The Study of a Loving Heart
Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles, very good people, resided in a pretty
villa at Fulham, on the banks of the Thames; which was one of the most
desirable residences in the world when a rowing-match happened to be
going past, but had its little inconveniences at other times, among
which may be enumerated the occasional appearance of the river in the
drawing-room, and the contemporaneous disappearance of the lawn and
shrubbery.
Sir Barnet Skettles expressed his personal consequence chiefly through
an antique gold snuffbox, and a ponderous silk pocket-kerchief, which
he had an imposing manner of drawing out of his pocket like a banner
and using with both hands at once. Sir Barnet’s object in life was
constantly to extend the range of his acquaintance. Like a heavy body
dropped into water—not to disparage so worthy a gentleman by the
comparison—it was in the nature of things that Sir Barnet must spread
an ever widening circle about him, until there was no room left. Or,
like a sound in air, the vibration of which, according to the
speculation of an ingenious modern philosopher, may go on travelling
for ever through the interminable fields of space, nothing but coming
to the end of his moral tether could stop Sir Barnet Skettles in his
voyage of discovery through the social system.
Sir Barnet was proud of making people acquainted with people. He liked
the thing for its own sake, and it advanced his favourite object too.
For example, if Sir Barnet had the good fortune to get hold of a law
recruit, or a country gentleman, and ensnared him to his hospitable
villa, Sir Barnet would say to him, on the morning after his arrival,
“Now, my dear Sir, is there anybody you would like to know? Who is
there you would wish to meet? Do you take any interest in writing
people, or in painting or sculpturing people, or in acting people, or
in anything of that sort?” Possibly the patient answered yes, and
mentioned somebody, of whom Sir Barnet had no more personal knowledge
than of Ptolemy the Great. Sir Barnet replied, that nothing on earth
was easier, as he knew him very well: immediately called on the
aforesaid somebody, left his card, wrote a short note,—“My dear
Sir—penalty of your eminent position—friend at my house naturally
desirous—Lady Skettles and myself participate—trust that genius being
superior to ceremonies, you will do us the distinguished favour of
giving us the pleasure,” etc, etc.—and so killed a brace of birds with
one stone, dead as door-nails.
With the snuff-box and banner in full force, Sir Barnet Skettles
propounded his usual inquiry to Florence on the first morning of her
visit. When Florence thanked him, and said there was no one in
particular whom she desired to see, it was natural she should think
with a pang, of poor lost Walter. When Sir Barnet Skettles, urging his
kind offer, said, “My dear Miss Dombey, are you sure you can remember
no one whom your good Papa—to whom I beg you present the best
compliments of myself and Lady Skettles when you write—might wish you
to know?” it was natural, perhaps, that her poor head should droop a
little, and that her voice should tremble as it softly answered in the
negative.
Skettles Junior, much stiffened as to his cravat, and sobered down as
to his spirits, was at home for the holidays, and appeared to feel
himself aggrieved by the solicitude of his excellent mother that he
should be attentive to Florence. Another and a deeper injury under
which the soul of young Barnet chafed, was the company of Dr and Mrs
Blimber, who had been invited on a visit to the paternal roof-tree, and
of whom the young gentleman often said he would have preferred their
passing the vacation at Jericho.
“Is there anybody you can suggest now, Doctor Blimber?” said Sir Barnet
Skettles, turning to that gentleman.
“You are very kind, Sir Barnet,” returned Doctor Blimber. “Really I am
not aware that there is, in particular. I like to know my fellow-men in
general, Sir Barnet. What does Terence say? Anyone who is the parent of
a son is interesting to me.”
“Has Mrs Blimber any wish to see any remarkable person?” asked Sir
Barnet, courteously.
Mrs Blimber replied, with a sweet smile and a shake of her sky-blue
cap, that if Sir Barnet could have made her known to Cicero, she would
have troubled him; but such an introduction not being feasible, and she
already enjoying the friendship of himself and his amiable lady, and
possessing with the Doctor her husband their joint confidence in regard
to their dear son—here young Barnet was observed to curl his nose—she
asked no more.
Sir Barnet was fain, under these circumstances, to content himself for
the time with the company assembled. Florence was glad of that; for she
had a study to pursue among them, and it lay too near her heart, and
was too precious and momentous, to yield to any other interest.
