Father and Daughter
THERE is a hush through Mr. Dombey's house. Servants gliding up and
downstairs rustle, but make no sound of footsteps. They talk together
constantly, and sit long at meals, making much of their meat and drink, and
enjoying themselves after a grim unholy fashion. Mrs. Wickam, with her eyes
suffused with tears, relates melancholy anecdotes; and tells them how she always
said at Mrs. Pipchin's that it would be so, and takes more table-ale tan usual,
and is very sorry but sociable. Cook's state of mind is similar. She promises a
little fry for supper, and struggles about equally against her feelings and the
onions. Towlinson begins to think there's a fate in it, and wants to know if
anybody can tell him of any good that ever came of living in a corner house. It
seems to all of them as having happened a long time ago; though yet the child
lies, calm and beautiful, upon his little bed.
After dark there come some visitors--noiseless visitors, with shoes of
felt--who have been there before; and with them comes that bed of rest which is
so strange a one for infant sleepers. All this time, the bereaved father has not
been seen even by this attendant; for he sits in an inner corner of his own dark
room when any one is there, and never seems to move at other times, except to
pace it to and fro. But in the morning it is whispered among the household that
he was heard to go up stairs in the dead night, and that he stayed there--in the
room--until the sun was shining.
At the offices in the City, the ground-glass windows are made more dim by
shutters; and while the lighted lamps upon the desks are half extinguished by
the day that wanders in, the day is half extinguished by the lamps, and an
unusual gloom prevails. There is not much business done. The clerks are
indisposed to work; and they make assignations to eat chops in the afternoon,
and go up the river. Perch, the messenger, stays long upon his errands; and
finds himself in bars of public-houses, invited thither by friends, and holding
forth on the uncertainty of human affairs. He goes home to Ball's Pond earlier
in the evening than usual, and treats Mrs. Perch to a veal cutlet and scotch
ale. Mr. Carker the Manager treats no one; neither is he treated; but alone in
his own room he shows his teeth all day; and it would seem that there is
something gone from Mr. Carker's path--some obstacle reremoved--which clears his
way before him.
Now the rosy children living opposite to Mr. Dombey's house, peep from their
nursery windows down into the street; for there are four black horses at his
door, with feathers on their heads; and feathers tremble on the carriage that
they draw; and these, and an array of men with scarves and staves, attract a
crowd. The juggler who was going to twirl the basin, puts his loose coat on
again over his fine dress; and his trudging wife, one-sided with her heavy baby
in her arms, loiters to see the company come out. But closer to her dingy breast
she presses her baby, when the burden that is so easily carried is borne forth;
and the youngest of the rosy children at the high window opposite, needs no
restraining hand to check her in her glee, when, pointing with her dimpled
finger, she looks into her nurse's face, and asks `What's that?'
And now, among the knot of servants dressed in mourning, and the weeping
women, Mr. Dombey passes through the hall to the other carriage that is waiting
to receive him. He is not `brought down,' these observes think, by sorrow and
distress of mind. His walk is as erect, his bearing is as stiff as ever it has
been. He hides his face behind no handkerchief, and looks before him. But that
his face is something sunk and rigid, and is pale, it bears the same expression
as of old. He takes his place within the carriage, and three other gentlemen
follow. Then the grand funeral moves slowly down the street. The feathers are
yet nodding in the distance, when the juggler has the basin spinning on a cane,
and has the same crowd to admire it. But the juggler's wife is less alert than
usual with the money-box, for a child's burial has set her thinking that perhaps
the baby underneath her shabby shawl may not grow up to be a man, and wear a
sky-blue fillet round his head, and salmon-coloured worsted drawers, and tumble
in the mud.
The feathers wind their gloomy way along the streets, and come within the
sound of a church bell. In this same church, the pretty boy received all that
will soon be left of him on earth--a name. All of him that is dead, they lay
there, near the perishable substance of his mother. It is well. Their ashes lie
where Florence in her walks--oh lonely, lonely walks!--may pass them any day.
The service over, and the clergyman withdrawn, Mr. Dombey looks round,
demanding in a low voice, whether the person who has been requested to attend to
receive instructions for the tablet, is there?
