Dombey and Son
Florence, not knowing what she did, put on a shawl and bonnet, in a
dream of running through the streets until she found Edith, and then
clasping her in her arms, to save and bring her back. But when she
hurried out upon the staircase, and saw the frightened servants going
up and down with lights, and whispering together, and falling away from
her father as he passed down, she awoke to a sense of her own
powerlessness; and hiding in one of the great rooms that had been made
gorgeous for this, felt as if her heart would burst with grief.
Compassion for her father was the first distinct emotion that made head
against the flood of sorrow which overwhelmed her. Her constant nature
turned to him in his distress, as fervently and faithfully, as if, in
his prosperity, he had been the embodiment of that idea which had
gradually become so faint and dim. Although she did not know, otherwise
than through the suggestions of a shapeless fear, the full extent of
his calamity, he stood before her, wronged and deserted; and again her
yearning love impelled her to his side.
He was not long away; for Florence was yet weeping in the great room
and nourishing these thoughts, when she heard him come back. He ordered
the servants to set about their ordinary occupations, and went into his
own apartment, where he trod so heavily that she could hear him walking
up and down from end to end.
Yielding at once to the impulse of her affection, timid at all other
times, but bold in its truth to him in his adversity, and undaunted by
past repulse, Florence, dressed as she was, hurried downstairs. As she
set her light foot in the hall, he came out of his room. She hastened
towards him unchecked, with her arms stretched out, and crying “Oh
dear, dear Papa!” as if she would have clasped him round the neck.
And so she would have done. But in his frenzy, he lifted up his cruel
arm, and struck her, crosswise, with that heaviness, that she tottered
on the marble floor; and as he dealt the blow, he told her what Edith
was, and bade her follow her, since they had always been in league.
She did not sink down at his feet; she did not shut out the sight of
him with her trembling hands; she did not weep; she did not utter one
word of reproach. But she looked at him, and a cry of desolation issued
from her heart. For as she looked, she saw him murdering that fond idea
to which she had held in spite of him. She saw his cruelty, neglect,
and hatred dominant above it, and stamping it down. She saw she had no
father upon earth, and ran out, orphaned, from his house.
Ran out of his house. A moment, and her hand was on the lock, the cry
was on her lips, his face was there, made paler by the yellow candles
hastily put down and guttering away, and by the daylight coming in
above the door. Another moment, and the close darkness of the shut-up
house (forgotten to be opened, though it was long since day) yielded to
the unexpected glare and freedom of the morning; and Florence, with her
head bent down to hide her agony of tears, was in the streets.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
The Flight of Florence
In the wildness of her sorrow, shame, and terror, the forlorn girl
hurried through the sunshine of a bright morning, as if it were the
darkness of a winter night. Wringing her hands and weeping bitterly,
insensible to everything but the deep wound in her breast, stunned by
the loss of all she loved, left like the sole survivor on a lonely
shore from the wreck of a great vessel, she fled without a thought,
without a hope, without a purpose, but to fly somewhere anywhere.
The cheerful vista of the long street, burnished by the morning light,
the sight of the blue sky and airy clouds, the vigorous freshness of
the day, so flushed and rosy in its conquest of the night, awakened no
responsive feelings in her so hurt bosom. Somewhere, anywhere, to hide
her head! somewhere, anywhere, for refuge, never more to look upon the
place from which she fled!
But there were people going to and fro; there were opening shops, and
servants at the doors of houses; there was the rising clash and roar of
the day’s struggle. Florence saw surprise and curiosity in the faces
flitting past her; saw long shadows coming back upon the pavement; and
heard voices that were strange to her asking her where she went, and
what the matter was; and though these frightened her the more at first,
and made her hurry on the faster, they did her the good service of
recalling her in some degree to herself, and reminding her of the
necessity of greater composure.
Where to go? Still somewhere, anywhere! still going on; but where! She
thought of the only other time she had been lost in the wild wilderness
of London—though not lost as now—and went that way. To the home of
Walter’s Uncle.
Checking her sobs, and drying her swollen eyes, and endeavouring to
calm the agitation of her manner, so as to avoid attracting notice,
Florence, resolving to keep to the more quiet streets as long as she
could, was going on more quietly herself, when a familiar little shadow
darted past upon the sunny pavement, stopped short, wheeled about, came
close to her, made off again, bounded round and round her, and
Diogenes, panting for breath, and yet making the street ring with his
glad bark, was at her feet.
“Oh, Di! oh, dear, true, faithful Di, how did you come here? How could
I ever leave you, Di, who would never leave me?”
Florence bent down on the pavement, and laid his rough, old, loving,
foolish head against her breast, and they got up together, and went on
together; Di more off the ground than on it, endeavouring to kiss his
mistress flying, tumbling over and getting up again without the least
concern, dashing at big dogs in a jocose defiance of his species,
terrifying with touches of his nose young housemaids who were cleaning
doorsteps, and continually stopping, in the midst of a thousand
extravagances, to look back at Florence, and bark until all the dogs
within hearing answered, and all the dogs who could come out, came out
to stare at him.
