The Study of a Loving Heart
SIR BARNET and Lady Skettles, very good people, resided in a pretty villa at
Fulham, on the banks of the Thames; which was one of the most desirable
residences in the world when a rowing-match happened to be going past, but had
its little inconveniences at other times, among which may be enumerated the
occasional appearance of the river in the drawing-room, and the contemporaneous
disappearance of the lawn and shrubbery.
Sir Barnett Skettles expressed his personal consequence chiefly through an
antique gold snuff-box, and a ponderous silk pocket-handkerchief, which he had
an imposing manner of drawing out of his pocket like a banner, and using with
both hands at once. Sir Barnet's object in life was constantly to extend the
range of his acquaintance. Like a heavy body dropped into water--not to
disparage so worthy a gentleman by the comparison--it was in the nature of
things that Sir Barnet must spread an ever-widening circle about him, until
there was no room left. Or, like a sound in air, the vibration of which,
according to the speculation of an ingenious modern philosopher, may go on
travelling for ever through the interminable fields of space, nothing but coming
to the end of his moral tether could stop Sir Barnet Skettles in his voyage of
discovery through the social system.
Sir Barnet was proud of making people acquainted with people. He liked the
thing for its own sake, and it advanced his favourite object too. For example,
if Sir Barnet had the good fortune to get hold of a raw recruit, or a country
gentleman, and ensnared him to his hospitable villa, Sir Barnet would say to
him, on the morning after his arrival, `Now, my dear Sir, is there anybody you
would like to know? Who is there you would wish to meet? Do you take any
interest in writing people, or in painting or sculpturing people, or in acting
people, or in anything of that sort?' Possibly the patient answered yes, and
mentioned somebody, of whom Sir Barnet had no more personal knowledge than of
Ptolemy the Great. Sir Barnet replied, that nothing on earth was easier, as he
knew him very well: immediately called on the aforesaid somebody, left his card,
wrote a short note,--`My dear Sir--penalty of your eminent position--friend at
my house naturally desirous--Lady Skettles and myself participate--trust that
genius being superior to ceremonies, you will do us the distinguished favour of
giving us the pleasure,' &c., &c.--and so killed a brace of birds with one
stone, dead as door-nails.
With the snuff-box and banner in full force, Sir Barnet Skettles propounded
his usual inquiry to Florence on the first morning of her visit. When Florence
thanked him, and said there was no one in particular whom she desired to see, it
was natural she should think with a pang, of poor lost Walter. When Sir Barnet
Skettles, urging his kind offer, said, `My dear Miss Dombey, are you sure you
can remember no one whom your good papa--to whom I beg you to present the best
compliments of myself and Lady Skettles when you write--might wish you to know?'
it was natural, perhaps, that her poor head should droop a little, and that her
voice should tremble as it softly answered in the negative.
Skettles Junior, much stiffened as to his cravat, and sobered down as to his
spirits, was at home for the holidays, and appeared to feel himself aggrieved by
the solicitude of his excellent mother that he should be attentive to Florence.
Another and a deeper injury under which the soul of young Barnet chafed, was the
company of Dr. and Mrs. Blimber, who had been invited on a visit to the paternal
roof-tree, and of whom the young gentleman often said he would have preferred
their passing the vacation at Jericho.
`Is there anybody you can suggest now, Doctor Blimber?' said Sir Barnet
Skettles, turning to that gentleman.
`You are very kind, Sir Barnet,' returned Doctor Blimber. `Really I am not
aware that there is, in particular. I like to know my fellow-men in general, Sir
Barnet. What does Terence say? Any one who is the parent of a son is interesting
to me.'
`Has Mrs. Blimber any wish to see any remarkable person?' asked Sir Barnet,
courteously.
Mrs. Blimber replied, with a sweet smile and a shake of her sky-blue cap,
that if Sir Barnet could have made her known to Cicero, she would have troubled
him; but such an introduction not being feasible, and she already enjoying the
friendship of himself and his amiable lady, and possessing with the Doctor her
husband their joint confidence in regard to their dear son--here young Barnet
was observed to curl his nose--she asked no more.
Sir Barnet was fain, under these circumstances, to content himself for the
time with the company assembled. Florence was glad of that; for she had a study
to pursue among them, and it lay too near her heart, and was too precious and
momentous, to yield to any other interest.
