Страница:
'Bunsby, my lad, how fares it?'
A deep, gruff, husky utterance, which seemed to have no connexion with
Bunsby, and certainly had not the least effect upon his face, replied, 'Ay,
ay, shipmet, how goes it?' At the same time Bunsby's right hand and arm,
emerging from a pocket, shook the Captain's, and went back again.
'Bunsby,' said the Captain, striking home at once, 'here you are; a man
of mind, and a man as can give an opinion. Here's a young lady as wants to
take that opinion, in regard of my friend Wal'r; likewise my t'other friend,
Sol Gills, which is a character for you to come within hail of, being a man
of science, which is the mother of inwention, and knows no law. Bunsby, will
you wear, to oblige me, and come along with us?'
The great commander, who seemed by expression of his visage to be
always on the look-out for something in the extremest distance' and to have
no ocular knowledge of any anng' within ten miles, made no reply whatever.
'Here is a man,' said the Captain, addressing himself to his fair
auditors, and indicating the commander with his outstretched hook, 'that has
fell down, more than any man alive; that has had more accidents happen to
his own self than the Seamen's Hospital to all hands; that took as many
spars and bars and bolts about the outside of his head when he was young, as
you'd want a order for on Chatham-yard to build a pleasure yacht with; and
yet that his opinions in that way, it's my belief, for there ain't nothing
like 'em afloat or ashore.'
The stolid commander appeared by a very slight vibration in his elbows,
to express some satisfitction in this encomium; but if his face had been as
distant as his gaze was, it could hardIy have enlightened the beholders less
in reference to anything that was passing in his thoughts.
'Shipmate,' said Bunsby, all of a sudden, and stooping down to look out
under some interposing spar, 'what'll the ladies drink?'
Captain Cuttle, whose delicacy was shocked by such an inquiry in
connection with Florence, drew the sage aside, and seeming to explain in his
ear, accompanied him below; where, that he might not take offence, the
Captain drank a dram himself' which Florence and Susan, glancing down the
open skylight, saw the sage, with difficulty finding room for himself
between his berth and a very little brass fireplace, serve out for self and
friend. They soon reappeared on deck, and Captain Cuttle, triumphing in the
success of his enterprise, conducted Florence back to the coach, while
Bunsby followed, escorting Miss Nipper, whom he hugged upon the way (much to
that young lady's indignation) with his pilot-coated arm, like a blue bear.
The Captain put his oracle inside, and gloried so much in having
secured him, and having got that mind into a hackney-coach, that he could
not refrain from often peeping in at Florence through the little window
behind the driver, and testifiing his delight in smiles, and also in taps
upon his forehead, to hint to her that the brain of Bunsby was hard at it'
In the meantime, Bunsby, still hugging Miss Nipper (for his friend, the
Captain, had not exaggerated the softness of his heart), uniformily
preserved his gravity of deportment, and showed no other consciousness of
her or anything.
Uncle Sol, who had come home, received them at the door, and ushered
them immediately into the little back parlour: strangely altered by the
absence of Walter. On the table, and about the room, were the charts and
maps on which the heavy-hearted Instrument-maker had again and again tracked
the missing vessel across the sea, and on which, with a pair of compasses
that he still had in his hand, he had been measuring, a minute before, how
far she must have driven, to have driven here or there: and trying to
demonstrate that a long time must elapse before hope was exhausted.
'Whether she can have run,' said Uncle Sol, looking wistfully over the
chart; 'but no, that's almost impossible or whether she can have been forced
by stress of weather, - but that's not reasonably likely. Or whether there
is any hope she so far changed her course as - but even I can hardly hope
that!' With such broken suggestions, poor old Uncle Sol roamed over the
great sheet before him, and could not find a speck of hopeful probability in
it large enough to set one small point of the compasses upon.
Florence saw immediately - it would have been difficult to help seeing
- that there was a singular, indescribable change in the old man, and that
while his manner was far more restless and unsettled than usual, there was
yet a curious, contradictory decision in it, that perplexed her very much.
She fancied once that he spoke wildly, and at random; for on her saying she
regretted not to have seen him when she had been there before that morning,
he at first replied that he had been to see her, and directly afterwards
seemed to wish to recall that answer.
