[image]MRS. PIPCHIN AND PAUL DOMBEY.Then came the holidays, and a grand party at the school, to which Florence came, looking so beautiful in her simple ball dress that Paul could hardly make up his mind to let her go again."But what is the matter, Floy?" he asked, almost sure he saw a tear on her face."Nothing, dear. We will go home together, and I'll nurse you till you are strong again.""Nurse me!" echoed Paul.Paul couldn't understand what that had to do with it, nor why the other guests looked on so seriously, nor why Florence turned away her face for a moment, and then turned it back, lighted up again with smiles."Floy," said Paul, holding a ringlet of her dark hair in his hand. "Tell me, dear. Doyouthink I have grown old-fashioned?"His sister laughed and fondled him, and told him "No.""Because I know they say so," returned Paul, "and I want to know what they mean, Floy."Florence would have sat by him all night, and would not have danced at all of her own accord, but Paul made her, by telling her how much it pleased him. And he told her the truth, too; for his small heart swelled, and his face glowed, when he saw how much they all admired her, and how she was the beautiful little rosebud of the room.Then after the party came the leave-takings, for Paul was going home. And every one was good to him—even the pompous doctor, and Cornelia—and bade him good-bye with many regrets; for they were afraid, as they looked upon his pinched, wan face, that he would not be able to come back and take up that load of heavy books ever again.There was a great deal, the next day and afterwards, which Paul could not quite get clear in his mind. As, why they stopped at Mrs. Pipchin's for a while instead of going straight home; why he lay in bed, with Florence sitting by him; whether that had been his father in the room, or only a tall shadow on the wall.He could not even remember whether he had often said to Florence, "Oh, Floy, take me home and never leave me!" but he thought he had. He fancied sometimes he had heard himself repeating, "Take me home, Floy! take me home!"But he could remember, when he got home, and was carried up the well-remembered stairs, that there had been the rumbling of a coach for many hours together, while he lay upon the seat, with Florence still beside him, and Mrs. Pipchin sitting opposite. He remembered his old bed too, when they laid him down in it; but there was something else, and recent, too, that still perplexed him."I want to speak to Florence, if you please," he said. "To Florence by herself, for a moment!"She bent down over him, and the others stood away."Floy, my pet, wasn't that papa in the hall, when they brought me from the coach?""Yes, dear.""He didn't cry, and go into his room, Floy, did he, when he saw me coming in?"Florence shook her head, and pressed her lips against his cheek."I'm very glad he didn't cry," said little Paul. "I thought he did. Don't tell them that I asked."Paul never rose from his little bed. He lay there, listening to the noises in the street quite tranquilly; not caring much how time went, but watching everything about him with observing eyes. And when visitors or servants came softly to the door to inquire how he was, he always answered for himself, "I am better; I am a great deal better, thank you! Tell papa so!"And sometimes when he awoke out of a feverish dream, in which he thought a river was bearing him away, he would see a figure seated motionless, with bowed head, at the foot of his couch. Then he would stretch out his hands and cry, "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, and without first pausing by the bedside—Paul held him round the neck, and repeated those words to him several times, and very earnestly; and Paul never saw him in his room at any time, whether it were day or night, but he called out "Don't be so sorry for me! Indeed, I am quite happy!" 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.Then one day he asked to see all his friends, and shook hands with each one quietly, and bade them good-bye. His father he clung to as though he felt more deeply for that proud man's sorrow and disappointment, than any unhappiness on his own account. For he was going to his mother—about whom he had often talked with Florence in these closing days."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! They always said so!"Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the stream was lulling him to rest. How green 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."Mamma 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, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of Immortality! And look upon us, angels of young children, with regards not quite estranged, when the swift river bears us to the ocean!HOW FLORENCE CAME INTO HER OWNThe death of Paul, far from softening Mr. Dombey's heart toward his daughter, only served to widen the gap between them. He had been secretly hurt by Paul's preference for Florence, and now was more cold and distant with her than ever.She, poor child, had this deep sorrow to bear in addition to the loss of Paul. Many and many a night when no one in the house was stirring, and the lights were all extinguished, she would softly leave her own room, and with noiseless feet descend the staircase, and approach her father's door. Against it, scarcely breathing, she would rest her face and head, and press her lips, in the yearning of her love. She crouched upon