"I must have done something," said Florence. "Tell me what it is. You
have changed your manner to me, dear mamma. I cannot say how instantly
I feel the least change; for I love you with my whole heart."
"As I do you," said Mrs. Dombey. "Ah, Florence, believe me never more
than now!"
"Why do you go away from me so often, and keep away?" asked Florence.
"And why do you sometimes look so strangely on me, dear mamma? You do
so, do you not?"
"Dear Florence, it is for your good. Why, I cannot tell you now. But
you will believe I have always tried to make you happy, dear, will you
not?"
"Mamma," said Florence, anxiously, "there is a change in you, in more
than what you say to me, which alarms me. Let me stay with you a
little."
"No, dearest. I am best left alone now, and I do best to keep apart
from you, of all else. Ask me no questions, but believe that what I am,
I am not of my own will, or for myself. Forgive me for having ever
darkened your dark home--I am a shadow on it, I know well--and let us
never speak of this again."
"Mamma," sobbed Florence, "we are not to part?"
"We do this that we may not part," said her mother. "Ask no more. Go,
Florence! My love and my remorse go with you!"
Thus did Mrs. Dombey hide from Florence one dark secret--that her
husband was displeased with their love for each other. It was for
Florence's welfare that she felt compelled to hide her affections.
From that hour Florence and she were as they had been no more. For days
together they would seldom meet, except at table, and when Mr. Dombey
was present. Then Mrs. Dombey, imperious, inflexible, and silent, never
looked at her. Whenever Mr. Carker was of the party, as he often was
during the progress of Mr. Dombey's recovery, she was more distant
towards her than at other times. Yet she and Florence never encountered,
when there was no one by, but she would embrace her as affectionately as
of old, though not with the same relenting of her proud aspect; and
often when she had been out late she would steal up to Florence's room
as she had been used to do in the dark, and whisper "Good-night."
Then came a dreadful day not long afterwards when it was found that Mrs.
Dombey had fled from her home. The day was the second anniversary of
this ill-starred marriage; and the poor, misguided woman left a note for
her husband telling him that she had gone away with the man whom he had
trusted most (and whom she hated most) Mr. Carker. It was a foolish way
to be revenged for the harsh treatment she had received, but it served
her purpose. Mr. Dombey was wounded in his most vulnerable spot--his
pride.
As for Florence, she was overcome with grief; yet in the midst of her
own emotion she could realize her father's bitterness. Yielding at once
to the impulse of her affection and forgetful of his past coldness,
Florence hurried to him with her arms stretched out and crying, "Oh
dear, dear papa!" tried to clasp him round the neck.
But in his wild despair he shook her off so roughly that she almost fell
to the floor; telling her she could join her mother, for all he cared,
as they had always been in league against him.
She did not sink down at his feet; she did not shut out the sight of him
with her trembling hands; she did not weep nor speak one word of
reproach. She only uttered a single low cry of pain and then fled from
the house like a hunted animal.
Without a roof over her head--without father or mother, she was indeed
an orphan.
While the days went by, after Florence's flight, what was the proud man
doing? Did he ever think of his daughter or wonder where she had gone?
Did he suppose she had come home again and was leading her old life in
the weary house? He did not utter her name or make any search for her.
He might have thought of her constantly, or not at all. It was all one
for any sign he made.
But this was sure. He did not think that he had lost her. He had no
suspicion of the truth that she had fled away from him. He had lived
too long shut up in his pride, seeing her a patient, gentle creature in
his path, to have any fear of that. And so he waited, day by day, until
she should make her appearance on the stairs or at the table as before.
But the days dragged slowly by and she did not come.
The sea had ebbed and flowed through a whole year. Through a whole year
the winds and clouds had come and gone; the ceaseless work of Time had
been performed, in storm and sunshine. Through a whole year the famous
House of Dombey and Son had fought a fight for life, against doubtful
rumors, unsuccessful ventures, and most of all, against the bad judgment
of its head, who would not contract its enterprises by a hair's breadth,
and would not listen to a word of warning that the ship he strained so
hard against the storm was weak, and could not bear it.
