and asked the captain to care for the little shop and keep it open, so
that it could be a home for his nephew if he should ever appear. As for
himself, Old Sol said if he did not return within a year he would be
dead, and the captain should take the shop for his own.
The disappearance of his old friend was a great blow to bluff Captain
Cuttle, but, determined to do his part, he left his own lodgings and
took up his place at the sign of the wooden midshipman to wait for news
either of Walter or of old Solomon Gills.
Florence knew nothing about this, for the captain had not the heart to
tell her. And, for her own part, she had much to think of in the
approaching marriage of her father, in preparation for which the house
was full of painters and paper-hangers, making it over for the bride.
The first time Florence saw Edith was when one day she entered the
parlor to find her father there with a strange, beautiful lady beside
him. Mr. Dombey told her the lady would soon be her mama, and Edith,
touched by the child's sweet face, bent down and kissed her so tenderly
that Florence, so starved for affection, began at that moment to love
her, and to hope through Edith's love finally to win the love of her
father.
The wedding was a very grand one, and many people were at the church to
see it. Even Captain Cuttle watched it from the gallery, and Carker's
smile, as he looked on, showed more of his white teeth than ever. The
only thing that marred Florence's happiness and hope on this day was the
knowledge that Walter had not been heard from and the fear that he might
never return.
But in spite of her brave hope, after her father and Edith came back
from their wedding journey and the life of parties and dinners began,
Florence was soon disheartened. In the first flush of confidence she
opened all her soul to Edith and begged her to teach her to win her
father's liking. But Edith, knowing (as Florence did not know) how she
had sold herself in this rich marriage and that she had no particle of
love in her heart for her husband, told her sadly that she could not
help her. This puzzled Florence greatly, for she loved Edith and knew
that Edith loved her in return.
In fact, it was Florence's trust and innocence that made Edith's
conscience torture her the more. In Florence's pure presence she felt
more and more unworthy, and the knowledge that her husband's hardness of
heart was crushing the child's life and happiness made her hate him.
Florence saw, before many months passed, that her father and Edith did
not live in love and contentment. Indeed, how could they? She had
married for ambition, he for pride, and neither loved nor would yield to
the other. They had not the same friends or acquaintances. Hers were
people of fashion; his were men of business. At the dinners they gave,
Mr. Dombey did not think Edith treated his friends politely enough. He
began to reprove her more and more often, and when she paid no heed he
finally chid her openly and sternly in the presence of Carker (who
brought his smile and gleaming teeth often to the house), knowing this
action would most wound Edith's pride. And at length he took the
management of the house out of her hands and hired as housekeeper Mrs.
Pipchin, the old ogre of Brighton, at whose house Florence and little
Paul had once lived.
The worst of it all was that the more Mr. Dombey grew to dislike his
wife the more he saw she loved Florence, and this made him detest the
poor child more than ever. He imagined, in his cruel selfishness, that
as Florence had come between him and the love of little Paul, so she was
now coming between him and his wife. Finally he sent Carker to Edith,
telling her she must no longer sit or talk with Florence--that they must
see each other only in his presence.
Florence's cup of bitterness was now almost full, for she knew nothing
of this command, and, when she saw that Edith avoided her, sorrowed in
secret. She was quite alone again now, save for Diogenes. Neither Major
Bagstock, her father's flatterer, nor Carker, with his cat-like smile,
could she see without a shudder, and all the while her heart was aching
for her father's love.
Mr. Dombey's insults were heaped more and more upon the defenseless
Edith, till at last, made desperate by his pride and cruelty, she
prepared a terrible revenge. On the morning of the anniversary of their
wedding-day Mr. Dombey was startled by the news that Edith had run away
with the false-hearted Carker!
On that terrible morning, when the proud old man sat stunned in his
room, Florence, yielding to her first impulse of grief and pity for him,
ran to him to comfort him. But when she would have thrown her arms
around his neck he lifted his arm and struck her so that she tottered.
And as he did so he bade her follow Edith, since they had always been in
league!
In that blow Florence felt at last his cruelty, neglect and hatred
trampling down any feeling of compassion he may once have had for her.
She saw she had no longer a father she could love; and, wringing her
hands, with her head bent to hide her agony of tears, ran out of the
house that could no more be her home, into the heartless street.
