Chapter 12

From that time Paul gave his whole mind to the pursuit of knowledge and acquitted himself very well, but it was hard work, and only on Saturdays did he have time to draw a free breath.

Oh Saturdays, happy Saturdays, when Florence, still at Mrs. Pipchin's, came at noon; they made up for all the other days!

It did not take long for the loving sister to discover that Paul needed help with the lessons over which he plodded so patiently, and so, procuring the books which he used, she kept pace with him in his studies, and every Saturday was able to assist him with his next week's work, and thus he was kept from sinking underneath the burden which Cornelia Blimber piled upon his back.

It was not that Miss Blimber meant to be too hard upon him, or that Doctor Blimber meant to bear too heavily upon the young gentlemen in general, but comforted by the applause of the young gentlemen's nearest relatives, and urged on by their blind vanity and ill-considered haste, it would have been strange if Doctor Blimber had discovered his mistake. Thus in the case of Paul. When Doctor Blimber said he made great progress and was naturally clever, Mr. Dombey was more bent than ever on his being forced and crammed.

Such spirits as he had in the outset Paul soon lost. But he retained all that was strange and old and thoughtful in his character. The only difference was that he kept his character to himself. He grew more thoughtful and reserved every day. He loved to be alone; and in those short intervals when he was not occupied with his books, he liked nothing so well as wandering about the house by himself, or sitting on the stairs listening to the great clock in the hall.

They were within some two or three weeks of the holidays when one day Cornelia called Dombey to her to hear the analysis of his character that she was about to send to his father.

"_Analysis_," said Miss Blimber, "of the character of P. Dombey. It may be generally observed of Dombey," said Miss Blimber, reading in a loud voice, and at every second word directing her spectacles towards the little figure before her, "that his abilities and inclinations are good, and that he has made as much progress as under the circumstances could have been expected. But it is to be lamented of this young gentleman that he is singular (what is usually termed old-fashioned) in his character and conduct, and that he is often very unlike other young gentlemen of his age and social position. Now, Dombey," said Miss Blimber, laying down the paper, "do you understand? This analysis, you see, Dombey," Miss Blimber continued, "is going to be sent home to your respected parent. It will naturally be very painful to him to find that you are singular in your character and conduct. It is naturally very painful to us, for we can't like you, you know, Dombey, as well as we could wish."

She touched the child upon a tender point. He had secretly become more solicitous from day to day that all the house should like him. He could not bear to think that they would be quite indifferent to him when he was gone, and he had even made it his business to conciliate a great, hoarse, shaggy dog, who had previously been the terror of his life, that even he might miss him.

This poor tiny Paul set forth to Miss Blimber as well as he could and begged her, in spite of the official analysis, to have the goodness to try to like him. To Mrs. Blimber, who had joined them, he preferred the same petition; and when she gave her oft-repeated opinion that he was an odd child, Paul told her that he was sure that she was quite right; that he thought it must be his bones, but he didn't know, and he hoped she would overlook it, for he was fond of them all.

"Not so fond," said Paul, with a mixture of frankness and timidity which was one of the most peculiar and engaging qualities of his, "not so fond as I am of Florence, of course; that could never be. You couldn't expect that, could you, ma'am?"

"Oh, the old-fashioned little soul!" cried Mrs. Blimber, in a whisper.

"But I like everybody here very much," pursued Paul, "and I should grieve to go away and think that any one was glad I had gone, or didn't care."

Mrs. Blimber was now sure that Paul was the oddest child in the world, and when she told the doctor what had passed, he did not controvert his wife's opinion.

And Paul's wish was gratified. His purpose was to be a gentle, helpful, quiet little fellow, and though he was often to be seen at his old post on the stairs, or watching the waves or the clouds from his solitary window, he was oftener found too, among the other boys, modestly rendering them some little voluntary service. Thus it came to pass that Paul was an object of general interest: a fragile little plaything that they all liked, and that no one would have thought of treating roughly. But he could not change his nature, and so they all agreed that Dombey was old-fashioned.

There were some immunities, however, attaching to the character enjoyed by no one else. They could have better spared a newer-fashioned child, and that alone was much. When the others only bowed to Doctor Blimber and family when retiring, Paul would stretch his morsel of a hand, and boldly shake the doctor's, also Mrs. Blimber's, also Cornelia's; and if any one was to be begged off from impending punishment, Paul was always the delegate.

One evening, when the holidays were very near, Paul was in Toots' room watching Mr. Feeder and Toots fold, seal, and direct, the invitations for the evening party with which the term was to close. Paul's head, which had long been ailing more or less, and was sometimes very heavy and painful, felt so uneasy that night that he was obliged to support it on his hand. And it dropped so that by little and little it sunk on Mr. Toots' knee, and rested there.

