Final
A BOTTLE that has been long excluded from the light of day, and is hoary with
dust and cobwebs, has been brought into the sunshine; and the golden wine within
it sheds a lustre on the table.
It is the last bottle of the old Madeira.
`You are quite right, Mr. Gills,' says Mr. Dombey. `This is a very rare and
most delicious wine.'
The Captain, who is of the party, beams with joy. There is a very halo of
delight round his glowing forehead.
`We always promised ourselves, Sir,' observes Mr. Gills, `Ned and myself, I
mean--'
Mr. Dombey nods at the Captain, who shines more and more with speechless
gratification.
`--that we would drink this, one day or other, to Walter safe at home: though
such a home we never thought of. If you don't object to our old whim, Sir, let
us devote this first glass to Walter and his wife.'
`To Walter and his wife!' says Mr. Dombey. `Florence, my child'--and turns to
kiss her.
`To Walter and his wife!' says Mr. Toots.
`To Wal'r and his wife!' exclaims the Captain. `Hooroar!' and the Captain
exhibiting a strong desire to clink his glass against some other glass, Mr.
Dombey, with a ready hand, holds out his. The others follow; and there is a
blithe and merry ringing, as of a little peal of marriage bells.
Other buried wine grows older, as the old Madeira did in its time; and dust
and cobwebs thicken on the bottles.
Mr. Dombey is a white-haired gentleman, whose face bears heavy marks of care
and suffering; but they are traces of a storm that has passed on for ever, and
left a clear evening in its track.
Ambitious projects trouble him no more. His only pride is in his daughter and
her husband. He has a silent, thoughtful, quiet manner, and is always with his
daughter. Miss Tox is not unfrequently of the family party, and is quite devoted
to it, and a great favourite. Her admiration of her once stately patron is, and
has been ever since the morning of her shock in Princess's Place, platonic, but
not weakened in the least.
Nothing has drifted to him from the wreck of his fortunes, but a certain
annual sum that comes he knows not how, with an earnest entreaty that he will
not seek to discover, and with the assurance that it is a debt, and an act of
reparation. He has consulted with his old clerk about this, who is clear it may
be honourably accepted, and has no doubt it arises out of some forgotten
transaction in the times of the old House.
That hazel-eyed bachelor, a bachelor no more, is married now, and to the
sister of the grey-haired Junior. He visits his old chief sometimes, but seldom.
There is a reason in the grey-haired Junior's history, and yet a stronger reason
in his name, why he should keep retired from his old employer; and as he lives
with his sister and her husband, they participate in that retirement. Walter
sees them sometimes--Florence too--and the pleasant house resounds with profound
duets arranged for the Piano-Forte and Violoncello, and with the labours of
Harmonious Blacksmiths.
And how goes the Wooden Midshipman in these changed days? Why, here he still
is, right leg foremost, hard at work upon the hackney coaches, and more on the
alert than ever, being newly painted from his cocked hat to his buckled shoes;
and up above him, in golden characters, these names shine refulgent, GILLS AND
CUTTLE.
Not another stroke of business does the Midshipman achieve beyond his usual
easy trade. But they do say, in a circuit of some half-mile round the blue
umbrella in Leadenhall Market, that some of Mr. Gills's old investments are
coming out wonderfully well; and that instead of being behind the time in those
respects, as he supposed, he was, in truth, a little before it, and had to wait
the fulness of the time and the design. The whisper is that Mr. Gills's money
has begun to turn itself, and that it is turning itself over and over pretty
briskly. Certain it is that, standing at his shop-door, in his coffee-coloured
suit, with his chronometer in his pocket, and his spectacles on his forehead, he
don't appear to break his heart at customers not coming, but looks very jovial
and contented, though full as misty as of yore.
