the while, a frightened eye on Mrs. Brown, who examined each article of
apparel at leisure, and seemed tolerably well satisfied with their
quality and value; she then produced a worn-out girl's cloak, and the
crushed remnants of a girl's bonnet, as well as other tattered things.
In this dainty raiment she instructed Florence to dress herself, and as
this seemed a prelude to her release, the child complied as fast as
possible. Mrs. Brown then resumed her seat on the bones, and smoked a
very short, black pipe, after which she gave the child a rabbit-skin to
carry, that she might appear like her ordinary companion, and led her
forth into the streets; but she cautioned her, with threats of deadly
vengeance in case of disobedience, to go directly to her father's office
in the city, also to wait at the street corner where she would be left,
until the clock struck three, and these directions Florence promised
faithfully to observe.
At length Mrs. Brown left her changed and ragged little friend at a
corner, where, true to her promise, she remained until the steeple rang
out three o'clock, when after often looking over her shoulder, lest the
all-powerful spies of Mrs. Brown should take offence at that, she
hurried off as fast as she could in her slipshod shoes, holding the
rabbit-skin tight in her hand.
Tired of walking, stunned by the noise and confusion, anxious for her
brother and the nurses, terrified by what she had undergone, and what
was yet before her, Florence once or twice could not help stopping and
crying bitterly, but few people noticed her, in the garb she wore, or if
they did, believed that she was tutored to excite compassion, and passed
on. It was late in the afternoon when she peeped into a kind of wharf,
and asked a stout man there if he could tell her the way to Dombey
& Son's.
The man looked attentively at her, then called another man, who ran up
an archway, and very soon returned with a blithe-looking boy who he said
was in Mr. Dombey's employ.
Hearing this, Florence felt re-assured; ran eagerly up to him, and
caught his hand in both of hers.
"I'm lost, if you please!" said Florence. "I was lost this morning, a
long way from here--and I have had my own clothes taken away since--and
my name is Florence Dombey, and, oh dear, take care of me, if you
please!" sobbed Florence, giving full vent to her childish feelings.
"Don't cry, Miss Dombey," said young Walter Gay, the nephew of Solomon
Gills, in a transport of enthusiasm. "What a wonderful thing for me that
I am here. You are as safe now as if you were guarded by a whole boat's
crew of picked men from a man-of-war. Oh, don't cry!"
"I won't cry any more," said Florence. "I'm only crying for joy."
"Crying for joy!" thought Walter, "and I'm the cause of it. Come along,
Miss Dombey, let me see the villain who will molest you now!"
So Walter, looking immensely fierce, led off Florence looking very
happy; and as Mr. Dombey's office was closed for the night, he led her
to his uncle's, to leave her there while he should go and tell Mr.
Dombey that she was safe, and bring her back some clothes.
"Halloa, Uncle Sol," cried Walter, bursting into the shop; "Here's a
wonderful adventure! Here's Mr. Dombey's daughter lost in the streets,
and robbed of her clothes by an old witch of a woman--found by
me--brought home to our parlor to rest--Here--just help me lift the
little sofa near the fire, will you, uncle Sol?--Cut some dinner for
her, will you, uncle; throw those shoes under the grate, Miss
Florence--put your feet on the fender to dry--how damp they are!--Here's
an adventure, uncle, eh?--God bless my soul, how hot I am!"
Solomon Gills was quite as hot, by sympathy; and in excessive
bewilderment, he patted Florence's head, pressed her to eat, pressed her
to drink, rubbed the soles of her feet with his pocket-handkerchief,
heated at the fire, followed his locomotive nephew with his eyes and
ears, and had no clear perception of anything except that he was being
constantly knocked against, and tumbled over by that excited young
gentleman, as he darted about the room, attempting to accomplish twenty
things at once, and doing nothing at all.
"Here, wait a minute, uncle," he continued, "till I run upstairs and get
another jacket on, and then I'll be off. I say, uncle, isn't this an
adventure?"
"My dear boy," said Solomon, "it is the most extraordinary--"
"No, but do, uncle, please--do, Miss Florence--dinner, you know, uncle."
"Yes, yes, yes," cutting instantly into a leg of mutton, as if he were
catering for a giant. "I'll take care of her, Wally! Pretty dear!
Famished, of course. You go and get ready. Lord bless me! Sir Richard
Whittington, thrice Mayor of London!"
While Walter was preparing to leave, Florence, overcome by fatigue, had
sunk into a doze before the fire and when the boy returned, she was
sleeping peacefully.