'You have been to see me?' said Florence. 'To-day?'
'Yes, my dear young lady,' returned Uncle Sol, looking at her and away
from her in a confused manner. 'I wished to see you with my own eyes, and to
hear you with my own ears, once more before - ' There he stopped.
'Before when? Before what?' said Florence, putting her hand upon his
arm.
'Did I say "before?"' replied old Sol. 'If I did, I must have meant
before we should have news of my dear boy.'
'You are not well,' said Florence, tenderly. 'You have been so very
anxious I am sure you are not well.'
'I am as well,' returned the old man, shutting up his right hand, and
holding it out to show her: 'as well and firm as any man at my time of life
can hope to be. See! It's steady. Is its master not as capable of resolution
and fortitude as many a younger man? I think so. We shall see.'
There was that in his manner more than in his words, though they
remained with her too, which impressed Florence so much, that she would have
confided her uneasiness to Captain Cuttle at that moment, if the Captain had
not seized that moment for expounding the state of circumstance, on which
the opinion of the sagacious Bunsby was requested, and entreating that
profound authority to deliver the same.
Bunsby, whose eye continued to be addressed to somewhere about the
half-way house between London and Gravesend, two or three times put out his
rough right arm, as seeking to wind it for inspiration round the fair form
of Miss Nipper; but that young female having withdrawn herself, in
displeasure, to the opposite side of the table, the soft heart of the
Commander of the Cautious Clara met with no response to its impulses. After
sundry failures in this wise, the Commander, addressing himself to nobody,
thus spake; or rather the voice within him said of its own accord, and quite
independent of himself, as if he were possessed by a gruff spirit:
'My name's Jack Bunsby!'
'He was christened John,' cried the delighted Captain Cuttle. 'Hear
him!'
'And what I says,' pursued the voice, after some deliberation, 'I
stands to.
The Captain, with Florence on his arm, nodded at the auditory, and
seemed to say, 'Now he's coming out. This is what I meant when I brought
him.'
'Whereby,' proceeded the voice, 'why not? If so, what odds? Can any man
say otherwise? No. Awast then!'
When it had pursued its train of argument to this point, the voice
stopped, and rested. It then proceeded very slowly, thus:
'Do I believe that this here Son and Heir's gone down, my lads? Mayhap.
Do I say so? Which? If a skipper stands out by Sen' George's Channel, making
for the Downs, what's right ahead of him? The Goodwins. He isn't foroed to
run upon the Goodwins, but he may. The bearings of this observation lays in
the application on it. That ain't no part of my duty. Awast then, keep a
bright look-out for'ard, and good luck to you!'
The voice here went out of the back parlour and into the street, taking
the Commander of the Cautious Clara with it, and accompanying him on board
again with all convenient expedition, where he immediately turned in, and
refreshed his mind with a nap.
The students of the sage's precepts, left to their own application of
his wisdom - upon a principle which was the main leg of the Bunsby tripod,
as it is perchance of some other oracular stools - looked upon one another
in a little uncertainty; while Rob the Grinder, who had taken the innocent
freedom of peering in, and listening, through the skylight in the roof, came
softly down from the leads, in a state of very dense confusion. Captain
Cuttle, however, whose admiration of Bunsby was, if possible, enhanced by
the splendid manner in which he had justified his reputation and come
through this solemn reference, proceeded to explain that Bunsby meant
nothing but confidence; that Bunsby had no misgivings; and that such an
opinion as that man had given, coming from such a mind as his, was Hope's
own anchor, with good roads to cast it in. Florence endeavoured to believe
that the Captain was right; but the Nipper, with her arms tight folded,
shook her head in resolute denial, and had no more trust m Bunsby than in Mr
Perch himself.
The philosopher seemed to have left Uncle Sol pretty much where he had
found him, for he still went roaming about the watery world, compasses in
hand, and discovering no rest for them. It was in pursuance of a whisper in
his ear from Florence, while the old man was absorbed in this pursuit, that
Captain Cuttle laid his heavy hand upon his shoulder.
'What cheer, Sol Gills?' cried the Captain, heartily.