As to his partner, Captain Cuttle, there is a fiction of a business in the
Captain's mind which is better than any reality. The Captain is as satisfied of
the Midshipman's importance to the commerce and navigation of the country, as he
could possibly be, if no ship left the Port of London without the Midshipman's
assistance. His delight in his own name over the door, is inexhaustible. He
crosses the street, twenty times a day, to look at it from the other side of the
way; and invariably says, on these occasions, `Ed'ard Cuttle, my lad, if your
mother could ha' know'd as you would ever be a man o' science, the good old
creetur would ha' been took aback in-deed!'
But here is Mr. Toots descending on the Midshipman with violent rapidity, and
Mr. Toots's face is very red as he bursts into the little parlour.
`Captain Gills,' says Mr. Toots, `and Mr. Sols, I am happy to inform you that
Mrs. Toots has had an increase to her family.'
`And it does her credit!' cries the Captain.
`I give you joy, Mr. Toots!' says old Sol.
`Thank'ee,' chuckles Mr. Toots, `I'm very much obliged to you. I knew that
you'd be glad to hear, and so I came down myself. We're positively getting on,
you know. There's Florence, and Susan, and now here's another little stranger.'
`A female stranger?' inquires the Captain.
`Yes, Captain Gills,' says Mr. Toots, `and I'm glad of it. The oftener we can
repeat that most extraordinary woman, my opinion is, the better!'
`Stand by!' says the Captain, turning to the old case-bottle with no
throat--for it is evening, and the Midshipman's usual moderate provision of
pipes and glasses is on the board. `Here's to her, and may she have ever so many
more!'
`Thank'ee, Captain Gills,' says the delighted Mr. Toots. `I echo the
sentiment. If you'll allow me, as my so doing cannot be unpleasant to anybody,
under the circumstances, I think I'll take a pipe.'
Mr. Toots begins to smoke, accordingly, and in the openness of his heart is
very loquacious.
`Of all the remarkable instances that that delightful woman has given of her
excellent sense, Captain Gills and Mr. Sols,' said Toots, `I think none is more
remarkable than the perfection with which she has understood my devotion to Miss
Dombey.'
Both his auditors assent.
`Because you know,' says Mr. Toots, `I have never changed my sentiments
towards Miss Dombey. They are the same as ever. She is the same bright vision to
me, at present, that she was before I made Walters's acquaintance. When Mrs.
Toots and myself first began to talk of--in short, of the tender passion, you
know, Captain Gills.'
`Aye, aye, my lad,' says the Captain, `as makes us all slue round--for which
you'll overhaul the book--'
`I shall certainly do so, Captain Gills,' says Mr. Toots, with great
earnestness; `when we first began to mention such subjects, I explained that I
was what you may call a Blighted Flower, you know.'
The Captain approves of this figure greatly; and murmurs that no flower as
blows, is like the rose.
`But Lord bless me,' pursues Mr. Toots, `she was as entirely conscious of the
state of my feelings as I was myself. There was nothing I could tell her. She
was the only person who could have stood between me and the silent Tomb, and she
did it, in a manner to command my everlasting admiration. She knows that there's
nobody in the world I look up to, as I do to Miss Dombey. She knows that there's
nothing on earth I wouldn't do for Miss Dombey. She knows that I consider Miss
Dombey the most beautiful, the most amiable, the most angelic of her sex. What
is her observation upon that? The perfection of sense. "My dear, you're right. I
think so too."'
`And so do I!' says the Captain.
`So do I,' says Sol Gills.
`Then,' resumes Mr. Toots, after some contemplative pulling at his pipe,
during which his visage has expressed the most contented reflection, `what an
observant woman my wife is!What sagacity she possesses! What remarks she makes!
It was only last night, when we were sitting in the enjoyment of connubial
bliss--which, upon my word and honour, is a feeble term to express my feelings
in the society of my wife--that she said how remarkable it was to consider the
present position of our friend Walters. "Here," observes my wife, "he is,
released from sea-going, after that first long voyage with his young bride"--as
you know he was, Mr. Sols.'