There were some children staying in the house. Children who were as frank and
happy with fathers and with mothers as those rosy faces opposite home. Children
who had no restraint upon their love, and freely showed it. Florence sought to
learn their secret; sought to find out what it was she had missed; what simple
art they knew, and she knew not; how she could be taught by them to show her
father that she loved him, and to win his love again.
Many a day did Florence thoughtfully observe these children. On many a bright
morning did she leave her bed when the glorious sun rose, and walking up and
down upon the river's bank, before any one in the house was stirring, look up at
the windows of their rooms, and think of them, asleep, so gently tended and
affectionately thought of. Florence would feel more lonely then, than in the
great house all alone; and would think sometimes that she was better there than
here, and that there was greater peace in hiding herself than in mingling with
others of her age, and finding how unlike them all she was. But attentive to her
study, though it touched her to the quick at every little leaf she turned in the
hard book, Florence remained among them, and tried with patient hope, to gain
the knowledge that she wearied for.
Ah! how to gain it! how to know the charm in its beginning!There were
daughters here, who rose up in the morning, and lay down to rest at night,
possessed of fathers' hearts already. They had no repulse to overcome, no
coldness to dread, no frown to smooth away. As the morning advanced, and the
windows opened one by one, and the dew began to dry upon the flowers and grass,
and youthful feet began to move upon the lawn, Florence, glancing round at the
bright faces, thought what was there she could learn from these children? It was
too late to learn from them; each could approach her father fearlessly, and put
up her lips to meet the ready kiss, and wind her arm about the neck that bent
down to caress her. She could not begin by being so bold. Oh! could it be that
there was less and less hope as she studied more and more!
She remembered well, that even the old woman who had robbed her when a little
child--whose image and whose house, and all she had said and done, were stamped
upon her recollection, with the enduring sharpness of a fearful impression made
at that early period of life--had spoken fondly of her daughter, and how
terribly even she had cried out in the pain of hopeless separation from her
child. But her own mother, she would think again, when she recalled this, had
loved her well. Then, sometimes, when her thoughts reverted swiftly to the void
between herself and her father, Florence would tremble, and the tears would
start upon her face, as she pictured to herself her mother living on, and coming
also to dislike her, because of her wanting the unknown grace that should
conciliate that father naturally, and had never done so from her cradle. She
knew that this imagination did wrong to her mother's memory, and had no truth in
it, or base to rest upon; and yet she tried so hard to justify him, and to find
the whole blame in herself, that she could not resist its passing, like a wild
cloud, through the distance of her mind.
There came among the other visitors, soon after Florence, one beautiful girl,
three or four years younger than she, who was an orphan child, and who was
accompanied by her aunt, a grey-haired lady, who spoke much to Florence, and who
greatly liked (but that they all did) to hear her sing of an evening, and would
always sit near her at that time, with motherly interest. They had only been two
days in the house, when Florence, being in an arbour in the garden one warm
morning, musingly observant of a youthful group upon the turf, through some
intervening boughs, and wreathing flowers for the head of one little creature
among them who was the pet and plaything of the rest, heard this same lady and
her niece, in placing up and down a sheltered nook close by, speak of herself.
`Is Florence an orphan like me, aunt?' said the child.
`No, my love. She has no mother, but her father is living.'
`Is she in mourning for her poor mama, now?' inquired the child quickly.
`No; for her only brother.'
`Has she no other brother?'
`None.'
`No sister?'
`None.'
`I am very, very sorry!' said the little girl.
As they stopped soon afterwards to watch some boats, and had been silent in
the meantime, Florence, who had risen when she heard her name, and had gathered
up her flowers to go and meet them, that they might know of her being within
hearing, resumed her seat and work, expecting to hear no more; but the
conversation recommenced next moment.
`Florence is a favourite with every one here, and deserves to be, I am sure,'
said the child, earnestly. `Where is her papa?'
The aunt replied, after a moment's pause, that she did not know. Her tone of
voice arrested Florence, who had started from her seat again; and held her
fastened to the spot, with her work hastily caught up to her bosom, and her two
hands saving it from being scattered on the ground.
`He is in England, I hope, aunt?' said the child.
`I believe so. Yes; I know he is, indeed.'
`Has he ever been here?'
`I believe not. No.'
`Is he coming here to see her?'
`I believe not.'
`Is he lame, or blind, or ill, aunt?' asked the child.
The flowers that Florence held to her breast began to fall when she heard
those words, so wonderingly spoken. She held them closer; and her face hung down
upon them.