'But so-so, Ned,' returned the Instrument-maker. 'I have been
remembering, all this afternoon, that on the very day when my boy entered
Dombey's House, and came home late to dinner, sitting just there where you
stand, we talked of storm and shipwreck, and I could hardly turn him from
the subject'
But meeting the eyes of Florence, which were fixed with earnest
scrutiny upon his face, the old man stopped and smiled.
'Stand by, old friend!' cried the Captain. 'Look alive! I tell you
what, Sol Gills; arter I've convoyed Heart's-delight safe home,' here the
Captain kissed his hook to Florence, 'I'll come back and take you in tow for
the rest of this blessed day. You'll come and eat your dinner along with me,
Sol, somewheres or another.'
'Not to-day, Ned!' said the old man quickly, and appearing to be
unaccountably startled by the proposition. 'Not to-day. I couldn't do it!'
'Why not?' returned the Captain, gazing at him in astonishment.
'I - I have so much to do. I - I mean to think of, and arrange. I
couldn't do it, Ned, indeed. I must go out again, and be alone, and turn my
mind to many things to-day.'
The Captain looked at the Instrument-maker, and looked at Florence, and
again at the Instrument-maker. 'To-morrow, then,' he suggested, at last.
'Yes, yes. To-morrow,' said the old man. 'Think of me to-morrow. Say
to-morrow.'
'I shall come here early, mind, Sol Gills,' stipulated the Captain.
'Yes, yes. The first thing tomorrow morning,' said old Sol; 'and now
good-bye, Ned Cuttle, and God bless you!'
Squeezing both the Captain's hands, with uncommon fervour, as he said
it, the old man turned to Florence, folded hers in his own, and put them to
his lips; then hurried her out to the coach with very singular
precipitation. Altogether, he made such an effect on Captain Cuttle that the
Captain lingered behind, and instructed Rob to be particularly gentle and
attentive to his master until the morning: which injunction he strengthened
with the payment of one shilling down, and the promise of another sixpence
before noon next day. This kind office performed, Captain Cuttle, who
considered himself the natural and lawful body-guard of Florence, mounted
the box with a mighty sense of his trust, and escorted her home. At parting,
he assured her that he would stand by Sol Gills, close and true; and once
again inquired of Susan Nipper, unable to forget her gallant words in
reference to Mrs MacStinger, 'Would you, do you think my dear, though?'
When the desolate house had closed upon the two, the Captain's thoughts
reverted to the old Instrument-maker, and he felt uncomfortable. Therefore,
instead of going home, he walked up and down the street several times, and,
eking out his leisure until evening, dined late at a certain angular little
tavern in the City, with a public parlour like a wedge, to which glazed hats
much resorted. The Captain's principal intention was to pass Sol Gills's,
after dark, and look in through the window: which he did, The parlour door
stood open, and he could see his old friend writing busily and steadily at
the table within, while the little Midshipman, already sheltered from the
night dews, watched him from the counter; under which Rob the Grinder made
his own bed, preparatory to shutting the shop. Reassured by the tranquillity
that reigned within the precincts of the wooden mariner, the Captain headed
for Brig Place, resolving to weigh anchor betimes in the morning.
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 Barnet Skettles expressed his personal consequence chiefly through
an antique gold snuffbox, and a ponderous silk pocket-kerchief, 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 law 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,' etc, etc. - 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 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? Anyone 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 anyone 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 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 pacing 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 everyone 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 spoke 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 everyone; 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 his been dead these ten year.
Martha!' 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 rougher.
'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'
'Ay! 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
a 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. '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.
'Ay, ay,' 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,
and 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
tomorrow morning to Mr Dombey, at Leamington, and if Miss Dombey can entrust
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.
Strange News of Uncle Sol
Captain Cuttle, though no sluggard, did not turn out so early on the
morning after he had seen Sol Gills, through the shop-window, writing in the
parlour, with the Midshipman upon the counter, and Rob the Grinder making up
his bed below it, but that the clocks struck six as he raised himself on his
elbow, and took a survey of his little chamber. The Captain's eyes must have
done severe duty, if he usually opened them as wide on awaking as he did
that morning; and were but roughly rewarded for their vigilance, if he
generally rubbed them half as hard. But the occasion was no common one, for
Rob the Grinder had certainly never stood in the doorway of Captain Cuttle's
room before, and in it he stood then, panting at the Captain, with a flushed
and touzled air of Bed about him, that greatly heightened both his colour
and expression.
