It was ten o’clock! In the morning! The Easterly sun came down bright upon busy streets and grimy thoroughfares, and quiet places in the far off country. It was eleven o’clock! In the morning! The sun lighted up city churches and the broad river, and shone into death chambers, in houses at the doors of which stood mutes. It was twelve o’clock! Noon! Broad, bright, unwinking noon! The sun gleamed on many roofs—and on market gardens in the suburbs, and on potato cans in the streets, and into the counting house of Dombey and Son.
The clerks worked noiselessly that day—almost breathlessly. Many pens scratched on the paper, and yet no word was spoken. For Carker was there! Carker the smooth, the oily—the velvetty—the sly.
The sun gleamed through the window panes—it fell on Carker—and on Carker’s teeth. And still it gleamed—still it sparkled after the glass door had noiselessly opened, and before Carker was seen standing the form—the stately—cold—wifeless—childless form of Mr. Dombey!
There was a long pause. You could have heard all the pens going in the outer office. A long pause—long—very—very long. Carker spoke first, and when he spoke he seemed all teeth—white glistening teeth—like a shark of smooth tongue and oily address—accustomed to good society.
“Mr. Dombey—I delight to see you—I feel honoured—much honoured—deeply honoured—by this visit.”
There was another pause—longer than the first—Oh, yes! much longer! Eight minutes longer!
And Mr. Dombey drew himself up—up! High! higher! like the Genie in the Arabian Tales, till it appeared (to the eye of Perch which eye happened to be accidentally applied at the keyhole)—that the top of Mr. Dombey’s hat had touched—nay lifted off the roof of the counting house of Dombey and Son.
“Ha!” said Mr. Dombey, and Perch being frightened fell backwards upon a nail, and the pens in the outer office stopped.
“Ha! ha!” said Mr. Dombey—“here—come here—all of you,—and learn how to crush a viper.”
The clerks came accordingly—thronging about the door—with white faces and clenched hands—excepting Robinson, who was of a merry turn of mind, and who said audibly “here’s a lark.”