For Mr. Dombey had grown strangely indifferent and reckless, and plunged
blindly into speculation.
The year was out, and the great House was down.
One summer afternoon there was a buzz and whisper, about the streets of
London, of a great failure. A certain cold, proud man, well known
there, was not there, nor was he represented there. Next day it was
noised abroad that Dombey and Son had stopped, and next night there was
a list of bankrupts published, headed by that name.
Nobody's opinion stayed the misfortune, lightened it, or made it
heavier. It was understood that the affairs of the House were to be
wound up as they best could be; that Mr. Dombey freely resigned
everything he had, and asked for no favor from any one. That any
resumption of the business was out of the question, as he would listen
to no friendly negotiation having that compromise in view; that he had
relinquished every post of trust or distinction he had held as a man
respected among merchants; and that he was a broken man.
The old home where Paul had died and whence Florence had fled away was
now empty and deserted--a wreck of what it had been. All the furniture
and hangings had been sold to satisfy Mr. Dombey's creditors; and he now
lived there alone in one cheerless room--a man without friends, without
hope.
But at last he began to come to his senses; to see what a treasure he
had cast away in Florence; to recall his own injustice and cruelty
toward her.
In the miserable night he thought of it; in the dreary day, the wretched
dawn, the ghostly, memory-haunted twilight, he remembered. In agony, in
sorrow, in remorse, in despair!
"Papa! papa!" He heard the words again, and saw the face. He saw it
fall upon the trembling hands, and heard the one prolonged, low cry go
upward.
Oh! He did remember it! The rain that fell upon the roof, the wind
that mourned outside the door, had foreknowledge in their melancholy
sound. He knew now what he had done. He knew now that he had called
down that upon his head, which bowed it lower than the heaviest stroke
of fortune. He knew now what it was to be rejected and deserted; now,
when every loving blossom he had withered in his innocent daughter's
heart was snowing down in ashes on him.
He thought of her as she had been that night when he and his bride came
home. He thought of her as she had been in all the home events of the
abandoned house. He thought now that of all around him, she alone had
never changed. His boy had faded into dust, his proud wife had deserted
him, his flatterer and friend had been transformed into the worst of
villains, his riches had melted away, the very walls that sheltered him
looked on him as a stranger; she alone had turned the same mild, gentle
look upon him always. Yes, to the latest and the last. She had never
changed to him--nor had he ever changed to her--and she was lost.
As, one by one, they fell away before his mind--his baby hope, his wife,
his friend, his fortune--oh, how the mist through which he had seen her
cleared, and showed him her true self! How much better than this that
he had loved her as he had his boy, and lost her as he had his boy, and
laid them in their early grave together!
As the days dragged by, it seemed to him that he should go mad with
remorse and longing. He haunted Paul's room and Florence's room--so
empty now--as though they were his only dwelling-place. He had meant to
go away, but clung to this tie in the house as the last and only thing
left to him. He would go to-morrow. To-morrow came. He would go
to-morrow. Every night, within the knowledge of no human creature, he
came forth, and wandered through the despoiled house like a ghost. Many
a morning when the day broke, with altered face drooping behind the
closed blind in his window, he pondered on the loss of his two children.
It was one child no more. He reunited them in his thoughts, and they
were never asunder.
Then, one day, when strange fancies oppressed him more than usual, he
paused at Florence's door and gazed wildly down as though suddenly
awakened from a dream.
He heard a cry--a loving, pleading voice--and there at his knees knelt
Florence herself.
"Papa! Dearest papa! I have come back to ask forgiveness. I never can
be happy more, without it!"
Unchanged still. Of all the world, unchanged. Raising the same face to
his as on that miserable night. Asking _his_ forgiveness!
