Part 8
"Yes, yes," he said. "But I know that they are always saying something. Always the same thing. What place is over there?" He rose up, looking eagerly at the horizon.
She told him that there was another country opposite, but he said he didn't mean that; he meant farther away--farther away.
Very often afterwards, in the midst of their talk, he would break off to try to understand what it was that the waves were always saying; and would rise up in his couch to look towards that invisible region far away.
But in spite of Paul's brooding fancies, the days in the open air, and with the salt spray blowing about him, began to have good effect. Little by little he grew stronger until he became able to do without his carriage; though he still remained the same old, quiet, dreamy child.
One day after he had been with Mrs. Pipchin about a year, Mr. Dombey came to see her. He informed Mrs. Pipchin that, as Paul was now six years old and so much stronger, it was time his education was being considered; and so the child was to be sent to a certain Dr. Blimber, who lived near by and managed a select school of boys. Meanwhile, Florence could continue to live here, so that Paul need not be entirely separated from his sister.
Accordingly, a few days later, Paul stood upon the Doctor's doorsteps, with his small right hand in his father's, and his other locked in that of Florence. How tight the tiny pressure of that one, and how loose and cold the other!
The doctor was sitting in his portentous study, with a globe at each knee, books all round him, Homer over the door, and Minerva on the mantel-shelf.
"And how do you do, sir," he said to Mr. Dombey, when they had been ushered in, "and how is my little friend?"
Grave as an organ was the doctor's speech; and when he ceased, the great clock in the hall seemed (to Paul at least) to take him up, and to go on saying, "how-is-my-lit-tle-friend-how-is-my-lit-tle-friend," over and over and over again.
The little friend being something too small to be seen at all from where the doctor sat, over the books on his table, the doctor made several futile attempts to get a view of him round the legs; which Mr. Dombey perceiving, relieved the doctor from his embarrassment by taking Paul up in his arms and sitting him on another little table, over against the doctor, in the middle of the room.
"Ha!" said the doctor, leaning back in his chair with his hand in his breast. "Now I see my little friend. How do you do, my little friend?"
The clock in the hall wouldn't subscribe to this alteration in the form of words, but continued to repeat "how-is-my--lit-tle-friend--how-is-my-lit-tle-friend!"
"Very well, I thank you, sir," returned Paul, answering the clock quite as much as the doctor.
"Ha!" said Doctor Blimber. "Shall we make a man of him?"
"Do you hear, Paul?" added Mr. Dombey, Paul being silent.
"Shall we make a man of him?" repeated the doctor.
"I had rather be a child," replied Paul.
"Indeed!" said the doctor. "Why?"
The child sat on the table looking at him, with a curious expression of suppressed emotion in his face, and beating one hand proudly on his knee as if he had the rising tears beneath it, and crushed them. But his other hand strayed a little way the while, a little farther--farther from him yet--until it lighted on the neck of Florence. "This is why," it seemed to say, and then the steady look was broken up and gone, the working lip was loosened and the tears came streaming forth.
"Never mind," said the doctor, blandly nodding his head. "Ne-ver mind; we shall substitute new cares and new impressions, Mr. Dombey, very shortly. You would wish my little friend to acquire--"
"Everything, if you please, doctor," returned Mr. Dombey, firmly.
"Yes," said the doctor, who, with his half-shut eyes, and his usual smile, seemed to survey Paul with the sort of interest that might attach to some choice little animal he was going to stuff. "Yes, exactly. Ha! We shall impart a great variety of information to our little friend, and bring him quickly forward, I dare say. I dare say."
As soon as Mr. Dombey and Florence were gone, Dr. Blimber gave into the charge of his learned daughter Cornelia the little new pupil, saying, "Bring him on, Cornelia, bring him on."
Miss Blimber received her young ward from the doctor's hands; and Paul, feeling that the spectacles were surveying him, cast down his eyes.
"How old are you, Dombey?" said Miss Blimber.
"Six," answered Paul, wondering, as he stole a glance at the young lady, why her hair didn't grow long like Florence's, and why she was like a boy.
"How much do you know of your Latin Grammar, Dombey?" said Miss Blimber.
"None of it," answered Paul. Feeling that the answer was a shock to Miss Blimber's sensibility, he looked up and added timidly,--
"I haven't been well. I have been a weak child. I couldn't learn a Latin Grammar when I was out, every day, with old Glubb. I wish you'd tell old Glubb to come and see me, if you please."
"What a dreadfully low name!" said Miss Blimber. "Unclassical to a degree! Who is the monster, child?"
"What monster?" inquired Paul.
"Glubb."