Some one comes forward, and says `Yes.'
Mr. Dombey intimates where he would have it placed; and shows him, with his
hand upon the wall, the shape and size; and how it is to follow the memorial to
the mother. Then, with his pencil, he writes out the inscription, and gives it
to him: adding, `I wish to have it done at once.'
`It shall be done immediately, Sir.'
`There is really nothing to inscribe but name and age, you see.'
The man bows, glancing at the paper, but appears to hesitate. Mr. Dombey not
observing his hesitation, turns away, and leads towards the porch.
`I beg your pardon, Sir;' a touch falls gently on his mourning cloak; `but as
you wish it done immediately, and it may be put in hand when I get back--'
`Well?'
`Will you be so good as read it over again? I think there's a mistake'.
`Where?'
The statuary gives him back the paper, and points out, with his pocket rule,
the words, `beloved and only child.'
`It should be, `son,' I think, Sir?'
`You are right. Of course. Make the correction.'
The father, with a hastier step, pursues his way to the coach. When the other
three, who follow closely, take their seats, his face is hidden for the first
time--shaded by his cloak. Nor do they see it any more that day. He alights
first, and passes immediately into his own room. The other mourners (who are
only Mr. Chick, and two of the medical attendants) proceed upstairs to the
drawing-room, to be received by Mrs. Chick and Miss Tox. And what the face is,
in the shut-up chamber underneath: or what the thoughts are: what the heart is,
what the contest or the suffering: no one knows.
The chief thing that they know below stairs, in the kitchen, is that `it
seems like Sunday.' They can hardly persuade themselves but that there is
something unbecoming, if not wicked, in the conduct of the people out of doors,
who pursue their ordinary occupations, and wear everyday attire. It is quite a
novelty to have the blinds up, and the shutters open: and they make themselves
dismally comfortable over bottles of wine, which are freely broached as on a
festival. They are much inclines to moralise. Mr. Towlinson proposes with a
sigh, `Amendment to us all' for which, as Cook says with another sigh, `There's
room enough, God knows.' In the evening, Mrs. Chick and Miss Tox take to
needlework again. In the evening also, Mr. Towlinson goes out to take the air,
accompanied by the housemaid, who has not yet tried her mourning bonnet. They
are very tender to each other at dusky street-corners, and Towlinson has visions
of leading an altered and blameless existence as a serious greengrocer in Oxford
Market.
There is sounder sleep and deeper rest in Mr. Dombey's house to-night, than
there has been for many nights. The morning sun awakens the old household,
settled down once more in their old ways. The rosy children opposite run past
with hoops. There is a splendid wedding in the church. The juggler's wife is
active with the money-box in another quarter of the town. The mason sings and
whistles as he chips out P-A-U-L in the marble slab before him.
And can it be that in a world so full and busy, the loss of one weak creature
makes a void in any heart, so wide and deep that nothing but the width and depth
of vast eternity can fill it up! Florence, in her innocent affliction, might
have answered, `Oh my brother, oh my dearly loved and loving brother! Only
friend and companion of my slighted childhood! Could any less idea shed the
light already dawning on your early grave, or give birth to the softened sorrow
that is springing into life beneath this rain of tears!'
`My dear child,' said Mrs. Chick, who held it as a duty incumbent on her, to
improve the occasion, `when you are as old as I am--'
`Which will be the prime of life,' observed Miss Tox.
`You will then,' pursued Mrs. Chick, gently squeezing Miss Tox's hand in
acknowledgment of her friendly remark, `you will then know that all grief is
unavailing, and that it is our duty to submit.'
`I will try, dear aunt. I do try,' answered Florence, sobbing.
`I am glad to hear it,' said Mrs. Chick, `because, my love, as our dear Miss
Tox--of whose sound sense and excellent judgment, there cannot possibly be two
opinions--'
`My dear Louisa, I shall really be proud, soon,' said Miss Tox.
--`will tell you, and confirm by her experience,' pursued Mrs. Chick, `we are
called upon on all occasions to make an effort. It is required of us. If any--my
dear,' turning to Miss Tox, `I want a word. Mis--Mis--'
`Demeanour?'suggested Miss Tox.