'Holloa!' roared the Captain. 'What's the matter?'
Before Rob could stammer a word in answer, Captain Cuttle turned out,
all in a heap, and covered the boy's mouth with his hand.
'Steady, my lad,' said the Captain, 'don't ye speak a word to me as
yet!'
The Captain, looking at his visitor in great consternation, gently
shouldered him into the next room, after laying this injunction upon him;
and disappearing for a few moments, forthwith returned in the blue suit.
Holding up his hand in token of the injunction not yet being taken off,
Captain Cuttle walked up to the cupboard, and poured himself out a dram; a
counterpart of which he handed to the messenger. The Captain then stood
himself up in a corner, against the wall, as if to forestall the possibility
of being knocked backwards by the communication that was to be made to him;
and having swallowed his liquor, with his eyes fixed on the messenger, and
his face as pale as his face could be, requested him to 'heave ahead.'
'Do you mean, tell you, Captain?' asked Rob, who had been greatly
impressed by these precautions
'Ay!' said the Captain.
'Well, Sir,' said Rob, 'I ain't got much to tell. But look here!'
Rob produced a bundle of keys. The Captain surveyed them, remained in
his corner, and surveyed the messenger.
'And look here!' pursued Rob.
The boy produced a sealed packet, which Captain Cuttle stared at as he
had stared at the keys.
'When I woke this morning, Captain,' said Rob, 'which was about a
quarter after five, I found these on my pillow. The shop-door was unbolted
and unlocked, and Mr Gills gone.'
'Gone!' roared the Captain.
'Flowed, Sir,' returned Rob.
The Captain's voice was so tremendous, and he came out of his corner
with such way on him, that Rob retreated before him into another corner:
holding out the keys and packet, to prevent himself from being run down.
'"For Captain Cuttle," Sir,' cried Rob, 'is on the keys, and on the
packet too. Upon my word and honour, Captain Cuttle, I don't know anything
more about it. I wish I may die if I do! Here's a sitiwation for a lad
that's just got a sitiwation,' cried the unfortunate Grinder, screwing his
cuff into his face: 'his master bolted with his place, and him blamed for
it!'
These lamentations had reference to Captain Cuttle's gaze, or rather
glare, which was full of vague suspicions, threatenings, and denunciations.
Taking the proffered packet from his hand, the Captain opened it and read as
follows:-
'My dear Ned Cuttle. Enclosed is my will!' The Captain turned it over,
with a doubtful look - 'and Testament - Where's the Testament?' said the
Captain, instantly impeaching the ill-fated Grinder. 'What have you done
with that, my lad?'
'I never see it,' whimpered Rob. 'Don't keep on suspecting an innocent
lad, Captain. I never touched the Testament.'
Captain Cuttle shook his head, implying that somebody must be made
answerable for it; and gravely proceeded:
'Which don't break open for a year, or until you have decisive
intelligence of my dear Walter, who is dear to you, Ned, too, I am sure.'
The Captain paused and shook his head in some emotion; then, as a
re-establishment of his dignity in this trying position, looked with
exceeding sternness at the Grinder. 'If you should never hear of me, or see
me more, Ned, remember an old friend as he will remember you to the last -
kindly; and at least until the period I have mentioned has expired, keep a
home in the old place for Walter. There are no debts, the loan from Dombey's
House is paid off and all my keys I send with this. Keep this quiet, and
make no inquiry for me; it is useless. So no more, dear Ned, from your true
friend, Solomon Gills.' The Captain took a long breath, and then read these
words written below: '"The boy Rob, well recommended, as I told you, from
Dombey's House. If all else should come to the hammer, take care, Ned, of
the little Midshipman."'