the cold stone floor outside it, every night, to listen even for his breath; and in her one absorbing wish to be allowed to show him some affection, to be a consolation to him, to win him over to some tenderness for her, his solitary child, she would have knelt down at his feet, if she had dared, in humble supplication.No one knew it. No one thought of it. The door was ever closed, and he shut up within. He went out once or twice, and it was said in the house that he was very soon going on a journey; but he lived in those rooms, and lived alone, and never saw her or inquired for her. Perhaps he did not even know that she was in the house.But one night Florence found the door slightly ajar. She paused a moment tremblingly, and then pushed it open and entered.Her father sat at his old table in the middle room. He had been arranging some papers and destroying others, and the latter lay in fragile ruins before him. The rain dripped heavily upon the glass panes in the outer room, where he had so often watched poor Paul, a baby; and the low complainings of the wind were heard without.He sat with his eyes fixed on the table, so immersed in thought that a far heavier tread than the light foot of his child could make, might have failed to rouse him. His face was turned towards her. By the waning lamp, and at that haggard hour, it looked worn and dejected; and in the utter loneliness surrounding him there was an appeal to Florence that struck home."Papa! papa! Speak to me, dear papa!"He started at her voice."What is the matter?" he said sternly. "Why do you come here? What has frightened you?"If anything had frightened her, it was the face he turned upon her. The glowing love within the breast of his young daughter froze before it, and she stood and looked at him as if stricken into stone. There was not one touch of tenderness or pity in it.Did he see before him the successful rival of his son, in health and life? Did he look upon his own successful rival in that son's affection? Did a mad jealousy and withered pride poison sweet remembrances that should have endeared and made her precious to him? Could it be possible that it was gall to him to look upon her in her beauty and her promise: thinking of his infant boy!Florence had no such thoughts. But love is quick to know when it is spurned and hopeless; and hope died out of hers, as she stood looking in her father's face."I ask you, Florence, are you frightened? Is there anything the matter, that you come here?""I came, papa—""Against my wishes. Why?"She saw he knew why—it was written broadly on his face—and dropped her head upon her hands with one prolonged low cry.He took her by the arm. His hand was cold and loose, and scarcely closed upon her."You are tired, I dare say," he said, taking up the light and leading her towards the door, "and want rest. We all want rest. Go, Florence. You have been dreaming."The dream she had had was over then, God help her! and she felt that it could never more come back."I will remain here to light you up the stairs. The whole house is yours, above there," said her father, slowly. "You are its mistress now. Good-night!"Still covering her face, she sobbed, and answered "Good-night, dear papa," and silently ascended. Once she looked back as if she would have returned to him, but for fear. It was a momentary thought, too hopeless to encourage; and her father stood therewith the light—hard, unresponsive, motionless—until her fluttering dress was lost in the darkness.The days that followed were lonely and sad indeed for the child. Her father went away upon a journey, and she was left entirely alone in the great house, but for the companionship of a faithful maid, Susan Nipper, and of her dog Diogenes.Then some kind friends in the country took pity upon her loneliness and invited her to visit them.When she came home she was amazed to find huge scaffolds built all around the house. It was being remodelled. Only her own little room had not been changed. The explanation for all this work came a few days later when her father came home accompanied by two ladies. One was old and greatly overdressed. The other—her daughter—was very beautiful, but with a cold, hard face."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 mamma."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 not 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 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 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, and they turned and went up the staircase. The beautiful lady lingered a moment to whisper to the little girl."Florence," said the lady hurriedly, and looking into her face with great earnestness, "You will not begin by hating me?""By hating you, mamma!" cried Florence, winding her arm round her neck, and returning the look."Hush! Begin by thinking well of me," said the beautiful lady. "Begin by believing that I will try to make you happy and that I am prepared to love you, Florence."Again she pressed her to her breast—she had spoken in a rapid manner, but firmly—and Florence saw her rejoin them in the other room.And now Florence began to hope that she would learn from her new and beautiful mamma how to gain her father's love; and in her sleep that night, in her lost old home, her own mamma smiled radiantly upon the hope, and blessed it. Dreaming Florence!Very soon after this her new mamma came to live with them; and the gloomy house took on some semblance of