Dombey and Son
unreturned, and in the waste and solitude of this bereavement cried to
him to seek a comfort in it, and to give some, by some small
response—whatever may have been her understanding of it, it moved Miss
Tox. For the moment she forgot the majesty of Mrs Chick, and, patting
Florence hastily on the cheek, turned aside and suffered the tears to
gush from her eyes, without waiting for a lead from that wise matron.
Mrs Chick herself lost, for a moment, the presence of mind on which she
so much prided herself; and remained mute, looking on the beautiful
young face that had so long, so steadily, and patiently, been turned
towards the little bed. But recovering her voice—which was synonymous
with her presence of mind, indeed they were one and the same thing—she
replied with dignity:
“Florence, my dear child, your poor Papa is peculiar at times; and to
question me about him, is to question me upon a subject which I really
do not pretend to understand. I believe I have as much influence with
your Papa as anybody has. Still, all I can say is, that he has said
very little to me; and that I have only seen him once or twice for a
minute at a time, and indeed have hardly seen him then, for his room
has been dark. I have said to your Papa, ‘Paul!’—that is the exact
expression I used—‘Paul! why do you not take something stimulating?’
Your Papa’s reply has always been, ‘Louisa, have the goodness to leave
me. I want nothing. I am better by myself.’ If I was to be put upon my
oath to-morrow, Lucretia, before a magistrate,” said Mrs Chick, “I have
no doubt I could venture to swear to those identical words.”
Miss Tox expressed her admiration by saying, “My Louisa is ever
methodical!”
“In short, Florence,” resumed her aunt, “literally nothing has passed
between your poor Papa and myself, until today; when I mentioned to
your Papa that Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles had written exceedingly
kind notes—our sweet boy! Lady Skettles loved him like a—where’s my
pocket handkerchief?”
Miss Tox produced one.
“Exceedingly kind notes, proposing that you should visit them for
change of scene. Mentioning to your Papa that I thought Miss Tox and
myself might now go home (in which he quite agreed), I inquired if he
had any objection to your accepting this invitation. He said, ‘No,
Louisa, not the least!’”
Florence raised her tearful eye.
“At the same time, if you would prefer staying here, Florence, to
paying this visit at present, or to going home with me—”
“I should much prefer it, aunt,” was the faint rejoinder.
“Why then, child,” said Mrs Chick, “you can. It’s a strange choice, I
must say. But you always were strange. Anybody else at your time of
life, and after what has passed—my dear Miss Tox, I have lost my pocket
handkerchief again—would be glad to leave here, one would suppose.”
“I should not like to feel,” said Florence, “as if the house was
avoided. I should not like to think that the—his—the rooms upstairs
were quite empty and dreary, aunt. I would rather stay here, for the
present. Oh my brother! oh my brother!”
It was a natural emotion, not to be suppressed; and it would make way
even between the fingers of the hands with which she covered up her
face. The overcharged and heavy-laden breast must some times have that
vent, or the poor wounded solitary heart within it would have fluttered
like a bird with broken wings, and sunk down in the dust.
“Well, child!” said Mrs Chick, after a pause “I wouldn’t on any account
say anything unkind to you, and that I’m sure you know. You will remain
here, then, and do exactly as you like. No one will interfere with you,
Florence, or wish to interfere with you, I’m sure.”
Florence shook her head in sad assent.
“I had no sooner begun to advise your poor Papa that he really ought to
seek some distraction and restoration in a temporary change,” said Mrs
Chick, “than he told me he had already formed the intention of going
into the country for a short time. I’m sure I hope he’ll go very soon.
He can’t go too soon. But I suppose there are some arrangements
connected with his private papers and so forth, consequent on the
affliction that has tried us all so much—I can’t think what’s become of
mine: Lucretia, lend me yours, my dear—that may occupy him for one or
two evenings in his own room. Your Papa’s a Dombey, child, if ever
there was one,” said Mrs Chick, drying both her eyes at once with great
care on opposite corners of Miss Tox’s handkerchief “He’ll make an
effort. There’s no fear of him.”
“Is there nothing, aunt,” said Florence, trembling, “I might do to—”
“Lord, my dear child,” interposed Mrs Chick, hastily, “what are you
talking about? If your Papa said to Me—I have given you his exact
words, ‘Louisa, I want nothing; I am better by myself’—what do you
think he’d say to you? You mustn’t show yourself to him, child. Don’t
dream of such a thing.”
“Aunt,” said Florence, “I will go and lie down on my bed.”
Mrs Chick approved of this resolution, and dismissed her with a kiss.
But Miss Tox, on a faint pretence of looking for the mislaid
handkerchief, went upstairs after her; and tried in a few stolen
minutes to comfort her, in spite of great discouragement from Susan
Nipper. For Miss Nipper, in her burning zeal, disparaged Miss Tox as a
crocodile; yet her sympathy seemed genuine, and had at least the
vantage-ground of disinterestedness—there was little favour to be won
by it.
And was there no one nearer and dearer than Susan, to uphold the
striving heart in its anguish? Was there no other neck to clasp; no
other face to turn to? no one else to say a soothing word to such deep
sorrow? Was Florence so alone in the bleak world that nothing else
remained to her? Nothing. Stricken motherless and brotherless at
once—for in the loss of little Paul, that first and greatest loss fell
heavily upon her—this was the only help she had. Oh, who can tell how
much she needed help at first!
At first, when the house subsided into its accustomed course, and they
had all gone away, except the servants, and her father shut up in his
own rooms, Florence could do nothing but weep, and wander up and down,
and sometimes, in a sudden pang of desolate remembrance, fly to her own
chamber, wring her hands, lay her face down on her bed, and know no
consolation: nothing but the bitterness and cruelty of grief. This
commonly ensued upon the recognition of some spot or object very
tenderly associated with him; and it made the miserable house, at
first, a place of agony.
But it is not in the nature of pure love to burn so fiercely and
unkindly long. The flame that in its grosser composition has the taint
of earth may prey upon the breast that gives it shelter; but the fire
from heaven is as gentle in the heart, as when it rested on the heads
of the assembled twelve, and showed each man his brother, brightened
and unhurt. The image conjured up, there soon returned the placid face,
the softened voice, the loving looks, the quiet trustfulness and peace;
and Florence, though she wept still, wept more tranquilly, and courted
the remembrance.
It was not very long before the golden water, dancing on the wall, in
the old place, at the old serene time, had her calm eye fixed upon it
as it ebbed away. It was not very long before that room again knew her,
often; sitting there alone, as patient and as mild as when she had
watched beside the little bed. When any sharp sense of its being empty
smote upon her, she could kneel beside it, and pray GOD—it was the
pouring out of her full heart—to let one angel love her and remember
her.
It was not very long before, in the midst of the dismal house so wide
and dreary, her low voice in the twilight, slowly and stopping
sometimes, touched the old air to which he had so often listened, with
his drooping head upon her arm. And after that, and when it was quite
dark, a little strain of music trembled in the room: so softly played
and sung, that it was more like the mournful recollection of what she
had done at his request on that last night, than the reality repeated.
But it was repeated, often—very often, in the shadowy solitude; and
broken murmurs of the strain still trembled on the keys, when the sweet
voice was hushed in tears.
Thus she gained heart to look upon the work with which her fingers had
been busy by his side on the sea-shore; and thus it was not very long
before she took to it again—with something of a human love for it, as
if it had been sentient and had known him; and, sitting in a window,
near her mother’s picture, in the unused room so long deserted, wore
away the thoughtful hours.
Why did the dark eyes turn so often from this work to where the rosy
children lived? They were not immediately suggestive of her loss; for
they were all girls: four little sisters. But they were motherless like
her—and had a father.
It was easy to know when he had gone out and was expected home, for the
elder child was always dressed and waiting for him at the drawing-room
window, or on the balcony; and when he appeared, her expectant face
lighted up with joy, while the others at the high window, and always on
the watch too, clapped their hands, and drummed them on the sill, and
called to him. The elder child would come down to the hall, and put her
hand in his, and lead him up the stairs; and Florence would see her
afterwards sitting by his side, or on his knee, or hanging coaxingly
about his neck and talking to him: and though they were always gay
together, he would often watch her face as if he thought her like her
mother that was dead. Florence would sometimes look no more at this,
and bursting into tears would hide behind the curtain as if she were
frightened, or would hurry from the window. Yet she could not help
returning; and her work would soon fall unheeded from her hands again.
It was the house that had been empty, years ago. It had remained so for
a long time. At last, and while she had been away from home, this
family had taken it; and it was repaired and newly painted; and there
were birds and flowers about it; and it looked very different from its
old self. But she never thought of the house. The children and their
father were all in all.
When he had dined, she could see them, through the open windows, go
down with their governess or nurse, and cluster round the table; and in
the still summer weather, the sound of their childish voices and clear
laughter would come ringing across the street, into the drooping air of
the room in which she sat. Then they would climb and clamber upstairs
with him, and romp about him on the sofa, or group themselves at his
knee, a very nosegay of little faces, while he seemed to tell them some
story. Or they would come running out into the balcony; and then
Florence would hide herself quickly, lest it should check them in their
joy, to see her in her black dress, sitting there alone.
The elder child remained with her father when the rest had gone away,
and made his tea for him—happy little house-keeper she was then!—and
sat conversing with him, sometimes at the window, sometimes in the
room, until the candles came. He made her his companion, though she was
some years younger than Florence; and she could be as staid and
pleasantly demure, with her little book or work-box, as a woman. When
they had candles, Florence from her own dark room was not afraid to
look again. But when the time came for the child to say “Good-night,
Papa,” and go to bed, Florence would sob and tremble as she raised her
face to him, and could look no more.
Though still she would turn, again and again, before going to bed
herself from the simple air that had lulled him to rest so often, long
ago, and from the other low soft broken strain of music, back to that