There were some children staying in the house. Children who were as
frank and happy with fathers and with mothers as those rosy faces
opposite home. Children who had no restraint upon their love, and
freely showed it. Florence sought to learn their secret; sought to find
out what it was she had missed; what simple art they knew, and she knew
not; how she could be taught by them to show her father that she loved
him, and to win his love again.
Many a day did Florence thoughtfully observe these children. On many a
bright morning did she leave her bed when the glorious sun rose, and
walking up and down upon the river’s bank, before anyone in the house
was stirring, look up at the windows of their rooms, and think of them,
asleep, so gently tended and affectionately thought of. Florence would
feel more lonely then, than in the great house all alone; and would
think sometimes that she was better there than here, and that there was
greater peace in hiding herself than in mingling with others of her
age, and finding how unlike them all she was. But attentive to her
study, though it touched her to the quick at every little leaf she
turned in the hard book, Florence remained among them, and tried, with
patient hope, to gain the knowledge that she wearied for.
Ah! how to gain it! how to know the charm in its beginning! There were
daughters here, who rose up in the morning, and lay down to rest at
night, possessed of fathers’ hearts already. They had no repulse to
overcome, no coldness to dread, no frown to smooth away. As the morning
advanced, and the windows opened one by one, and the dew began to dry
upon the flowers and youthful feet began to move upon the lawn,
Florence, glancing round at the bright faces, thought what was there
she could learn from these children? It was too late to learn from
them; each could approach her father fearlessly, and put up her lips to
meet the ready kiss, and wind her arm about the neck that bent down to
caress her. She could not begin by being so bold. Oh! could it be that
there was less and less hope as she studied more and more!
She remembered well, that even the old woman who had robbed her when a
little child—whose image and whose house, and all she had said and
done, were stamped upon her recollection, with the enduring sharpness
of a fearful impression made at that early period of life—had spoken
fondly of her daughter, and how terribly even she had cried out in the
pain of hopeless separation from her child. But her own mother, she
would think again, when she recalled this, had loved her well. Then,
sometimes, when her thoughts reverted swiftly to the void between
herself and her father, Florence would tremble, and the tears would
start upon her face, as she pictured to herself her mother living on,
and coming also to dislike her, because of her wanting the unknown
grace that should conciliate that father naturally, and had never done
so from her cradle. She knew that this imagination did wrong to her
mother’s memory, and had no truth in it, or base to rest upon; and yet
she tried so hard to justify him, and to find the whole blame in
herself, that she could not resist its passing, like a wild cloud,
through the distance of her mind.
There came among the other visitors, soon after Florence, one beautiful
girl, three or four years younger than she, who was an orphan child,
and who was accompanied by her aunt, a grey-haired lady, who spoke much
to Florence, and who greatly liked (but that they all did) to hear her
sing of an evening, and would always sit near her at that time, with
motherly interest. They had only been two days in the house, when
Florence, being in an arbour in the garden one warm morning, musingly
observant of a youthful group upon the turf, through some intervening
boughs,—and wreathing flowers for the head of one little creature among
them who was the pet and plaything of the rest, heard this same lady
and her niece, in pacing up and down a sheltered nook close by, speak
of herself.
“Is Florence an orphan like me, aunt?” said the child.
“No, my love. She has no mother, but her father is living.”
“Is she in mourning for her poor Mama, now?” inquired the child
quickly.
“No; for her only brother.”
“Has she no other brother?”
“None.”
“No sister?”
“None,”
“I am very, very sorry!” said the little girl
As they stopped soon afterwards to watch some boats, and had been
silent in the meantime, Florence, who had risen when she heard her
name, and had gathered up her flowers to go and meet them, that they
might know of her being within hearing, resumed her seat and work,
expecting to hear no more; but the conversation recommenced next
moment.
“Florence is a favourite with everyone here, and deserves to be, I am
sure,” said the child, earnestly. “Where is her Papa?”
The aunt replied, after a moment’s pause, that she did not know. Her
tone of voice arrested Florence, who had started from her seat again;
and held her fastened to the spot, with her work hastily caught up to
her bosom, and her two hands saving it from being scattered on the
ground.
“He is in England, I hope, aunt?” said the child.
“I believe so. Yes; I know he is, indeed.”
“Has he ever been here?”
“I believe not. No.”
“Is he coming here to see her?”
“I believe not.”
“Is he lame, or blind, or ill, aunt?” asked the child.
The flowers that Florence held to her breast began to fall when she
heard those words, so wonderingly spoke. She held them closer; and her
face hung down upon them.
“Kate,” said the lady, after another moment of silence, “I will tell
you the whole truth about Florence as I have heard it, and believe it
to be. Tell no one else, my dear, because it may be little known here,
and your doing so would give her pain.”
“I never will!” exclaimed the child.
“I know you never will,” returned the lady. “I can trust you as myself.
I fear then, Kate, that Florence’s father cares little for her, very
seldom sees her, never was kind to her in her life, and now quite shuns
her and avoids her. She would love him dearly if he would suffer her,
but he will not—though for no fault of hers; and she is greatly to be
loved and pitied by all gentle hearts.”
More of the flowers that Florence held fell scattering on the ground;
those that remained were wet, but not with dew; and her face dropped
upon her laden hands.
“Poor Florence! Dear, good Florence!” cried the child.
“Do you know why I have told you this, Kate?” said the lady.
“That I may be very kind to her, and take great care to try to please
her. Is that the reason, aunt?”
“Partly,” said the lady, “but not all. Though we see her so cheerful;
with a pleasant smile for everyone; ready to oblige us all, and bearing
her part in every amusement here: she can hardly be quite happy, do you
think she can, Kate?”
“I am afraid not,” said the little girl.
“And you can understand,” pursued the lady, “why her observation of
children who have parents who are fond of them, and proud of them—like
many here, just now—should make her sorrowful in secret?”
“Yes, dear aunt,” said the child, “I understand that very well. Poor
Florence!”
More flowers strayed upon the ground, and those she yet held to her
breast trembled as if a wintry wind were rustling them.
“My Kate,” said the lady, whose voice was serious, but very calm and
sweet, and had so impressed Florence from the first moment of her
hearing it, “of all the youthful people here, you are her natural and
harmless friend; you have not the innocent means, that happier children
have—”
“There are none happier, aunt!” exclaimed the child, who seemed to
cling about her.
“—As other children have, dear Kate, of reminding her of her
misfortune. Therefore I would have you, when you try to be her little
friend, try all the more for that, and feel that the bereavement you
sustained—thank Heaven! before you knew its weight—gives you claim and
hold upon poor Florence.”
“But I am not without a parent’s love, aunt, and I never have been,”
said the child, “with you.”
“However that may be, my dear,” returned the lady, “your misfortune is
a lighter one than Florence’s; for not an orphan in the wide world can
be so deserted as the child who is an outcast from a living parent’s
love.”
The flowers were scattered on the ground like dust; the empty hands
were spread upon the face; and orphaned Florence, shrinking down upon
the ground, wept long and bitterly.
But true of heart and resolute in her good purpose, Florence held to it
as her dying mother held by her upon the day that gave Paul life. He
did not know how much she loved him. However long the time in coming,
and however slow the interval, she must try to bring that knowledge to
her father’s heart one day or other. Meantime she must be careful in no
thoughtless word, or look, or burst of feeling awakened by any chance
circumstance, to complain against him, or to give occasion for these
whispers to his prejudice.
Even in the response she made the orphan child, to whom she was
attracted strongly, and whom she had such occasion to remember,
Florence was mindful of him. If she singled her out too plainly
(Florence thought) from among the rest, she would confirm—in one mind
certainly: perhaps in more—the belief that he was cruel and unnatural.
Her own delight was no set-off to this. What she had overheard was a
reason, not for soothing herself, but for saving him; and Florence did
it, in pursuance of the study of her heart.
She did so always. If a book were read aloud, and there were anything
in the story that pointed at an unkind father, she was in pain for
their application of it to him; not for herself. So with any trifle of
an interlude that was acted, or picture that was shown, or game that
was played, among them. The occasions for such tenderness towards him
were so many, that her mind misgave her often, it would indeed be
better to go back to the old house, and live again within the shadow of
its dull walls, undisturbed. How few who saw sweet Florence, in her
spring of womanhood, the modest little queen of those small revels,
imagined what a load of sacred care lay heavy in her breast! How few of
those who stiffened in her father’s freezing atmosphere, suspected what
a heap of fiery coals was piled upon his head!
Florence pursued her study patiently, and, failing to acquire the
secret of the nameless grace she sought, among the youthful company who
were assembled in the house, often walked out alone, in the early
morning, among the children of the poor. But still she found them all
too far advanced to learn from. They had won their household places
long ago, and did not stand without, as she did, with a bar across the
door.