To convey to posterity any idea of the manner in which the Captain,
after turning this letter over and over, and reading it a score of times,
sat down in his chair, and held a court-martial on the subject in his own
mind, would require the united genius of all the great men, who, discarding
A deep, gruff, husky utterance, which seemed to have no connexion with
Bunsby, and certainly had not the least effect upon his face, replied, 'Ay,
ay, shipmet, how goes it?' At the same time Bunsby's right hand and arm,
emerging from a pocket, shook the Captain's, and went back again.
'Bunsby,' said the Captain, striking home at once, 'here you are; a man
of mind, and a man as can give an opinion. Here's a young lady as wants to
take that opinion, in regard of my friend Wal'r; likewise my t'other friend,
Sol Gills, which is a character for you to come within hail of, being a man
of science, which is the mother of inwention, and knows no law. Bunsby, will
you wear, to oblige me, and come along with us?'
The great commander, who seemed by expression of his visage to be
always on the look-out for something in the extremest distance' and to have
no ocular knowledge of any anng' within ten miles, made no reply whatever.
'Here is a man,' said the Captain, addressing himself to his fair
auditors, and indicating the commander with his outstretched hook, 'that has
fell down, more than any man alive; that has had more accidents happen to
his own self than the Seamen's Hospital to all hands; that took as many
spars and bars and bolts about the outside of his head when he was young, as
you'd want a order for on Chatham-yard to build a pleasure yacht with; and
yet that his opinions in that way, it's my belief, for there ain't nothing
like 'em afloat or ashore.'
The stolid commander appeared by a very slight vibration in his elbows,
to express some satisfitction in this encomium; but if his face had been as
distant as his gaze was, it could hardIy have enlightened the beholders less
in reference to anything that was passing in his thoughts.
'Shipmate,' said Bunsby, all of a sudden, and stooping down to look out
under some interposing spar, 'what'll the ladies drink?'
Captain Cuttle, whose delicacy was shocked by such an inquiry in
connection with Florence, drew the sage aside, and seeming to explain in his
ear, accompanied him below; where, that he might not take offence, the
Captain drank a dram himself' which Florence and Susan, glancing down the
open skylight, saw the sage, with difficulty finding room for himself
between his berth and a very little brass fireplace, serve out for self and
friend. They soon reappeared on deck, and Captain Cuttle, triumphing in the
success of his enterprise, conducted Florence back to the coach, while
Bunsby followed, escorting Miss Nipper, whom he hugged upon the way (much to
that young lady's indignation) with his pilot-coated arm, like a blue bear.
The Captain put his oracle inside, and gloried so much in having
secured him, and having got that mind into a hackney-coach, that he could
not refrain from often peeping in at Florence through the little window
behind the driver, and testifiing his delight in smiles, and also in taps
upon his forehead, to hint to her that the brain of Bunsby was hard at it'
In the meantime, Bunsby, still hugging Miss Nipper (for his friend, the
Captain, had not exaggerated the softness of his heart), uniformily
preserved his gravity of deportment, and showed no other consciousness of
her or anything.
Uncle Sol, who had come home, received them at the door, and ushered
them immediately into the little back parlour: strangely altered by the
absence of Walter. On the table, and about the room, were the charts and
maps on which the heavy-hearted Instrument-maker had again and again tracked
the missing vessel across the sea, and on which, with a pair of compasses
that he still had in his hand, he had been measuring, a minute before, how
far she must have driven, to have driven here or there: and trying to
demonstrate that a long time must elapse before hope was exhausted.
'Whether she can have run,' said Uncle Sol, looking wistfully over the
chart; 'but no, that's almost impossible or whether she can have been forced
by stress of weather, - but that's not reasonably likely. Or whether there
is any hope she so far changed her course as - but even I can hardly hope
that!' With such broken suggestions, poor old Uncle Sol roamed over the
great sheet before him, and could not find a speck of hopeful probability in
it large enough to set one small point of the compasses upon.
Florence saw immediately - it would have been difficult to help seeing
- that there was a singular, indescribable change in the old man, and that
while his manner was far more restless and unsettled than usual, there was
yet a curious, contradictory decision in it, that perplexed her very much.
She fancied once that he spoke wildly, and at random; for on her saying she
regretted not to have seen him when she had been there before that morning,
he at first replied that he had been to see her, and directly afterwards
seemed to wish to recall that answer.