`Kate,' said the lady, after another moment of silence, `I will tell you the
whole truth about Florence as I have heard it, and believe it to be. Tell no one
else, my dear, because it may be little known here, and your doing so would give
her pain.'
`I never will!' exclaimed the child.
`I know you never will,' returned the lady. `I can trust you as myself. I
fear then, Kate, that Florence's father cares little for her, very seldom sees
her, never was kind to her in her life, and now quite shuns her and avoids her.
She would love him dearly if he would suffer her, but he will not--though for no
fault of hers; and she is greatly to be loved and pitied by all gentle hearts.'
More of the flowers that Florence held, fell scattering on the ground; those
that remained were wet, but not with dew; and her face dropped upon her laden
hands.
`Poor Florence! Dear, good Florence!' cried the child.
`Do you know why I have told you this, Kate?' said the lady.
`That I may be very kind to her, and take great care to try to please her. Is
that the reason, aunt?'
`Partly,' said the lady, `but not all. Though we see her so cheerful; with a
pleasant smile for every one; ready to oblige us all, and bearing her part in
every amusement here: she can hardly be quite happy, do you think she can,
Kate?'
`I am afraid not,' said the little girl.
`And you can understand,' pursued the lady, `why her observation of children
who have parents who are fond of them, and proud of them--like many here, just
now--should make her sorrowful in secret?'
`Yes, dear aunt,' said the child, `I understand that very well. Poor
Florence!'
More flowers strayed upon the ground, and those she yet held to her breast
trembled as if a wintry wind were rustling them.
`My Kate,' said the lady, whose voice was serious, but very calm and sweet,
and had so impressed Florence from the first moment of her hearing it, `of all
the youthful people here, you are her natural and harmless friend; you have not
the innocent means, that happier children have--'
`There are none happier, aunt!' exclaimed the child, who seemed to cling
about her.
`--As other children have, dear Kate, of reminding her of her misfortune.
Therefore I would have you, when you try to be her little friend, try all the
more for that, and feel that the bereavement you sustained--thank Heaven! before
you knew its weight--gives you claim and hold upon poor Florence.'
`But I am not without a parent's love, aunt, and I never have been,' said the
child, `with you.'
`However that may be, my dear,' returned the lady, `your misfortune is a
lighter one than Florence's; for not an orphan in the wide world can be so
deserted as the child who is an outcast from a living parent's love.'
The flowers were scattered on the ground like dust; the empty hands were
spread upon the face; and orphaned Florence, shrinking down upon the ground,
wept long and bitterly.
But true of heart and resolute in her good purpose, Florence held to it as
her dying mother held by her upon the day that gave Paul life. He did not know
how much she loved him. However long the time in coming, and however slow the
interval, she must try to bring that knowledge to her father's heart one day or
other. Meantime she must be careful in no thoughtless word, or look, or burst of
feeling awakened by any chance circumstance, to complain against him, or to give
occasion for these whispers to his prejudice.
Even in the response she made the orphan child, to whom she was attracted
strongly, and whom she had such occasion to remember, Florence was mindful of
him. If she singled her out too plainly (Florence thought) from among the rest,
she would confirm--in one mind certainly: perhaps in more--the belief that he
was cruel and unnatural. Her own delight was no set-off to this. What she had
overheard was a reason, not for soothing herself, but for saving him; and
Florence did it, in pursuance of the study of her heart.
She did so always. If a book were read aloud, and there were anything in the
story that pointed at an unkind father, she was in pain for their application of
it to him; not for herself. So with any trifle of an interlude that was acted,
or picture that was shown, or game that was played, among them. The occasions
for such tenderness towards him were so many, that her mind misgave her often,
it would indeed be better to go back to the old house, and live again within the
shadow of its dull walls, undisturbed. How few who saw sweet Florence, in her
spring of womanhood, the modest little queen of those small revels, imagined
what a load of sacred care lay heavy in her breast! How few of those who
stiffened in her father's freezing atmosphere, suspected what a heap of fiery
coals was piled upon his head!
Florence pursued her study patiently, and, failing to acquire the secret of
the nameless grace she sought, among the youthful company who were assembled in
the house, often walked out alone, in the early morning, among the children of
the poor. But still she found them all too far advanced to learn from. They had
won their household places long ago, and did not stand without, as she did, with
a bar across the door.