III
HOW FLORENCE REACHED A REFUGE
For a long time she ran without purpose, weeping, and not knowing where
to go. But at last she thought of the day, so many years before, when
she had been lost and when Walter Gay had found her. He had taken her
then to the shop of his uncle, old Solomon Gills. There, she thought,
she might at least find shelter.
When she got to the sign of the wooden midshipman she had just enough
strength to knock and push open the door, and then, at sight of Captain
Cuttle's honest face, all her strength left her, and she fainted on the
threshold.
Captain Cuttle was cooking his breakfast. He knew her at once, even
though she had grown to be a young lady. He lifted her and laid her on
the sofa, calling her his "lady lass," and bathed her face in cold water
till she opened her eyes and knew him. She told him all her story, and
he comforted her, and told her the shop should be her home just as long
as she would stay in it. When she had eaten some toast and drunk some
tea he made her lie down in the little upper room and sleep till she
woke refreshed at evening.
When she came down the stair she found Captain Cuttle cooking dinner. He
seemed to her then to have some great, joyful and mysterious secret. All
through the evening and until she went to bed he would persist in
drawing the conversation around to Walter, which brought the tears again
and again to her eyes.
Then he would rumble out, "Wal'r's drown-ded, ain't he, pretty?" and nod
his head and look very wise.
Indeed, Captain Cuttle _did_ have a wonderful secret. While Florence
had been sleeping he had received a great piece of news: Walter, whom
every one had believed drowned, had escaped death alone of all on the
wrecked vessel. He had clung to a spar when the ship went down, and had
been picked up by a vessel going in another direction, so he had had no
way of sending back news of his safety. The ship that had rescued him
had at last brought him back to London, and it would not be long now
before he would appear at the shop.
You may guess Captain Cuttle's heart was full of thankfulness. But, not
knowing much about such matters, he had an idea that the good news must
be broken very gently to Florence. So at last he commenced to tell her a
story about a shipwreck in which only one was saved, and then she began
to suspect the truth and her heart beat joyfully. Just as he finished
the story the door opened. There was Walter himself, alive and well, and
with a cry of joy she sprang to his arms.
There was much to talk of that night in the little shop. With her face
on Captain Cuttle's shoulder, Florence told him how and why she had left
her home. And Walter, as he took her hand and kissed it, knew that she
was a homeless, wandering fugitive, but richer to him thus than in all
the wealth and pride of her former station, that had once made her seem
so far off from him. Very soon after that he told Florence that he loved
her--not as a brother, but as something even dearer--and she promised
to be his wife.
On the evening before their wedding-day one more surprise came to them.
They were all gathered in the shop when the outer door opened. Captain
Cuttle suddenly hit the table a terrific blow with his hook, shouted
"Sol Gills, ahoy!" and tumbled into the arms of a man in an old,
weather-beaten coat. It was old Solomon Gills indeed, returned from his
long search, and now, to see Walter there, weeping with joy.
In another moment Walter and Florence were both in his arms, too, and
everybody was laughing and crying and talking together. Old Sol had been
half-way around the world in his search for Walter, but had finally
heard of his safety and started home, knowing he would go there also. It
was a very joyous evening, that last evening of Florence's girl life.
The next morning Walter and Florence paid an early visit to the grave of
little Paul. She bade it a long good-by, for Walter had become an
officer of a ship and she was to make the coming voyage with her
husband. Then they went to the church, where they were married, and a
few days later they sailed away to China (with Captain Cuttle's big
watch and sugar-tongs and teaspoons, that he had once offered to Mr.
Dombey, for wedding presents), content in each other's love.
Often, indeed, in this happy honeymoon Florence remembered the father
who had spurned her. But Walter's love had taken away the bitterness of
that thought. She tried to love her father now rather as she loved the
memory of little Paul--not as a cruel, cold, living man, but as some one
who had once lived and who might once have loved her.
IV
HOW FLORENCE FOUND HER FATHER AT LAST
Mr. Dombey, alone in the silent house, had made no search for Florence.
His pride bade him hide all traces of his grief and rage from the world.
He had only one thought--to find where Carker had fled with his wife, to
follow and to kill him. He hired detectives and at last discovered that
Carker had gone to a certain city in France. And to that place he
followed him.
