Stories from Dickens

  While the days went by, after Florence's flight, what was the proud mandoing? Did he ever think of his daughter or wonder where she had gone?Did he suppose she had come home again and was leading her old life inthe weary house? He did not utter her name or make any search for her.He might have thought of her constantly, or not at all. It was all onefor any sign he made.

  But this was sure. He did not think that he had lost her. He had nosuspicion of the truth that she had fled away from him. He had livedtoo long shut up in his pride, seeing her a patient, gentle creature inhis path, to have any fear of that. And so he waited, day by day, untilshe should make her appearance on the stairs or at the table as before.

  But the days dragged slowly by and she did not come.

  The sea had ebbed and flowed through a whole year. Through a whole yearthe winds and clouds had come and gone; the ceaseless work of Time hadbeen performed, in storm and sunshine. Through a whole year the famousHouse of Dombey and Son had fought a fight for life, against doubtfulrumors, unsuccessful ventures, and most of all, against the bad judgmentof its head, who would not contract its enterprises by a hair's breadth,and would not listen to a word of warning that the ship he strained sohard against the storm was weak, and could not bear it.

  For Mr. Dombey had grown strangely indifferent and reckless, and plungedblindly into speculation.

  The year was out, and the great House was down.

  One summer afternoon there was a buzz and whisper, about the streets ofLondon, of a great failure. A certain cold, proud man, well knownthere, was not there, nor was he represented there. Next day it wasnoised abroad that Dombey and Son had stopped, and next night there wasa list of bankrupts published, headed by that name.

  Nobody's opinion stayed the misfortune, lightened it, or made itheavier. It was understood that the affairs of the House were to bewound up as they best could be; that Mr. Dombey freely resignedeverything he had, and asked for no favor from any one. That anyresumption of the business was out of the question, as he would listento no friendly negotiation having that compromise in view; that he hadrelinquished every post of trust or distinction he had held as a manrespected among merchants; and that he was a broken man.

  The old home where Paul had died and whence Florence had fled away wasnow empty and deserted--a wreck of what it had been. All the furnitureand hangings had been sold to satisfy Mr. Dombey's creditors; and he nowlived there alone in one cheerless room--a man without friends, withouthope.

  But at last he began to come to his senses; to see what a treasure hehad cast away in Florence; to recall his own injustice and crueltytoward her.

  In the miserable night he thought of it; in the dreary day, the wretcheddawn, the ghostly, memory-haunted twilight, he remembered. In agony, insorrow, in remorse, in despair!

  "Papa! papa!" He heard the words again, and saw the face. He saw itfall upon the trembling hands, and heard the one prolonged, low cry goupward.

  Oh! He did remember it! The rain that fell upon the roof, the windthat mourned outside the door, had foreknowledge in their melancholysound. He knew now what he had done. He knew now that he had calleddown that upon his head, which bowed it lower than the heaviest strokeof fortune. He knew now what it was to be rejected and deserted; now,when every loving blossom he had withered in his innocent daughter'sheart was snowing down in ashes on him.

  He thought of her as she had been that night when he and his bride camehome. He thought of her as she had been in all the home events of theabandoned house. He thought now that of all around him, she alone hadnever changed. His boy had faded into dust, his proud wife had desertedhim, his flatterer and friend had been transformed into the worst ofvillains, his riches had melted away, the very walls that sheltered himlooked on him as a stranger; she alone had turned the same mild, gentlelook upon him always. Yes, to the latest and the last. She had neverchanged to him--nor had he ever changed to her--and she was lost.

  As, one by one, they fell away before his mind--his baby hope, his wife,his friend, his fortune--oh, how the mist through which he had seen hercleared, and showed him her true self! How much better than this thathe had loved her as he had his boy, and lost her as he had his boy, andlaid them in their early grave together!

  As the days dragged by, it seemed to him that he should go mad withremorse and longing. He haunted Paul's room and Florence's room--soempty now--as though they were his only dwelling-place. He had meant togo away, but clung to this tie in the house as the last and only thingleft to him. He would go to-morrow. To-morrow came. He would goto-morrow. Every night, within the knowledge of no human creature, hecame forth, and wandered through the despoiled house like a ghost. Manya morning when the day broke, with altered face drooping behind theclosed blind in his window, he pondered on the loss of his two children.It was one child no more. He reunited them in his thoughts, and theywere never asunder.

  Then, one day, when strange fancies oppressed him more than usual, hepaused at Florence's door and gazed wildly down as though suddenlyawakened from a dream.

  He heard a cry--a loving, pleading voice--and there at his knees kneltFlorence herself.

  "Papa! Dearest papa! I have come back to ask forgiveness. I never canbe happy more, without it!"

  Unchanged still. Of all the world, unchanged. Raising the same face tohis as on that miserable night. Asking _his_ forgiveness!

  "Dear papa, oh, don't look strangely on me! I never meant to leave you.I never thought of it, before or afterwards. I was frightened when Iwent away and could not think. Papa, dear, I am changed. I ampenitent. I know my fault. I know my duty better now. Papa, don'tcast me off or I shall die!"

  He tottered to his chair. He felt her draw his arms about her neck: hefelt her put her own round his; he felt her kisses on his face; he felther wet cheek laid against his own; he felt--oh, how deeply!--all thathe had done.

  Upon the breast that he had bruised, against the heart that he hadalmost broken, she laid his face, now covered with his hands, and said,sobbing,--

  "I have been far away, dear papa, and could not come back before this.I have been across the seas, and I have a home of my own over there now.Oh, I want you to see it! I want to take you there; for my home is_your_ home--always, always! Say you will pardon me, will come to me!"

  He would have said it if he could. He would have raised his hands andbesought _her_ for pardon, but she caught them in her own and put themdown hurriedly.

  "You will come, I know, dear papa! And I will know by that that youforgive me. And we will never talk about what is past and forgotten;never again!"

  As she clung closer to him, in another burst of tears, he kissed her onthe lips, and, lifting up his eyes, said, "Oh, my God, forgive me, for Ineed it very much!"

  With that he dropped his head again, lamenting over and caressing her,and there was not a sound in all the house for a long, long time; theyremaining clasped in one another's arms, in the glorious sunshine thathad crept in with Florence.

  *THE STORY OF PIP AS TOLD BY HIMSELF*