'You have been to see me?' said Florence. 'To-day?'
'Yes, my dear young lady,' returned Uncle Sol, looking at her and away
from her in a confused manner. 'I wished to see you with my own eyes, and to
hear you with my own ears, once more before - ' There he stopped.
'Before when? Before what?' said Florence, putting her hand upon his
arm.
'Did I say "before?"' replied old Sol. 'If I did, I must have meant
before we should have news of my dear boy.'
'You are not well,' said Florence, tenderly. 'You have been so very
anxious I am sure you are not well.'
'I am as well,' returned the old man, shutting up his right hand, and
holding it out to show her: 'as well and firm as any man at my time of life
can hope to be. See! It's steady. Is its master not as capable of resolution
and fortitude as many a younger man? I think so. We shall see.'
There was that in his manner more than in his words, though they
remained with her too, which impressed Florence so much, that she would have
confided her uneasiness to Captain Cuttle at that moment, if the Captain had
not seized that moment for expounding the state of circumstance, on which
the opinion of the sagacious Bunsby was requested, and entreating that
profound authority to deliver the same.
Bunsby, whose eye continued to be addressed to somewhere about the
half-way house between London and Gravesend, two or three times put out his
rough right arm, as seeking to wind it for inspiration round the fair form
of Miss Nipper; but that young female having withdrawn herself, in
displeasure, to the opposite side of the table, the soft heart of the
Commander of the Cautious Clara met with no response to its impulses. After
sundry failures in this wise, the Commander, addressing himself to nobody,
thus spake; or rather the voice within him said of its own accord, and quite
independent of himself, as if he were possessed by a gruff spirit:
'My name's Jack Bunsby!'
'He was christened John,' cried the delighted Captain Cuttle. 'Hear
him!'
'And what I says,' pursued the voice, after some deliberation, 'I
stands to.
The Captain, with Florence on his arm, nodded at the auditory, and
seemed to say, 'Now he's coming out. This is what I meant when I brought
him.'
'Whereby,' proceeded the voice, 'why not? If so, what odds? Can any man
say otherwise? No. Awast then!'
When it had pursued its train of argument to this point, the voice
stopped, and rested. It then proceeded very slowly, thus:
'Do I believe that this here Son and Heir's gone down, my lads? Mayhap.
Do I say so? Which? If a skipper stands out by Sen' George's Channel, making
for the Downs, what's right ahead of him? The Goodwins. He isn't foroed to
run upon the Goodwins, but he may. The bearings of this observation lays in
the application on it. That ain't no part of my duty. Awast then, keep a
bright look-out for'ard, and good luck to you!'
The voice here went out of the back parlour and into the street, taking
the Commander of the Cautious Clara with it, and accompanying him on board
again with all convenient expedition, where he immediately turned in, and
refreshed his mind with a nap.
The students of the sage's precepts, left to their own application of
his wisdom - upon a principle which was the main leg of the Bunsby tripod,
as it is perchance of some other oracular stools - looked upon one another
in a little uncertainty; while Rob the Grinder, who had taken the innocent
freedom of peering in, and listening, through the skylight in the roof, came
softly down from the leads, in a state of very dense confusion. Captain
Cuttle, however, whose admiration of Bunsby was, if possible, enhanced by
the splendid manner in which he had justified his reputation and come
through this solemn reference, proceeded to explain that Bunsby meant
nothing but confidence; that Bunsby had no misgivings; and that such an
opinion as that man had given, coming from such a mind as his, was Hope's
own anchor, with good roads to cast it in. Florence endeavoured to believe
that the Captain was right; but the Nipper, with her arms tight folded,
shook her head in resolute denial, and had no more trust m Bunsby than in Mr
Perch himself.
The philosopher seemed to have left Uncle Sol pretty much where he had
found him, for he still went roaming about the watery world, compasses in
hand, and discovering no rest for them. It was in pursuance of a whisper in
his ear from Florence, while the old man was absorbed in this pursuit, that
Captain Cuttle laid his heavy hand upon his shoulder.
'What cheer, Sol Gills?' cried the Captain, heartily.