`No, no, no,' said Mrs. Chick. `How can you! Goodness me, it's on the end of
my tongue. Mis--'
`Placed affection?' suggested Miss Tox, timidly.
`Good gracious, Lucretia!' returned Mrs. Chick. `How very monstrous!
Misanthrope, is the word I want. The idea! Misplaced affection! I say, if any
misanthrope were to put, in my presence, the question "Why were we born?" I
should reply, "To make an effort."' `Very good indeed,' said Miss Tox, much
impressed by the originality of the sentiment. `Very good.'
`Unhappily,' pursued Mrs. Chick, `we have a warning under our own eyes. We
have but too much reason to suppose, my dear child, that if an effort had been
made in time, in this family, a train of the most trying and distressing
circumstances might have been avoided. Nothing shall ever persuade me,' observed
the good matron, with a resolute air, `but that if that effort had been made by
poor dear Fanny, the poor dear darling child would at least have had a stronger
constitution.'
Mrs. Chick abandoned herself to her feelings for half a moment; but, as a
practical illustration of her doctrine, brought herself up short, in the middle
of a sob, and went on again.
`Therefore, Florence, pray let us see that you have some strength of mind,
and do not selfishly aggravate the distress in which your poor Papa is plunged.'
`Dear aunt!' said Florence, kneeling quickly down before her, that she might
the better and more earnestly look into her face. `Tell me more about Papa. Pray
tell me about him!Is he quite heartbroken?'
Miss Tox was of a tender nature, and there was something in this appeal that
moved her very much. Whether she saw it in a succession, on the part of the
neglected child, to the affectionate concern so often expressed by her dead
brother--or a love that sought to twine itself about the heart that had loved
him, and that could not bear to be shut out from sympathy with such a sorrow, in
such sad community of love and grief--or whether she only recognised the earnest
and devoted spirit which, although discarded and repulsed, was wrung with
tenderness long unreturned, and in the waste and solitude of this bereavement
cried to him to seek a comfort in it, and to give some, by some small
response--whatever may have been her understanding of it, it moved Miss Tox. For
the moment she forgot the majesty of Mrs. Chick, and, patting Florence hastily
on the cheek, turned aside and suffered the tears to gush from her eyes, without
waiting for a lead from that wise matron.
Mrs. Chick herself lost, for a moment, the presence of mind on which she so
much prided herself; and remained mute, looking on the beautiful young face that
had so long, so steadily, and patiently, been turned towards the little bed. But
recovering her voice--which was synonymous with her presence of mind, indeed
they were one and the same thing--she replied with dignity:
`Florence, my dear child, your poor Papa is peculiar at times; and to
question me about him, is to question me upon a subject which I really do not
pretend to understand. I believe I have as much influence with your Papa as
anybody has. Still, all I can say is, that he has said very little to me; and
that I have only seen him once or twice for a minute at a time, and indeed have
hardly seen him then, for his room has been dark. I have said to your Papa,
"Paul!"--that is the exact expression I used--"Paul! why do you not take
something stimulating?" Your Papa's reply has always been, "Louisa, have the
goodness to leave me. I want nothing. I am better by myself." If I was to be put
upon my oath to-morrow, Lucretia, before a magistrate,' said Mrs. Chick, `I have
no doubt I could venture to swear to those identical words.'
Miss Tox expressed her admiration by saying, `My Louisa is ever methodical!'
`In short, Florence,' resumed her aunt, `literally nothing has passed between
your poor Papa and myself, until to-day; when I mentioned to your Papa that Sir
Barnet and Lady Skettles had written exceedingly kind notes--our sweet boy!Lady
Skettles loved him like a--where's my pocket handkerchief?'
Miss Tox produced one.
`Exceedingly kind notes, proposing that you should visit them for change of
scene. Mentioning to your Papa that I thought Miss Tox and myself might now go
home (in which he quite agreed), I inquired if he had any objection to your
accepting this invitation. He said, "No, Louisa, not the least!"'
Florence raised her tearful eyes.
`At the same time, if you would prefer staying here, Florence, to paying this
visit at present, or to going home with me--'
`I should much prefer it, aunt,' was the faint rejoinder.
