Dombey and Son
dreadfully disconcerted when the desire of his heart was gained, and he
was speaking to her; “thank you, I’m very well indeed, I hope you’re
the same, so was Diogenes yesterday.”
“You are very kind,” said Florence.
“Thank you, it’s of no consequence,” retorted Mr Toots. “I thought
perhaps you wouldn’t mind, in this fine weather, coming home by water,
Miss Dombey. There’s plenty of room in the boat for your maid.”
“I am very much obliged to you,” said Florence, hesitating. “I really
am—but I would rather not.”
“Oh, it’s of no consequence,” retorted Mr Toots. “Good morning.”
“Won’t you wait and see Lady Skettles?” asked Florence, kindly.
“Oh no, thank you,” returned Mr Toots, “it’s of no consequence at all.”
So shy was Mr Toots on such occasions, and so flurried! But Lady
Skettles entering at the moment, Mr Toots was suddenly seized with a
passion for asking her how she did, and hoping she was very well; nor
could Mr Toots by any possibility leave off shaking hands with her,
until Sir Barnet appeared: to whom he immediately clung with the
tenacity of desperation.
“We are losing, today, Toots,” said Sir Barnet, turning towards
Florence, “the light of our house, I assure you”
“Oh, it’s of no conseq—I mean yes, to be sure,” faltered the
embarrassed Mr Toots. “Good morning!”
Notwithstanding the emphatic nature of this farewell, Mr Toots, instead
of going away, stood leering about him, vacantly. Florence, to relieve
him, bade adieu, with many thanks, to Lady Skettles, and gave her arm
to Sir Barnet.
“May I beg of you, my dear Miss Dombey,” said her host, as he conducted
her to the carriage, “to present my best compliments to your dear
Papa?”
It was distressing to Florence to receive the commission, for she felt
as if she were imposing on Sir Barnet by allowing him to believe that a
kindness rendered to her, was rendered to her father. As she could not
explain, however, she bowed her head and thanked him; and again she
thought that the dull home, free from such embarrassments, and such
reminders of her sorrow, was her natural and best retreat.
Such of her late friends and companions as were yet remaining at the
villa, came running from within, and from the garden, to say good-bye.
They were all attached to her, and very earnest in taking leave of her.
Even the household were sorry for her going, and the servants came
nodding and curtseying round the carriage door. As Florence looked
round on the kind faces, and saw among them those of Sir Barnet and his
lady, and of Mr Toots, who was chuckling and staring at her from a
distance, she was reminded of the night when Paul and she had come from
Doctor Blimber’s: and when the carriage drove away, her face was wet
with tears.
Sorrowful tears, but tears of consolation, too; for all the softer
memories connected with the dull old house to which she was returning
made it dear to her, as they rose up. How long it seemed since she had
wandered through the silent rooms: since she had last crept, softly and
afraid, into those her father occupied: since she had felt the solemn
but yet soothing influence of the beloved dead in every action of her
daily life! This new farewell reminded her, besides, of her parting
with poor Walter: of his looks and words that night: and of the
gracious blending she had noticed in him, of tenderness for those he
left behind, with courage and high spirit. His little history was
associated with the old house too, and gave it a new claim and hold
upon her heart.
Even Susan Nipper softened towards the home of so many years, as they
were on their way towards it. Gloomy as it was, and rigid justice as
she rendered to its gloom, she forgave it a great deal. “I shall be
glad to see it again, I don’t deny, Miss,” said the Nipper. “There
ain’t much in it to boast of, but I wouldn’t have it burnt or pulled
down, neither!”
“You’ll be glad to go through the old rooms, won’t you, Susan?” said
Florence, smiling.
“Well, Miss,” returned the Nipper, softening more and more towards the
house, as they approached it nearer, “I won’t deny but what I shall,
though I shall hate ’em again, to-morrow, very likely.”
Florence felt that, for her, there was greater peace within it than
elsewhere. It was better and easier to keep her secret shut up there,
among the tall dark walls, than to carry it abroad into the light, and
try to hide it from a crowd of happy eyes. It was better to pursue the
study of her loving heart, alone, and find no new discouragements in
loving hearts about her. It was easier to hope, and pray, and love on,
all uncared for, yet with constancy and patience, in the tranquil
sanctuary of such remembrances: although it mouldered, rusted, and
decayed about her: than in a new scene, let its gaiety be what it
would. She welcomed back her old enchanted dream of life, and longed
for the old dark door to close upon her, once again.
Full of such thoughts, they turned into the long and sombre street.
Florence was not on that side of the carriage which was nearest to her
home, and as the distance lessened between them and it, she looked out
of her window for the children over the way.