'But so-so, Ned,' returned the Instrument-maker. 'I have been
remembering, all this afternoon, that on the very day when my boy entered
Dombey's House, and came home late to dinner, sitting just there where you
stand, we talked of storm and shipwreck, and I could hardly turn him from
the subject'
But meeting the eyes of Florence, which were fixed with earnest
scrutiny upon his face, the old man stopped and smiled.
'Stand by, old friend!' cried the Captain. 'Look alive! I tell you
what, Sol Gills; arter I've convoyed Heart's-delight safe home,' here the
Captain kissed his hook to Florence, 'I'll come back and take you in tow for
the rest of this blessed day. You'll come and eat your dinner along with me,
Sol, somewheres or another.'
'Not to-day, Ned!' said the old man quickly, and appearing to be
unaccountably startled by the proposition. 'Not to-day. I couldn't do it!'
'Why not?' returned the Captain, gazing at him in astonishment.
'I - I have so much to do. I - I mean to think of, and arrange. I
couldn't do it, Ned, indeed. I must go out again, and be alone, and turn my
mind to many things to-day.'
The Captain looked at the Instrument-maker, and looked at Florence, and
again at the Instrument-maker. 'To-morrow, then,' he suggested, at last.
'Yes, yes. To-morrow,' said the old man. 'Think of me to-morrow. Say
to-morrow.'
'I shall come here early, mind, Sol Gills,' stipulated the Captain.
'Yes, yes. The first thing tomorrow morning,' said old Sol; 'and now
good-bye, Ned Cuttle, and God bless you!'
Squeezing both the Captain's hands, with uncommon fervour, as he said
it, the old man turned to Florence, folded hers in his own, and put them to
his lips; then hurried her out to the coach with very singular
precipitation. Altogether, he made such an effect on Captain Cuttle that the
Captain lingered behind, and instructed Rob to be particularly gentle and
attentive to his master until the morning: which injunction he strengthened
with the payment of one shilling down, and the promise of another sixpence
before noon next day. This kind office performed, Captain Cuttle, who
considered himself the natural and lawful body-guard of Florence, mounted
the box with a mighty sense of his trust, and escorted her home. At parting,
he assured her that he would stand by Sol Gills, close and true; and once
again inquired of Susan Nipper, unable to forget her gallant words in
reference to Mrs MacStinger, 'Would you, do you think my dear, though?'
When the desolate house had closed upon the two, the Captain's thoughts
reverted to the old Instrument-maker, and he felt uncomfortable. Therefore,
instead of going home, he walked up and down the street several times, and,
eking out his leisure until evening, dined late at a certain angular little
tavern in the City, with a public parlour like a wedge, to which glazed hats
much resorted. The Captain's principal intention was to pass Sol Gills's,
after dark, and look in through the window: which he did, The parlour door
stood open, and he could see his old friend writing busily and steadily at
the table within, while the little Midshipman, already sheltered from the
night dews, watched him from the counter; under which Rob the Grinder made
his own bed, preparatory to shutting the shop. Reassured by the tranquillity
that reigned within the precincts of the wooden mariner, the Captain headed
for Brig Place, resolving to weigh anchor betimes in the morning.
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 Barnet Skettles expressed his personal consequence chiefly through
an antique gold snuffbox, and a ponderous silk pocket-kerchief, 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 law 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,' etc, etc. - 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 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? Anyone 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 anyone 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 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 pacing 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 everyone 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 spoke 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 everyone; 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 his been dead these ten year.
Martha!' 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 rougher.
'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'
'Ay! 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
a 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. '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.
'Ay, ay,' 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,
and 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
tomorrow morning to Mr Dombey, at Leamington, and if Miss Dombey can entrust
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.
Strange News of Uncle Sol
Captain Cuttle, though no sluggard, did not turn out so early on the
morning after he had seen Sol Gills, through the shop-window, writing in the
parlour, with the Midshipman upon the counter, and Rob the Grinder making up
his bed below it, but that the clocks struck six as he raised himself on his
elbow, and took a survey of his little chamber. The Captain's eyes must have
done severe duty, if he usually opened them as wide on awaking as he did
that morning; and were but roughly rewarded for their vigilance, if he
generally rubbed them half as hard. But the occasion was no common one, for
Rob the Grinder had certainly never stood in the doorway of Captain Cuttle's
room before, and in it he stood then, panting at the Captain, with a flushed
and touzled air of Bed about him, that greatly heightened both his colour
and expression.