life. But the marriage was not a happy one. Even Florence could see that. Mrs. Dombey's face did not belie her character. She was haughty and reserved—a fitting match for Mr. Dombey. He had married her out of a desire to have a suitable ornament for his home and position in society. She—it was whispered—had been lured into a "fine" marriage by her matchmaking mother. It was no wonder, then, that the marriage should be unhappy.Only toward Florence did the proud lady unbend. The child's impulsive greeting had stirred her heart in a sudden and surprising way; and when Mrs. Dombey saw how lonely she was and how her life had been starved, she tried to make good her promise to the child to love her and be good to her always.But once again poor Florence was misunderstood by her father. He saw that his cold wife cared only for the child, and he thought that just as Florence had cheated him out of some of Paul's love she was now estranging his wife from him. It was cruelly unjust, but Mr. Dombey was so arrogant that he could see things only in his own narrow way.Thus matters went along in this unhappy house for several months. Mr. and Mrs. Dombey met rarely, except at the table or in some social gathering, when the words which passed between them were of the coldest.Then Mr. Dombey hit upon the meanest trick of his weak nature. When he found that he could not "humble" his wife by ordinary means, he called in his business manager, Carker, a smooth, deceitful man, whose hair was plastered down close to his white forehead and whose teeth shone in a continual sly smile. To Carker Mr. Dombey would entrust various messages for Mrs. Dombey, as to the running of the house, the hiring of servants, and the like. Mr. Dombey knew that she would resent such petty interference, especially through an outsider; but he did not know that she submitted quietly to these indignities simply for the sake of Florence, whom she wished to protect. And even her love for the girl was given in secret, for the same reason.Florence, long since awakened from her dream, mournfully observed the estrangement between her father and new mother; and saw it widen more and more, and knew that there was greater bitterness between them every day. It had been very hard to have all her love repulsed, but it now seemed harder to be compelled to doubt her father, or choose between him and this mother, so affectionate and dear to her, yet whose other moods she could only witness with distrust or fear.One great sorrow, however, was spared her. She never had the least suspicion that Mrs. Dombey, by her tenderness for her, widened the separation from her father, or gave him new cause of dislike. If she had thought it, for a single moment, what grief she would have felt, what sacrifice she would have tried to make, poor loving girl!No word was ever spoken between Florence and her mother now, on these subjects. Mrs. Dombey had said there ought to be between them, in that wise, a silence like the grave itself; and Florence felt that she was right.In this state of affairs her father was brought home suffering and ill, and gloomily retired to his own rooms, where he was tended by servants, not approached by his wife, and had no friend or companion but Mr. Carker, who always withdrew near midnight.Every night Florence would listen out in the hall for news of him, after leaving her mother. But, late one evening, she was surprised to see a bright light burning in her room, and her mother sitting before the dying fire looking so fiercely at it that it terrified her."Mamma!" she cried, "what is the matter?"Mrs. Dombey started; looking at her with such a strange dread in her face that Florence was more frightened than before."Mamma!" said Florence, hurriedly advancing. "Dear mamma! what is the matter?""I have not been well," said Mrs. Dombey, shaking, and still looking at her in the same strange way. "I have had bad dreams, my love.""And have not yet been to bed, mamma?""No," she returned. "Half-waking dreams."Her features gradually softened; and suffering Florence to come close to her, within her embrace, she said in a tender manner, "But what does my bird do here! What does my bird do here!""I have been uneasy, mamma, in not seeing you to-night, and in not knowing how papa was; and I—"Florence stopped there, and said no more."Is it late?" her mother asked, fondly putting back the curls that mingled with her own dark hair, and strayed upon her face."Very late. Near day.""Near day!" she repeated in surprise."Mamma!" said Florence. "Oh, mamma, what can I do, what should I do, to make us happier? Is there anything?""Nothing," she replied."Are you sure of that? Can it never be? If I speak now of what is in my thoughts, in spite of what we have agreed," said Florence, "you will not blame me, will you?""It is useless," she replied, "useless. I have told you, dear, that I have had bad dreams. Nothing can change them, or prevent their coming back.""I do not understand," said Florence, gazing on her agitated face, which seemed to darken as she looked.Her mother's clenched hand tightened on the trembling arm she had in hers, and as she looked down on the alarmed and wondering face, her own feelings subsided. "Oh, Florence!" she said, "I think I have been nearly mad to-night!" and humbled her proud head upon the girl's neck, and burst into tears."Don't leave me! be near me! I have no hope but in you!" These words she said a score of times.Florence was