Dombey and Son

‘Gills,’ said Captain Cuttle, ‘what’s the bearings of this business? Who’s the creditor?’

‘Hush!’ returned the old man. ‘Come away. Don’t speak before Wally. It’s a matter of security for Wally’s father – an old bond. I’ve paid a good deal of it, Ned, but the times are so bad with me that I can’t do more just now. I’ve foreseen it, but I couldn’t help it. Not a word before Wally, for all the world.’

‘You’ve got some money, haven’t you?’ whispered the Captain.

‘Yes, yes – oh yes – I’ve got some,’ returned old Sol, first putting his hands into his empty pockets, and then squeezing his Welsh wig between them, as if he thought he might wring some gold out of it; ‘but I – the little I have got, isn’t convertible, Ned; it can’t be got at. I have been trying to do something with it for Wally, and I’m old fashioned, and behind the time. It’s here and there, and – and, in short, it’s as good as nowhere,’ said the old man, looking in bewilderment about him.

He had so much the air of a half-witted person who had been hiding his money in a variety of places, and had forgotten where, that the Captain followed his eyes, not without a faint hope that he might remember some few hundred pounds concealed up the chimney, or down in the cellar. But Solomon Gills knew better than that.

‘I’m behind the time altogether, my dear Ned,’ said Sol, in resigned despair, ‘a long way. It’s no use my lagging on so far behind it. The stock had better be sold – it’s worth more than this debt – and I had better go and die somewhere, on the balance. I haven’t any energy left. I don’t understand things. This had better be the end of it. Let ‘em sell the stock and take him down,’ said the old man, pointing feebly to the wooden Midshipman, ‘and let us both be broken up together.’

‘And what d’ye mean to do with Wal’r?’ said the Captain. ‘There, there! Sit ye down, Gills, sit ye down, and let me think o’ this. If I warn’t a man on a small annuity, that was large enough till to-day, I hadn’t need to think of it. But you only lay your head well to the wind,’ said the Captain, again administering that unanswerable piece of consolation, ‘and you’re all right!’

Old Sol thanked him from his heart, and went and laid it against the back parlour fire-place instead.

Captain Cuttle walked up and down the shop for some time, cogitating profoundly, and bringing his bushy black eyebrows to bear so heavily on his nose, like clouds setting on a mountain, that Walter was afraid to offer any interruption to the current of his reflections. Mr Brogley, who was averse to being any constraint upon the party, and who had an ingenious cast of mind, went, softly whistling, among the stock; rattling weather-glasses, shaking compasses as if they were physic, catching up keys with loadstones, looking through telescopes, endeavouring to make himself acquainted with the use of the globes, setting parallel rulers astride on to his nose, and amusing himself with other philosophical transactions.

‘Wal’r!’ said the Captain at last. ‘I’ve got it.’

‘Have you, Captain Cuttle?’ cried Walter, with great animation.

‘Come this way, my lad,’ said the Captain. ‘The stock’s the security. I’m another. Your governor’s the man to advance money.’

‘Mr Dombey!’ faltered Walter.

The Captain nodded gravely. ‘Look at him,’ he said. ‘Look at Gills. If they was to sell off these things now, he’d die of it. You know he would. We mustn’t leave a stone unturned – and there’s a stone for you.’

‘A stone! – Mr Dombey!’ faltered Walter.

‘You run round to the office, first of all, and see if he’s there,’ said Captain Cuttle, clapping him on the back. ‘Quick!’

Walter felt he must not dispute the command – a glance at his Uncle would have determined him if he had felt otherwise – and disappeared to execute it. He soon returned, out of breath, to say that Mr Dombey was not there. It was Saturday, and he had gone to Brighton.

‘I tell you what, Wal’r!’ said the Captain, who seemed to have prepared himself for this contingency in his absence. ‘We’ll go to Brighton. I’ll back you, my boy. I’ll back you, Wal’r. We’ll go to Brighton by the afternoon’s coach.’

If the application must be made to Mr Dombey at all, which was awful to think of, Walter felt that he would rather prefer it alone and unassisted, than backed by the personal influence of Captain Cuttle, to which he hardly thought Mr Dombey would attach much weight. But as the Captain appeared to be of quite another opinion, and was bent upon it, and as his friendship was too zealous and serious to be trifled with by one so much younger than himself, he forbore to hint the least objection. Cuttle, therefore, taking a hurried leave of Solomon Gills, and returning the ready money, the teaspoons, the sugar-tongs, and the silver watch, to his pocket – with a view, as Walter thought, with horror, to making a gorgeous impression on Mr Dombey – bore him off to the coach-office, without a minute’s delay, and repeatedly assured him, on the road, that he would stick by him to the last.

