Stories from Dickens

  II. *HOW FLORENCE CAME INTO HER OWN*

  The death of Paul, far from softening Mr. Dombey's heart toward hisdaughter, only served to widen the gap between them. He had beensecretly hurt by Paul's preference for Florence, and now was more coldand distant with her than ever.

  She, poor child, had this deep sorrow to bear in addition to the loss ofPaul. Many and many a night when no one in the house was stirring, andthe lights were all extinguished, she would softly leave her own room,and with noiseless feet descend the staircase, and approach her father'sdoor. Against it, scarcely breathing, she would rest her face and head,and press her lips, in the yearning of her love. She crouched upon thecold stone floor outside it, every night, to listen even for his breath;and in her one absorbing wish to be allowed to show him some affection,to be a consolation to him, to win him over to some tenderness for her,his solitary child, she would have knelt down at his feet, if she haddared, in humble supplication.

  No one knew it. No one thought of it. The door was ever closed, and heshut up within. He went out once or twice, and it was said in the housethat he was very soon going on a journey; but he lived in those rooms,and lived alone, and never saw her or inquired for her. Perhaps he didnot even know that she was in the house.

  But one night Florence found the door slightly ajar. She paused amoment tremblingly, and then pushed it open and entered.

  Her father sat at his old table in the middle room. He had beenarranging some papers and destroying others, and the latter lay infragile ruins before him. The rain dripped heavily upon the glass panesin the outer room, where he had so often watched poor Paul, a baby; andthe low complainings of the wind were heard without.

  He sat with his eyes fixed on the table, so immersed in thought that afar heavier tread than the light foot of his child could make, mighthave failed to rouse him. His face was turned towards her. By thewaning lamp, and at that haggard hour, it looked worn and dejected; andin the utter loneliness surrounding him there was an appeal to Florencethat struck home.

  "Papa! papa! Speak to me, dear papa!"

  He started at her voice.

  "What is the matter?" he said sternly. "Why do you come here? What hasfrightened you?"

  If anything had frightened her, it was the face he turned upon her. Theglowing love within the breast of his young daughter froze before it,and she stood and looked at him as if stricken into stone. There wasnot one touch of tenderness or pity in it.

  Did he see before him the successful rival of his son, in health andlife? Did he look upon his own successful rival in that son'saffection? Did a mad jealousy and withered pride poison sweetremembrances that should have endeared and made her precious to him?Could it be possible that it was gall to him to look upon her in herbeauty and her promise: thinking of his infant boy!

  Florence had no such thoughts. But love is quick to know when it isspurned and hopeless; and hope died out of hers, as she stood looking inher father's face.

  "I ask you, Florence, are you frightened? Is there anything the matter,that you come here?"

  "I came, papa--"

  "Against my wishes. Why?"

  She saw he knew why--it was written broadly on his face--and dropped herhead upon her hands with one prolonged low cry.

  He took her by the arm. His hand was cold and loose, and scarcelyclosed upon her.

  "You are tired, I dare say," he said, taking up the light and leadingher towards the door, "and want rest. We all want rest. Go, Florence.You have been dreaming."

  The dream she had had was over then, God help her! and she felt that itcould never more come back.

  "I will remain here to light you up the stairs. The whole house isyours, above there," said her father, slowly. "You are its mistressnow. Good-night!"

  Still covering her face, she sobbed, and answered "Good-night, dearpapa," and silently ascended. Once she looked back as if she would havereturned to him, but for fear. It was a momentary thought, too hopelessto encourage; and her father stood therewith the light--hard,unresponsive, motionless--until her fluttering dress was lost in thedarkness.

  The days that followed were lonely and sad indeed for the child. Herfather went away upon a journey, and she was left entirely alone in thegreat house, but for the companionship of a faithful maid, Susan Nipper,and of her dog Diogenes.

  Then some kind friends in the country took pity upon her loneliness andinvited her to visit them.

