Dombey and Son - 050

By that time, Mr Carker, though the winner, had mounted high into the Major’s good opinion, insomuch that when he left the Major at his own room before going to bed, the Major as a special attention, sent the Native—who always rested on a mattress spread upon the ground at his master’s door—along the gallery, to light him to his room in state.

There was a faint blur on the surface of the mirror in Mr Carker’s chamber, and its reflection was, perhaps, a false one. But it showed, that night, the image of a man, who saw, in his fancy, a crowd of people slumbering on the ground at his feet, like the poor Native at his master’s door: who picked his way among them: looking down, maliciously enough: but trod upon no upturned face—as yet.

CHAPTER 27. Deeper Shadows

Mr Carker the Manager rose with the lark, and went out, walking in the summer day. His meditations—and he meditated with contracted brows while he strolled along—hardly seemed to soar as high as the lark, or to mount in that direction; rather they kept close to their nest upon the earth, and looked about, among the dust and worms. But there was not a bird in the air, singing unseen, farther beyond the reach of human eye than Mr Carker’s thoughts. He had his face so perfectly under control, that few could say more, in distinct terms, of its expression, than that it smiled or that it pondered. It pondered now, intently. As the lark rose higher, he sank deeper in thought. As the lark poured out her melody clearer and stronger, he fell into a graver and profounder silence. At length, when the lark came headlong down, with an accumulating stream of song, and dropped among the green wheat near him, rippling in the breath of the morning like a river, he sprang up from his reverie, and looked round with a sudden smile, as courteous and as soft as if he had had       numerous observers to propitiate; nor did he relapse, after being thus awakened; but clearing his face, like one who bethought himself that it might otherwise wrinkle and tell tales, went smiling on, as if for practice.

Perhaps with an eye to first impressions, Mr Carker was very carefully and trimly dressed, that morning. Though always somewhat formal, in his dress, in imitation of the great man whom he served, he stopped short of the extent of Mr Dombey’s stiffness: at once perhaps because he knew it to be ludicrous, and because in doing so he found another means of expressing his sense of the difference and distance between them. Some people quoted him indeed, in this respect, as a pointed commentary, and not a flattering one, on his icy patron—but the world is prone to misconstruction, and Mr Carker was not accountable for its bad propensity.

Clean and florid: with his light complexion, fading as it were, in the sun, and his dainty step enhancing the softness of the turf: Mr Carker the Manager strolled about meadows, and green lanes, and glided among avenues of trees, until it was time to return to breakfast. Taking a nearer way back, Mr Carker pursued it, airing his teeth, and said aloud as he did so, ‘Now to see the second Mrs Dombey!’

He had strolled beyond the town, and re-entered it by a pleasant walk, where there was a deep shade of leafy trees, and where there were a few benches here and there for those who chose to rest. It not being a place of general resort at any hour, and wearing at that time of the still morning the air of being quite deserted and retired, Mr Carker had it, or thought he had it, all to himself. So, with the whim of an idle man, to whom there yet remained twenty minutes for reaching a destination easily able in ten, Mr Carker threaded the great boles of the trees, and went passing in and out, before this one and behind that, weaving a chain of footsteps on the dewy ground.

But he found he was mistaken in supposing there was no one in the grove, for as he softly rounded the trunk of one large tree, on which the obdurate bark was knotted and overlapped like the hide of a rhinoceros or some kindred monster of the ancient days before the Flood, he saw an unexpected figure sitting on a bench near at hand, about which, in another moment, he would have wound the chain he was making.

It was that of a lady, elegantly dressed and very handsome, whose dark proud eyes were fixed upon the ground, and in whom some passion or struggle was raging. For as she sat looking down, she held a corner of her under lip within her mouth, her bosom heaved, her nostril quivered, her head trembled, indignant tears were on her cheek, and her foot was set upon the moss as though she would have crushed it into nothing. And yet almost the self-same glance that showed him this, showed him the self-same lady rising with a scornful air of weariness and lassitude, and turning away with nothing expressed in face or figure but careless beauty and imperious disdain.