"Dear papa, oh, don't look strangely on me! I never meant to leave you.
I never thought of it, before or afterwards. I was frightened when I
went away and could not think. Papa, dear, I am changed. I am
penitent. I know my fault. I know my duty better now. Papa, don't
cast me off or I shall die!"
He tottered to his chair. He felt her draw his arms about her neck: he
felt her put her own round his; he felt her kisses on his face; he felt
her wet cheek laid against his own; he felt--oh, how deeply!--all that
he had done.
Upon the breast that he had bruised, against the heart that he had
almost broken, she laid his face, now covered with his hands, and said,
sobbing,--
"I have been far away, dear papa, and could not come back before this.
I have been across the seas, and I have a home of my own over there now.
Oh, I want you to see it! I want to take you there; for my home is
_your_ home--always, always! Say you will pardon me, will come to me!"
He would have said it if he could. He would have raised his hands and
besought _her_ for pardon, but she caught them in her own and put them
down hurriedly.
"You will come, I know, dear papa! And I will know by that that you
forgive me. And we will never talk about what is past and forgotten;
never again!"
As she clung closer to him, in another burst of tears, he kissed her on
the lips, and, lifting up his eyes, said, "Oh, my God, forgive me, for I
need it very much!"
With that he dropped his head again, lamenting over and caressing her,
and there was not a sound in all the house for a long, long time; they
remaining clasped in one another's arms, in the glorious sunshine that
had crept in with Florence.
*THE STORY OF PIP AS TOLD BY HIMSELF*
*I. HOW PIP HELPED THE CONVICT*
My father's family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my
infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer than Pip. So I
called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip.
I give Pirrip as my father's family name, on the authority of his
tombstone and my sister--Mrs. Joe Gargery, who married the blacksmith.
As I never saw my father or my mother, my first fancies regarding what
they were like were unreasonably derived from their tombstones.
Ours was the marsh country down by the river, within twenty miles of the
sea. My most vivid memory of these early days was of a raw evening
about dusk. At such a time I found out for certain that this bleak spot
where I chanced to be wandering all alone was the churchyard; that the
low, leaden line beyond was the river; and that the small bundle of
shivers growing afraid of it all and beginning to cry was myself--Pip.
"Hold your noise!" cried a terrible voice, as a man started up from
among the graves at the side of the church porch.
He was a fearful looking man, clad in coarse gray, covered with mud and
brambles, and with a great clanking chain upon his leg.
"Tell us your name!" said the man.
"Quick!"
"Pip, sir."
"Show us where you live," said the man. "P'int out the place!"
I pointed to where our village lay, on the flat in-shore among the trees
a mile or more from the church.
The man, after looking at me for a moment, turned me upside-down and
emptied my pockets. There was nothing in them but a piece of bread. When
the church came to itself--for he was so sudden and strong that he made
it go head-over-heels before me, and I saw the steeple under my
feet--when the church came to itself, I say, I was seated on a high
tombstone, trembling, while he ate the bread ravenously.
"You young dog," said the man, licking his lips, "what fat cheeks you
ha' got."
I believe they were fat, though I was at that time undersized for my
years, and not strong.
"Darn _me_ if I couldn't eat 'em," said the man, with a threatening
shake of his head, "and if I ha'nt half a mind to't!"
I earnestly expressed my hope that he wouldn't, and held tighter to the
tombstone on which he had put me; partly to keep myself upon it; partly
to keep myself from crying.
"Now lookee here!" said the man. "Where's your mother?"
"There, sir!" said I.
He started, made a short run, and stopped and looked over his shoulder.
"There, sir!" I timidly explained, pointing to an inscription on a
stone; "that's my mother."
"Oh!" said he, coming back. "And is that your father alonger your
mother?"
"Yes, sir," said I; "him too; 'late of this parish.'"
"Ha!" he muttered then, considering. "Who d' ye live with--supposin'
you're kindly let to live, which I ha'nt made up my mind about?"