`Why then, child,' said Mrs. Chick, `you can. It's a strange choice, I must
say. But you always were strange. Anybody else at your time of life, and after
what has passed--my dear Miss Tox, I have lost my pocket handkerchief
again--would be glad to leave here, one would suppose.'
`I should not life to feel,' said Florence, `as if the house was avoided. I
should not like to think that the--his--the rooms up stairs were quite empty and
dreary, aunt. I would rather stay here, for the present. Oh my brother! oh my
brother!'
It was a natural emotion, not to be suppressed; and it would make way even
between the fingers of the hands with which she covered up her face. The
overcharged and heavy-laden breast must sometimes have that vent, or the poor
wounded solitary heart within it would have fluttered like a bird with broken
wings, and sunk down in the dust.
`Well, child!' said Mrs. Chick, after a pause. `I wouldn't on any account say
anything unkind to you, and that I'm sure you know. You will remain here, then,
and do exactly as you like. No one will interfere with you, Florence, or wish to
interfere with you, I'm sure.'
Florence shook her head in sad assent.
`I had no sooner begun to advise your poor Papa that he really ought to seek
some distraction and restoration in a temporary change,' said Mrs. Chick, `than
he told me he had already formed the intention of going into the country for a
short time. I'm sure I hope he'll go very soon. He can't go too soon. But I
suppose there are some arrangements connected with his private papers and so
forth, consequent on the affliction that has tried us all so much--I can't think
what's become of mine: Lucretia, lend me yours, my dear--that may occupy him for
one or two evenings in his own room. Your papa's a Dombey, child, if ever there
was one,' said Mrs. Chick, drying both her eyes at once with great care on
opposite corners of Miss Tox's handkerchief. `He'll make an effort. There's no
fear of him.'
`Is there nothing, aunt,' said Florence, trembling, `I might do to--'
`Lord, my dear child,' interposed Mrs. Chick, hastily, `what are you talking
about? If your Papa said to Me--I have given you his exact words, "Louisa, I
want nothing; I am better by myself"--what do you think he'd say to you? You
mustn't show yourself to him, child. Don't dream of such a thing.'
`Aunt,' said Florence, `I will go and lie down on my bed.'
Mrs. Chick approved of this resolution, and dismissed her with a kiss. But
Miss Tox, on a faint pretence of looking for the mislaid handkerchief, went
upstairs after her; and tried in a few stolen minutes to comfort her, in spite
of great discouragement from Susan Nipper. For Miss Nipper, in her burning zeal,
disparaged Miss Tox as a crocodile; yet her sympathy seemed genuine, and had at
least the vantage-ground of disinterestedness--there was little favour to be won
by it.
And was there no one nearer and dearer than Susan, to uphold the striving
heart in its anguish? Was there no other neck to clasp; no other face to turn
to? no one else to say a soothing word to such deep sorrow? Was Florence so
alone in the bleak world that nothing else remained to her? Nothing. Stricken
motherless and brotherless at once--for in the loss of little Paul, that first
and greatest loss fell heavily upon her--this was the only help she had. Oh, who
can tell how much she needed help at first!
At first, when the house subsided into its accustomed course, and they had
all gone away, except the servants, and her father shut up in his own rooms,
Florence could do nothing but weep, and wander up and down, and sometimes, in a
sudden pang of desolate remembrance, fly to her own chamber, wring her hands,
lay her face down on her bed, and know no consolation: nothing but the
bitterness and cruelty of grief. This commonly ensued upon the recognition of
some spot or object very tenderly associated with him; and it made the miserable
house, at first, a place of agony.
But it is not in the nature of pure love to burn so fiercely and unkindly
long. The flame that in its grosser composition has the taint of earth, may prey
upon the breast that gives it shelter; but the sacred fire from heaven is as
gentle in the heart, as when it rested on the heads of the assembled twelve, and
showed each man his brother, brightened and unhurt. The image conjured up, there
soon returned the placid face, the softened voice, the loving looks, the quiet
trustfulness and peace; and Florence, though she wept still, wept more
tranquilly, and courted the remembrance.