Now Edith, desperate as she had been, had not really been so wicked as
Mr. Dombey supposed her. She had deserted him, but she had _not_ run
away with Carker. In all the trouble between herself and Mr. Dombey,
Carker (the smooth, smiling hypocrite!) had labored to make matters
worse. He had lied to Mr. Dombey about his wife and taunted her with her
position, and done everything in his power to make them hate each other
more bitterly. At last, when he saw Edith could bear it no longer, he
had begged her to run away with him, and when she refused, he had
threatened her in many cowardly ways. But Edith hated him as much as she
disliked her husband, and had not the least idea of running away with
him. She had pretended to Carker that she would do so, and had led her
husband and everybody else to think she _had_ done so, but this was only
to wound her husband's pride, and to punish him for all his tortures.
Carker had followed her to France, but, once there, he had found the
tables turned. Edith laughed at him and scorned him, and sent him from
her, baffled and furious.
Carker was thus caught in his own trap. He had lost his own position and
reputation, and had gained nothing for all his evil plots. And besides
this, he was a fugitive, and Mr. Dombey, the man he had wronged, was on
his track.
When he learned his enemy had followed him to France, Carker, raging,
but cowardly, fled back to England; and back to England Edith's
revengeful husband followed him day and night. The wicked manager knew
no more peace or rest. He traveled into the country, seeking some lonely
village in which to hide, but he could not shake off that grim pursuer.
They met at last face to face one day on a railroad platform when
neither was expecting to see the other.
In the surprise of the meeting, Carker's foot slipped--he stepped
backward, directly in the path of the engine that was roaring up the
track. It caught him, and tossed him, and tore him limb from limb, and
its iron wheels crushed and ground him to pieces.
And that was the end of Carker, of the white teeth and false smile, and
Mr. Dombey went back to London, still proud and alone, still cold and
forbidding.
But his conscience at last had begun to cry out against him, and to
deafen its voice he plunged more and more recklessly into business,
spending money too lavishly, and taking risks of which, in other days,
he would not have thought.
The months went by and little by little the old firm of Dombey and Son
became more entangled. Soon there were whispers that the business was in
difficulty, but Mr. Dombey did not hear them. One morning the crash
came. A bank closed and then suddenly the word went around that the old
firm had failed.
It was too true. The proud, hard-hearted merchant, who had driven his
daughter from him, was ruined and a beggar. His rich friends, whom he
had treated so haughtily, shrugged their shoulders and sneered. Even
Major Bagstock at his club grew purple in the face with chuckling.
The servants were all sent away, most of the furniture was sold at a
public sale, and the old man, who had once been so proud and held his
gray head so high, still sat on hour after hour in the echoing house,
so empty now that even the rats would not live in it. What was he
thinking?
At last, in his agony, his sorrow, his remorse, his despair, he
remembered Florence. He saw again her trembling lips, her lonely face
longing for love--the terrible hopeless change that came over it when
his own cruel arm struck her on that final day when she had stood before
him.
His pride at last had fallen. He knew now himself what it was to be
rejected and deserted. He thought how the daughter he had disliked, of
them all, had never changed in her love for him. And by his own act he
had lost her for ever. His son, his wife, his fortune, all had gone, and
now at last in his wretchedness he knew that Florence would always have
been true to him if he had only let her.
Days passed, but he never left the house; every night he wandered
through the empty rooms like a ghost. He grew to be a haggard, wasted
likeness of himself. And one day the thought came to him that it would
be better if he, too, were dead, even if it be by his own hand. This
thought clung to him. He could not shake it off.
One day he took a pistol from his dressing-table and sat hugging it to
his breast. At length he rose and stood in front of a mirror with the
weapon in his hand.
But suddenly he heard a cry--a piercing, loving, rapturous cry--and he
saw at his feet, clasping his knees, with her face lifted to his,
Florence, his long-lost daughter.
"Papa, dearest papa!" she cried, "I have come back to you. I never can
be happy more without you."
He tottered to a chair, feeling her draw his arms around her neck. He
felt her wet cheek laid against his own. He heard her soft voice telling
him that now she herself had a little child--a baby boy born at
sea--whom she and Walter had named Paul.
"Dear papa," she said, "you will come home with me. We will teach our
little child to love and honor you, and we will tell him when he can
understand that you had a son of that name once, and that he died and
that you were sorry; but that he is gone to Heaven, where we all hope to
see him sometime. Kiss me, papa, as a promise that you will be
reconciled. Never let us be parted any more!"