  When she came home she was amazed to find huge scaffolds built allaround the house. It was being remodelled. Only her own little room hadnot been changed. The explanation for all this work came a few dayslater when her father came home accompanied by two ladies. One was oldand greatly overdressed. The other--her daughter--was very beautiful,but with a cold, hard face.

  "Mrs. Skewton," said her father, turning to the first, and holding outhis hand, "this is my daughter Florence."

  "Charming, I am sure," observed the lady, putting up her glass. "Sonatural! My darling Florence, you must kiss me, if you please."

  Florence having done so, turned towards the other lady by whom herfather stood waiting.

  "Edith," said Mr. Dombey, "this is my daughter Florence. Florence, thislady will soon be your mamma."

  Florence started, and looked up at the beautiful face in a conflict ofemotions, among which the tears that name awakened struggled for amoment with surprise, interest, admiration, and an indefinable sort offear. Then she cried out, "Oh, papa, may you be happy! may you be very,very happy all your life!" and then fell weeping on the lady's bosom.

  There was a short silence. The beautiful lady, who at first had seemedto hesitate whether or not she should advance to Florence, held her toher breast, and pressed the hand with which she clasped her close abouther waist, as if to reassure and comfort her. Not one word passed thelady's lips. She bent her head down over Florence, and she kissed heron the cheek, but said no word.

  "Shall we go on through the rooms," said Mr. Dombey, "and see how ourworkmen are doing? Pray allow me, my dear madam."

  He said this in offering his arm to Mrs. Skewton, and they turned andwent up the staircase. The beautiful lady lingered a moment to whisperto the little girl.

  "Florence," said the lady hurriedly, and looking into her face withgreat earnestness, "You will not begin by hating me?"

  "By hating you, mamma!" cried Florence, winding her arm round her neck,and returning the look.

  "Hush! Begin by thinking well of me," said the beautiful lady. "Beginby believing that I will try to make you happy and that I am prepared tolove you, Florence."

  Again she pressed her to her breast--she had spoken in a rapid manner,but firmly--and Florence saw her rejoin them in the other room.

  And now Florence began to hope that she would learn from her new andbeautiful mamma how to gain her father's love; and in her sleep thatnight, in her lost old home, her own mamma smiled radiantly upon thehope, and blessed it. Dreaming Florence!

  Very soon after this her new mamma came to live with them; and thegloomy house took on some semblance of life. But the marriage was not ahappy one. Even Florence could see that. Mrs. Dombey's face did notbelie her character. She was haughty and reserved--a fitting match forMr. Dombey. He had married her out of a desire to have a suitableornament for his home and position in society. She--it waswhispered--had been lured into a "fine" marriage by her matchmakingmother. It was no wonder, then, that the marriage should be unhappy.

  Only toward Florence did the proud lady unbend. The child's impulsivegreeting had stirred her heart in a sudden and surprising way; and whenMrs. Dombey saw how lonely she was and how her life had been starved,she tried to make good her promise to the child to love her and be goodto her always.

  But once again poor Florence was misunderstood by her father. He sawthat his cold wife cared only for the child, and he thought that just asFlorence had cheated him out of some of Paul's love she was nowestranging his wife from him. It was crue
lly unjust, but Mr. Dombey wasso arrogant that he could see things only in his own narrow way.

  Thus matters went along in this unhappy house for several months. Mr.and Mrs. Dombey met rarely, except at the table or in some socialgathering, when the words which passed between them were of the coldest.

  Then Mr. Dombey hit upon the meanest trick of his weak nature. When hefound that he could not "humble" his wife by ordinary means, he calledin his business manager, Carker, a smooth, deceitful man, whose hair wasplastered down close to his white forehead and whose teeth shone in acontinual sly smile. To Carker Mr. Dombey would entrust various messagesfor Mrs. Dombey, as to the running of the house, the hiring of servants,and the like. Mr. Dombey knew that she would resent such pettyinterference, especially through an outsider; but he did not know thatshe submitted quietly to these indignities simply for the sake ofFlorence, whom she wished to protect. And even her love for the girlwas given in secret, for the same reason.