"He's no more a monster than you are," returned Paul.
"What!" cried the doctor, in a terrible voice. "What's that?"
Paul was dreadfully frightened; but still he made a stand for the absent Glubb, though he did it trembling.
"He's a very nice old man, ma'am," he said. "He used to pull my carriage for me, down along the beach. I wish you'd let him come to see me. He knows lots of things."
"Ha!" said the doctor, shaking his head; "this is bad, but study will do much."
Mrs. Blimber opined, with something like a shiver, that he was an unaccountable child; and, allowing for the difference of visage, looked at him pretty much as Mrs. Pipchin had been used to do.
As for Miss Blimber, she told him to come down to her room that evening at tea-time. When he did so he noticed a little pile of new books, which she was glancing over.
"These are yours, Dombey," she said.
"All of 'em, ma'am?" said Paul.
"Yes," returned Miss Blimber; "and Mr. Feeder will look you out some more very soon, if you are as studious as I expect you will be, Dombey."
"Thank you, ma'am," said Paul.
"I am going out for a constitutional," resumed Miss Blimber; "and while I am gone, that is to say, in the interval between this and breakfast, Dombey, I wish you to read over what I have marked in these books, and to tell me if you quite understand what you have got to learn. Don't lose time, Dombey, for you have none to spare, but take them downstairs, and begin directly."
"Yes, ma'am," answered Paul.
There were so many of them that although Paul put one hand under the bottom book and his other hand and his chin on the top book, and hugged them all closely, the middle book slipped out before he reached the door, and then they all tumbled down on the floor. Miss Blimber said, "Oh, Dombey, Dombey, this is really very careless!" and piled them up afresh for him; and this time, by dint of balancing them with great nicety, Paul got out of the room.
But if the poor child found them heavy to carry downstairs, how much harder was it to cram their contents into his head. Oh, how tired he grew! But always there was a never-ending round of lessons waiting for him during these long days and nights that Dr. Blimber and Cornelia tried to make a man of him. And all week long his aching head held but one longing desire--for Saturday to come.
Oh, Saturdays! Oh, happy Saturdays! when Florence always came at noon, and never would, in any weather, stay away.
And when Florence found how hard Paul's studies were for him, she quietly bought books just like his and studied them during the week, so that she might keep along with him and help him when they were together.
Not a word of this was breathed to Mrs. Pipchin; but many a night when she was in bed and the candles were spluttering and burning low, Florence tried so hard to be a substitute for one small Dombey, that her fortitude and perseverance might have almost won her a free right to bear the name herself.
And high was her reward, when, one Saturday evening, as little Paul was sitting down as usual to "resume his studies," she sat down by his side, and showed him all that was so rough made smooth, and all that was so dark made clear and plain before him. It was nothing but a startled look in Paul's wan face--a flush--a smile--and then a close embrace--but God knows how her heart leaped up at this rich payment for her trouble.
"Oh, Floy!" cried her brother, "how I love you! How I love you, Floy!"
"And I you, dear!"
"Oh! I am sure of that, Floy."
And so little Paul struggled on bravely under his heavy load, never complaining, but growing more old-fashioned day by day--and growing frailer, too.
Then came the holidays, and a grand party at the school, to which Florence came, looking so beautiful in her simple ball dress that Paul could hardly make up his mind to let her go again.
"But what is the matter, Floy?" he asked, almost sure he saw a tear on her face.
"Nothing, dear. We will go home together, and I'll nurse you till you are strong again."
"Nurse me!" echoed Paul.
Paul couldn't understand what that had to do with it, nor why the other guests looked on so seriously, nor why Florence turned away her face for a moment, and then turned it back, lighted up again with smiles.
"Floy," said Paul, holding a ringlet of her dark hair in his hand. "Tell me, dear. Do _you_ think I have grown old-fashioned?"
His sister laughed and fondled him, and told him "No."
"Because I know they say so," returned Paul, "and I want to know what they mean, Floy."
Florence would have sat by him all night, and would not have danced at all of her own accord, but Paul made her, by telling her how much it pleased him. And he told her the truth, too; for his small heart swelled, and his face glowed, when he saw how much they all admired her, and how she was the beautiful little rosebud of the room.
Then after the party came the leave-takings, for Paul was going home. And every one was good to him--even the pompous doctor, and Cornelia--and bade him good-bye with many regrets; for they were afraid, as they looked upon his pinched, wan face, that he would not be able to come back and take up that load of heavy books ever again.
There was a great deal, the next day and afterwards, which Paul could not quite get clear in his mind. As, why they stopped at Mrs. Pipchin's for a while instead of going straight home; why he lay in bed, with Florence sitting by him; whether that had been his father in the room, or only a tall shadow on the wall.