"That's capital!" he whispered, "Don't wake her, uncle Sol!"
"No, no," answered Solomon, "Pretty child!"
"_Pretty_, indeed!" cried Walter, "I never saw such a face! Now I'm
off."
Arriving at Mr. Dombey's house, and breathlessly announcing his errand
to the servant, Walter was shown into the library, where he confronted
Mr. Dombey.
"Oh! beg your pardon, sir," said Walter, rushing up to him; "but I'm
happy to say, it's all right, sir. Miss Dombey's found!"
"I told you she would certainly be found," said Mr. Dombey calmly, to
the others in the room. "Let the servants know that no further steps are
necessary. This boy who brings the information is young Gay from the
office. How was my daughter found, sir? I know how she was lost." Here
he looked majestically at Richards. "But how was she found? Who
found her?"
It was quite out of Walter's power to be coherent, but he rendered
himself as explanatory as he could, in his breathless state, and told
why he had come alone.
"You hear this, girl?" said Mr. Dombey sternly, to Susan Nipper. "Take
what is necessary and return immediately with this young man to fetch
Miss Florence home. Gay, you will be rewarded to-morrow."
"Oh! thank you, sir," said Walter. "You are very kind. I'm sure I was
not thinking of any reward sir."
"You are a boy," said Mr. Dombey, almost fiercely; "and what you think
of, or what you affect to think of, is of little consequence. You have
done well, sir. Don't undo it."
Returning to his uncle's with Miss Nipper, Walter found that Florence,
much refreshed by sleep, had dined and come to be on terms of perfect
confidence and ease with old Sol. Miss Nipper caught her in her arms,
and made a very hysterical meeting of it. Then, converting the parlor
into a private tiring-room, she dressed her in proper clothes, and
presently led her forth to say farewell.
"Good-night," said Florence to the elder man, "you have been very good
to me."
Uncle Sol was quite delighted, and kissed her like her grandfather.
"Good-night, Walter," she said, "I'll never forget you, No! Indeed I
never will. Good-by!"
The entrance of the lost child at home made a slight sensation, but not
much. Mr. Dombey kissed her once upon the forehead, and cautioned her
not to wander anywhere again with treacherous attendants. He then
dismissed the culprit Polly Richards, from his service, telling her to
leave immediately, and it was a dagger in the haughty father's heart to
see Florence holding to her dress, and crying to her not to go. Not that
he cared to whom his daughter turned, or from whom turned away. The
swift, sharp agony struck through him as he thought of what his
son might do.
His son cried lustily that night, at all events; and the next day a new
nurse, Wickam by name, took Polly's place.
She lavished every care upon little Paul, yet all her vigilance could
not make him a thriving boy. When he was nearly five years old, he was
a pretty little fellow, but so very delicate that Mr. Dombey became
alarmed about him, and decided to send him at once to the seashore.
So to Brighton, Paul and Florence and nurse Wickam went, and boarded
with a certain Mrs. Pipchin there. On Saturdays Mr. Dombey came down to
a hotel near by, and Paul and Florence would go and have tea with him,
and every day they spent their time upon the sands, and Florence was
always content when Paul was happy.
While the children were thus living at Brighton, a warrant was served
upon old Solomon Gills, by a broker, because of a payment overdue upon a
bond debt. Old Sol was overcome by the extent of this calamity, which he
could not avert, and Walter hurried out to fetch Captain Cuttle to
discuss the situation. To the lad's dismay, the Captain insisted upon
applying to Mr. Dombey at once for the necessary loan which would help
old Sol out of his difficulty. So Walter proceeded with him to Brighton
as fast as coach horses could carry them, and on a Sunday morning while
Mr. Dombey was at breakfast, Florence came running in, her face suffused
with a bright color, and her eyes sparkling joyfully, and cried:
"Papa! Papa! here's Walter, and he won't come in!"
"Who?" cried Mr. Dombey, "What does she mean,--what is this?"
"Walter, Papa," said Florence timidly; "who found me when I was lost!"
"Tell the boy to come in," said Mr. Dombey. "Now, Gay, what is the
matter?"
Tremblingly Walter Gay stood in the presence of his proud employer, and
made known his uncle's distress, and when he ceased speaking, Captain
Cuttle stepped forward, and clearing a space among the breakfast cups at
Mr. Dombey's elbow, produced a silver watch, ready money to the amount
of thirteen pounds and half a crown, two teaspoons and a pair of
battered sugar-tongs, and piling them up into a heap, that they might
look as precious as possible, said:
"Half a loaf is better than no bread, and the same remark holds good
with crumbs. There's a few. Annuity of one hundred pounds p'rannum also
ready to be made over!"
Florence had listened tearfully to Walter's sad tale and to the
captain's offer of his valuables, and little Paul now tried to comfort
her; but Mr. Dombey, watching them, saw only his son's wistful
expression, thought only of his pleasure, and after taking the child on
his knee, and having a brief consulation with him, he announced
pompously that Master Paul would lend the money to Walter's uncle. Young
Gay tried to express his gratitude for this favor, but Mr. Dombey
stopped him short. Then, sweeping the captain's property from him, he
added, "Have the goodness to take these things away, sir!"
Captain Cuttle was so much struck by the magnanimity of Mr. Dombey, in
refusing treasures lying heaped up to his hand, that when he had
deposited them in his pockets again, he could not refrain from grasping
that gentleman's right hand in his own solitary left, before following
Walter out of the room, and Mr. Dombey shivered at his touch.
Florence was running after them, to send some message to old Sol, when
Mr. Dombey called her back, bidding her stay where she was, and so the
episode ended.
When the children had been nearly twelve months at Mrs. Pipchin's, Mr.
Dombey decided to send Paul to Dr. Blimber's boarding-school where his
education would be properly begun. Accordingly, Paul began his studies
in that hot-bed of learning, where the dreamy, delicate child with his
quaint ways soon became a favorite with teachers and pupils. The
process of being educated was difficult for one so young and frail, and
he might have sunk beneath the burden of his tasks but for looking
forward to the weekly visit to his sister at Mrs. Pipchin's.
Oh, Saturdays! Oh, happy Saturdays! When Florence always came for him at
noon, and never would in any weather stay away: these Saturdays were
Sabbaths for at least two little Christians among all the Jews, and did
the holy Sabbath work of strengthening and knitting up a brother's and a
sister's love.
Seeing her brother's difficulty with his lessons, Florence procured
books similar to his, and sat down at night to track his footsteps
through the thorny ways of learning; and being naturally quick, and
taught by that most wonderful of masters, Love, it was not long before
she gained upon Paul's heels, and caught, and passed him.
And high was her reward, when one Saturday evening she sat down by his
side and made all that was so dark, clear and plain before him. It was
nothing but a startled look in Paul's wan face--a flush--a smile--and
then a close embrace--but God knows how her heart leaped up at this rich
payment for her trouble.
"Oh, Floy!" he cried, "how I love you!"
He said no more about it, but all that evening sat close by her, very
quiet; and in the night he called out from his little room, three or
four times, that he loved her. Regularly after that Florence sat down
with him on Saturday night, and assisted him through so much as they
could anticipate together of his next week's work.
And so the months went by, until the midsummer vacation was near at
hand, and the great party which was to celebrate the breaking up of
school, was about to come off. Some weeks before this, Paul had had a
fainting turn, and had not recovered his strength, in consequence of
which, he was enjoying complete rest from lessons, and it was clear to
every one, that, once at home, he would never come back to Dr. Blimber's
or to any school again, and to no one was the sad truth more evident
than to Florence.
On the evening of the great party Florence came, looking so beautiful in
her simple ball dress, with her fresh flowers in her hand, that she was
the admiration of all the young gentlemen of the school, and
particularly of Mr. Toots, the head boy; a simple youth with an engaging
manner, and the habit of blushing and chuckling when addressed. Mr.
Toots had made Paul his especial favorite and charge, and was well
repaid for his devotion to the boy by the gracious appreciation which
Florence showed him for it, and it was to the care of Mr. Toots that
Paul, when leaving, intrusted the dog Diogenes, who had never received a
friend into his confidence before Paul had become his companion.
The brother and sister remained together for a time at Mrs. Pipchin's,
then went back to their home in London, where little Paul's life ebbed
away, and his father's hopes were crushed by the blow.
There was a hush through Mr. Dombey's great mansion when the child was
gone, and Florence;--was she so alone in the bleak world that nothing
else remained to her except her little maid? Nothing.
At first, when the house subsided into its accustomed course she could
do nothing but weep, and wander up and down, and sometimes, in a sudden
pang of desolate remembrance, fly to her own chamber, lay her face down
on her bed, and know no consolation. But it is not in the nature of pure
love to burn so fiercely and unkindly long. Soon, in the midst of the
dismal house, her low voice in the twilight slowly touched an old air to
which she had so often listened with Paul's head upon her arm. And
after that, and when it was quite dark, a little strain of music
trembled in the room, repeated often, in the shadowy solitude; and
broken murmurs of the strain still trembled on the keys when the sweet
voice was hushed in tears.
One day Florence was amazed at receiving a visit from Mr. Toots, who
entered the room with much hesitation, and, with a series of chuckles,
laughs, and blushes, informed her that he had brought her little Paul's
pet, the dog Diogenes, as a companion in her loneliness.
"He ain't a lady's dog, you know," said Mr. Toots, "but I hope you won't
mind that. If you would like to have him, he's at the door."
In fact, Diogenes was at that moment staring through the window of a
hackney cabriolet, into which he had been ensnared on a false pretence
of rats among the straw. Sooth to say, he was as unlike a lady's dog as
dog might be; and in his gruff anxiety to get out, gave short yelps, and
overbalancing himself by the intensity of his efforts, tumbled down into
the straw, and then sprung up panting again, putting out his tongue, as
if he had come express to a Dispensary to be examined for his health.
But though Diogenes was as ridiculous a dog as one would meet with on a
summer's day; a blundering, ill-favored, clumsy, bullet-headed dog,
continually acting on the wrong idea that there was an enemy in the
neighborhood whom it was meritorious to bark at; and though he was far
from good-tempered, and certainly was not clever, and had hair all over
his eyes, and a comical nose, and an inconsistent tail, and a gruff
voice,--he was dearer to Florence, in virtue of Paul's parting
remembrance of him, and that request that he might be taken care of,
than the most valuable and beautiful of his kind. So dear, indeed, was
this same ugly Diogenes, and so welcome to her, that she kissed the
hand of Mr. Toots in her gratitude. And when Diogenes, released, came
tearing up the stairs and, bouncing into the room, dived under all the
furniture, and wound a long iron chain that dangled from his neck round
legs of chairs and tables, and then tugged at it until his eyes nearly
started out of his head; and when he growled at Mr. Toots, who affected
familiarity, Florence was as pleased with him as if he had been a
miracle of discretion.
Mr. Toots was so overjoyed by the success of his present, and so
delighted to see Florence bending over Diogenes, smoothing his coarse
back with her little delicate hand--Diogenes graciously allowing it from
the first moment of their acquaintance--that he felt it difficult to
take leave, and would, no doubt have been a much longer time in making
up his mind to do so, if he had not been assisted by Diogenes himself,
who suddenly took it into his head to bay at Mr. Toots, and to make
short runs at him with his mouth open. Not exactly seeing his way to the
end of these demonstrations, Mr. Toot with chuckles, lapsed out of the
door, and got away.
"Come, then, Di! Dear Di! Make friends with your new mistress. Let us
love each other, Di!" said Florence, fondling his shaggy head. And Di,
the rough and gruff, as if his hairy hide were pervious to the tear that
dropped upon it, and his dog's heart melted as it fell, put his nose up
to her face and swore fidelity.
A banquet was immediately provided for him, and when he had eaten and
drunk his fill, he went to Florence, rose up on his hind legs, with his
awkward fore-paws on her shoulders, licked her face and hands, nestled
his great head against her heart, and wagged his tail till he was tired
Finally, he coiled himself up at her feet, and went to sleep.
That same night Susan Nipper told her mistress that Mr. Dombey was to
leave home the next day for a trip,--which piece of news filled Florence
with dismay, and she sat musing sadly until midnight.
She was little more than a child in years,--not yet fourteen--and the
loneliness and gloom of such an hour in the great house might have set
an older fancy brooding on vague terrors. But her innocent imagination
was too full of one theme to admit them. Nothing wandered in her thought
but love; a wandering love indeed, and cast away, but turning always to
her father.
She could not go to bed, without making her nightly pilgrimage to his
door. The moment she touched it she found that it was open, and there
was a light within. The first impulse of the timid child--and she
yielded to it--was to retire swiftly. A next, to go back, and to enter.
She turned back, urged on by the love within her, and glided in.
Her father sat at his old table, in the middle of the room. His face was
turned towards her. It looked worn and dejected, and in the loneliness
surrounding him, there was an appeal to Florence that struck home, but
when she spoke to him, the sternness of his glance and words so overcame
her that she shrank away,--and sobbing, silently ascended to her
room again.