That was no reason why he should be deaf; but he must have been, he thought, for by and by he heard Mr. Feeder calling in his ear, and gently shaking him to rouse his attention. And when he raised his head, quite scared, he found that Doctor Blimber had come into the room, and that the window was open, and that his forehead was wet with sprinkled water.

"Ah! Come, come, that's well. How is my little friend now?" said Doctor Blimber.

"Oh, quite well, thank you, sir," said Paul.

But there seemed to be something the matter with the floor, for he couldn't stand upon it steadily; and with the walls too, for they were inclined to turn round and round.

It was very kind of Mr. Toots to carry him to the top of the house so tenderly, and Paul told him that it was. But Mr. Toots said he would do a great deal more than that if he could; and, indeed, he did more as it was, for he helped Paul to undress and helped him to bed in the kindest manner possible, and then sat down by the bedside and chuckled very much, while Mr. Feeder leaning over the bottom of the bedstead set all the little bristles on his head, bolt upright with his bony hands, and then made believe to spar at Paul, with great science, on account of his being all right again, which was so funny and kind, too, in Mr. Feeder, that Paul, not being able to make up his mind whether to laugh or cry, did both at once.

Everything that could minister to Paul's comfort was done for him, and in those days just before the holidays when the other young gentlemen were labouring for dear life, Paul was such a privileged pupil as had never been seen in that house before. He could hardly believe it himself, but his liberty lasted from hour to hour, from day to day; and little Dombey was caressed by every one.

At last, the great night of the reception arrived.

When Paul was dressed, which was very soon done, for he felt unwell and drowsy and not able to stand about it very long, he went down into the drawing-room. Shortly afterwards Mrs. Blimber appeared, looking lovely, Paul thought, and Miss Blimber came down soon after her mama. Mr. Toots and Mr. Feeder were the next arrivals. Each of these gentlemen brought his hat in his hand as if he lived somewhere else; and when they were announced by the butler. Doctor Blimber said, "Aye, aye, aye! God bless my soul!" and seemed extremely glad to see them. Mr. Toots was one blaze of jewellery and buttons, and all the other young gentlemen were tightly cravatted, curled, and pumped, and all came in with their hats in their hands at separate times and were announced and introduced. Soon Paul slipped down from the cushioned corner of a sofa, and went downstairs into the tearoom to be ready for Florence. Presently she came; looking so beautiful in her simple ball-dress, with her fresh flowers in her hand, that when she knelt down, to take Paul round the neck and kiss him, he could hardly make up his mind to let her go again, or to take away her bright and loving eyes from his face.

"But what is the matter, Floy?" asked Paul, almost sure that he saw a tear there.

"Nothing, darling, nothing," returned Florence.

Paul touched her cheek gently with his finger, and it _was_ a tear.

"We'll go home together, and I'll nurse you, love," said Florence.

"Nurse me?" echoed Paul.

"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."

Through the evening Paul sat in his corner watching the dancing and beaming with pride as he heard praise showered on Dombey's sister. They all loved her--how could they help it, Paul had known beforehand that they must and would, and few would have thought with what triumph and delight he watched her. Thus little Paul sat musing, listening, looking on and dreaming; and was very happy. Until the time came for taking leave, and then indeed there was a sensation in the party. Every one took the heartiest sort of leave of him.

"Good-bye, Doctor Blimber," said Paul, stretching out his hand.

"Good-bye, my little friend," returned the doctor.

"I'm very much obliged to you, sir," said Paul, looking innocently up into his awful face. "Ask them to take care of Diogenes, if you please."

Diogenes was the dog who had never received a friend into his confidence, before Paul. The doctor promised that every attention should be paid to Diogenes in Paul's absence, and Paul having again thanked him, and shaken hands with him, bade adieu to Mrs. Blimber and Cornelia. Cornelia, taking both Paul's hands in hers said,--"Dombey, Dombey, you have always been my favourite pupil. God bless you!" And it showed, Paul thought, how easily one might do injustice to a person; for Miss Blimber meant it--although she was a Forcer.

A buzz then went round among the young gentlemen, of "Dombey's going! little Dombey's going!" and there was a general move after Paul and Florence down the staircase and into the hall, in which the whole Blimber family were included. The servants with the butler at their head had all an interest in seeing Little Dombey go, and even the young man taking out his books and trunks to the coach melted visibly. Nothing could restrain them from taking quite a noisy leave of Paul; waving hats after him, pressing downstairs to shake hands with him, crying individually "Dombey! don't forget me!" Paul whispered to Florence, as she wrapped him up before the door was opened. Did she hear them? Would she ever forget it? Was she glad to know it? And a lively delight was in his eyes as he spoke to her.