There was one man whom she several times observed at work very early,
and often with a girl of about her own age seated near him. He was a
very poor man, who seemed to have no regular employment, but now went
roaming about the banks of the river when the tide was low, looking out
for bits and scraps in the mud; and now worked at the unpromising
little patch of garden-ground before his cottage; and now tinkered up a
miserable old boat that belonged to him; or did some job of that kind
for a neighbour, as chance occurred. Whatever the man’s labour, the
girl was never employed; but sat, when she was with him, in a listless,
moping state, and idle.
Florence had often wished to speak to this man; yet she had never taken
courage to do so, as he made no movement towards her. But one morning
when she happened to come upon him suddenly, from a by-path among some
pollard willows which terminated in the little shelving piece of stony
ground that lay between his dwelling and the water, where he was
bending over a fire he had made to caulk the old boat which was lying
bottom upwards, close by, he raised his head at the sound of her
footstep, and gave her Good morning.
“Good morning,” said Florence, approaching nearer, “you are at work
early.”
“I’d be glad to be often at work earlier, Miss, if I had work to do.”
“Is it so hard to get?” asked Florence.
“I find it so,” replied the man.
Florence glanced to where the girl was sitting, drawn together, with
her elbows on her knees, and her chin on her hands, and said:
“Is that your daughter?”
He raised his head quickly, and looking towards the girl with a
brightened face, nodded to her, and said “Yes,” Florence looked towards
her too, and gave her a kind salutation; the girl muttered something in
return, ungraciously and sullenly.
“Is she in want of employment also?” said Florence.
The man shook his head. “No, Miss,” he said. “I work for both,”
“Are there only you two, then?” inquired Florence.
“Only us two,” said the man. “Her mother has been dead these ten year.
Martha!” (he lifted up his head again, and whistled to her) “won’t you
say a word to the pretty young lady?”
The girl made an impatient gesture with her cowering shoulders, and
turned her head another way. Ugly, misshapen, peevish, ill-conditioned,
ragged, dirty—but beloved! Oh yes! Florence had seen her father’s look
towards her, and she knew whose look it had no likeness to.
“I’m afraid she’s worse this morning, my poor girl!” said the man,
suspending his work, and contemplating his ill-favoured child, with a
compassion that was the more tender for being rougher.
“She is ill, then!” said Florence.
The man drew a deep sigh. “I don’t believe my Martha’s had five short
days’ good health,” he answered, looking at her still, “in as many long
years.”
“Ay! and more than that, John,” said a neighbour, who had come down to
help him with the boat.
“More than that, you say, do you?” cried the other, pushing back his
battered hat, and drawing his hand across his forehead. “Very like. It
seems a long, long time.”
“And the more the time,” pursued the neighbour, “the more you’ve
favoured and humoured her, John, till she’s got to be a burden to
herself, and everybody else.”
“Not to me,” said her father, falling to his work. “Not to me.”
Florence could feel—who better?—how truly he spoke. She drew a little
closer to him, and would have been glad to touch his rugged hand, and
thank him for his goodness to the miserable object that he looked upon
with eyes so different from any other man’s.
“Who would favour my poor girl—to call it favouring—if I didn’t?” said
the father.
“Ay, ay,” cried the neighbour. “In reason, John. But you! You rob
yourself to give to her. You bind yourself hand and foot on her
account. You make your life miserable along of her. And what does she
care! You don’t believe she knows it?”
The father lifted up his head again, and whistled to her. Martha made
the same impatient gesture with her crouching shoulders, in reply; and
he was glad and happy.
“Only for that, Miss,” said the neighbour, with a smile, in which there
was more of secret sympathy than he expressed; “only to get that, he
never lets her out of his sight!”
“Because the day’ll come, and has been coming a long while,” observed
the other, bending low over his work, “when to get half as much from
that unfort’nate child of mine—to get the trembling of a finger, or the
waving of a hair—would be to raise the dead.”
Florence softly put some money near his hand on the old boat, and left
him.
And now Florence began to think, if she were to fall ill, if she were
to fade like her dear brother, would he then know that she had loved
him; would she then grow dear to him; would he come to her bedside,
when she was weak and dim of sight, and take her into his embrace, and
cancel all the past? Would he so forgive her, in that changed
condition, for not having been able to lay open her childish heart to
him, as to make it easy to relate with what emotions she had gone out
of his room that night; what she had meant to say if she had had the
courage; and how she had endeavoured, afterwards, to learn the way she
never knew in infancy?