  Florence, long since awakened from her dream, mournfully observed theestrangement between her father and new mother; and saw it widen moreand more, and knew that there was greater bitterness between them everyday. It had been very hard to have all her love repulsed, but it nowseemed harder to be compelled to doubt her father, or choose between himand this mother, so affectionate and dear to her, yet whose other moodsshe could only witness with distrust or fear.

  One great sorrow, however, was spared her. She never had the leastsuspicion that Mrs. Dombey, by her tenderness for her, widened theseparation from her father, or gave him new cause of dislike. If shehad thought it, for a single moment, what grief she would have felt,what sacrifice she would have tried to make, poor loving girl!

  No word was ever spoken between Florence and her mother now, on thesesubjects. Mrs. Dombey had said there ought to be between them, in thatwise, a silence like the grave itself; and Florence felt that she wasright.

  In this state of affairs her father was brought home suffering and ill,and gloomily retired to his own rooms, where he was tended by servants,not approached by his wife, and had no friend or companion but Mr.Carker, who always withdrew near midnight.

  Every night Florence would listen out in the hall for news of him, afterleaving her mother. But, late one evening, she was surprised to see abright light burning in her room, and her mother sitting before thedying fire looking so fiercely at it that it terrified her.

  "Mamma!" she cried, "what is the matter?"

  Mrs. Dombey started; looking at her with such a strange dread in herface that Florence was more frightened than before.

  "Mamma!" said Florence, hurriedly advancing. "Dear mamma! what is thematter?"

  "I have not been well," said Mrs. Dombey, shaking, and still looking ather in the same strange way. "I have had bad dreams, my love."

  "And have not yet been to bed, mamma?"

  "No," she returned. "Half-waking dreams."

  Her features gradually softened; and suffering Florence to come close toher, within her embrace, she said in a tender manner, "But what does mybird do here! What does my bird do here!"

  "I have been uneasy, mamma, in not seeing you to-night, and in notknowing how papa was; and I--"

  Florence stopped there, and said no more.

  "Is it late?" her mother asked, fondly putting back the curls thatmingled with her own dark hair, and strayed upon her face.

  "Very late. Near day."

  "Near day!" she repeated in surprise.

  "Mamma!" said Florence. "Oh, mamma, what can I do, what should I do, tomake us happier? Is there anything?"

  "Nothing," she replied.

  "Are you sure of that? Can it never be? If I speak now of what is in mythoughts, in spite of what we have agreed," said Florence, "you will notblame me, will you?"

  "It is useless," she replied, "useless. I have told you, dear, that Ihave had bad dreams. Nothing can change them, or prevent their comingback."

  "I do not understand," said Florence, gazing on her agitated face, whichseemed to darken as she looked.

  Her mother's clenched hand tightened on the trembling arm she had inhers, and as she looked down on the alarmed and wondering face, her ownfeelings subsided. "Oh, Florence!" she said, "I think I have beennearly mad to-night!" and humbled her proud head upon the girl's neck,and burst into tears.

  "Don't leave me! be near me! I have no hope but in you!" These wordsshe said a score of times.

  Florence was greatly puzzled and distressed, and could only repeat herpromise of love and trust.

  Through six months that followed upon Mr. Dombey's illness and recovery,no outward change was shown between him and his wife. Both were cold andproud; and still Mr. Carker--a man whom she detested----bore his pettycommands to her.

  As for Florence, the little hope she had ever held for happiness intheir new home was quite gone now. That home was nearly two years old,and even the patient trust that was in her could not survive the dailyblight of such an experience.