There was one man whom she several times observed at work very early, and
often with a girl of about her own age seated near him. He was a very poor man,
who seemed to have no regular employment, but now went roaming about the banks
of the river when the tide was low, looking out for bits and scraps in the mud;
and now worked at the unpromising little patch of garden-ground before his
cottage; and now tinkered up a miserable old boat that belonged to him; or did
some job of that kind for a neighbour, as chance occurred. Whatever the man's
labour, the girl was never employed; but sat, when she was with him, in a
listless, moping state, and idle.
Florence had often wished to speak to this man; yet she had never taken
courage to do so, as he made no movement towards her. But one morning when she
happened to come upon him suddenly, from a by-path among some pollard willows
which terminated in the little shelving piece of stony ground that lay between
his dwelling and the water, where he was bending over a fire he had made to
caulk the old boat which was lying bottom upwards, close by, he raised his head
at the sound of her footstep, and gave her Good morning.
`Good morning,' said Florence, approaching nearer, `you are at work early.'
`I'd be glad to be often at work earlier, Miss, if I had work to do.'
`Is it so hard to get?' asked Florence.
`I find it so,' replied the man.
Florence glanced to where the girl was sitting, drawn together, with her
elbows on her knees, and her chin on her hands, and said:
`Is that your daughter?'
He raised his head quickly, and looking towards the girl with a brightened
face, nodded to her, and said `Yes.' Florence looked towards her too, and gave
her a kind salutation; the girl muttered something in return, ungraciously and
sullenly.
`Is she in want of employment also?' said Florence.
The man shook his head. `No, Miss,' he said. `I work for both.'
`Are there only you two, then?' inquired Florence.
`Only us two,' said the man. `Her mother has been dead these ten year.
Martha!' (he lifted up his head again, and whistled to her) `won't you say a
word to the pretty young lady?'
The girl made an impatient gesture with her cowering shoulders, and turned
her head another way. Ugly, misshapen, peevish, ill-conditioned, ragged,
dirty--but beloved! Oh, yes!Florence had seen her father's look towards her, and
she knew whose look it had no likeness to.
`I'm afraid she's worse this morning, my poor girl!' said the man, suspending
his work, and contemplating his ill-favoured child, with a compassion that was
the more tender for being rough.
`She is ill, then!' said Florence.
The man drew a deep sigh. `I don't believe my Martha's had five short days'
good health,' he answered, looking at her still, `in as many long years.'
`Aye! and more than that, John,' said a neighbour, who had come down to help
him with the boat.
`More than that, you say, do you?' cried the other, pushing back his battered
hat, and drawing his hand across his forehead. `Very like. It seems long, long
time.'
`And the more the time,' pursued the neighbour, `the more you've favoured and
humoured her, John, till she's got to be a burden to herself, and everybody
else.'
`Not to me,' said her father, falling to his work again. `Not to me.'
Florence could feel--who better?--how truly he spoke. She drew a little
closer to him, and would have been glad to touch his rugged hand, and thank him
for his goodness to the miserable object that he looked upon with eyes so
different from any other man's.
`Who would favour my poor girl--to call it favouring--if I didn't?' said the
father.
`Aye, aye,' cried the neighbour. `In reason, John. But you!You rob yourself
to give to her. You bind yourself hand and foot on her account. You make your
life miserable along of her. And what does she care! You don't believe she knows
it?'
The father lifted up his head again, and whistled to her. Martha made the
same impatient gesture with her crouching shoulders, in reply; and he was glad
and happy.
`Only for that, Miss,' said the neighbour, with a smile, in which there was
more of secret sympathy than he expressed; `only to get that, he never lets her
out of his sight!'
`Because the day'll come, and has been coming a long while,' observed the
other, bending low over his work, `when to get half as much from that
unfort'nate child of mine--to get the trembling of a finger, or the waving of a
hair--would be to raise the dead.'
Florence softly put some money near his hand on the old boat, and left him.
And now Florence began to think, if she were to fall ill, if she were to fade
like her dear brother, would he then know that she had loved him; would she then
grow dear to him; would he come to her bedside, when she was weak and dim of
sight, and take her into his embrace, and cancel all the past? Would he so
forgive her, in that changed condition, for not having been able to lay open her
childish heart to him, as to make it easy to relate with what emotions she had
gone out of his room that night; what she had meant to say if she had had the
courage; and how she had endeavoured, afterwards, to learn the way she never
knew in infancy?