His hard heart had been melting while she spoke. As she clung closer to
him he kissed her, and she heard him mutter, "Oh, God forgive me, for I
need it very much!"
She drew him to his feet, and walking with a feeble gait he went with
her. With her eyes upon his face and his arm about her, she led him to
the coach waiting at the door and carried him away.
Mr. Dombey was very ill for a long time. When he recovered he was no
longer his old self, but a gentle, loving, white-haired old man. Walter
did not go to sea again, but found a position of great trust and
confidence in London, and in their home the old man felt growing
stronger and stronger his new-found love for the daughter whom till
now he had never really known.
Florence never saw Edith again but once. Then the latter came back to
bid her farewell for ever before she went to live in Italy. In these
years Edith had seen her own pride and grieved for her fault. There were
tears in her stern, dark eyes when Florence asked if she would send some
message to Mr. Dombey.
"Tell him," she answered, "that if in his own present he can find a
reason to think less bitterly of me, I asked him to do so. I will try to
forgive him his share of blame; let him try to forgive me mine."
Time went happily by in the home of Walter and Florence. They often
visited the little shop where stood the wooden midshipman, now in a new
suit of paint. The sign above the door had become "Gills and Cuttle,"
for Old Sol and the Captain had gone into partnership, and the firm had
grown rich through the successes of some of Solomon Gills's old
investments which had finally turned out well.
Walter was beloved by everybody who knew him, and in time refounded the
old firm of Dombey and Son.
Often in the summer, on the sea-beach, old Mr. Dombey might have been
seen wandering with Florence's little children. The oldest was little
Paul, and he thought of him sometimes almost as of the other little Paul
who died.
But most of all the old gentleman loved the little girl. He could not
bear to see her sit apart or with a cloud on her face. He often stole
away to look at her in her sleep, and was fondest and most loving to her
when there was no one by.
The child used to say then sometimes:
"Dear grandpa, why do you cry when you kiss me?"
But he would only answer, "Little Florence! Little Florence!" and smooth
away the curls that shaded her earnest eyes.
THE POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF THE PICKWICK CLUB
Published 1836-1837
_Scene_: London, Neighboring Towns, Bath, and the Country
_Time_: 1827 to 1831
CHARACTERS
Mr. Samuel Pickwick A gentleman of an inquiring mind
Founder and chairman of "The Pickwick Club"
Sam Weller His body-servant
Mrs. Bardell His London landlady
Tupman }
}
Snodgrass} Members of "The Pickwick Club"
}
Winkle }
Alfred Jingle A strolling actor and adventurer
Later, known as "Fitz-Marshall"
Job Trotter His servant
Mrs. Budger A rich widow
Doctor Slammer An army surgeon
Mrs. Budger's suitor
Mr. Wardle A country gentleman
A friend of the Pickwickians
Emily His daughter
Miss Wardle His spinster sister
Joe Mr. Wardle's footman
Known as "The Fat Boy"
Tony Weller A stage driver. Sam's father
Mrs. Weller His second wife
Mrs. Leo Hunter A lady with a fondness for knowing
celebrated persons
Mr. Peter Magnus One of Mr. Pickwick's traveling
acquaintances
Nupkins Mayor of Ipswich
Mrs. Nupkins His wife
Miss Nupkins His daughter
Ben Allen }
} Medical students
Bob Sawyer }
Arabella Allen Ben's pretty sister
Sergeant Buzfuz Mrs. Bardell's lawyer
Mr. Dowler One of Mr. Pickwick's acquaintances
at Bath
Mrs. Dowler His wife
Mr. Angelo Cyrus Bantam A society leader at Bath
Mary Nupkins's pretty housemaid
THE PICKWICK PAPERS
I
THE PICKWICKIANS BEGIN THEIR ADVENTURES
THEY MEET MR. ALFRED JINGLE, AND
WINKLE IS INVOLVED IN A DUEL
Once upon a time, in London, there was a club called "The Pickwick
Club." Mr. Samuel Pickwick, its founder and chairman, was a benevolent,
simple-hearted old gentleman of some wealth, with a taste for science.
He delighted to invent the most profound theories, to explain the most
ordinary happenings and to write long papers to be read before the Club.