It was not very long before the golden water, dancing on the wall, in the old
place, at the old serene time, had her calm eye fixed upon it as it ebbed away.
It was not very long before that room again knew her, often; sitting there
alone, as patient and as mild as when she had watched beside the little bed.
When any sharp sense of its being empty smote upon her, she could kneel beside
it, and prayGOD--it was the pouring out of her full heart--to let one angel love
her and remember her.
It was not very long before, in the midst of the dismal house so wide and
dreary, her low voice in the twilight, slowly and stopping sometimes, touched
the old air to which he had so often listened, with his drooping head upon her
arm. And after that, and when it was quite dark, a little strain of music
trembled in the room: so softly played and sung, that it was more like the
mournful recollection of what she had done at his request on that last night,
than the reality repeated. But it was repeated, often--very often, in the
shadowy solitude; and broken murmurs of the strain still trembled on the keys,
when the sweet voice was hushed in tears.
Thus she gained heart to look upon the work with which her fingers had been
busy by his side on the sea-shore; and thus it was not very long before she took
to it again--with something of a human love for it, as if it had been sentient
and had known him; and, sitting in a window, near her mother's picture, in the
unused room so long deserted, wore away the thoughtful hours.
Why did the dark eyes turn so often from this work to where the rosy children
lived? They were not immediately suggestive of her loss; for they were all
girls: four little sisters. But they were motherless like her--and had a father.
It was easy to know when he had gone out and was expected home, for the elder
child was always dressed and waiting for him at the drawing-room window, or in
the balcony; and when he appeared, her expectant face lighted up with joy, while
the others at the high window, and always on the watch too, clapped their hands,
and drummed them on the sill, and called to him. The elder child would come down
to the hall, and put her hand in his, and lead him up the stairs; and Florence
would see her afterwards sitting by his side, or on his knee, or hanging
coaxingly about his neck and talking to him: and though they were always gay
together, he would often watch her face as if he thought her like her mother
that was dead. Florence would sometimes look no more at this, and bursting into
tears would hide behind the curtain as if she were frightened, or would hurry
from the window. Yet she could not help returning; and her work would soon fall
unheeded from her hands again.
It was the house that had been empty, years ago, It had remained so for a
long time. At last, and while she had been away from home, this family had taken
it; and it was repaired and newly painted; and there were birds and flowers
about it; and it looked very different from its old self. But she never thought
of the house. The children and their father were all in all.
When he had dined, she could see them, through the open windows, go down with
their governess or nurse, and cluster round the table; and in the still summer
weather, the sound of their childish voices and clear laughter would come
ringing across the street, into the drooping air of the room in which she sat.
Then they would climb and clamber up stairs with him, and romp about him on the
sofa, or group themselves at his knee, a very nosegay of little faces, while he
seemed to tell them some story. Or they would come running out into the balcony;
and then Florence would hide herself quickly, lest it should check them in their
joy, to see her in her black dress, sitting there alone.
The elder child remained with her father when the rest had gone away, and
made his tea for him--happy little housekeeper she was then!--and sat conversing
with him, sometimes at the window, sometimes in the room, until the candles
came. He made her his companion, though she was some years younger than
Florence; and she could be as staid and pleasantly demure, with her little book
or work-box, as a woman. When they had candles, Florence from her own dark room
was not afraid to look again. But when the time came for the child to say `Good
night, papa,' and go to bed, Florence would sob and tremble as she raised her
face to him, and could look no more.
Though still she would turn, again and again, before going to bed herself,
from the simple air that had lulled him to rest so often, long ago, and from the
other low soft broken strain of music, back to that house. But that she ever
thought of it, or watched it, was a secret which she kept within her own young
breast.
And did that breast of Florence--Florence, so ingenuous and true--so worthy
of the love that he had borne her, and had whispered in his last faint
words--whose guileless heart was mirrored in the beauty of her face, and
breathed in every accent of her gentle voice--did that young breast hold any
other secret? Yes. One more.
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 conso- lation to him, to win him over to the endurance of
some tenderness from 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 his country 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.
One day, about a week after the funeral, Florence was sitting at her work,
when Susan appeared, with a face half laughing and half crying to announce a
visitor.