Once for a last look he turned and gazed upon the faces thus addressed to him, surprised to see how shining and how bright and how numerous they were. They swam before him, as he looked, and next moment he was in the dark coach outside holding close to Florence. From that time, whenever he thought of Doctor Blimber's it came back as he had seen it in this last view; and it never seemed a real place again, but always a dream, full of eyes.

And so ended little Paul's school days at Doctor Blimber's, for once at home again he never rose from his little bed. He lay there (listening to the noises in the street), quite tranquilly, not caring much how the time went, but watching it and everything about him with observing eyes. When the sunbeams struck into his room through the rustling blinds, and quivered on the opposite wall like golden water, he knew that evening was coming on, and that the sky was red and beautiful. As the reflection died away, and a gloom went creeping up the wall, he watched it deepen--deepen, into night. Then he thought how the long streets were dotted with lamps, and how the peaceful stars were shining overhead. His fancy had a strange tendency to wander to the river, which he knew was flowing through the great city; and now he thought how black it was and how deep it would look reflecting the hosts of stars--and more than all, how steadily it rolled away to meet the sea.

As it grew later in the night, and footsteps in the street became so rare that he could hear their coming, count them as they passed, and lose them in the hollow distance, he would lie and watch the many-coloured ring about the candle, and wait patiently for day. When day began to dawn again, he watched for the sun and when its cheerful light began to sparkle in the room, he pictured to himself--pictured! he saw--the high church towers rising up into the morning sky, the town reviving, waking, starting into life once more, the river glistening as it rolled (but rolling fast as ever), and the country bright with dew. Familiar sounds came by degrees into the street below; the servants in the house were roused and busy; faces looked in at the door, and voices asked his attendants softly how he was. Paul always answered for himself, "I am better. I am a great deal better, thank you. Tell papa so."

By little and little he got tired of the bustle of the day, the noise of carriages and carts, and people passing and re-passing; and would fall asleep, or be troubled with a restless, and uneasy sense again--the child could hardly tell whether this were in his sleeping or his waking moments--of that rushing river.

"Why will it never stop, Floy?" he would sometimes ask her. "It is bearing me away I think."

But Floy could always soothe and reassure him: and it was his daily delight to make her lay her head down on his pillow, and take some rest.

"You are always watching me, Floy, let me watch you now." They would prop him up with cushions in a corner of his bed, and there he would recline the while she lay beside him, bending forwards oftentimes to kiss her.

Thus the flush of the day in its heat and light, would gradually decline; and again the golden water would be dancing on the wall.

He was visited by as many as three grave doctors--they used to assemble downstairs and come up together--and the room was so quiet and Paul was so observant of them (though he never asked of anybody what they said) that he even knew the difference in the sound of their watches.

The people round him changed as unaccountably as on that first night at Doctor Blimber's--except Florence; Florence never changed. Old Mrs. Pipchin dozing in an easy chair, often changed to someone else and Paul was quite content to shut his eyes again and see what happened next, without emotion. But one figure with its head upon its hand returned so often and remained so long, and sat so still and solemn, never speaking, never being spoken to, and rarely lifting up its face, that Paul began to wonder languidly if it were real.

"Floy," he said, "what is that?"

"Where, dearest?"

"There, at the bottom of the bed."

"There's nothing there except papa."

The figure lifted up its head, and rose, and coming to the bedside said: "My own boy! Don't you know me?"

Paul looked it in the face and thought, was this his father? But the face so altered to his thinking, thrilled while he gazed, as if it were in pain; and before he could reach out both his hands to take it between them and draw it towards him, the figure turned away quickly from the little bed, and went out at the door. The next time he observed the figure sitting at the bottom of the bed, he called to it:

"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, Paul held him round the neck and repeated those words to him several times and very earnestly. 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.

How many times the golden water danced on the wall; how many nights the dark, dark river rolled away towards the sea in spite of him, Paul never counted, never sought to know. If their kindness could have increased, or his sense of it, they were more kind, and he more grateful every day; but whether they were many days or few appeared of little moment now to the gentle boy.

One night he had been thinking of his mother and her picture in the drawing-room downstairs. The train of thought suggested to him to inquire if he had ever seen his mother; for he could not remember whether they had told him yes or no, the river running very fast and confusing his mind.

"Floy, did I ever see mama?"

"No, darling; why?"