A withered and very ugly old woman, dressed not so much like a gipsy as like any of that medley race of vagabonds who tramp about the country, begging, and stealing, and tinkering, and weaving rushes, by turns, or all together, had been observing the lady, too; for, as she rose, this second figure strangely confronting the first, scrambled up from the ground—out of it, it almost appeared—and stood in the way.

‘Let me tell your fortune, my pretty lady,’ said the old woman, munching with her jaws, as if the Death’s Head beneath her yellow skin were impatient to get out.

‘I can tell it for myself,’ was the reply.

‘Ay, ay, pretty lady; but not right. You didn’t tell it right when you were sitting there. I see you! Give me a piece of silver, pretty lady, and I’ll tell your fortune true. There’s riches, pretty lady, in your face.’

‘I know,’ returned the lady, passing her with a dark smile, and a proud step. ‘I knew it before.

‘What! You won’t give me nothing?’ cried the old woman. ‘You won’t give me nothing to tell your fortune, pretty lady? How much will you give me to tell it, then? Give me something, or I’ll call it after you!’ croaked the old woman, passionately.

Mr Carker, whom the lady was about to pass close, slinking against his tree as she crossed to gain the path, advanced so as to meet her, and pulling off his hat as she went by, bade the old woman hold her peace. The       lady acknowledged his interference with an inclination of the head, and went her way.

‘You give me something then, or I’ll call it after her!’ screamed the old woman, throwing up her arms, and pressing forward against his outstretched hand. ‘Or come,’ she added, dropping her voice suddenly, looking at him earnestly, and seeming in a moment to forget the object of her wrath, ‘give me something, or I’ll call it after you!’

‘After me, old lady!’ returned the Manager, putting his hand in his pocket.

‘Yes,’ said the woman, steadfast in her scrutiny, and holding out her shrivelled hand. ‘I know!’

‘What do you know?’ demanded Carker, throwing her a shilling. ‘Do you know who the handsome lady is?’

Munching like that sailor’s wife of yore, who had chestnuts in her lap, and scowling like the witch who asked for some in vain, the old woman picked the shilling up, and going backwards, like a crab, or like a heap of crabs: for her alternately expanding and contracting hands might have represented two of that species, and her creeping face, some half-a-dozen more: crouched on the veinous root of an old tree, pulled out a short black pipe from within the crown of her bonnet, lighted it with a match, and smoked in silence, looking fixedly at her questioner.

Mr Carker laughed, and turned upon his heel.

‘Good!’ said the old woman. ‘One child dead, and one child living: one wife dead, and one wife coming. Go and meet her!’

In spite of himself, the Manager looked round again, and stopped. The old woman, who had not removed her pipe, and was munching and mumbling while she smoked, as if in conversation with an invisible familiar, pointed with her finger in the direction he was going, and laughed.

‘What was that you said, Bedlamite?’ he demanded.

The woman mumbled, and chattered, and smoked, and still pointed before him; but remained silent Muttering a farewell that was not complimentary, Mr Carker pursued his way; but as he turned out of that place, and looked over his shoulder at the root of the old tree, he could yet see the finger pointing before him, and thought he heard the woman screaming, ‘Go and meet her!’

Preparations for a choice repast were completed, he found, at the hotel; and Mr Dombey, and the Major, and the breakfast, were awaiting the ladies. Individual constitution has much to do with the development of such facts, no doubt; but in this case, appetite carried it hollow over the tender passion; Mr Dombey being very cool and collected, and the Major fretting and fuming in a state of violent heat and irritation. At length the door was thrown open by the Native, and, after a pause, occupied by her languishing along the gallery, a very blooming, but not very youthful lady, appeared.

‘My dear Mr Dombey,’ said the lady, ‘I am afraid we are late, but Edith has been out already looking for a favourable point of view for a sketch, and kept me waiting for her. Falsest of Majors,’ giving him her little finger, ‘how do you do?’