` A visitor! To me, Susan!' said Florence, looking up in astonishment.
`Well, it is a wonder, ain't it now, Miss Floy?' said Susan; `but I wish you
had a many visitors, I do, indeed, for you'd be all the better for it, and it's
my opinion that the sooner you and me goes even to them old Skettleses, Miss,
the better for both, I may not wish to live in crowds, Miss Floy, but still I'm
not a oyster.'
To do Miss Nipper justice, she spoke more for her young mistress than
herself; and her face showed it.
`But the visitor, Susan,' said Florence.
Susan, with an hysterical explosion that was as much a laugh as a sob, and as
much a sob as a laugh, answered,
`Mr. Toots!'
The smile that appeared on Florence's face passed from it in a moment, and
her eyes filled with tears. But at any rate it was a smile, and that gave great
satisfaction to Miss Nipper.
`My own feelings exactly, Miss Floy,' said Susan, putting her apron to her
eyes, and shaking her head. `Immediately I see that Innocent in the Hall, Miss
Floy, I burst out laughing first, and then I choked.'
Susan Nipper involuntarily proceeded to do the like again on the spot. In the
meantime Mr. Toots, who had come up stairs after her, all unconscious of the
effect he produced, announced himself with his knuckles on the door, and walked
in very briskly.
`How d'ye do, Miss Dombey?' said Mr. Toots. `I'm very well, I thank you; how
are you?'
Mr. Toots--than whom there were few better fellows in the world, though there
may have been one or two brighter spirits--had laboriously invented this long
burst of discourse with the view of relieving the feelings both of Florence and
himself. But finding that he had run through his property, as it were, in an
injudicious manner, by squandering the whole before taking a chair, or before
Florence had uttered a word, or before he had well got in at the door, he deemed
it advisable to begin again.
`How d'ye do, Miss Dombey?' said Mr. Toots. `I'm very well, I thank you; how
are you?'
Florence gave him her hand, and said she was very well.
`I'm very well indeed,' said Mr. Toots, taking a chair. `Very well indeed, I
am. I don't remember,' said Mr. Toots, after reflecting a little, `that I was
ever better, thank you.'
`It's very kind of you to come,' said Florence, taking up her work. `I am
very glad to see you.'
Mr. Toots responded with a chuckle. Thinking that might be too lively, he
corrected it with a sigh. Thinking that might be too melancholy, he corrected it
with a chuckle. Not thoroughly pleasing himself with either mode of reply, he
breathed hard.
`You were very kind to my dear brother,' said Florence, obeying her own
natural impulse to relieve him by saying so. `He often talked to me about you.'
`Oh, it's of no consequence,' said Mr. Toots hastily. `Warm, ain't it?'
`It is beautiful weather,' replied Florence.
`It agrees with me!' said Mr. Toots. `I don't think I ever was so well as I
find myself at present, I'm obliged to you.'
After stating this curious and unexpected fact, Mr. Toots fell into a deep
well of silence.
`You have left Dr. Blimber's, I think?' said Florence, trying to help him
out.
`I should hope so,' returned Mr. Toots. And tumbled in again.
He remained at the bottom, apparently drowned, for at least ten minutes. At
the expiration of that period, he suddenly floated, and said,
`Well! Good morning, Miss Dombey.'
`Are you going?' asked Florence, rising.
`I don't know, though. No, not just at present,' said Mr. Toots, sitting down
again, most unexpectedly. `The fact is--I say, Miss Dombey!'
`Don't be afraid to speak to me,' said Florence, with a quiet smile, `I
should be very glad if you would talk about my brother.'
`Would you, though?' retorted Mr. Toots, with sympathy in every fibre of his
otherwise expressionless face. `Poor Dombey! I'm sure I never thought that
Burgess and Co.--fashionable tailors (but very dear), that we used to talk
about--would make this suit of clothes for such a purpose.' Mr. Toots was
dressed in mourning. `Poor Dombey! I say! Miss Dombey!' blubbered Toots.
`Yes,' said Florence.
`There's a friend he took to very much at last. I thought you'd like to have
him, perhaps, as a sort of keepsake. You remember his remembering Diogenes?'