"Did I ever see any kind face like mama's looking at me when I was a baby, Floy?"

"Oh yes, dear."

"Whose, Floy?"

"Your old nurse's, often."

"And where is my old nurse?" said Paul. "Is she dead, too? Floy are we all dead except you?"

There was a hurry in the room for an instant--longer perhaps--then all was still again, and Florence, with her face quite colourless but smiling, held his head upon her arm. Her arm trembled very much.

"Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please."

"She is not here, darling; she shall come to-morrow."

"Thank you, Floy."

Paul closed his eyes with these words and fell asleep. When he awoke the sun was high and the broad day was clear and warm. He lay a little, looking at the windows, which were open, and the curtains rustling in the air, and waving to and fro, then he said, "Floy, is it to-morrow? Is she come?" The next thing that happened was a noise of footsteps on the stairs, and then Paul woke--woke mind and body--and sat upright in his bed. He saw them now about him. There was no gray mist before them as there had been some time in the night. He knew them every one and called them by their names.

"And who is this? Is this my old nurse?" said the child, regarding with a radiant smile a figure coming in.

Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those tears at sight of him, and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her own poor blighted child. No other woman would have stooped down by his bed, and taken up his wasted hand, and put it to her lips and breast, as one who had some right to fondle it.

"Floy, this is a kind, good face," said Paul. "I am glad to see it again. Don't go away, old nurse. Stay here."

"Good-bye, my child," cried Mrs. Pipchin, hurrying to his bed's head. "Not good-bye?"

For an instant Paul looked at her with the wistful face with which he had so often gazed upon her in his corner by the fire.

"Ah, yes," he said, placidly, "good-bye. Where is papa?"

He felt his father's breath upon his cheek before the words had parted from his lips.

"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."

Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the stream was lulling him to rest. How near 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,

"Mama 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 for that older fashion yet,--of Immortality!

PIP

My father's family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing more explicit than Pip. So I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip.

My mother and father both being dead, I was brought up by my sister, Mrs. Joe Gargery, who was more than twenty years older than I, and a veritable shrew by nature. She had acquired a great reputation among the neighbours because she had brought me up by hand. Not understanding this expression, and knowing her to have a hard and heavy hand, and to be much in the habit of laying it upon her husband as well as upon me, I supposed that Joe Gargery and I were both brought up by hand.

Joe, her husband, was a mild, good-natured, sweet-tempered, easy-going, foolish, dear fellow, with light curly hair and blue eyes, and he and I were great chums, as well as fellow-sufferers under the rule of my sharp-tongued sister.

One afternoon I was wandering in the church-yard where my mother and father were buried, when I was accosted by a fearful man all in coarse grey, with a great iron on his leg. He wore no hat and had broken shoes, and an old rag tied round his head. He limped and shivered, and glared and growled, his teeth chattering, as he seized me by the chin.

"O don't cut my throat, sir!" I pleaded in terror. "Pray don't do it, sir!"

"Tell us your name," said the man, "quick!"

"Pip, sir,"

"Show us where you live," he said. "Point out the place!"

I pointed to where our village lay, and then the man, after looking at me for a moment, turned me upside down and emptied my pockets, but there was nothing in them except a piece of bread. When the church came to itself, for he was so sudden and strong that he made it go head over heels before me,--I was seated on a high tombstone trembling, while he ate the bread ravenously. Then he came nearer to my tombstone, took me by both arms, and tilted me back as far as he could hold me, looking into my eyes.

"Now lookee here," he said, "you get me a file and you get me wittles; you bring both to me to-morrow morning early, that file and them wittles. You bring the lot to me at that old Battery yonder. You do it, and you never dare to say a word concerning your having seen such a person as me, and you shall be let live. You fail in any partickler and your heart and your liver shall be tore out, roasted and ate! Now I ain't alone, as you may think. There is a young man hid with me who hears the words I speak. It is in wain for a boy to attempt to hide himself from that young man. A boy may lock his door, may be warm in bed, may draw the clothes over his head, may think himself comfortable and safe, but that young man will soon creep and creep his way to him and tear him open. I am a-keeping the young man from harming of you at the present moment with great difficulty. Now what do you say?"

I said I would get him the file and what food I could, and would come to him early in the morning.

"Say, Lord strike me dead, if you don't!"

I said so and he took me down. I faltered a good night, and he turned to go, walking as if he were numb and stiff. When I saw him turn to look once more at me, I made the best use of my legs, having a terrible fear of him, and of the young man, and I ran home without once stopping.

I found the forge shut up and Joe alone in the kitchen. The minute I raised the latch, he said: