The death of Paul, far from softening Mr. Dombey's heart toward his
daughter, only served to widen the gap between them. He had been
secretly hurt by Paul's preference for Florence, and now was more cold
and distant with her than ever.
She, poor child, had this deep sorrow to bear in addition to the loss of
Paul. Many and many a night when no one in the house was stirring, and
the lights were all extinguished, she would softly leave her own room,
and with noiseless feet descend the staircase, and approach her father's
door. Against it, scarcely breathing, she would rest her face and head,
and press her lips, in the yearning of her love. She crouched upon the
cold stone floor outside it, every night, to listen even for his breath;
and in her one absorbing wish to be allowed to show him some affection,
to be a consolation to him, to win him over to some tenderness for her,
his solitary child, she would have knelt down at his feet, if she had
dared, in humble supplication.
No one knew it. No one thought of it. The door was ever closed, and he
shut up within. He went out once or twice, and it was said in the house
that he was very soon going on a journey; but he lived in those rooms,
and lived alone, and never saw her or inquired for her. Perhaps he did
not even know that she was in the house.
But one night Florence found the door slightly ajar. She paused a
moment tremblingly, and then pushed it open and entered.
Her father sat at his old table in the middle room. He had been
arranging some papers and destroying others, and the latter lay in
fragile ruins before him. The rain dripped heavily upon the glass panes
in the outer room, where he had so often watched poor Paul, a baby; and
the low complainings of the wind were heard without.
He sat with his eyes fixed on the table, so immersed in thought that a
far heavier tread than the light foot of his child could make, might
have failed to rouse him. His face was turned towards her. By the
waning lamp, and at that haggard hour, it looked worn and dejected; and
in the utter loneliness surrounding him there was an appeal to Florence
that struck home.
"Papa! papa! Speak to me, dear papa!"
He started at her voice.
"What is the matter?" he said sternly. "Why do you come here? What has
frightened you?"
If anything had frightened her, it was the face he turned upon her. The
glowing love within the breast of his young daughter froze before it,
and she stood and looked at him as if stricken into stone. There was
not one touch of tenderness or pity in it.
Did he see before him the successful rival of his son, in health and
life? Did he look upon his own successful rival in that son's
affection? Did a mad jealousy and withered pride poison sweet
remembrances that should have endeared and made her precious to him?
Could it be possible that it was gall to him to look upon her in her
beauty and her promise: thinking of his infant boy!
Florence had no such thoughts. But love is quick to know when it is
spurned and hopeless; and hope died out of hers, as she stood looking in
her father's face.
"I ask you, Florence, are you frightened? Is there anything the matter,
that you come here?"
"I came, papa--"
"Against my wishes. Why?"
She saw he knew why--it was written broadly on his face--and dropped her
head upon her hands with one prolonged low cry.
He took her by the arm. His hand was cold and loose, and scarcely
closed upon her.
"You are tired, I dare say," he said, taking up the light and leading
her towards the door, "and want rest. We all want rest. Go, Florence.
You have been dreaming."
The dream she had had was over then, God help her! and she felt that it
could never more come back.
"I will remain here to light you up the stairs. The whole house is
yours, above there," said her father, slowly. "You are its mistress
now. Good-night!"
Still covering her face, she sobbed, and answered "Good-night, dear
papa," and silently ascended. Once she looked back as if she would have
returned to him, but for fear. It was a momentary thought, too hopeless
to encourage; and her father stood therewith the light--hard,
unresponsive, motionless--until her fluttering dress was lost in the
darkness.
The days that followed were lonely and sad indeed for the child. Her
father went away upon a journey, and she was left entirely alone in the
great house, but for the companionship of a faithful maid, Susan Nipper,
and of her dog Diogenes.
Then some kind friends in the country took pity upon her loneliness and
invited her to visit them.
When she came home she was amazed to find huge scaffolds built all
around the house. It was being remodelled. Only her own little room had
not been changed. The explanation for all this work came a few days
later when her father came home accompanied by two ladies. One was old
and greatly overdressed. The other--her daughter--was very beautiful,
but with a cold, hard face.
"Mrs. Skewton," said her father, turning to the first, and holding out
his hand, "this is my daughter Florence."
"Charming, I am sure," observed the lady, putting up her glass. "So
natural! My darling Florence, you must kiss me, if you please."
Florence having done so, turned towards the other lady by whom her
father stood waiting.
"Edith," said Mr. Dombey, "this is my daughter Florence. Florence, this
lady will soon be your mamma."
Florence started, and looked up at the beautiful face in a conflict of
emotions, among which the tears that name awakened struggled for a
moment with surprise, interest, admiration, and an indefinable sort of
fear. Then she cried out, "Oh, papa, may you be happy! may you be very,
very happy all your life!" and then fell weeping on the lady's bosom.
There was a short silence. The beautiful lady, who at first had seemed
to hesitate whether or not she should advance to Florence, held her to
her breast, and pressed the hand with which she clasped her close about
her waist, as if to reassure and comfort her. Not one word passed the
lady's lips. She bent her head down over Florence, and she kissed her
on the cheek, but said no word.
"Shall we go on through the rooms," said Mr. Dombey, "and see how our
workmen are doing? Pray allow me, my dear madam."
He said this in offering his arm to Mrs. Skewton, and they turned and
went up the staircase. The beautiful lady lingered a moment to whisper
to the little girl.
"Florence," said the lady hurriedly, and looking into her face with
great earnestness, "You will not begin by hating me?"
"By hating you, mamma!" cried Florence, winding her arm round her neck,
and returning the look.
"Hush! Begin by thinking well of me," said the beautiful lady. "Begin
by believing that I will try to make you happy and that I am prepared to
love you, Florence."
Again she pressed her to her breast--she had spoken in a rapid manner,
but firmly--and Florence saw her rejoin them in the other room.
And now Florence began to hope that she would learn from her new and
beautiful mamma how to gain her father's love; and in her sleep that
night, in her lost old home, her own mamma smiled radiantly upon the
hope, and blessed it. Dreaming Florence!
Very soon after this her new mamma came to live with them; and the
gloomy house took on some semblance of life. But the marriage was not a
happy one. Even Florence could see that. Mrs. Dombey's face did not
belie her character. She was haughty and reserved--a fitting match for
Mr. Dombey. He had married her out of a desire to have a suitable
ornament for his home and position in society. She--it was
whispered--had been lured into a "fine" marriage by her matchmaking
mother. It was no wonder, then, that the marriage should be unhappy.
Only toward Florence did the proud lady unbend. The child's impulsive
greeting had stirred her heart in a sudden and surprising way; and when
Mrs. Dombey saw how lonely she was and how her life had been starved,
she tried to make good her promise to the child to love her and be good
to her always.
But once again poor Florence was misunderstood by her father. He saw
that his cold wife cared only for the child, and he thought that just as
Florence had cheated him out of some of Paul's love she was now
estranging his wife from him. It was cruelly unjust, but Mr. Dombey was
so arrogant that he could see things only in his own narrow way.
Thus matters went along in this unhappy house for several months. Mr.
and Mrs. Dombey met rarely, except at the table or in some social
gathering, when the words which passed between them were of the coldest.
Then Mr. Dombey hit upon the meanest trick of his weak nature. When he
found that he could not "humble" his wife by ordinary means, he called
in his business manager, Carker, a smooth, deceitful man, whose hair was
plastered down close to his white forehead and whose teeth shone in a
continual sly smile. To Carker Mr. Dombey would entrust various messages
for Mrs. Dombey, as to the running of the house, the hiring of servants,
and the like. Mr. Dombey knew that she would resent such petty
interference, especially through an outsider; but he did not know that
she submitted quietly to these indignities simply for the sake of
Florence, whom she wished to protect. And even her love for the girl
was given in secret, for the same reason.
Florence, long since awakened from her dream, mournfully observed the
estrangement between her father and new mother; and saw it widen more
and more, and knew that there was greater bitterness between them every
day. It had been very hard to have all her love repulsed, but it now
seemed harder to be compelled to doubt her father, or choose between him
and this mother, so affectionate and dear to her, yet whose other moods
she could only witness with distrust or fear.
One great sorrow, however, was spared her. She never had the least
suspicion that Mrs. Dombey, by her tenderness for her, widened the
separation from her father, or gave him new cause of dislike. If she
had thought it, for a single moment, what grief she would have felt,
what sacrifice she would have tried to make, poor loving girl!
No word was ever spoken between Florence and her mother now, on these
subjects. Mrs. Dombey had said there ought to be between them, in that
wise, a silence like the grave itself; and Florence felt that she was
right.
In this state of affairs her father was brought home suffering and ill,
and gloomily retired to his own rooms, where he was tended by servants,
not approached by his wife, and had no friend or companion but Mr.
Carker, who always withdrew near midnight.
Every night Florence would listen out in the hall for news of him, after
leaving her mother. But, late one evening, she was surprised to see a
bright light burning in her room, and her mother sitting before the
dying fire looking so fiercely at it that it terrified her.
"Mamma!" she cried, "what is the matter?"
Mrs. Dombey started; looking at her with such a strange dread in her
face that Florence was more frightened than before.
"Mamma!" said Florence, hurriedly advancing. "Dear mamma! what is the
matter?"
"I have not been well," said Mrs. Dombey, shaking, and still looking at
her in the same strange way. "I have had bad dreams, my love."
"And have not yet been to bed, mamma?"
"No," she returned. "Half-waking dreams."
Her features gradually softened; and suffering Florence to come close to
her, within her embrace, she said in a tender manner, "But what does my
bird do here! What does my bird do here!"
"I have been uneasy, mamma, in not seeing you to-night, and in not
knowing how papa was; and I--"
Florence stopped there, and said no more.
"Is it late?" her mother asked, fondly putting back the curls that
mingled with her own dark hair, and strayed upon her face.
"Very late. Near day."
"Near day!" she repeated in surprise.
"Mamma!" said Florence. "Oh, mamma, what can I do, what should I do, to
make us happier? Is there anything?"
"Nothing," she replied.
"Are you sure of that? Can it never be? If I speak now of what is in my
thoughts, in spite of what we have agreed," said Florence, "you will not
blame me, will you?"
"It is useless," she replied, "useless. I have told you, dear, that I
have had bad dreams. Nothing can change them, or prevent their coming
back."
"I do not understand," said Florence, gazing on her agitated face, which
seemed to darken as she looked.
Her mother's clenched hand tightened on the trembling arm she had in
hers, and as she looked down on the alarmed and wondering face, her own
feelings subsided. "Oh, Florence!" she said, "I think I have been
nearly mad to-night!" and humbled her proud head upon the girl's neck,
and burst into tears.
"Don't leave me! be near me! I have no hope but in you!" These words
she said a score of times.
Florence was greatly puzzled and distressed, and could only repeat her
promise of love and trust.
Through six months that followed upon Mr. Dombey's illness and recovery,
no outward change was shown between him and his wife. Both were cold and
proud; and still Mr. Carker--a man whom she detested----bore his petty
commands to her.
As for Florence, the little hope she had ever held for happiness in
their new home was quite gone now. That home was nearly two years old,
and even the patient trust that was in her could not survive the daily
blight of such an experience.
Florence loved her father still, but by degrees had come to love him
rather as some dear one who had been, or who might have been, than as
the hard reality before her eyes. Something of the softened sadness with
which she loved the memory of little Paul or her mother, seemed to enter
now into her thoughts of him, and to make them, as it were, a dear
remembrance. Whether it was that he was dead to her, and that partly
for this reason, partly for his share in those old objects of her
affection, and partly for the long association of him with hopes that
were withered and tendernesses he had frozen, she could not have told;
but the father whom she loved began to be a vague and dreamy idea to
her; hardly more substantially connected with her real life than the
image she would sometimes conjure up of her dear brother yet alive, and
growing to be a man, who would protect and cherish her.
The change, if it may be called one, had stolen on her like the change
from childhood to womanhood, and had come with it. Florence was almost
seventeen, when, in her lonely musings, she was conscious of these
thoughts.
She was often alone now, for the old association between her and her
mamma was greatly changed. At the time of her father's illness, and
when he was lying in his room downstairs, Florence had first observed
that Edith avoided her. Wounded and shocked, and yet unable to
reconcile this with her affection when they did meet, she sought her in
her own room at night, once more.
"Mamma," said Florence, stealing softly to her side, "have I offended
you?"