`Oh yes! oh yes!' cried Florence.
`Poor Dombey! So do I,' said Mr. Toots.
Mr. Toots, seeing Florence in tears, had great difficulty in getting beyond
this point, and had nearly tumbled into the well again. But a chuckle saved him
on the brink.
`I say,' he proceeded, `Miss Dombey! I could have had him stolen for ten
shillings, if they hadn't given him up: and I would: but they were glad to get
rid of him, I think. If you'd like to have him, he's at the door. I brought him
on purpose for you. He ain't a lady's dog, you know,' said Mr. Toots, `but you
won't mind that, will you?'
In fact Diogenes was at that moment, as they presently ascertained from
looking down into the street, staring through the window of a hackney cabriolet,
into which, for conveyance to that spot, 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
might be; and in his gruff anxiety to get out, presented an appearance
sufficiently unpromising, as he gave short yelps out of one side of his mouth,
and overbalancing himself by the intensity of every one of those efforts,
tumbled down into the straw, and then sprung panting up 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-favoured, clumsy, bullet-headed dog, continually
acting on a wrong idea that there was an enemy in the neighbourhood, 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 comic nose, and an
inconsistent tail, and a gruff voice; he was dearer to Florence, in virtue of
that 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 took the jewelled hand of
Mr. Toots and kissed it in her gratitude. And when Diogenes, released, came
tearing up the stairs and bouncing into the room (such a business as there was
first, to get him out of the cabriolet!), 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 became unnaturally visible, in
consequence of their nearly starting out of his head; and when he growled at Mr.
Toots, who affected familiarity; and went pell-mell at Towlinson, morally
convinced that he was the enemy whom he had barked at round the corner all his
life and had never seen yet; 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 was so
delighted to see Florence bending down 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 Mr. Toots, and to make short runs at him with his mouth open. Not exactly
seeing his way to the end of these demonstrations, and sensible that they placed
the pantaloons constructed by the art of Burgess and Co. in jeopardy, Mr. Toots,
with chuckles, lapsed out at the door: by which, after looking in again two or
three times, without any object at all, and being on each occasion greeted with
a fresh run from Diogenes, he finally took himself off 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.
Diogenes the man did not speak plainer to Alexander the Great than Diogenes
the dog spoke to Florence. He subscribed to the offer of his little mistress
cheerfully, and devoted himself to her service. A banquet was immediately
provided for him in a corner; and when he had eaten and drunk his fill, he went
to the window where Florence was sitting, looking on, 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, Diogenes coiled himself up at her feet and went to sleep.
Although Miss Nipper was nervous in regard of dogs, and felt it necessary to
come into the room with her skirts carefully collected about her, as if she were
crossing a brook on stepping-stones; also to utter little screams and stand up
on chairs when Diogenes stretched himself: she was in her own manner affected by
the kindness of Mr. Toots, and could not see Florence so alive to the attachment
and society of this rude friend of little Paul's, without some mental comments
thereupon that brought the water to her eyes. Mr. Dombey, as a part of her
reflections, may have been, in the association of ideas, connected with the dog;
but, at any rate, after observing Diogenes and his mistress all the evening, and
after exerting herself with much good-will to provide Diogenes a bed in an
ante-chamber outside his mistress's door, she said hurriedly to Florence, before
leaving her for the night:
`Your Pa's a going off, Miss Floy, to-morrow morning.'
`To-morrow morning, Susan?'
`Yes, Miss; that's the orders. Early.'
`Do you know,' asked Florence, without looking at her, `where Papa is going,
Susan?'
`Not exactly, Miss. He's going to meet that precious Major first, and I must
say if I was acquainted with any Major myself (which Heavens forbid), it
shouldn't be a blue one!'
`Hush, Susan!' urged Florence gently.
`Well, Miss Floy,' returned Miss Nipper, who was full of burning indignation,
and minded her stops even less than usual. `I can't help it, blue he is, and
while I was a Christian, although humble, I would have natural-coloured friends,
or none.'
It appeared from what she added and had gleaned downstairs, that Mrs. Chick
had proposed the Major for Mr. Dombey's companion, and that Mr. Dombey, after
some hesitation, had invited him.