'Holloa!' roared the Captain. 'What's the matter?'
Before Rob could stammer a word in answer, Captain Cuttle turned out,
all in a heap, and covered the boy's mouth with his hand.
'Steady, my lad,' said the Captain, 'don't ye speak a word to me as
yet!'
The Captain, looking at his visitor in great consternation, gently
shouldered him into the next room, after laying this injunction upon him;
and disappearing for a few moments, forthwith returned in the blue suit.
Holding up his hand in token of the injunction not yet being taken off,
Captain Cuttle walked up to the cupboard, and poured himself out a dram; a
counterpart of which he handed to the messenger. The Captain then stood
himself up in a corner, against the wall, as if to forestall the possibility
of being knocked backwards by the communication that was to be made to him;
and having swallowed his liquor, with his eyes fixed on the messenger, and
his face as pale as his face could be, requested him to 'heave ahead.'
'Do you mean, tell you, Captain?' asked Rob, who had been greatly
impressed by these precautions
'Ay!' said the Captain.
'Well, Sir,' said Rob, 'I ain't got much to tell. But look here!'
Rob produced a bundle of keys. The Captain surveyed them, remained in
his corner, and surveyed the messenger.
'And look here!' pursued Rob.
The boy produced a sealed packet, which Captain Cuttle stared at as he
had stared at the keys.
'When I woke this morning, Captain,' said Rob, 'which was about a
quarter after five, I found these on my pillow. The shop-door was unbolted
and unlocked, and Mr Gills gone.'
'Gone!' roared the Captain.
'Flowed, Sir,' returned Rob.
The Captain's voice was so tremendous, and he came out of his corner
with such way on him, that Rob retreated before him into another corner:
holding out the keys and packet, to prevent himself from being run down.
'"For Captain Cuttle," Sir,' cried Rob, 'is on the keys, and on the
packet too. Upon my word and honour, Captain Cuttle, I don't know anything
more about it. I wish I may die if I do! Here's a sitiwation for a lad
that's just got a sitiwation,' cried the unfortunate Grinder, screwing his
cuff into his face: 'his master bolted with his place, and him blamed for
it!'
These lamentations had reference to Captain Cuttle's gaze, or rather
glare, which was full of vague suspicions, threatenings, and denunciations.
Taking the proffered packet from his hand, the Captain opened it and read as
follows:-
'My dear Ned Cuttle. Enclosed is my will!' The Captain turned it over,
with a doubtful look - 'and Testament - Where's the Testament?' said the
Captain, instantly impeaching the ill-fated Grinder. 'What have you done
with that, my lad?'
'I never see it,' whimpered Rob. 'Don't keep on suspecting an innocent
lad, Captain. I never touched the Testament.'
Captain Cuttle shook his head, implying that somebody must be made
answerable for it; and gravely proceeded:
'Which don't break open for a year, or until you have decisive
intelligence of my dear Walter, who is dear to you, Ned, too, I am sure.'
The Captain paused and shook his head in some emotion; then, as a
re-establishment of his dignity in this trying position, looked with
exceeding sternness at the Grinder. 'If you should never hear of me, or see
me more, Ned, remember an old friend as he will remember you to the last -
kindly; and at least until the period I have mentioned has expired, keep a
home in the old place for Walter. There are no debts, the loan from Dombey's
House is paid off and all my keys I send with this. Keep this quiet, and
make no inquiry for me; it is useless. So no more, dear Ned, from your true
friend, Solomon Gills.' The Captain took a long breath, and then read these
words written below: '"The boy Rob, well recommended, as I told you, from
Dombey's House. If all else should come to the hammer, take care, Ned, of
the little Midshipman."'
To convey to posterity any idea of the manner in which the Captain,
after turning this letter over and over, and reading it a score of times,
sat down in his chair, and held a court-martial on the subject in his own
mind, would require the united genius of all the great men, who, discarding