‘Mrs Skewton,’ said Mr Dombey, ‘let me gratify my friend Carker:’ Mr Dombey unconsciously emphasised the word friend, as saying “no really; I do allow him to take credit for that distinction:” ‘by presenting him to you. You have heard me mention Mr Carker.’

‘I am charmed, I am sure,’ said Mrs Skewton, graciously.

Mr Carker was charmed, of course. Would he have been more charmed on Mr Dombey’s behalf, if Mrs Skewton had been (as he at first supposed her) the Edith whom they had toasted overnight?

‘Why, where, for Heaven’s sake, is Edith?’ exclaimed Mrs Skewton, looking round. ‘Still at the door, giving Withers orders about the mounting of those drawings! My dear Mr Dombey, will you have the kindness’—

Mr Dombey was already gone to seek her. Next moment he returned, bearing on his arm the same elegantly dressed and very handsome lady whom Mr Carker had encountered underneath the trees.

‘Carker—’ began Mr Dombey. But their recognition of each other was so manifest, that Mr Dombey stopped surprised.

‘I am obliged to the gentleman,’ said Edith, with a stately bend, ‘for sparing me some annoyance from an importunate beggar just now.’

‘I am obliged to my good fortune,’ said Mr Carker, bowing low, ‘for the opportunity of rendering so slight a service to one whose servant I am proud to be.’

As her eye rested on him for an instant, and then lighted on the ground, he saw in its bright and searching glance a suspicion that he had not come up at the moment of his interference, but had secretly observed her       sooner. As he saw that, she saw in his eye that her distrust was not without foundation.

‘Really,’ cried Mrs Skewton, who had taken this opportunity of inspecting Mr Carker through her glass, and satisfying herself (as she lisped audibly to the Major) that he was all heart; ‘really now, this is one of the most       enchanting coincidences that I ever heard of. The idea! My dearest Edith, there is such an obvious destiny in it, that really one might almost be induced to cross one’s arms upon one’s frock, and say, like those wicked Turks, there is no What’s-his-name but Thingummy, and What-you-may-call-it is his prophet!’

Edith designed no revision of this extraordinary quotation from the Koran, but Mr Dombey felt it necessary to offer a few polite remarks.

‘It gives me great pleasure,’ said Mr Dombey, with cumbrous gallantry, ‘that a gentleman so nearly connected with myself as Carker is, should have had the honour and happiness of rendering the least assistance to Mrs Granger.’ Mr Dombey bowed to her. ‘But it gives me some pain, and it occasions me to be really envious of Carker;’ he unconsciously laid stress on these words, as sensible that they must appear to involve a very surprising proposition; ‘envious of Carker, that I had not that honour and that happiness myself.’ Mr Dombey bowed again. Edith, saving for a curl of her lip, was motionless.

‘By the Lord, Sir,’ cried the Major, bursting into speech at sight of the waiter, who was come to announce breakfast, ‘it’s an extraordinary thing to me that no one can have the honour and happiness of shooting all such beggars through the head without being brought to book for it. But here’s an arm for Mrs Granger if she’ll do J. B. the honour to accept it; and the greatest service Joe can render you, Ma’am, just now, is, to lead you into table!’

With this, the Major gave his arm to Edith; Mr Dombey led the way with Mrs Skewton; Mr Carker went last, smiling on the party.

‘I am quite rejoiced, Mr Carker,’ said the lady-mother, at breakfast, after another approving survey of him through her glass, ‘that you have timed your visit so happily, as to go with us to-day. It is the most enchanting expedition!’

‘Any expedition would be enchanting in such society,’ returned Carker; ‘but I believe it is, in itself, full of interest.’

‘Oh!’ cried Mrs Skewton, with a faded little scream of rapture, ‘the Castle is charming!—associations of the Middle Ages—and all that—which is so truly exquisite. Don’t you dote upon the Middle Ages, Mr Carker?’

