Dombey and Son
think sometimes that she was better there than here, and that there was
greater peace in hiding herself than in mingling with others of her
age, and finding how unlike them all she was. But attentive to her
study, though it touched her to the quick at every little leaf she
turned in the hard book, Florence remained among them, and tried, with
patient hope, to gain the knowledge that she wearied for.
Ah! how to gain it! how to know the charm in its beginning! There were
daughters here, who rose up in the morning, and lay down to rest at
night, possessed of fathers’ hearts already. They had no repulse to
overcome, no coldness to dread, no frown to smooth away. As the morning
advanced, and the windows opened one by one, and the dew began to dry
upon the flowers and youthful feet began to move upon the lawn,
Florence, glancing round at the bright faces, thought what was there
she could learn from these children? It was too late to learn from
them; each could approach her father fearlessly, and put up her lips to
meet the ready kiss, and wind her arm about the neck that bent down to
caress her. She could not begin by being so bold. Oh! could it be that
there was less and less hope as she studied more and more!
She remembered well, that even the old woman who had robbed her when a
little child—whose image and whose house, and all she had said and
done, were stamped upon her recollection, with the enduring sharpness
of a fearful impression made at that early period of life—had spoken
fondly of her daughter, and how terribly even she had cried out in the
pain of hopeless separation from her child. But her own mother, she
would think again, when she recalled this, had loved her well. Then,
sometimes, when her thoughts reverted swiftly to the void between
herself and her father, Florence would tremble, and the tears would
start upon her face, as she pictured to herself her mother living on,
and coming also to dislike her, because of her wanting the unknown
grace that should conciliate that father naturally, and had never done
so from her cradle. She knew that this imagination did wrong to her
mother’s memory, and had no truth in it, or base to rest upon; and yet
she tried so hard to justify him, and to find the whole blame in
herself, that she could not resist its passing, like a wild cloud,
through the distance of her mind.
There came among the other visitors, soon after Florence, one beautiful
girl, three or four years younger than she, who was an orphan child,
and who was accompanied by her aunt, a grey-haired lady, who spoke much
to Florence, and who greatly liked (but that they all did) to hear her
sing of an evening, and would always sit near her at that time, with
motherly interest. They had only been two days in the house, when
Florence, being in an arbour in the garden one warm morning, musingly
observant of a youthful group upon the turf, through some intervening
boughs,—and wreathing flowers for the head of one little creature among
them who was the pet and plaything of the rest, heard this same lady
and her niece, in pacing up and down a sheltered nook close by, speak
of herself.
“Is Florence an orphan like me, aunt?” said the child.
“No, my love. She has no mother, but her father is living.”
“Is she in mourning for her poor Mama, now?” inquired the child
quickly.
“No; for her only brother.”
“Has she no other brother?”
“None.”
“No sister?”
“None,”
“I am very, very sorry!” said the little girl
As they stopped soon afterwards to watch some boats, and had been
silent in the meantime, Florence, who had risen when she heard her
name, and had gathered up her flowers to go and meet them, that they
might know of her being within hearing, resumed her seat and work,
expecting to hear no more; but the conversation recommenced next
moment.
“Florence is a favourite with everyone here, and deserves to be, I am
sure,” said the child, earnestly. “Where is her Papa?”
The aunt replied, after a moment’s pause, that she did not know. Her
tone of voice arrested Florence, who had started from her seat again;
and held her fastened to the spot, with her work hastily caught up to
her bosom, and her two hands saving it from being scattered on the
ground.
“He is in England, I hope, aunt?” said the child.
“I believe so. Yes; I know he is, indeed.”
“Has he ever been here?”
“I believe not. No.”
“Is he coming here to see her?”
“I believe not.”
“Is he lame, or blind, or ill, aunt?” asked the child.
The flowers that Florence held to her breast began to fall when she
heard those words, so wonderingly spoke. She held them closer; and her
face hung down upon them.
“Kate,” said the lady, after another moment of silence, “I will tell
you the whole truth about Florence as I have heard it, and believe it
to be. Tell no one else, my dear, because it may be little known here,
and your doing so would give her pain.”
“I never will!” exclaimed the child.
“I know you never will,” returned the lady. “I can trust you as myself.
I fear then, Kate, that Florence’s father cares little for her, very
seldom sees her, never was kind to her in her life, and now quite shuns
her and avoids her. She would love him dearly if he would suffer her,
but he will not—though for no fault of hers; and she is greatly to be
loved and pitied by all gentle hearts.”
More of the flowers that Florence held fell scattering on the ground;
those that remained were wet, but not with dew; and her face dropped
upon her laden hands.
“Poor Florence! Dear, good Florence!” cried the child.
“Do you know why I have told you this, Kate?” said the lady.
“That I may be very kind to her, and take great care to try to please
her. Is that the reason, aunt?”
“Partly,” said the lady, “but not all. Though we see her so cheerful;
with a pleasant smile for everyone; ready to oblige us all, and bearing
her part in every amusement here: she can hardly be quite happy, do you
think she can, Kate?”
“I am afraid not,” said the little girl.
“And you can understand,” pursued the lady, “why her observation of
children who have parents who are fond of them, and proud of them—like
many here, just now—should make her sorrowful in secret?”
“Yes, dear aunt,” said the child, “I understand that very well. Poor
Florence!”
More flowers strayed upon the ground, and those she yet held to her
breast trembled as if a wintry wind were rustling them.
“My Kate,” said the lady, whose voice was serious, but very calm and
sweet, and had so impressed Florence from the first moment of her
hearing it, “of all the youthful people here, you are her natural and
harmless friend; you have not the innocent means, that happier children
have—”
“There are none happier, aunt!” exclaimed the child, who seemed to
cling about her.
“—As other children have, dear Kate, of reminding her of her
misfortune. Therefore I would have you, when you try to be her little
friend, try all the more for that, and feel that the bereavement you
sustained—thank Heaven! before you knew its weight—gives you claim and
hold upon poor Florence.”
“But I am not without a parent’s love, aunt, and I never have been,”
said the child, “with you.”
“However that may be, my dear,” returned the lady, “your misfortune is
a lighter one than Florence’s; for not an orphan in the wide world can
be so deserted as the child who is an outcast from a living parent’s
love.”
The flowers were scattered on the ground like dust; the empty hands
were spread upon the face; and orphaned Florence, shrinking down upon
the ground, wept long and bitterly.
But true of heart and resolute in her good purpose, Florence held to it
as her dying mother held by her upon the day that gave Paul life. He
did not know how much she loved him. However long the time in coming,
and however slow the interval, she must try to bring that knowledge to
her father’s heart one day or other. Meantime she must be careful in no
thoughtless word, or look, or burst of feeling awakened by any chance
circumstance, to complain against him, or to give occasion for these
whispers to his prejudice.
Even in the response she made the orphan child, to whom she was
attracted strongly, and whom she had such occasion to remember,
Florence was mindful of him. If she singled her out too plainly
(Florence thought) from among the rest, she would confirm—in one mind
certainly: perhaps in more—the belief that he was cruel and unnatural.
Her own delight was no set-off to this. What she had overheard was a
reason, not for soothing herself, but for saving him; and Florence did
it, in pursuance of the study of her heart.
She did so always. If a book were read aloud, and there were anything
in the story that pointed at an unkind father, she was in pain for
their application of it to him; not for herself. So with any trifle of
an interlude that was acted, or picture that was shown, or game that
was played, among them. The occasions for such tenderness towards him
were so many, that her mind misgave her often, it would indeed be
better to go back to the old house, and live again within the shadow of
its dull walls, undisturbed. How few who saw sweet Florence, in her
spring of womanhood, the modest little queen of those small revels,
imagined what a load of sacred care lay heavy in her breast! How few of
those who stiffened in her father’s freezing atmosphere, suspected what
a heap of fiery coals was piled upon his head!
Florence pursued her study patiently, and, failing to acquire the
secret of the nameless grace she sought, among the youthful company who
were assembled in the house, often walked out alone, in the early
morning, among the children of the poor. But still she found them all
too far advanced to learn from. They had won their household places
long ago, and did not stand without, as she did, with a bar across the
door.
There was one man whom she several times observed at work very early,
and often with a girl of about her own age seated near him. He was a
very poor man, who seemed to have no regular employment, but now went
roaming about the banks of the river when the tide was low, looking out
for bits and scraps in the mud; and now worked at the unpromising
little patch of garden-ground before his cottage; and now tinkered up a
miserable old boat that belonged to him; or did some job of that kind
for a neighbour, as chance occurred. Whatever the man’s labour, the
girl was never employed; but sat, when she was with him, in a listless,
moping state, and idle.
Florence had often wished to speak to this man; yet she had never taken
courage to do so, as he made no movement towards her. But one morning
when she happened to come upon him suddenly, from a by-path among some
pollard willows which terminated in the little shelving piece of stony
ground that lay between his dwelling and the water, where he was
bending over a fire he had made to caulk the old boat which was lying
bottom upwards, close by, he raised his head at the sound of her
footstep, and gave her Good morning.
“Good morning,” said Florence, approaching nearer, “you are at work
early.”
“I’d be glad to be often at work earlier, Miss, if I had work to do.”
“Is it so hard to get?” asked Florence.
“I find it so,” replied the man.
Florence glanced to where the girl was sitting, drawn together, with
her elbows on her knees, and her chin on her hands, and said:
“Is that your daughter?”
He raised his head quickly, and looking towards the girl with a
brightened face, nodded to her, and said “Yes,” Florence looked towards
her too, and gave her a kind salutation; the girl muttered something in
return, ungraciously and sullenly.
“Is she in want of employment also?” said Florence.
The man shook his head. “No, Miss,” he said. “I work for both,”