Yes, she thought if she were dying, he would relent. She thought, that
if she lay, serene and not unwilling to depart, upon the bed that was
curtained round with recollections of their darling boy, he would be
touched home, and would say, “Dear Florence, live for me, and we will
love each other as we might have done, and be as happy as we might have
been these many years!” She thought that if she heard such words from
him, and had her arms clasped round him, she could answer with a smile,
“It is too late for anything but this; I never could be happier, dear
father!” and so leave him, with a blessing on her lips.
The golden water she remembered on the wall, appeared to Florence, in
the light of such reflections, only as a current flowing on to rest,
and to a region where the dear ones, gone before, were waiting, hand in
hand; and often when she looked upon the darker river rippling at her
feet, she thought with awful wonder, but not terror, of that river
which her brother had so often said was bearing him away.
The father and his sick daughter were yet fresh in Florence’s mind,
and, indeed, that incident was not a week old, when Sir Barnet and his
lady going out walking in the lanes one afternoon, proposed to her to
bear them company. Florence readily consenting, Lady Skettles ordered
out young Barnet as a matter of course. For nothing delighted Lady
Skettles so much, as beholding her eldest son with Florence on his arm.
Barnet, to say the truth, appeared to entertain an opposite sentiment
on the subject, and on such occasions frequently expressed himself
audibly, though indefinitely, in reference to “a parcel of girls.” As
it was not easy to ruffle her sweet temper, however, Florence generally
reconciled the young gentleman to his fate after a few minutes, and
they strolled on amicably: Lady Skettles and Sir Barnet following, in a
state of perfect complacency and high gratification.
This was the order of procedure on the afternoon in question; and
Florence had almost succeeded in overruling the present objections of
Skettles Junior to his destiny, when a gentleman on horseback came
riding by, looked at them earnestly as he passed, drew in his rein,
wheeled round, and came riding back again, hat in hand.
The gentleman had looked particularly at Florence; and when the little
party stopped, on his riding back, he bowed to her, before saluting Sir
Barnet and his lady. Florence had no remembrance of having ever seen
him, but she started involuntarily when he came near her, and drew
back.
“My horse is perfectly quiet, I assure you,” said the gentleman.
It was not that, but something in the gentleman himself—Florence could
not have said what—that made her recoil as if she had been stung.
“I have the honour to address Miss Dombey, I believe?” said the
gentleman, with a most persuasive smile. On Florence inclining her
head, he added, “My name is Carker. I can hardly hope to be remembered
by Miss Dombey, except by name. Carker.”
[Illustration]
Florence, sensible of a strange inclination to shiver, though the day
was hot, presented him to her host and hostess; by whom he was very
graciously received.
“I beg pardon,” said Mr Carker, “a thousand times! But I am going down
tomorrow morning to Mr Dombey, at Leamington, and if Miss Dombey can
entrust me with any commission, need I say how very happy I shall be?”
Sir Barnet immediately divining that Florence would desire to write a
letter to her father, proposed to return, and besought Mr Carker to
come home and dine in his riding gear. Mr Carker had the misfortune to
be engaged to dinner, but if Miss Dombey wished to write, nothing would
delight him more than to accompany them back, and to be her faithful
slave in waiting as long as she pleased. As he said this with his
widest smile, and bent down close to her to pat his horse’s neck,
Florence meeting his eyes, saw, rather than heard him say, “There is no
news of the ship!”
Confused, frightened, shrinking from him, and not even sure that he had
said those words, for he seemed to have shown them to her in some
extraordinary manner through his smile, instead of uttering them,
Florence faintly said that she was obliged to him, but she would not
write; she had nothing to say.
“Nothing to send, Miss Dombey?” said the man of teeth.
“Nothing,” said Florence, “but my—but my dear love—if you please.”
Disturbed as Florence was, she raised her eyes to his face with an
imploring and expressive look, that plainly besought him, if he
knew—which he as plainly did—that any message between her and her
father was an uncommon charge, but that one most of all, to spare her.
Mr Carker smiled and bowed low, and being charged by Sir Barnet with
the best compliments of himself and Lady Skettles, took his leave, and
rode away: leaving a favourable impression on that worthy couple.
Florence was seized with such a shudder as he went, that Sir Barnet,
adopting the popular superstition, supposed somebody was passing over
her grave. Mr Carker turning a corner, on the instant, looked back, and
bowed, and disappeared, as if he rode off to the churchyard straight,
to do it.