‘Very much, indeed,’ said Mr Carker.

‘Such charming times!’ cried Cleopatra. ‘So full of faith! So vigorous and forcible! So picturesque! So perfectly removed from commonplace! Oh dear! If they would only leave us a little more of the poetry of existence in these terrible days!’

Mrs Skewton was looking sharp after Mr Dombey all the time she said this, who was looking at Edith: who was listening, but who never lifted up her eyes.

‘We are dreadfully real, Mr Carker,’ said Mrs Skewton; ‘are we not?’

Few people had less reason to complain of their reality than Cleopatra, who had as much that was false about her as could well go to the composition of anybody with a real individual existence. But Mr Carker commiserated our reality nevertheless, and agreed that we were very hardly used in that regard.

‘Pictures at the Castle, quite divine!’ said Cleopatra. ‘I hope you dote upon pictures?’

‘I assure you, Mrs Skewton,’ said Mr Dombey, with solemn encouragement of his Manager, ‘that Carker has a very good taste for pictures; quite a natural power of appreciating them. He is a very creditable artist himself. He will be delighted, I am sure, with Mrs Granger’s taste and skill.’

‘Damme, Sir!’ cried Major Bagstock, ‘my opinion is, that you’re the admirable Carker, and can do anything.’

‘Oh!’ smiled Carker, with humility, ‘you are much too sanguine, Major Bagstock. I can do very little. But Mr Dombey is so generous in his estimation of any trivial accomplishment a man like myself may find it almost necessary to acquire, and to which, in his very different sphere, he is far superior, that—’ Mr Carker shrugged his shoulders, deprecating further praise, and said no more.

All this time, Edith never raised her eyes, unless to glance towards her mother when that lady’s fervent spirit shone forth in words. But as Carker ceased, she looked at Mr Dombey for a moment. For a moment only; but with a transient gleam of scornful wonder on her face, not lost on one observer, who was smiling round the board.

Mr Dombey caught the dark eyelash in its descent, and took the opportunity of arresting it.

‘You have been to Warwick often, unfortunately?’ said Mr Dombey.

‘Several times.’

‘The visit will be tedious to you, I am afraid.’

‘Oh no; not at all.’

‘Ah! You are like your cousin Feenix, my dearest Edith,’ said Mrs Skewton. ‘He has been to Warwick Castle fifty times, if he has been there once; yet if he came to Leamington to-morrow—I wish he would, dear angel!—he would make his fifty-second visit next day.’

‘We are all enthusiastic, are we not, Mama?’ said Edith, with a cold smile.

‘Too much so, for our peace, perhaps, my dear,’ returned her mother; ‘but we won’t complain. Our own emotions are our recompense. If, as your cousin Feenix says, the sword wears out the what’s-its-name—’

‘The scabbard, perhaps,’ said Edith.

‘Exactly—a little too fast, it is because it is bright and glowing, you know, my dearest love.’

Mrs Skewton heaved a gentle sigh, supposed to cast a shadow on the surface of that dagger of lath, whereof her susceptible bosom was the sheath: and leaning her head on one side, in the Cleopatra manner, looked with pensive affection on her darling child.

Edith had turned her face towards Mr Dombey when he first addressed her, and had remained in that attitude, while speaking to her mother, and while her mother spoke to her, as though offering him her attention, if he had anything more to say. There was something in the manner of this simple courtesy: almost defiant, and giving it the character of being rendered on compulsion, or as a matter of traffic to which she was a reluctant party again not lost upon that same observer who was smiling round the board. It set him thinking of her as he had first seen her, when she had believed herself to be alone among the trees.

Mr Dombey having nothing else to say, proposed—the breakfast being now finished, and the Major gorged, like any Boa Constrictor—that they should start. A barouche being in waiting, according to the orders of that gentleman, the two ladies, the Major and himself, took their seats in it; the Native and the wan page mounted the box, Mr Towlinson being left behind; and Mr Carker, on horseback, brought up the rear.