"My sister, sir--Mrs. Joe Gargery--wife of Joe Gargery, the blacksmith,
sir."
"Blacksmith, eh?" said he, and looked down at his leg.
After darkly looking at his leg and at me several times, he came closer
to my tombstone, took me by both arms, and tilted me back as far as he
could hold me, so that his eyes looked most powerfully down into mine,
and mine looked most helplessly up into his.
"Now lookee here," he said, "the question being whether you're to be let
to live. You know what a file is?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you know what wittles is?"
"Yes, sir."
After each question he tilted me over a little more, so as to give me a
greater sense of helplessness and danger.
"You get me a file." He tilted me again. "And you get me some wittles.
If you don't--!"
He tilted me again and shook me till my teeth chattered.
"In--indeed--I will, sir," said I, "if you will only let me go. I'll
run all the way home."
"Well, see that you come back. But to-morrow morning will
do--early--before day. I'll wait for you here."
As he released me, I needed no second bidding, but scurried away as fast
as I could, and soon reached the blacksmith shop.
My sister, Mrs. Joe Gargery, was more than twenty years older than I,
and had established a great reputation with herself and the neighbors
because she had brought me up "by hand." Having at that time to find
out for myself what the expression meant, and knowing her to have a hard
and heavy hand, and to be much in the habit of laying it upon her
husband as well as upon me, I supposed that Joe Gargery and I were both
brought up by hand.
She was not a good-looking woman, my sister; and I had a general
impression that she must have made Joe Gargery marry her by hand. Joe
was a fair man, with curls of flaxen hair on each side of his smooth
face, and with eyes of such a very undecided blue that they seemed to
have somehow got mixed with their own whites. He was a mild,
good-natured, sweet-tempered, easy-going, foolish, dear fellow--a sort
of Hercules in strength, and also in weakness.
My sister, Mrs. Joe, with black hair and eyes, had such a prevailing
redness of skin that I sometimes used to wonder whether it was possible
she washed herself with a nutmeg-grater instead of soap. She was tall
and bony, and almost always wore a coarse apron, fastened behind with
two loops, and having a bib in front that was stuck full of pins and
needles.
Joe's forge adjoined our house, which was a wooden house, as many of the
dwellings in our country were--most of them, at that time. When I ran
home from the churchyard the forge was shut up, and Joe was sitting
alone in the kitchen. Joe and I being fellow-sufferers, and having
confidences as such, Joe imparted a confidence to me the moment I raised
the latch of the door and peeped in at him opposite to it, sitting in
the chimney corner.
"Mrs. Joe has been out a dozen times looking for you, Pip. And she's
out now, making it a baker's dozen."
"Is she?"
"Yes, Pip," said Joe; "and what's worse, she's got Tickler with her."
At this dismal intelligence, I twisted the only button on my waistcoat
round and round, and looked in great depression at the fire. Tickler
was a wax-ended piece of cane, worn smooth by collision with my tickled
frame.
"She sot down," said Joe, "and she got up, and she made a grab at
Tickler, and she Rampaged out. That's what she did," said Joe, slowly
clearing the fire between the lower bars with the poker, and looking at
it; "she Rampaged out, Pip."
"Has she been gone long, Joe?" I always treated him as no more than my
equal.
"Well," said Joe, glancing up at the Dutch clock, "she's been on the
Rampage, this last spell, about five minutes, Pip. She's a coming! Get
behind the door, old chap, and have the jack-towel betwixt you."
I took the advice. My sister, Mrs. Joe, throwing the door wide open,
and finding an obstruction behind it, immediately divined the cause, and
applied Tickler to its farther investigation.
"Where have you been?" she demanded, between tickles.
"I have only been to the churchyard," said I, crying and rubbing myself.
"Churchyard!" repeated my sister. "If it warn't for me you'd been to
the churchyard long ago, and stayed there! Who brought you up by hand?"