With this last adherent, Florence hurried away in the advancing
morning, and the strengthening sunshine, to the City. The roar soon
grew more loud, the passengers more numerous, the shops more busy,
until she was carried onward in a stream of life setting that way, and
flowing, indifferently, past marts and mansions, prisons, churches,
market-places, wealth, poverty, good, and evil, like the broad river
side by side with it, awakened from its dreams of rushes, willows, and
green moss, and rolling on, turbid and troubled, among the works and
cares of men, to the deep sea.
At length the quarters of the little Midshipman arose in view. Nearer
yet, and the little Midshipman himself was seen upon his post, intent
as ever on his observations. Nearer yet, and the door stood open,
inviting her to enter. Florence, who had again quickened her pace, as
she approached the end of her journey, ran across the road (closely
followed by Diogenes, whom the bustle had somewhat confused), ran in,
and sank upon the threshold of the well-remembered little parlour.
The Captain, in his glazed hat, was standing over the fire, making his
morning’s cocoa, with that elegant trifle, his watch, upon the
chimney-piece, for easy reference during the progress of the cookery.
Hearing a footstep and the rustle of a dress, the Captain turned with a
palpitating remembrance of the dreadful Mrs MacStinger, at the instant
when Florence made a motion with her hand towards him, reeled, and fell
upon the floor.
The Captain, pale as Florence, pale in the very knobs upon his face,
raised her like a baby, and laid her on the same old sofa upon which
she had slumbered long ago.
“It’s Heart’s Delight!” said the Captain, looking intently in her face.
“It’s the sweet creetur grow’d a woman!”
Captain Cuttle was so respectful of her, and had such a reverence for
her, in this new character, that he would not have held her in his
arms, while she was unconscious, for a thousand pounds.
“My Heart’s Delight!” said the Captain, withdrawing to a little
distance, with the greatest alarm and sympathy depicted on his
countenance. “If you can hail Ned Cuttle with a finger, do it!”
But Florence did not stir.
“My Heart’s Delight!” said the trembling Captain. “For the sake of
Wal”r drownded in the briny deep, turn to, and histe up something or
another, if able!”
Finding her insensible to this impressive adjuration also, Captain
Cuttle snatched from his breakfast-table a basin of cold water, and
sprinkled some upon her face. Yielding to the urgency of the case, the
Captain then, using his immense hand with extraordinary gentleness,
relieved her of her bonnet, moistened her lips and forehead, put back
her hair, covered her feet with his own coat which he pulled off for
the purpose, patted her hand—so small in his, that he was struck with
wonder when he touched it—and seeing that her eyelids quivered, and
that her lips began to move, continued these restorative applications
with a better heart.
“Cheerily,” said the Captain. “Cheerily! Stand by, my pretty one, stand
by! There! You’re better now. Steady’s the word, and steady it is. Keep
her so! Drink a little drop o’ this here,” said the Captain. “There you
are! What cheer now, my pretty, what cheer now?”
At this stage of her recovery, Captain Cuttle, with an imperfect
association of a Watch with a Physician’s treatment of a patient, took
his own down from the mantel-shelf, and holding it out on his hook, and
taking Florence’s hand in his, looked steadily from one to the other,
as expecting the dial to do something.
“What cheer, my pretty?” said the Captain. “What cheer now? You’ve done
her some good, my lad, I believe,” said the Captain, under his breath,
and throwing an approving glance upon his watch. “Put you back
half-an-hour every morning, and about another quarter towards the
arternoon, and you’re a watch as can be ekalled by few and excelled by
none. What cheer, my lady lass!”
“Captain Cuttle! Is it you?” exclaimed Florence, raising herself a
little.
“Yes, yes, my lady lass,” said the Captain, hastily deciding in his own
mind upon the superior elegance of that form of address, as the most
courtly he could think of.
“Is Walter’s Uncle here?” asked Florence.
“Here, pretty?” returned the Captain. “He ain’t been here this many a
long day. He ain’t been heerd on, since he sheered off arter poor
Wal”r. But,” said the Captain, as a quotation, “Though lost to sight,
to memory dear, and England, Home, and Beauty!”
“Do you live here?” asked Florence.
“Yes, my lady lass,” returned the Captain.
“Oh, Captain Cuttle!” cried Florence, putting her hands together, and
speaking wildly. “Save me! keep me here! Let no one know where I am!
I’ll tell you what has happened by-and-by, when I can. I have no one in
the world to go to. Do not send me away!”
“Send you away, my lady lass!” exclaimed the Captain. “You, my Heart’s
Delight! Stay a bit! We’ll put up this here deadlight, and take a
double turn on the key!”
With these words, the Captain, using his one hand and his hook with the
greatest dexterity, got out the shutter of the door, put it up, made it
all fast, and locked the door itself.
When he came back to the side of Florence, she took his hand, and
kissed it. The helplessness of the action, the appeal it made to him,
the confidence it expressed, the unspeakable sorrow in her face, the
pain of mind she had too plainly suffered, and was suffering then, his
knowledge of her past history, her present lonely, worn, and
unprotected appearance, all so rushed upon the good Captain together,
that he fairly overflowed with compassion and gentleness.
“My lady lass,” said the Captain, polishing the bridge of his nose with