`Quite true,' says the old Instrument-maker, rubbing his hands.
`"Here he is," say my wife, "released from that, immediately; appointed by
the same establishment to a post of great trust and confidence at home; showing
himself again worthy; mounting up the ladder with the greatest expedition;
beloved by everybody; assisted by this uncle at the very best possible time of
his fortunes"--which I think is the case, Mr. Sols? My wife is always correct.'
`Why yes, yes--some of our lost ships, freighted with gold, have come home,
truly,' returns old Sol, laughing. `Small craft, Mr. Toots, but serviceable to
my boy!'
`Exactly so,' says Mr. Toots. `You'll never find my wife wrong. "Here he is,"
says that most remarkable woman, "so situated,--and what follows? What follows?"
observed Mrs. Toots. Now pray remark, Captain Gills, and Mr. Sols, the depth of
my wife's penetration. "Why that, under the very eye of Mr. Dombey, there is a
foundation going on, upon which a--an Edifice;" that was Mrs. Toots's word,'
says Mr. Toots exultingly, `"is gradually rising, perhaps to equal, perhaps
excel, that of which he was once the head, and the small beginnings of which (a
common fault, but a bad one, Mrs. Toots said) escaped his memory. Thus," said my
wife, "from his daughter, after all, another Dombey and Son will ascend"--no
"rise;" that was Mrs. Toots's word--"triumphant."'
Mr. Toots, with the assistance of his pipe--which he is extremely glad to
devote to oratorical purposes, as its proper use affects him with a very
uncomfortable sensation--does such grand justice to this prophetic sentence of
his wife's, that the Captain, throwing away his glazed hat in a state of the
greatest excitement, cries:
`Sol Gills, you man of science and my ould pardner, what did I tell Wal'r to
overhaul on that there night when he first took to business? Was it this here
quotation, "Turn again Whittington, Lord Mayor of London, and when you are old
you will never depart from it?" Was it them words, Sol Gills?'
`It certainly was, Ned,' replied the old Instrument-maker. `I remember well.'
`Then I tell you what,' says the Captain, leaning back in his chair, and
composing his chest for a prodigious roar. `I'll give you Lovely Peg right
through; and stand by, both on you, for the chorus!'
Buried wine grows older, as the old Madeira did, in its time; and dust and
cobwebs thicken on the bottles.
Autumn days are shining, and on the sea-beach there are often a young lady,
and a white-haired gentleman. With them, or near them, are two children: boy and
girl. And an old dog is generally in their company.
The white-haired gentleman walks with the little boy, talks with him, helps
him in his play, attends upon him, watches him, as if he were the object of his
life. If he be thoughtful, the white-haired gentleman is thoughtful too; and
sometimes when the child is sitting by his side, and looks up in his face,
asking him questions, he takes the tiny hand in his, and holding it, forgets to
answer. Then the child says:
`What, grandpapa! Am I so like my poor little uncle again?'
`Yes, Paul. But he was weak, and you are very strong.'
`Oh yes, I am very strong.'
`And he lay on a little bed beside the sea, and you can run about.'
And so they range away again, busily, for the white-haired gentleman likes
best to see the child free and stirring; and as they go about together, the
story of the bond between them goes about, and follows them.
But no one, except Florence, knows the measure of the white-haired
gentleman's affection for the girl. That story never goes about. The child
herself almost wonders at a certain secrecy he keeps in it. He hoards her in his
heart. He cannot bear to see a cloud upon her face. He cannot bear to see her
sit apart. He fancies that she feels a slight, when there is none. He steals
away to look at her, in her sleep. It pleases him to have her come, and wake him
in the morning. He is fondest of her and most loving to her, when there is no
creature by. The child says then, sometimes:
`Dear grandpapa, why do you cry when you kiss me?'
He only answers, `Little Florence! Little Florence!' and smooths away the
curls that shade her earnest eyes.
THE END
|