My thoughts strayed from that question as I looked disconsolately at the
fire. For the fugitive out on the marshes with the ironed leg, the
file, the food, and the dreadful pledge I was under to steal, from under
my sister's very roof, rose before me in the avenging coals.
"Ha!" said Mrs. Joe, restoring Tickler to his station. "Churchyard,
indeed! You may well say churchyard, you two." (One of us, by the by,
had not said it at all.) "You'll drive _me_ to the churchyard betwixt
you, one of these days, and oh, a pr-r-recious pair you'd be without
me!"
As she applied herself to set the tea-things, Joe peeped down at me over
his leg, as if he were mentally calculating what kind of pair we should
make, under such circumstances. After that, he sat feeling his
right-side flaxen curls and whisker, and following Mrs. Joe about with
his blue eyes, as his manner always was at squally times.
My sister had a sudden, severe way of cutting and buttering bread, which
never varied. Now she ripped me off a section of loaf, bidding me eat
and be thankful. Though I was hungry, I dared not eat; for she was a
strict housekeeper who would miss any further slices, and I must not let
that dreadful man out in the churchyard go hungry. So I resolved to put
my hunk of bread and butter down the leg of my trousers--a plan which I
presently found the chance to carry out.
It was Christmas Eve, and I had to stir the pudding for next day with a
copper-stick. I tried it with the load upon my leg (and that made me
think afresh of the man with the load on _his_ leg), and found the
tendency of exercise to bring the bread-and-butter out at my ankle quite
unmanageable. Happily, I slipped away and deposited that part of my
conscience in my garret bedroom.
"Hark!" said I, when I had done my stirring, and was taking a final warm
in the chimney corner before being sent up to bed; "was that great guns,
Joe?"
"Ah!" said Joe. "There's another conwict off."
"What does that mean, Joe?" said I.
Mrs. Joe, who always took explanations upon herself, said snappishly,
"Escaped. Escaped."
"There was a conwict off last night," added Joe, "after sunset-gun. And
they fired warning of him. And now it appears they're firing warning of
another."
"Who's firing?" said I.
"Drat that boy," interposed my sister, frowning at me over her work,
"what a questioner he is. Ask no questions, and you'll be told no
lies."
It was not very polite to herself, I thought, as she always answered.
But she never was polite, unless there was company.
Presently Joe said to me in a quiet kind of whisper. "Hulks, Pip;
prison ships. They're firing because one of the thieves on the hulks is
got away."
Thieves! Prison ships! And here I was planning to rob my sister of the
bread and butter; and honest Joe of a file! Truly conscience is a
fearful thing, yet there was no turning back for me.
That night the rest of the dreadful deed was done. Just before daybreak
I crept out, carrying the file which I had found among Joe's tools, the
slice of bread, and a pie which was too convenient in the pantry, and
which I took in the hope it was not intended for early use and would not
be missed for some time.
I found the man with the iron waiting for me, crouched behind a
tombstone.
"Are you alone?" he asked hoarsely.
"Yes, sir."
"No one following you?"
"No, sir."
"Well," said he, "I believe you. Give me them wittles, quick."
I had often watched a large dog of ours eating his food; and I now
noticed a decided similarity between the dog's way of eating and the
man's. The man took strong, sharp, sudden bites, just like the dog. He
swallowed, or rather snapped up, every mouthful, too soon and too fast;
and he looked sideways here and there while he ate, as if he thought
there was danger in every direction of somebody's coming to take the pie
away.
"Now give us hold of the file, boy," he said, when he had finished
swallowing.
I did so, and he bent to the iron like a madman, and began filing it
away in quick, fierce rasps. I judged this a good time to slip away,
and he paid no further attention to me. The last I heard of him, the
file was still going.
"And where the mischief ha' you been?" was Mrs. Joe's Christmas
salutation, when I and my conscience showed ourselves.