He could not even remember whether he had often said to Florence, "Oh, Floy, take me home and never leave me!" but he thought he had. He fancied sometimes he had heard himself repeating, "Take me home, Floy! take me home!"
But he could remember, when he got home, and was carried up the well-remembered stairs, that there had been the rumbling of a coach for many hours together, while he lay upon the seat, with Florence still beside him, and Mrs. Pipchin sitting opposite. He remembered his old bed too, when they laid him down in it; but there was something else, and recent, too, that still perplexed him.
"I want to speak to Florence, if you please," he said. "To Florence by herself, for a moment!"
She bent down over him, and the others stood away.
"Floy, my pet, wasn't that papa in the hall, when they brought me from the coach?"
"Yes, dear."
"He didn't cry, and go into his room, Floy, did he, when he saw me coming in?"
Florence shook her head, and pressed her lips against his cheek.
"I'm very glad he didn't cry," said little Paul. "I thought he did. Don't tell them that I asked."
Paul never rose from his little bed. He lay there, listening to the noises in the street quite tranquilly; not caring much how time went, but watching everything about him with observing eyes. And when visitors or servants came softly to the door to inquire how he was, he always answered for himself, "I am better; I am a great deal better, thank you! Tell papa so!"
And sometimes when he awoke out of a feverish dream, in which he thought a river was bearing him away, he would see a figure seated motionless, with bowed head, at the foot of his couch. Then he would stretch out his hands and cry, "Don't be so sorry for me, dear papa! Indeed, I am quite happy!"
His father coming, and bending down to him--which he did quickly, and without first pausing by the bedside--Paul held him round the neck, and repeated those words to him several times, and very earnestly; and Paul never saw him in his room at any time, whether it were day or night, but he called out "Don't be so sorry for me! Indeed, I am quite happy!" This was the beginning of his always saying in the morning that he was a great deal better, and that they were to tell his father so.
Then one day he asked to see all his friends, and shook hands with each one quietly, and bade them good-bye. His father he clung to as though he felt more deeply for that proud man's sorrow and disappointment, than any unhappiness on his own account. For he was going to his mother--about whom he had often talked with Florence in these closing days.
"Now lay me down," he said, "and Floy, come close to me, and let me see you!"
Sister and brother wound their arms around each other, and the golden light came streaming in, and fell upon them, locked together.
"How fast the river runs, between its green banks and the rushes, Floy! But it's very near the sea. I hear the waves! They always said so!"
Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the stream was lulling him to rest. How green the banks were now, how bright the flowers growing on them, and how tall the rushes! Now the boat was out at sea, but gliding smoothly on. And now there was a shore before him. Who stood on the bank!--
He put his hands together, as he had been used to do at his prayers. He did not remove his arms to do it; but they saw him fold them so, behind her neck.
"Mamma is like you, Floy. I know her by the face. But tell them that the print upon the stairs at school is not divine enough. The light about the head is shining on me as I go!"
The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred in the room. The old, old fashion! The fashion that came in with our first garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run its course, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, old fashion--Death!
Oh, thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of Immortality! And look upon us, angels of young children, with regards not quite estranged, when the swift river bears us to the ocean!
II. *HOW FLORENCE CAME INTO HER OWN*
The death of Paul, far from softening Mr. Dombey's heart toward his daughter, only served to widen the gap between them. He had been secretly hurt by Paul's preference for Florence, and now was more cold and distant with her than ever.
She, poor child, had this deep sorrow to bear in addition to the loss of Paul. Many and many a night when no one in the house was stirring, and the lights were all extinguished, she would softly leave her own room, and with noiseless feet descend the staircase, and approach her father's door. Against it, scarcely breathing, she would rest her face and head, and press her lips, in the yearning of her love. She crouched upon the cold stone floor outside it, every night, to listen even for his breath; and in her one absorbing wish to be allowed to show him some affection, to be a 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 had dared, in humble supplication.
No one knew it. No one thought of it. The door was ever closed, and he shut up within. He went out once or twice, and it was said in the house that he was very soon going on a journey; but he lived in those rooms, and lived alone, and never saw her or inquired for her. Perhaps he did not even know that she was in the house.
But one night Florence found the door slightly ajar. She paused a moment tremblingly, and then pushed it open and entered.
Her father sat at his old table in the middle room. He had been arranging some papers and destroying others, and the latter lay in fragile ruins before him. The rain dripped heavily upon the glass panes in the outer room, where he had so often watched poor Paul, a baby; and the low complainings of the wind were heard without.