CHAPTER 10. Containing the Sequel of the Midshipman’s Disaster

Major Bagstock, after long and frequent observation of Paul, across Princess’s Place, through his double-barrelled opera-glass; and after receiving many minute reports, daily, weekly, and monthly, on that subject, from the native who kept himself in constant communication with Miss Tox’s maid for that purpose; came to the conclusion that Dombey, Sir, was a man to be known, and that J. B. was the boy to make his acquaintance.

Miss Tox, however, maintaining her reserved behaviour, and frigidly declining to understand the Major whenever he called (which he often did) on any little fishing excursion connected with this project, the Major, in spite of his constitutional toughness and slyness, was fain to leave the accomplishment of his desire in some measure to chance, ‘which,’ as he was used to observe with chuckles at his club, ‘has been fifty to one in favour of Joey B., Sir, ever since his elder brother died of Yellow Jack in the West Indies.’

It was some time coming to his aid in the present instance, but it befriended him at last. When the dark servant, with full particulars, reported Miss Tox absent on Brighton service, the Major was suddenly touched with affectionate reminiscences of his friend Bill Bitherstone of Bengal, who had written to ask him, if he ever went that way, to bestow a call upon his only son. But when the same dark servant reported Paul at Mrs Pipchin’s, and the Major, referring to the letter favoured by Master Bitherstone on his arrival in England – to which he had never had the least idea of paying any attention – saw the opening that presented itself, he was made so rabid by the gout, with which he happened to be then laid up, that he threw a footstool at the dark servant in return for his intelligence, and swore he would be the death of the rascal before he had done with him: which the dark servant was more than half disposed to believe.

At length the Major being released from his fit, went one Saturday growling down to Brighton, with the native behind him; apostrophizing Miss Tox all the way, and gloating over the prospect of carrying by storm the distinguished friend to whom she attached so much mystery, and for whom she had deserted him.

‘Would you, Ma’am, would you!’ said the Major, straining with vindictiveness, and swelling every already swollen vein in his head. ‘Would you give Joey B. the go-by, Ma’am? Not yet, Ma’am, not yet! Damme, not yet, Sir. Joe is awake, Ma’am. Bagstock is alive, Sir. J. B. knows a move or two, Ma’am. Josh has his weather-eye open, Sir. You’ll find him tough, Ma’am. Tough, Sir, tough is Joseph. Tough, and de-vilish sly!’

And very tough indeed Master Bitherstone found him, when he took that young gentleman out for a walk. But the Major, with his complexion like a Stilton cheese, and his eyes like a prawn’s, went roving about, perfectly indifferent to Master Bitherstone’s amusement, and dragging Master Bitherstone along, while he looked about him high and low, for Mr Dombey and his children.

In good time the Major, previously instructed by Mrs Pipchin, spied out Paul and Florence, and bore down upon them; there being a stately gentleman (Mr Dombey, doubtless) in their company. Charging with Master Bitherstone into the very heart of the little squadron, it fell out, of course, that Master Bitherstone spoke to his fellow-sufferers. Upon that the Major stopped to notice and admire them; remembered with amazement that he had seen and spoken to them at his friend Miss Tox’s in Princess’s Place; opined that Paul was a devilish fine fellow, and his own little friend; inquired if he remembered Joey B. the Major; and finally, with a sudden recollection of the conventionalities of life, turned and apologised to Mr Dombey.

‘But my little friend here, Sir,’ said the Major, ‘makes a boy of me again: An old soldier, Sir – Major Bagstock, at your service – is not ashamed to confess it.’ Here the Major lifted his hat. ‘Damme, Sir,’ cried the Major with sudden warmth, ‘I envy you.’ Then he recollected himself, and added, ‘Excuse my freedom.’

Mr Dombey begged he wouldn’t mention it.

‘An old campaigner, Sir,’ said the Major, ‘a smoke-dried, sun-burnt, used-up, invalided old dog of a Major, Sir, was not afraid of being condemned for his whim by a man like Mr Dombey. I have the honour of addressing Mr Dombey, I believe?’

‘I am the present unworthy representative of that name, Major,’ returned Mr Dombey.

‘By G – , Sir!’ said the Major, ‘it’s a great name. It’s a name, Sir,’ said the Major firmly, as if he defied Mr Dombey to contradict him, and would feel it his painful duty to bully him if he did, ‘that is known and honoured in the British possessions abroad. It is a name, Sir, that a man is proud to recognise. There is nothing adulatory in Joseph Bagstock, Sir. His Royal Highness the Duke of York observed on more than one occasion, “there is no adulation in Joey. He is a plain old soldier is Joe. He is tough to a fault is Joseph:” but it’s a great name, Sir. By the Lord, it’s a great name!’ said the Major, solemnly.