He had a large bald head, and eyes that twinkled behind round
spectacles, and he made a speech with one hand under his coat tails and
the other waving in the air.
His fellow members looked upon Mr. Pickwick as a very great man, and
when he proposed that he and three others form a "Corresponding
Society," which should travel about and forward to the club accounts of
their adventures, the idea was at once adopted.
The three that Mr. Pickwick chose were named Tupman, Snodgrass and
Winkle. Tupman was middle-aged with a double chin and was so fat that
for years he had not seen the watch chain that crossed his silk
waistcoat. But he had a youthful, romantic disposition, and a great
liking for the fair sex. Snodgrass, who had no parents, was a ward of
Mr. Pickwick's and imagined himself a poet. Winkle was a young man whose
father had sent him to London to learn life; he wore a green
shooting-coat and his great ambition was to be considered a sportsman,
though at heart he was afraid of either a horse or a gun. With these
three companions Mr. Pickwick prepared to set out in search of
adventures.
Next morning as he drove in a cab to the inn where all were to take the
coach, Mr. Pickwick began to chat with the driver. The cabman amused
himself by telling the most impossible things, all of which Mr. Pickwick
believed. When he said his horse was forty-two years old and that he
often kept him out three weeks at a time without resting, down it went
in Mr. Pickwick's note-book as a wonderful instance of the endurance of
horses. Unfortunately, however, the driver thought Mr. Pickwick was
putting down the number of the cab so as to complain of him, and as they
arrived just then at the inn, he jumped from his seat with the intention
of fighting his dismayed passenger. He knocked off Mr. Pickwick's
spectacles and, dancing back and forth as the other's three comrades
rushed to the rescue, planted a blow in Mr. Snodgrass's eye, another in
Tupman's waistcoat and ended by knocking all the breath out of Winkle's
body.
From this dilemma they were rescued by a tall, thin, long-haired, young
man in a faded green coat, worn black trousers and patched shoes, who
seized Mr. Pickwick and lugged him into the inn by main force, talking
with a jaunty independent manner and in rapid and broken sentences:
"This way, sir--where's your friends?--all a mistake--never mind--here,
waiter--brandy and water--raw beefsteak for the gentleman's
eye--eh,--ha-ha!"
The seedy-looking stranger, whose name was Alfred Jingle, was a
passenger on the same coach that day and entertained the Pickwickians
with marvelous stories of his life in Spain. None of these was true, to
be sure, but they were all entered in Mr. Pickwick's note-book. In
gratitude, that night the latter invited Jingle to dinner at the town
inn where they stopped.
The dinner was long, and almost before it was over not only Mr.
Pickwick, but Snodgrass and Winkle also were asleep. Tupman, however,
was more wakeful; a ball, the waiter had told him, was to be held that
night on the upper floor and he longed to attend it. Jingle readily
agreed, especially when Tupman said he could borrow for him a blue dress
suit, the property of the sleeping Winkle.
They were soon dressed and at the ball. Jingle's jaunty air gained him
a number of introductions. Before long he was dancing with a little old
widow named Mrs. Budger, who was very rich, and to whom he at once began
to make love. There was an army surgeon present named Slammer--a short
fat man with a ring of upright black hair around his head, and a bald
plain on top of it--who had been courting the rich widow himself. Doctor
Slammer was old; Jingle was young, and the lady felt flattered. Every
moment the doctor grew angrier and at last tried to pick a quarrel with
the wearer of the blue dress suit, at which Jingle only laughed. The
ball over, Tupman and Jingle went down stairs. Winkle's clothes were
returned to their place, and Jingle, promising to join the party at
dinner next day, took his departure.
The Pickwickians were hardly awake next morning when an army officer
came to the inn inquiring which gentleman of their number owned a blue
dress suit with gilt buttons. When told that Mr. Winkle had such a
costume he demanded to see him, and at once, in the name of his friend
Doctor Slammer, challenged him to fight a duel that night at sunset.
Poor Winkle almost fainted with surprise. When the stranger explained
that the wearer of the blue suit had insulted Doctor Slammer, Winkle
concluded that he must have drunk too much wine at dinner, changed his
clothes, gone somewhere, and insulted somebody--of all of which he had
no recollection. He saw no way, therefore, but to accept the
bloodthirsty challenge, hoping that something would happen to prevent
the duel.