greatly puzzled and distressed, and could only repeat her promise of love and trust.Through six months that followed upon Mr. Dombey's illness and recovery, no outward change was shown between him and his wife. Both were cold and proud; and still Mr. Carker—a man whom she detested——bore his petty commands to her.As for Florence, the little hope she had ever held for happiness in their new home was quite gone now. That home was nearly two years old, and even the patient trust that was in her could not survive the daily blight of such an experience.Florence loved her father still, but by degrees had come to love him rather as some dear one who had been, or who might have been, than as the hard reality before her eyes. Something of the softened sadness with which she loved the memory of little Paul or her mother, seemed to enter now into her thoughts of him, and to make them, as it were, a dear remembrance. Whether it was that he was dead to her, and that partly for this reason, partly for his share in those old objects of her affection, and partly for the long association of him with hopes that were withered and tendernesses he had frozen, she could not have told; but the father whom she loved began to be a vague and dreamy idea to her; hardly more substantially connected with her real life than the image she would sometimes conjure up of her dear brother yet alive, and growing to be a man, who would protect and cherish her.The change, if it may be called one, had stolen on her like the change from childhood to womanhood, and had come with it. Florence was almost seventeen, when, in her lonely musings, she was conscious of these thoughts.She was often alone now, for the old association between her and her mamma was greatly changed. At the time of her father's illness, and when he was lying in his room downstairs, Florence had first observed that Edith avoided her. Wounded and shocked, and yet unable to reconcile this with her affection when they did meet, she sought her in her own room at night, once more."Mamma," said Florence, stealing softly to her side, "have I offended you?"She answered "No.""I must have done something," said Florence. "Tell me what it is. You have changed your manner to me, dear mamma. I cannot say how instantly I feel the least change; for I love you with my whole heart.""As I do you," said Mrs. Dombey. "Ah, Florence, believe me never more than now!""Why do you go away from me so often, and keep away?" asked Florence. "And why do you sometimes look so strangely on me, dear mamma? You do so, do you not?""Dear Florence, it is for your good. Why, I cannot tell you now. But you will believe I have always tried to make you happy, dear, will you not?""Mamma," said Florence, anxiously, "there is a change in you, in more than what you say to me, which alarms me. Let me stay with you a little.""No, dearest. I am best left alone now, and I do best to keep apart from you, of all else. Ask me no questions, but believe that what I am, I am not of my own will, or for myself. Forgive me for having ever darkened your dark home—I am a shadow on it, I know well—and let us never speak of this again.""Mamma," sobbed Florence, "we are not to part?""We do this that we may not part," said her mother. "Ask no more. Go, Florence! My love and my remorse go with you!"Thus did Mrs. Dombey hide from Florence one dark secret—that her husband was displeased with their love for each other. It was for Florence's welfare that she felt compelled to hide her affections.From that hour Florence and she were as they had been no more. For days together they would seldom meet, except at table, and when Mr. Dombey was present. Then Mrs. Dombey, imperious, inflexible, and silent, never looked at her. Whenever Mr. Carker was of the party, as he often was during the progress of Mr. Dombey's recovery, she was more distant towards her than at other times. Yet she and Florence never encountered, when there was no one by, but she would embrace her as affectionately as of old, though not with the same relenting of her proud aspect; and often when she had been out late she would steal up to Florence's room as she had been used to do in the dark, and whisper "Good-night."Then came a dreadful day not long afterwards when it was found that Mrs. Dombey had fled from her home. The day was the second anniversary of this ill-starred marriage; and the poor, misguided woman left a note for her husband telling him that she had gone away with the man whom he had trusted most (and whom she hated most) Mr. Carker. It was a foolish way to be revenged for the harsh treatment she had received, but it served her purpose. Mr. Dombey was wounded in his most vulnerable spot—his pride.As for Florence, she was overcome with grief; yet in the midst of her own emotion she could realize her father's bitterness. Yielding at once to the impulse of her affection and forgetful of his past coldness, Florence hurried to him with her arms stretched out and crying, "Oh dear, dear papa!" tried to clasp him round the neck.But in his wild despair he shook her off so roughly that she almost fell to the floor; telling her she could join her mother, for all he cared, as they had always been in league against him.