  Florence loved her father still, but by degrees had come to love himrather as some dear one who had been, or who might have been, than asthe hard reality before her eyes. Something of the softened sadness withwhich she loved the memory of little Paul or her mother, seemed to enternow into her thoughts of him, and to make them, as it were, a dearremembrance. Whether it was that he was dead to her, and that partlyfor this reason, partly for his share in those old objects of heraffection, and partly for the long association of him with hopes thatwere withered and tendernesses he had frozen, she could not have told;but the father whom she loved began to be a vague and dreamy idea toher; hardly more substantially connected with her real life than theimage she would sometimes conjure up of her dear brother yet alive, andgrowing to be a man, who would protect and cherish her.

  The change, if it may be called one, had stolen on her like the changefrom childhood to womanhood, and had come with it. Florence was almostseventeen, when, in her lonely musings, she was conscious of thesethoughts.

  She was often alone now, for the old association between her and hermamma was greatly changed. At the time of her father's illness, andwhen he was lying in his room downstairs, Florence had first observedthat Edith avoided her. Wounded and shocked, and yet unable toreconcile this with her affection when they did meet, she sought her inher own room at night, once more.

  "Mamma," said Florence, stealing softly to her side, "have I offendedyou?"

  She answered "No."

  "I must have done something," said Florence. "Tell me what it is. Youhave changed your manner to me, dear mamma. I cannot say how instantlyI feel the least change; for I love you with my whole heart."

  "As I do you," said Mrs. Dombey. "Ah, Florence, believe me never morethan now!"

  "Why do you go away from me so often, and keep away?" asked Florence."And why do you sometimes look so strangely on me, dear mamma? You doso, do you not?"

  "Dear Florence, it is for your good. Why, I cannot tell you now. Butyou will believe I have always tried to make you happy, dear, will younot?"

  "Mamma," said Florence, anxiously, "there is a change in you, in morethan what you say to me, which alarms me. Let me stay with you alittle."

  "No, dearest. I am best left alone now, and I do best to keep apartfrom you, of all else. Ask me no questions, but believe that what I am,I am not of my own will, or for myself. Forgive me for having everdarkened your dark home--I am a shadow on it, I know well--and let usnever speak of this again."

  "Mamma," sobbed Florence, "we are not to part?"

  "We do this that we may not part," said her mother. "Ask no more. Go,Florence! My love and my remorse go with you!"

  Thus did Mrs. Dombey hide from Florence one dark secret--that herhusband was displeased with their love for each other. It was forFlorence's welfare that she felt compelled to hide her affections.

  From that hour Florence and she were as they had been no more. For daystogether they would seldom meet, except at table, and when Mr. Dombeywas prese
nt. Then Mrs. Dombey, imperious, inflexible, and silent, neverlooked at her. Whenever Mr. Carker was of the party, as he often wasduring the progress of Mr. Dombey's recovery, she was more distanttowards her than at other times. Yet she and Florence never encountered,when there was no one by, but she would embrace her as affectionately asof old, though not with the same relenting of her proud aspect; andoften when she had been out late she would steal up to Florence's roomas she had been used to do in the dark, and whisper "Good-night."

  Then came a dreadful day not long afterwards when it was found that Mrs.Dombey had fled from her home. The day was the second anniversary ofthis ill-starred marriage; and the poor, misguided woman left a note forher husband telling him that she had gone away with the man whom he hadtrusted most (and whom she hated most) Mr. Carker. It was a foolish wayto be revenged for the harsh treatment she had received, but it servedher purpose. Mr. Dombey was wounded in his most vulnerable spot--hispride.

  As for Florence, she was overcome with grief; yet in the midst of herown emotion she could realize her father's bitterness. Yielding at onceto the impulse of her affection and forgetful of his past coldness,Florence hurried to him with her arms stretched out and crying, "Ohdear, dear papa!" tried to clasp him round the neck.

  But in his wild despair he shook her off so roughly that she almost fellto the floor; telling her she could join her mother, for all he cared,as they had always been in league against him.

  She did not sink down at his feet; she did not shut out the sight of himwith her trembling hands; she did not weep nor speak one word ofreproach. She only uttered a single low cry of pain and then fled fromthe house like a hunted animal.

  Without a roof over her head--without father or mother, she was indeedan orphan.