‘You are good enough to rate it higher than it deserves, perhaps, Major,’ returned Mr Dombey.

‘No, Sir,’ said the Major, in a severe tone. No, Mr Dombey, let us understand each other. That is not the Bagstock vein, Sir. You don’t know Joseph B. He is a blunt old blade is Josh. No flattery in him, Sir. Nothing like it.’

Mr Dombey inclined his head, and said he believed him to be in earnest, and that his high opinion was gratifying.

‘My little friend here, Sir,’ croaked the Major, looking as amiably as he could, on Paul, ‘will certify for Joseph Bagstock that he is a thorough-going, down-right, plain-spoken, old Trump, Sir, and nothing more. That boy, Sir,’ said the Major in a lower tone, ‘will live in history. That boy, Sir, is not a common production. Take care of him, Mr Dombey.’

Mr Dombey seemed to intimate that he would endeavour to do so.

‘Here is a boy here, Sir,’ pursued the Major, confidentially, and giving him a thrust with his cane. ‘Son of Bitherstone of Bengal. Bill Bitherstone formerly of ours. That boy’s father and myself, Sir, were sworn friends. Wherever you went, Sir, you heard of nothing but Bill Bitherstone and Joe Bagstock. Am I blind to that boy’s defects? By no means. He’s a fool, Sir.’

Mr Dombey glanced at the libelled Master Bitherstone, of whom he knew at least as much as the Major did, and said, in quite a complacent manner, ‘Really?’

‘That is what he is, sir,’ said the Major. ‘He’s a fool. Joe Bagstock never minces matters. The son of my old friend Bill Bitherstone, of Bengal, is a born fool, Sir.’ Here the Major laughed till he was almost black. ‘My little friend is destined for a public school, I presume, Mr Dombey?’ said the Major when he had recovered.

‘I am not quite decided,’ returned Mr Dombey. ‘I think not. He is delicate.’

‘If he’s delicate, Sir,’ said the Major, ‘you are right. None but the tough fellows could live through it, Sir, at Sandhurst. We put each other to the torture there, Sir. We roasted the new fellows at a slow fire, and hung ‘em out of a three pair of stairs window, with their heads downwards. Joseph Bagstock, Sir, was held out of the window by the heels of his boots, for thirteen minutes by the college clock.’

The Major might have appealed to his countenance in corroboration of this story. It certainly looked as if he had hung out a little too long.

‘But it made us what we were, Sir,’ said the Major, settling his shirt frill. ‘We were iron, Sir, and it forged us. Are you remaining here, Mr Dombey?’

‘I generally come down once a week, Major,’ returned that gentleman. ‘I stay at the Bedford.’

‘I shall have the honour of calling at the Bedford, Sir, if you’ll permit me,’ said the Major. ‘Joey B., Sir, is not in general a calling man, but Mr Dombey’s is not a common name. I am much indebted to my little friend, Sir, for the honour of this introduction.’

Mr Dombey made a very gracious reply; and Major Bagstock, having patted Paul on the head, and said of Florence that her eyes would play the Devil with the youngsters before long – ‘and the oldsters too, Sir, if you come to that,’ added the Major, chuckling very much – stirred up Master Bitherstone with his walking-stick, and departed with that young gentleman, at a kind of half-trot; rolling his head and coughing with great dignity, as he staggered away, with his legs very wide asunder.

In fulfilment of his promise, the Major afterwards called on Mr Dombey; and Mr Dombey, having referred to the army list, afterwards called on the Major. Then the Major called at Mr Dombey’s house in town; and came down again, in the same coach as Mr Dombey. In short, Mr Dombey and the Major got on uncommonly well together, and uncommonly fast: and Mr Dombey observed of the Major, to his sister, that besides being quite a military man he was really something more, as he had a very admirable idea of the importance of things unconnected with his own profession.

At length Mr Dombey, bringing down Miss Tox and Mrs Chick to see the children, and finding the Major again at Brighton, invited him to dinner at the Bedford, and complimented Miss Tox highly, beforehand, on her neighbour and acquaintance.

‘My dearest Louisa,’ said Miss Tox to Mrs Chick, when they were alone together, on the morning of the appointed day, ‘if I should seem at all reserved to Major Bagstock, or under any constraint with him, promise me not to notice it.’