He sat with his eyes fixed on the table, so immersed in thought that a far heavier tread than the light foot of his child could make, might have failed to rouse him. His face was turned towards her. By the waning lamp, and at that haggard hour, it looked worn and dejected; and in the utter loneliness surrounding him there was an appeal to Florence that struck home.
"Papa! papa! Speak to me, dear papa!"
He started at her voice.
"What is the matter?" he said sternly. "Why do you come here? What has frightened you?"
If anything had frightened her, it was the face he turned upon her. The glowing love within the breast of his young daughter froze before it, and she stood and looked at him as if stricken into stone. There was not one touch of tenderness or pity in it.
Did he see before him the successful rival of his son, in health and life? Did he look upon his own successful rival in that son's affection? Did a mad jealousy and withered pride poison sweet remembrances that should have endeared and made her precious to him? Could it be possible that it was gall to him to look upon her in her beauty and her promise: thinking of his infant boy!
Florence had no such thoughts. But love is quick to know when it is spurned and hopeless; and hope died out of hers, as she stood looking in her father's face.
"I ask you, Florence, are you frightened? Is there anything the matter, that you come here?"
"I came, papa--"
"Against my wishes. Why?"
She saw he knew why--it was written broadly on his face--and dropped her head upon her hands with one prolonged low cry.
He took her by the arm. His hand was cold and loose, and scarcely closed upon her.
"You are tired, I dare say," he said, taking up the light and leading her towards the door, "and want rest. We all want rest. Go, Florence. You have been dreaming."
The dream she had had was over then, God help her! and she felt that it could never more come back.
"I will remain here to light you up the stairs. The whole house is yours, above there," said her father, slowly. "You are its mistress now. Good-night!"
Still covering her face, she sobbed, and answered "Good-night, dear papa," and silently ascended. Once she looked back as if she would have returned to him, but for fear. It was a momentary thought, too hopeless to encourage; and her father stood therewith the light--hard, unresponsive, motionless--until her fluttering dress was lost in the darkness.
The days that followed were lonely and sad indeed for the child. Her father went away upon a journey, and she was left entirely alone in the great 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 and invited her to visit them.
When she came home she was amazed to find huge scaffolds built all around the house. It was being remodelled. Only her own little room had not been changed. The explanation for all this work came a few days later when her father came home accompanied by two ladies. One was old and 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 out his hand, "this is my daughter Florence."
"Charming, I am sure," observed the lady, putting up her glass. "So natural! My darling Florence, you must kiss me, if you please."
Florence having done so, turned towards the other lady by whom her father stood waiting.
"Edith," said Mr. Dombey, "this is my daughter Florence. Florence, this lady will soon be your mamma."
Florence started, and looked up at the beautiful face in a conflict of emotions, among which the tears that name awakened struggled for a moment with surprise, interest, admiration, and an indefinable sort of fear. 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 seemed to hesitate whether or not she should advance to Florence, held her to her breast, and pressed the hand with which she clasped her close about her waist, as if to reassure and comfort her. Not one word passed the lady's lips. She bent her head down over Florence, and she kissed her on the cheek, but said no word.
"Shall we go on through the rooms," said Mr. Dombey, "and see how our workmen are doing? Pray allow me, my dear madam."
He said this in offering his arm to Mrs. Skewton, and they turned and went up the staircase. The beautiful lady lingered a moment to whisper to the little girl.
"Florence," said the lady hurriedly, and looking into her face with great 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. "Begin by believing that I will try to make you happy and that I am prepared to love 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 and beautiful mamma how to gain her father's love; and in her sleep that night, in her lost old home, her own mamma smiled radiantly upon the hope, and blessed it. Dreaming Florence!
Very soon after this her new mamma came to live with them; and the gloomy house took on some semblance of life. But the marriage was not a happy one. Even Florence could see that. Mrs. Dombey's face did not belie her character. She was haughty and reserved--a fitting match for Mr. Dombey. He had married her out of a desire to have a suitable ornament for his home and position in society. She--it was whispered--had been lured into a "fine" marriage by her matchmaking mother. It was no wonder, then, that the marriage should be unhappy.
Only toward Florence did the proud lady unbend. The child's impulsive greeting had stirred her heart in a sudden and surprising way; and when Mrs. 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 good to her always.
But once again poor Florence was misunderstood by her father. He saw that his cold wife cared only for the child, and he thought that just as Florence had cheated him out of some of Paul's love she was now estranging his wife from him. It was cruelly unjust, but Mr. Dombey was so 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 social gathering, when the words which passed between them were of the coldest.