Diogenes was broad awake, and waiting for his little mistress.
"Oh, Di! Oh, dear Di! Love me for his sake!"
Diogenes already loved her for his own, and did not care how much he
showed it. So he made himself vastly ridiculous by performing a variety
of uncouth bounces, and concluded, when poor Florence was at last
asleep, by scratching open her bedroom door; rolling up his bed into a
pillow; lying down on the boards at the full length of his tether with
his head toward her; and looking lazily at her, upside down, out of the
tops of his eyes, until, from winking and blinking, he fell asleep
himself, and dreamed with gruff barks, of his enemy.
About this time Walter Gay was informed by Mr. Dombey of his appointment
to a junior position in the firm's counting house in the Barbadoes. The
boy ever since he first saw Florence had thought of her with admiration
and compassion, pitying her loneliness; and now when he was about to
cross the ocean, his first thought was to seek audience with her little
maid, to tell her of his going, to say to her that his uncle had had an
interest in Miss Dombey ever since the night when she was lost, and
always wished her well and happy, and always would be proud and glad to
serve her, if she should need that service.
Upon receiving the message, Florence hastened with Susan Nipper to the
old Instrument-maker's Shop, and they passed into the parlor so suddenly
that Uncle Sol, in surprise at seeing them, sprang out of his own chair
and nearly tumbled over another, as he exclaimed, "Miss Dombey!"
"Is it possible!" cried Walter, starting up in his turn. "Here!"
"Yes," said Florence, advancing to him. "I was afraid you might be going
away, and hardly thinking of me. And, Walter, there is something I wish
to say to you before you go, and you must call me Florence, if you
please, and not speak like a stranger. My dear brother before he died
said that he was very fond of you, and said, 'remember Walter'; and if
you will be a brother to me, Walter, now that I have none on earth, I'll
be your sister all my life, and think of you like one, wherever we
may be!"
In her sweet simplicity, she held out both her hands, and Walter, taking
them, stooped down and touched the tearful face; and it seemed to him
in doing so, that he responded to her innocent appeal beside the dead
child's bed.
After Walter's departure, Florence lived alone as before, in the great
dreary house, and the blank walls looked down upon her with a vacant
stare, as if they had a Gorgon-like mind to stare her youth and beauty
into stone.
No magic dwelling-place in magic story, shut up in the heart of a thick
wood, was ever more solitary and deserted to the fancy than was her
father's mansion in its grim reality. The spell upon it was more wasting
than the spell which used to set enchanted houses sleeping once upon a
time, but left their waking freshness unimpaired. But Florence bloomed
there, like the King's fair daughter in the story. Her books, her music,
and her daily teachers were her only real companions, except Susan
Nipper and Diogenes, and she lived within the circle of her innocent
pursuits and thoughts, and nothing harmed her. She could go down to her
father's rooms now without fear of repulse. She could put everything in
order for him, binding little nosegays for his table, changing them as
they withered, and he did not come back, preparing something for him
every day, and leaving some timid mark of her presence near his usual
seat. Waking in the night, perhaps, she would tremble at the thought of
his coming home and angrily rejecting it, and would hurry down and bring
it away. At another time she would only lay her face upon his desk, and
leave a kiss there, and a tear.
Still no one knew of this. Her father did not know--she held it from
that time--how much she loved him. She was very young, and had no
mother, and had never learned, by some fault or misfortune, how to
express to him that she loved him. She would try to gain that art in
time, and win him to a better knowledge of his only child.
Thus Florence lived alone in the deserted house, and day succeeded day
in a monotony of loneliness until yielding to Susan Nipper's constant
request Florence consented to pay a visit to some friends who lived at
Fulham on the Thames.
Just at this time she learned that Walter's ship was overdue, and no
news had been received of her, and, her mind filled with sad
forebodings, she went to see old Sol, She found him tearful and
desolate, broken down by the weight of his anxiety, refusing to be
comforted even by the hopeful words of Captain Cuttle. So it was with a
heavy heart that she went to pay her visit, accompanied by her
little maid.
There were some other children staying at the Skettleses. Children who
were frank and happy, with fathers and mothers. Children who had no
restraint upon their love, and showed it freely. Florence thoughtfully
observed them, sought to find out from them what simple art they knew,
and she knew not; how she could be taught by them to show her father how
she loved him, and to win his love again. But all her efforts failed to
give her the secret of the nameless grace she sought, among the youthful
company who were assembled in the house, or among the children of the
poor, whom she often visited.