`Talk of him being a change, indeed!' observed Miss Nipper to herself with
boundless contempt. `If he's a change give me a constancy.'
`Good night, Susan,' said Florence.
`Good night, my darling dear Miss Floy.'
Her tone of commiseration smote the chord so often roughly touched, but never
listened to while she or any one looked on. Florence left alone, laid her head
upon her hand, and pressing the other over her swelling heart, held free
communication with her sorrows.
It was a wet night; and the melancholy rain fell pattering and dropping with
a wearied sound. A sluggish wind was blowing, and went moaning round the house,
as if it were in pain or grief. A shrill noise quivered through the trees. While
she sat weeping, it grew late, and dreary midnight tolled out from the steeples.
Florence was little more than a child in years--not yet fourteen--and the
loneliness and gloom of such an hour in the great house where Death had lately
made its own tremendous devastation, 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 thoughts but love--a wandering love, indeed, and
cast away--but turning always to her father.
There was nothing in the dropping of the rain, the moaning of the wind, the
shuddering of the trees, the striking of the solemn clocks, that shook this one
thought, or diminished its interest. Her recollections of the dear dead boy--and
they were never absent--were itself; the same thing. And oh, to be shut out: to
be so lost: never to have looked into her father's face or touched him since
that hour!
She could not go to bed, poor child, and never had gone yet, since then,
without making her nightly pilgrimage to his door. It would have been a strange
sad sight, to see her now, stealing lightly down the stairs through the thick
gloom, and stopping at it with a beating heart, and blinded eyes, and hair that
fell down loosely and unthought of; and touching it outside with her wet cheek.
But the night covered it, and no one knew.
The moment that she touched the door on this night, Florence found that it
was open. For the first time it stood open, though by but a hair's-breadth: and
there was a light within. The first impulse of the timid child--and she yielded
to it--was to retire swiftly. Her next, to go back, and to enter; and this
second impulse held her in irresolution on the stair-case.
In its standing open, even by so much as that chink, there seemed to be hope.
There was encouragement in seeing a ray of light from within, stealing through
the dark stern door-way, and falling in a thread upon the marble floor. She
turned back, hardly knowing what she did, but urged on by the love within her,
and the trial they had undergone together, but not shared: and with her hands a
little raised and trembling, glided in.
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.
But not by him. 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 the 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, and leaped up from his seat. She was close before
him, with extended arms, but he fell back.
`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. There was not one gleam
of interest, parental recognition, or relenting in it. There was a change in it,
but not of that kind. The old indifference and cold constraint had given place
to something: what, she never thought and did not dare to think, and yet she
felt it in its force, and knew it well without a name: that as it looked upon
her, seemed to cast a shadow on her head.
Did he see before him the successful rival of his son, in health and life?
Did he look upon his own successful rival of his son, 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.
Let him remember it in that room, years to come. It has faded from the air,
before he breaks the silence. It may pass as quickly from his brain, as he
believes, but it is there. Let him remember it in that room, years to come!
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 there with the light--hard, unresponsive, motionless--until the
fluttering dress of his fair child was lost in the darkness.
Let him remember it in that room, years to come. The rain that falls upon the
roof: the wind that mourns outside the door: may have foreknowledge in their
melancholy sound. Let him remember it in that room, years to come!
The last time he had watched her, from the same place, winding up those
stairs, she had had her brother in her arms. It did not move his heart towards
her now, it steeled it: but he went into his room, and locked his door, and sat
down in his chair, and cried for his lost boy.
Diogenes was broad awake upon his post, and waiting for his little mistress.
`Oh, Di! Oh, dear Di! Love me for his sake!'
Diogenes already loved her for her own, and didn't care how much he showed
it. So he made himself vastly ridiculous by performing a variety of uncouth
bounces in the ante-chamber, and concluded, when poor Florence was at last
asleep, and dreaming of the rosy children opposite, 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 towards her: and looking lazily at her,
upside down, out of the tops of his eyes, until from winking and winking he fell
asleep himself, and dreamed, with gruff barks, of his enemy.
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