to
him with his whip; and that a young woman inside was leaning out of the window,
and beckoning with immense energy. Running up to this coach, he found that the
young woman was Miss Nipper, and that Miss Nipper was in such a flutter as to be
almost beside herself.
`Staggs's Gardens, Mr. Walter!' said Miss Nipper: `if you please, oh do!'
`Eh?' cried Walter; `what is the matter?'
`Oh, Mr. Walter, Staggs's Gardens, if you please!' said Susan.
`There!' cried the coachman, appealing to Walter, with a sort of exulting
despair; `that's the way the young lady's been a goin' on for up'ards of a
mortal hour, and me continivally backing out of no thoroughfares, where she
would drive up. I've had a many fares in this coach, first and last, but never
such a fare as her.'
`Do you want to go to Staggs's Gardens, Susan?' inquired Walter.
`Ah! She wants to go there! WHERE IS IT?' growled the coachman.
`I don't know where it is!' exclaimed Susan, wildly. `Mr. Walter, I was there
once myself, along with Miss Floy and our poor darling Master Paul, on the very
day when you found Miss Floy in the City, for we lost her coming home, Mrs.
Richards and me, and a mad bull, and Mrs. Richards's eldest, and though I went
there afterwards, I can't remember where it is, I think it's sunk into the
ground. Oh, Mr. Walter, don't desert me, Staggs's Gardens, if you please! Miss
Floy's darling--all our darlings--little, meek, meek Master Paul! Oh Mr.
Walter!'
`Good God!' cried Walter. `Is he very ill?'
`The pretty flower!' cried Susan, wringing her hands, `has took the fancy
that he'd like to see his old nurse, and I've come to bring her to his bedside,
Mrs. Staggs, of Polly Toodle's Gardens, some one pray!'
Greatly moved by what he heard, and catching Susan's earnestness immediately,
Walter, now that he understood the nature of her errand, dashed into it with
such ardour that the coachman had enough to do to follow closely as he ran
before, inquiring here and there and everywhere, the way to Staggs's Gardens.
There was no such place as Staggs's Gardens. It had vanished from the earth.
Where the old rotten summer-houses once had stood, places now reared their
heads, and granite columns of gigantic girth opened a vista to the railway world
beyond. The miserable waste ground, where the refuse-matter had been heaped of
yore, was swallowed up and gone; and in its frowsy stead were tiers of
warehouses, crammed with rich goods and costly merchandise. The old by-streets
now swarmed with passengers and vehicles of every kind: the new streets that had
stopped disheartened in the mud and waggon-ruts, formed towns within themselves,
originating wholesome comforts and conveniences belonging to themselves, and
never tried nor thought of until they sprung into existence. Bridges that had
led to nothing, led to villas, gardens, churches, healthy public walks. The
carcasses of houses, and beginnings of new thoroughfares, had started off upon
the line at steam's own speed, and shot away into the country in a monster
train.
As to the neighbourhood which had hesitated to acknowledge the railroad in
its straggling days, that had grown wise and penitent, as any Christian might in
such a case, and now boasted of its powerful and prosperous relation. There were
railway patterns in its drapers' shops, and railway journals in the windows of
its newsmen. There were railway hotels, office-houses, lodging-houses,
boarding-houses; railway plans, maps, views, wrappers, bottles, sandwich-boxes,
and timetables; railway hackney-coach and cabstands; railway omni-buses, railway
streets and buildings, railway hangers-on and parasites, and flatterers out of
all calculation. There was even railway time observed in clocks, as if the sun
itself had given in. Among the vanquished was the master chimney-sweeper,
whilome incredulous at Staggs's Gardens, who now lived in a stuccoed house three
stories high, and gave himself out, with golden flourishes upon a varnished
board, as contractor for the cleansing of railway chimneys by machinery.
To and from the heart of this great change, all day and night, throbbing
currents rushed and returned incessantly like its life's blood. Crowds of people
and mountains of goods, departing and arriving scores upon scores of times in
every four-and-twenty hours, produced a fermentation in the place that was
always in action. The very houses seemed disposed to pack up and take trips.
Wonderful Members of Parliament, who, little more than twenty years before, had
made themselves merry with the wild railroad theories of engineers, and given
them the liveliest rubs in cross-examination, went down into the north with
their watches in their hands, and sent on messages before by the electric
telegraph, to say that they were coming. Night and day the conquering engines
rumbled at their distant work, or, advancing smoothly to their journey's end,
and gliding like tame dragons into the allotted corners grooved out to the inch
for their reception, stood bubbling and trembling there, making the walls quake,
as if they were dilating with the secret knowledge of great powers yet
unsuspected in them, and strong purposes not yet achieved.
But Staggs's Gardens had been cut up root and branch. Oh woe the day when
`not a rood of English ground'--laid out in Staggs's Gardens--is secure!
At last, after much fruitless inquiry, Walter, followed by the coach and
Susan, found a man who had once resided in that vanished land, and who was no
other than the master sweep before referred to, grown stout, and knocking a
double knock at his own door. He knowed Toodle, he said, well. Belonged to the
Railroad, didn't he?
`Yes, sir, yes!' cried Susan Nipper from the coach window.
Where did he live now? hastily inquired Walter.
He lived in the Company's own Buildings, second turning to the right, down
the yard, cross over, and take the second on the right again. It was number
eleven; they couldn't mistake it; but if they did, they had only to ask for
Toodle, Engine Fireman, and any one would show them which was his house. At this
unexpected stroke of success, Susan Nipper dismounted from the coach with all
speed, took Walter's arm, and set off at a breathless pace on foot; leaving the
coach there to await their return.
`Has the little boy been long ill, Susan?' inquired Walter, as they hurried
on.
`Ailing for a deal of time, but no one knew how much,' said Susan; adding,
with excessive sharpness, `Oh, them Blimbers!'
`Blimbers?' echoed Walter.
`I couldn't forgive myself at such a time as this, Mr. Walter,' said Susan,
`and when there's so much serious distress to think about, if I rested hard on
any one, especially on them that little darling Paul speaks well of, but I may
wish that the family was set to work in a stony soil to make new roads, and that
Miss Blimber went in front, and had the pickaxe!'
Miss Nipper then took breath, and went on faster than before, as if this
extraordinary aspiration had relieved her. Walter, who had by this time no
breath of his own to spare, hurried along without asking any more questions; and
they soon, in their impatience, burst in at a little door and came into a clean
parlour full of children.
`Where's Mrs. Richards?' exclaimed Susan Nipper, looking round. `Oh Mrs.
Richards, Mrs. Richards, come along with me, my dear creetur!'
`Why, if it an't Susan!' cried Polly, rising with her honest face and
motherly figure from among the group, in great surprise.
`Yes, Mrs. Richards, it's me,' said Susan, `and I wish it wasn't, though I
may not seem to flatter when I say so, but little Master Paul is very ill, and
told his Pa to-day that he would like to see the face of his old nurse, and him
and Miss Floy hope you'll come along with me--and Mr. Walter, Mrs.
Richards--forgetting what is past, and do a kindness to the sweet dear that is
withering away. Oh, Mrs. Richards, withering away!' Susan Nipper crying, Polly
shed tears to see her, and to hear what she had said; and all the children
gathered round (including numbers of new babies); and Mr. Toodle, who had just
come home from Birmingham, and was eating his dinner out of a basin, laid down
his knife and fork, and put on his wife's bonnet and shawl for her, which were
hanging up behind the door; then tapped her on the back; and said, with more
fatherly feeling than eloquence, `Polly!cut away!'
So they got back to the coach, long before the coachman expected them; and
Walter, putting Susan and Mrs. Richards inside, took his seat on the box himself
that there might be no more mistakes, and deposited them safely in the hall of
Mr. Dombey's house--where, by the bye, he saw a mighty nosegay lying, which
reminded him of the one Captain Cuttle had purchased in his company that
morning. He would have lingered to know more of the young invalid, or waited any
length of time to see if he could render the least service; but, painfully
sensible that such conduct would be looked upon by Mr. Dombey as presumptuous
and forward, he returned slowly, sadly, anxiously, away.
He had not gone five minutes' walk from the door, when a man came running
after him, and begged him to return. Walter retraced his steps as quickly as he
could, and entered the gloomy house with a sorrowful foreboding.
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