Yes, she thought if she were dying, he would relent. She thought, that if she
lay, serene and not unwilling to depart, upon the bed that was curtained round
with recollections of their darling boy, he would be touched home, and would
say, `Dear Florence, live for me, and we will love each other as we might have
done, and be as happy as we might have been these many years!' She thought that
if she heard such words from him, and had her arms clasped round him, she could
answer with a smile, `It is too late for anything but this; I never could be
happier, dear father!' and so leave him, with a blessing on her lips.
The golden water she remembered on the wall, appeared to Florence, in the
light of such reflections, only as a current flowing on to rest, and to a region
where the dear ones, gone before, were waiting, hand in hand; and often when she
looked upon the darker river rippling at her feet, she thought with awful
wonder, but not terror, of that river which her brother had so often said was
bearing him away.
The father and his sick daughter were yet fresh in Florence's mind, and,
indeed, that incident was not a week old, when Sir Barnet and his lady going out
walking in the lanes one afternoon, proposed to her to bear them company.
Florence readily consenting, Lady Skettles ordered out young Barnet as a matter
of course. For nothing delighted Lady Skettles so much, as beholding her eldest
son with Florence on his arm.
Barnet, to say the truth, appeared to entertain an opposite sentiment on the
subject, and on such occasions frequently expressed himself audibly, though
indefinitely, in reference to `a parcel of girls.' As it was not easy to ruffle
her sweet temper, however, Florence generally reconciled the young gentleman to
his fate after a few minutes, and they strolled on amicably: Lady Skettles and
Sir Barnet following, in a state of perfect complacency and high gratification.
This was the order of procedure on the afternoon in question: and Florence
had almost succeeded in overruling the present objections of Skettles Junior to
his destiny, when a gentleman on horseback came riding by, looked at them
earnestly as he passed, drew in his rein, wheeled round, an came riding back
again, hat in hand.
The gentleman had looked particularly at Florence; and when the little party
stopped, on his riding back, he bowed to her, before saluting Sir Barnet and his
lady. Florence had no remembrance of having ever seen him, but she started
involuntarily when he came near her, and drew back.
`My horse is perfectly quiet, I assure you,' said the gentleman.
It was not that, but something in the gentleman himself--Florence could not
have said what--that made her recoil as if she had been stung.
`I have the honour to address Miss Dombey, I believe?' said the gentleman,
with a most persuasive smile. On Florence inclining her head, he added, `My name
is Carker. I can hardly hope to be remembered by Miss Dombey, except by name.
Carker.'
Florence, sensible of a strange inclination to shiver, though the day was
hot, presented him to her host and hostess; by whom he was very graciously
received.
`I beg pardon,' said Mr. Carker, `a thousand times! But I am going down
to-morrow morning to Mr. Dombey, at Leamington, and if Miss Dombey can intrust
me with any commission, need I say how very happy I shall be?'
Sir Barnet immediately divining that Florence would desire to write a letter
to her father, proposed to return, and besought Mr. Carker to come home and dine
in his riding gear. Mr. Carker had the misfortune to be engaged to dinner, but
if Miss Dombey wished to write, nothing would delight him more than to accompany
them back, and to be her faithful slave in waiting as long as she pleased. As he
said this with his widest smile, and bent down close to her to pat his horse's
neck, Florence meeting his eyes, saw, rather than heard him say, `There is no
news of the ship!'
Confused, frightened, shrinking from him, and not even sure that he had said
those words, for he seemed to have shown them to her in some extraordinary
manner through his smile, instead of uttering them, Florence faintly said that
she was obliged to him, but she would not write; she had nothing to say.
`Nothing to send, Miss Dombey?' said the man of teeth.
`Nothing,' said Florence, `but my--but my dear love--if you please.'
Disturbed as Florence was, she raised her eyes to his face with an imploring
and expressive look, that plainly besought him, if he knew--which he as plainly
did--that any message between her and her father was an uncommon charge, but
that one most of all, to spare her. Mr. Carker smiled and bowed low, and being
charged by Sir Barnet with the best compliments of himself and Lady Skettles,
took his leave and rode away: leaving a favourable impression on that worthy
couple. Florence was seized with such a shudder as he went, that Sir Barnet,
adopting the popular superstition, supposed somebody was passing over her grave.
Mr. Carker, turning a corner, on the instant, looked back, and bowed, and
disappeared, as if he rode off to the churchyard straight, to do it.
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