She was thus engaged, when an exclamation from Susan caused her to turn
quickly round.
“Why, Gracious me!” cried Susan, breathless, “where’s our house!”
“Our house!” said Florence.
Susan, drawing in her head from the window, thrust it out again, drew
it in again as the carriage stopped, and stared at her mistress in
amazement.
There was a labyrinth of scaffolding raised all round the house, from
the basement to the roof. Loads of bricks and stones, and heaps of
mortar, and piles of wood, blocked up half the width and length of the
broad street at the side. Ladders were raised against the walls;
labourers were climbing up and down; men were at work upon the steps of
the scaffolding; painters and decorators were busy inside; great rolls
of ornamental paper were being delivered from a cart at the door; an
upholsterer’s waggon also stopped the way; no furniture was to be seen
through the gaping and broken windows in any of the rooms; nothing but
workmen, and the implements of their several trades, swarming from the
kitchens to the garrets. Inside and outside alike: bricklayers,
painters, carpenters, masons: hammer, hod, brush, pickaxe, saw, and
trowel: all at work together, in full chorus!
Florence descended from the coach, half doubting if it were, or could
be the right house, until she recognised Towlinson, with a sun-burnt
face, standing at the door to receive her.
“There is nothing the matter?” inquired Florence.
“Oh no, Miss.”
“There are great alterations going on.”
“Yes, Miss, great alterations,” said Towlinson.
Florence passed him as if she were in a dream, and hurried upstairs.
The garish light was in the long-darkened drawing-room and there were
steps and platforms, and men in paper caps, in the high places. Her
mother’s picture was gone with the rest of the moveables, and on the
mark where it had been, was scrawled in chalk, “this room in panel.
Green and gold.” The staircase was a labyrinth of posts and planks like
the outside of the house, and a whole Olympus of plumbers and glaziers
was reclining in various attitudes, on the skylight. Her own room was
not yet touched within, but there were beams and boards raised against
it without, baulking the daylight. She went up swiftly to that other
bedroom, where the little bed was; and a dark giant of a man with a
pipe in his mouth, and his head tied up in a pocket-handkerchief, was
staring in at the window.
It was here that Susan Nipper, who had been in quest of Florence, found
her, and said, would she go downstairs to her Papa, who wished to speak
to her.
“At home! and wishing to speak to me!” cried Florence, trembling.
Susan, who was infinitely more distraught than Florence herself,
repeated her errand; and Florence, pale and agitated, hurried down
again, without a moment’s hesitation. She thought upon the way down,
would she dare to kiss him? The longing of her heart resolved her, and
she thought she would.
Her father might have heard that heart beat, when it came into his
presence. One instant, and it would have beat against his breast.
But he was not alone. There were two ladies there; and Florence
stopped. Striving so hard with her emotion, that if her brute friend Di
had not burst in and overwhelmed her with his caresses as a welcome
home—at which one of the ladies gave a little scream, and that diverted
her attention from herself—she would have swooned upon the floor.
“Florence,” said her father, putting out his hand: so stiffly that it
held her off: “how do you do?”
Florence took the hand between her own, and putting it timidly to her
lips, yielded to its withdrawal. It touched the door in shutting it,
with quite as much endearment as it had touched her.
“What dog is that?” said Mr Dombey, displeased.
“It is a dog, Papa—from Brighton.”
“Well!” said Mr Dombey; and a cloud passed over his face, for he
understood her.
“He is very good-tempered,” said Florence, addressing herself with her
natural grace and sweetness to the two lady strangers. “He is only glad
to see me. Pray forgive him.”
She saw in the glance they interchanged, that the lady who had
screamed, and who was seated, was old; and that the other lady, who
stood near her Papa, was very beautiful, and of an elegant figure.
“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 Mama.”
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 no 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 her 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 she 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, who had been looking
at Florence through her glass, as though picturing to herself what she
might be made, by the infusion—from her own copious storehouse, no
doubt—of a little more Heart and Nature. Florence was still sobbing on
the lady’s breast, and holding to her, when Mr Dombey was heard to say
from the Conservatory:
“Let us ask Edith. Dear me, where is she?”
“Edith, my dear!” cried Mrs Skewton, “where are you? Looking for Mr
Dombey somewhere, I know. We are here, my love.”
The beautiful lady released her hold of Florence, and pressing her lips
once more upon her face, withdrew hurriedly, and joined them. Florence
remained standing in the same place: happy, sorry, joyful, and in
tears, she knew not how, or how long, but all at once: when her new
Mama came back, and took her in her arms again.
“Florence,” said the lady, hurriedly, and looking into her face with
great earnestness. “You will not begin by hating me?”