and was obliged to flee from justice, it was Sissy who saved him from
ruin. She sent him, with a note of explanation, to her old friend, Mr.
Sleary,--whose whereabouts she happened to know at the time, and asked
him to hide young Thomas until he should have further advice from her.
Then she and Louisa and Mr. Gradgrind journeyed hurriedly to the town,
where they found the Circus. A performance was just beginning when they
arrived, and they found the culprit in the ring, disguised as a
black servant.
When the performance was over, Mr. Sleary came out and greeted them with
great heartiness, exclaiming; "Thethilia, it doth me good to thee you.
You wath always a favorite with uth, and you've done uth credit thinth
the old timeth, I'm thure."
He then suggested that such members of his troupe as would remember her
be called to see her, and presently Sissy found herself amid the
familiar scenes of her childhood, surrounded by an eager and
affectionate group of her old comrades. While she was busily talking
with them, Mr. Sleary entered into a consultation with Mr. Gradgrind
upon the subject of his erring son's future. He then told the poor,
distressed father that for Sissy's sake, and because Mr. Gradgrind had
been so kind to her, he would help the culprit to escape from the
country, secretly, by night Then, growing confidential, he added:
"Thquire, you don't need to be told that dogth ith wonderful animalth."
"Their instinct," said Mr. Gradgrind, "is surprising."
"Whatever you call it--and I'm bletht if I know what to call it"--said
Sleary, "it ith athtonithing. Ith fourteen month ago, Thquire, thinthe
we wath at Chethter. One morning there cometh into our Ring, by the
thage door, a dog. He had travelled a long way, he wath in very bad
condition, he wath lame and pretty well blind. He went round as if he
wath a theeking for a child he know'd; and then he comed to me, and
thood on hith two fore-legth, weak ath he wath, and then he wagged hith
tail and died. Thquire, that dog wath Merrylegth."
"Sissy's father's dog!"
"Thethilia's fatherth old dog. Now, Thquire, I can take my oath, from my
knowledge of that dog, that that man wath dead--and buried--afore that
dog came back to me. We talked it over a long time, whether I thould
write or not, but we agreed, No. There'th nothing comfortable to tell;
why unthettle her mind, and make her unhappy? Tho, whether her father
bathely detherted her; or whether he broke his own heart alone, rather
than pull her down along with him, never will be known, now, Thquire,
till we know how the dogth findth uth out!"
"She keeps the bottle that he sent her for, to this hour, and she will
believe in his affection to the last moment of her life," said Mr.
Gradgrind.
"It theemth to prethent two things to a perthon, don't it?" said Mr.
Sleary musingly, "one, that there ith a love in the world, not all
thelf-interest, after all, but thomething very different; t'other, that
it hath a way of its own of calculating with ith as hard to give a name
to, ath the wayth of the dogth ith!"
Mr. Gradgrind looked out of the window, and made no reply. He was deep
in thought, and the result of his meditation became evident from that
day in a gradual broadening of his nature and purposes. He never again
attempted to replace nature's instincts and affections by his own system
of education, and as the years went by he made no further attempt to
destroy Sissy's loving faith in that father who had left her long ago;
he only tried to compensate her for that loss as best he could;--and
for the education which led to the softening of his hard, cold nature,
the credit belongs to the daughter of a clown, to whom love meant more
than logic.
FLORENCE DOMBEY
[Illustration: FLORENCE DOMBEY]
FLORENCE DOMBEY
There never was a child more loving or more lovable than Florence
Dombey. There never was a child more ready to respond to loving
ministrations than she, more eager to yield herself in docile obedience
to a parent's wish; and to her mother she clung with a desperate
affection at variance with her years.
But the sad day came when, clasped in her mother's arms, the little
creature, with her perfectly colorless face, and deep, dark eyes, never
moved her soft cheek from her mother's face, nor looked on those who
stood around, nor shed a tear, understanding that soon she would be
bereft of that mother's care and love.
"Mamma!" cried the child at last, sobbing aloud; "Oh, dear mamma! oh,
dear mamma!"
Then, clinging fast to that slight spar within her arms, the mother
drifted out upon the dark and unknown sea that rolls round all the
world, leaving Florence and the new-born baby brother in the
father's care.
Alas for Florence! To that father,--the pompous head of the great firm
of Dombey and Son--girls never showed a sufficient justification for
their existence, and this one of his own was an object of supreme
indifference to him; while upon the tiny boy, his heir and future
partner in the firm, he lavished all his interest, centred all his hopes
and affection.
After her mother's death, Florence was taken away by an aunt; and a
nurse, named Polly Richards, was secured for baby Paul. A few weeks
later, as Polly was sitting in her own room with her young charge, the
door was quietly opened, and a dark-eyed little girl looked in.
"It's Miss Florence, come home from her aunt's, no doubt," thought
Richards, who had never seen the child before. "Hope I see you
well, miss."
"Is that my brother?" asked the child, pointing to the baby.
"Yes, my pretty," answered Richards, "come and kiss him."
But the child, instead of advancing, looked her earnestly in the face,
and said:
"What have you done with my mamma?"
"Lord bless the little creetur!" cried Richards. "What a sad question!
_I_ done? Nothing, miss."
"What have they done with my mamma?" cried the child.
"I never saw such a melting thing in all my life!" said Richards. "Come
nearer here; come, my dear miss! Don't be afraid of me."
"I'm not afraid of you," said the child, drawing nearer, "but I want to
know what they have done with my mamma."
"My darling," said Richards, "come and sit down by me, and I'll tell you
a story."
With a quick perception that it was intended to relate to what she had
asked, little Florence sat down on a stool at the nurse's feet, looking
up into her face.
"Once upon a time," said Richards, "there was a lady--a very good lady,
and her little daughter dearly loved her--who, when God thought it right
that it should be so, was taken ill, and died. Died, never to be seen
again by anyone on earth, and was buried in the ground where the
trees grow."
"The cold ground," said the child, shuddering.
"No, the warm ground," returned Polly, seizing her advantage, "where the
ugly little seeds turn into beautiful flowers, and into grass, and into
corn, and I don't know what all besides. Where good people turn into
bright angels, and fly away to heaven!"
The child who had drooped her head, raised it again, and sat looking at
her intently.
"So; let me see," said Polly, not a little flurried between this earnest
scrutiny, her desire to comfort the child, her sudden success, and her
very slight confidence in her own powers. "So, when this lady died, she
went to God! and she prayed to Him, this lady did," said Polly,
affecting herself beyond measure, being heartily in earnest, "to teach
her little daughter to be sure of that in her heart; and to know that
she was happy there, and loved her still; and to hope and try--oh, all
her life--to meet her there one day, never, never, never to part
any more."
"It was my mamma!" exclaimed the child, springing up, and clasping her
around the neck.
"And the child's heart," said Polly, drawing her to her breast, "the
little daughter's heart was so full of the truth of this, that even when
she heard it from a strange nurse that couldn't tell it right, but was a
poor mother herself, and that was all, she found a comfort in it--didn't
feel so lonely--sobbed and cried upon her bosom--took kindly to the baby
lying in her lap--and--there, there, there!" said Polly, smoothing the
child's curls, and dropping tears upon her. "There, poor dear!"
"Oh, well, Miss Floy! and won't your pa be angry neither?" cried a quick
voice at the door, proceeding from a short, brown womanly girl of
fourteen, with little snub nose, and black eyes like jet beads, "when it
was tickerlerly given out that you wasn't to go and worrit the nurse."
"She don't worry me," was the surprised rejoinder of Polly. "I'm very
fond of children. Miss Florence has just come home, hasn't she?"
"Yes, Mrs. Richards, and here, Miss Floy, before you've been in the
house a quarter of an hour, you go a-smearing your wet face against the
expensive mourning that Mrs. Richards is a-wearing for your ma!" With
this remonstrance, young Spitfire, whose real name was Susan Nipper,
detached the child from her new friend by a wrench--as if she were a
tooth. But she seemed to do it more in the sharp exercise of her
official functions, than with any deliberate unkindness.
"She'll be quite happy, now that she's come home again," said Polly,
nodding to her with a smile, "and will be so pleased to see her dear
papa to-night."
"Lork, Mrs. Richards!" cried Miss Nipper, taking up her words with a
jerk, "Don't! See her dear papa, indeed! I should like to see her do it!
Her pa's a deal too wrapped up in somebody else; and before there was
somebody else to be wrapped up in, she never was a favorite. Girls are
thrown away in this house, I assure you."
"You surprise me," cried Polly. "Hasn't Mr. Dombey seen her since--"
"No," interrupted Miss Nipper. "Not once since. And he hadn't hardly set
his eyes upon her before that, for months and months, and I don't think
he would know her for his own child if he was to meet her in the streets
to-morrow. Oh, there's a Tartar within a hundred miles of here, I can
tell you, Mrs. Richards!" said Susan Nipper; "Wish you good morning,
Mrs. Richards. Now Miss Floy, you come along with me, and don't go
hanging back like a naughty wicked child, that judgments is no example
to, don't."
In spite of being thus adjured, and in spite also of some hauling on the
part of Susan Nipper, little Florence broke away, and kissed her new
friend affectionately, but Susan Nipper made a charge at her, and swept
her out of the room.
When Polly Richards was left alone, her heart was sore for the
motherless little girl, and she determined to devise some means of
having Florence beside her lawfully and without rebellion. An opening
happened to present itself that very night.
She had been rung down into the conservatory, as usual, and was walking
about with the baby in her arms, when Mr. Dombey came up and
stopped her.
"He looks thriving," said Mr. Dombey, glancing with great interest at
Paul's tiny face, which she uncovered for his observation. "They give
you everything that you want, I hope?"
"Oh, yes, thank you, sir;"
She hesitated so, however, that Mr. Dombey stopped again and looked at
her inquiringly.
"I believe nothing is so good for making children lively, sir, as seeing
other children playing about them," observed Polly, taking courage.
"I think I mentioned to you, Richards, when you came here," said Mr.
Dombey, with a frown; "that I wished you to see as little of your family
as possible. You can continue your walk, if you please."
With that he disappeared into an inner room, and Polly felt that she had
fallen into disgrace without the least advancement of her purpose; but
next night when she came down, he called her to him. "If you really
think that kind of society is good for the child," he said sharply, as
if there had been no interval since she proposed it, "where's Miss
Florence?"
"Nothing could be better than Miss Florence, sir," said Polly eagerly,
"but I understood from her little maid that they were not to--" But Mr.
Dombey rang the bell, and gave his orders before she had a chance to
finish the sentence.
"Tell them always to let Miss Florence be with Richards when she
chooses," he commanded; and, the iron being hot, Richards striking on it
boldly, requested that the child might be sent down at once to make
friends with her little brother.
When Florence timidly presented herself, had Mr. Dombey looked towards
her with a father's eye, he might have read in her keen glance the
passionate desire to run to him, crying, "Oh, father, try to love
me,--there is no one else"; the dread of a repulse; the fear of being
too bold and of offending him. But he saw nothing of this. He saw her
pause at the door and look towards him, and he saw no more.
"Come here, Florence," said her father coldly. "Have you nothing to say
to me?"
The tears that stood in her eyes as she raised them quickly to his face,
were frozen by the expression it wore. She looked down again, and put
out her trembling hand, which Mr. Dombey took loosely in his own.
"There! be a good girl," he said, patting her on the head, and regarding
her with a disturbed and doubtful look, "go to Richards! go!"
His little daughter hesitated for another instant, as though she would
have clung about him still, or had some lingering hope that he might
raise her in his arms and kiss her. But he dropped her hand and turned
away. Still Polly persevered, and managed so well with little Paul as to
make it very plain that he was all the livelier for his sister's
company. When it was time for Florence to go to bed, the nurse urged her
to say good night to her father, but the child hesitated, and Mr. Dombey
called from the inner room; "It doesn't matter. You can let her come and
go without regarding me."
The child shrunk as she listened, and was gone before her humble friend
looked around again.
* * * * *
Just around the corner from Mr. Dombey's office was the little shop of a
nautical-instrument maker whose name was Solomon Gills. The
stock-in-trade of this old gentleman comprised chronometers, barometers,
telescopes, compasses, charts, maps, and every kind of an instrument
used in the working of a ship's course, or the keeping of a ship's
reckoning, or the prosecuting of a ship's discovery. Old prints of ships
hung in frames upon the walls; outlandish shells, seaweeds and mosses
decorated the chimney-piece; the little wainscoted parlor was lighted by
a skylight, like a cabin, The shop itself seemed almost to become a
sea-going ship-shape concern, wanting only good sea room, in the event
of an unexpected launch, to work its way securely to any desert island
in the world.
Here Solomon Gills lived, in skipper-like state, all alone with his
nephew, Walter; a boy of fourteen, who looked quite enough like a
midshipman to carry out the prevailing idea.
It is half past five o'clock, and an autumn afternoon. Solomon Gills is
wondering where Walter is, when a voice exclaims, "Halloa, Uncle Sol!"
and the instrument-maker, turning briskly around, sees a
cheerful-looking, merry boy fresh with running home in the rain;
fair-faced, bright-eyed and curly-haired.
"Well, uncle, how have you got on without me all day? Is dinner ready?
I'm so hungry."
"As to getting on," said Solomon, good-naturedly, "It would be odd if I
couldn't get on without a young dog like you a great deal better than
with you. As to dinner being ready, it's been waiting for you this
half-hour. As to being hungry, I am!"
"Come along, then, uncle!" cried the boy, and Uncle Sol and his nephew
were speedily engaged on a fried sole, with a prospect of steak
to follow.
"Now," said the old man eagerly, "Let's hear something about the Firm."
"Oh! there's not much to be told, uncle," said the boy, plying his knife
and fork. "When Mr. Dombey came in, he walked up to my seat--I wish he
wasn't so solemn and stiff, uncle--and told me you had spoken to him
about me, and that he had found me employment in the House accordingly,
and that I was expected to be attentive and punctual, and then he went
away. I thought he didn't seem to like me much."
"You mean, I suppose." observed the instrument-maker, "that you didn't
seem to like him much."
"Well, uncle," returned the boy laughing, "perhaps so; I never thought
of that."
Solomon looked a little graver as he finished his dinner, and glanced
from time to time at the boy's bright face. When dinner was done, he
went down into a little cellar, and returned with a bottle covered with
dust and dirt.
"Why, uncle Sol!" said the boy, "What are you about? that's the
wonderful Madeira--there's only one more bottle!"
Uncle Sol nodded his head, and having drawn the cork in solemn silence,
filled two glasses, and set the bottle and a third clean glass on
the table.
"You shall drink the other bottle, Wally," he said, "When you come to
good fortune; when you are a thriving, respected, happy man; when the
start in life you have made to-day shall have brought you--as I pray
Heaven it may!--to a smooth part of the course you have to run, my
child. My love to you!"
They clinked their glasses together, and were deep in conversation, when
an addition to the little party made its appearance, in the shape of a
gentleman with a hook instead of a hand attached to his right wrist;
very bushy black eyebrows; and a thick stick in his left hand, covered
all over (like his nose) with knobs. He wore a loose black silk
handkerchief round his neck, and such a very large shirt-collar that it
looked like a small sail over his wide suit of blue. He was evidently
the person for whom the spare wineglass was intended, and evidently knew
it; for having taken off his coat, and hung up his hard glazed hat, he
brought a chair to where the clean glass was, and sat himself down
behind it. He was usually addressed as Captain, this visitor; and had
been a pilot, or a skipper, or a privateer's man, or all three perhaps;
and was a very salt looking man indeed. His face brightened as he shook
hands with uncle and nephew; but he seemed to be of a laconic
disposition, and merely said: "How goes it?"
"All well," said Mr. Gills, pushing the bottle towards the new-comer,
Captain Cuttle, who thereupon proceeded to fill his glass, and the
wonderful Madeira loosened his tongue to the extent of giving utterance
to a prodigous oration for Walter's benefit.
"Come," cried Solomon Gills, "we must finish the bottle."
"Stand by!" said Captain Cuttle, filling his glass again. "Give the boy
some more."
"Yes," said Sol, "a little more. We'll finish the bottle to the
House,--Walter's house. Why, it may be his house one of these days, in
part. Who knows? Sir Richard Whittington married his master's daughter."
"Turn again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London, and when you are old,
you will never depart from it," interposed the Captain. "Wal'r, overhaul
the book, my lad!"
"And although Mr. Dombey hasn't a daughter--" Sol began.
"Yes, yes, he has, uncle," said the boy, reddening and laughing. "I know
he has. Some of them were talking about it in the office to-day. And
they do say that he's taken a dislike to her, and that she's left
unnoticed among the servants, while he thinks of no one but his son.
That's what they say. Of course I don't know."
"He knows all about her already, you see," said the instrument-maker.
"Nonsense, uncle," cried the boy reddening again; "how can I help
hearing what they tell me?"
"The son's a little in our way at present, I'm afraid," added the old
man, humoring the joke. "Nevertheless, we'll drink to him," pursued Sol.
"So, here's to Dombey and Son."
"Oh, very well, uncle," said the boy merrily. "Since you have introduced
the mention of her, and have said that I know all about her, I shall
make bold to amend the toast. So,--here's to Dombey--and Son--and
Daughter!"
Meanwhile, in Mr. Dombey's mansion, baby Paul was thriving under the
watchful care of Polly Richards, Mr. Dombey, and Mr. Dombey's friends,
and the day of his christening arrived. On that important occasion, the
baby's excitement was so great that no one could soothe him until
Florence was summoned. As she hid behind her nurse, he followed her with
his eyes; and when she peeped out with a merry cry to him, he sprang up
and crowed lustily--laughing outright when she ran in upon him, and
seeming to fondle her curls with his tiny hands while she smothered him
with kisses.
Was Mr. Dombey pleased to see this? He did not show it. If any sunbeam
stole into the room to light the children at their play, it never
reached his face. He looked on so coldly that the warm light vanished,
even from the laughing eyes of little Florence when, at last, they
happened to meet his.
The contemplation of Paul in his christening robe made his nurse yearn
for a sight of her own first-born, although this was a pleasure strictly
forbidden by Mr. Dombey's orders. But the longing so overpowered her
that she consulted Miss Nipper as to the possibility of gratifying it,
and that young woman, eager herself for an expedition, urged Polly to
visit her home. So, the next morning the two nurses set out together:
Richards carrying Paul, and Susan leading little Florence by the hand,
and giving her such jerks and pokes as she considered it wholesome to
administer. Then for a brief half-hour, Polly enjoyed the longed-for
pleasure of being again in the bosom of her family, but the visit had a
sad ending, for on the way back, passing through a crowded thoroughfare
the little party became separated. A thundering alarm of Mad Bull! was
raised. With a wild confusion of people running up and down, and
shouting, and wheels running over them, and boys fighting, and mad bulls
coming up, and the nurse in the midst of all these dangers, being torn
to pieces, Florence screamed and ran. She ran until she was exhausted,
then found with a sensation of terror not to be described, that she was
quite alone.
"Susan! Susan!" cried Florence. "Oh, where are they?"
"Where are they?" said an old woman, hobbling across from the opposite
side of the road. "Why did you run away from 'em?"
"I was frightened," answered Florence. "I didn't know what I did. I
thought they were with me. Where are they?"
The old woman took her by the wrist, and said, "I'll show you."
She was a very ugly old woman indeed, miserably dressed, and carried
some skins over her arm. Florence was afraid of her, and looked,
hesitating, up the street. It was a solitary place, and there was no one
in it but herself and the old woman.
"You needn't be frightened now," said the old woman, still holding her
tight "Come along with me."
"I--don't know you. What's your name?" asked Florence.
"Mrs. Brown," said the old woman, "Good Mrs. Brown. Susan ain't far
off," said Good Mrs. Brown, "and the others are close to her, and
nobody's hurt."
The child shed tears of delight on hearing this, and accompanied the old
woman willingly. They had not gone far, when they stopped before a
shabby little house in a dirty little lane. Opening the door with a key
she took out of her pocket, Mrs. Brown pushed the child into a back
room, where there was a great heap of rags lying on the floor, a heap of
bones, and a heap of sifted dust. But there was no furniture at all, and
the walls and ceiling were quite black.
The child became so terrified, that she was stricken speechless, and
looked as though about to swoon.
"Now, don't be a young mule," said Good Mrs. Brown, reviving her with a
shake. "I'm not a' going to keep you, even above an hour. Don't vex me.
If you don't, I tell you, I won't hurt you. But if you do, I'll kill
you. I could have you killed at any time--even if you was in your own
bed at home. Now let's know who you are, and what you are, and all
about it."
The old woman's threats and promises, and Florence's habit of being
quiet, and repressing what she felt, enabled her to tell her little
history. Mrs. Brown listened attentively until she had finished.
"I want that pretty frock, Miss Dombey," said Good Mrs. Brown, "and that
little bonnet, and a petticoat or two, and those shoes, Miss Dombey, and
anything else you can spare. Come! take 'em off."