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 nor speak one word of reproach. She only uttered a single low cry of pain and then fled from the house like a hunted animal.Without a roof over her head—without father or mother, she was indeed an orphan.While the days went by, after Florence's flight, what was the proud man doing? Did he ever think of his daughter or wonder where she had gone? Did he suppose she had come home again and was leading her old life in the weary house? He did not utter her name or make any search for her. He might have thought of her constantly, or not at all. It was all one for any sign he made.But this was sure. He did not think that he had lost her. He had no suspicion of the truth that she had fled away from him. He had lived too long shut up in his pride, seeing her a patient, gentle creature in his path, to have any fear of that. And so he waited, day by day, until she should make her appearance on the stairs or at the table as before.But the days dragged slowly by and she did not come.The sea had ebbed and flowed through a whole year. Through a whole year the winds and clouds had come and gone; the ceaseless work of Time had been performed, in storm and sunshine. Through a whole year the famous House of Dombey and Son had fought a fight for life, against doubtful rumors, unsuccessful ventures, and most of all, against the bad judgment of its head, who would not contract its enterprises by a hair's breadth, and would not listen to a word of warning that the ship he strained so hard against the storm was weak, and could not bear it.For Mr. Dombey had grown strangely indifferent and reckless, and plunged blindly into speculation.The year was out, and the great House was down.One summer afternoon there was a buzz and whisper, about the streets of London, of a great failure. A certain cold, proud man, well known there, was not there, nor was he represented there. Next day it was noised abroad that Dombey and Son had stopped, and next night there was a list of bankrupts published, headed by that name.Nobody's opinion stayed the misfortune, lightened it, or made it heavier. It was understood that the affairs of the House were to be wound up as they best could be; that Mr. Dombey freely resigned everything he had, and asked for no favor from any one. That any resumption of the business was out of the question, as he would listen to no friendly negotiation having that compromise in view; that he had relinquished every post of trust or distinction he had held as a man respected among merchants; and that he was a broken man.The old home where Paul had died and whence Florence had fled away was now empty and deserted—a wreck of what it had been. All the furniture and hangings had been sold to satisfy Mr. Dombey's creditors; and he now lived there alone in one cheerless room—a man without friends, without hope.But at last he began to come to his senses; to see what a treasure he had cast away in Florence; to recall his own injustice and cruelty toward her.In the miserable night he thought of it; in the dreary day, the wretched dawn, the ghostly, memory-haunted twilight, he remembered. In agony, in sorrow, in remorse, in despair!"Papa! papa!" He heard the words again, and saw the face. He saw it fall upon the trembling hands, and heard the one prolonged, low cry go upward.Oh! He did remember it! The rain that fell upon the roof, the wind that mourned outside the door, had foreknowledge in their melancholy sound. He knew now what he had done. He knew now that he had called down that upon his head, which bowed it lower than the heaviest stroke of fortune. He knew now what it was to be rejected and deserted; now, when every loving blossom he had withered in his innocent daughter's heart was snowing down in ashes on him.He thought of her as she had been that night when he and his bride came home. He thought of her as she had been in all the home events of the abandoned house. He thought now that of all around him, she alone had never changed. His boy had faded into dust, his proud wife had deserted him, his flatterer and friend had been transformed into the worst of villains, his riches had melted away, the very walls that sheltered him looked on him as a stranger; she alone had turned the same mild, gentle look upon him always. Yes, to the latest and the last. She had never changed to him—nor had he ever changed to her—and she was lost.As, one by one, they fell away before his mind—his baby hope, his wife, his friend, his fortune—oh, how the mist through which he had seen her cleared, and showed him her true self! How much better than this that he had loved her as he had his boy, and lost her as he had his boy, and laid them in their early grave together!As the days dragged by, it seemed to him that he should go mad with remorse and longing. He haunted Paul's room and Florence's room—so empty now—as though they were his only dwelling-place. He had meant to go away, but clung to this tie in the house as the last and only thing left to him. He would go to-morrow. To-morrow came. He would go to-morrow. Every night, within the knowledge of no human creature, he came forth, and wandered through the despoiled house like a ghost. Many a morning when the day broke, with altered face drooping behind the closed blind in his window, he pondered on the loss of his two children. It was one child no more. He reunited them in his thoughts, and they were never asunder.Then, one day, when strange fancies oppressed him more than usual, he paused at Florence's door and gazed wildly down as though suddenly awakened from a dream.He heard a cry—a loving, pleading voice—and there at his knees knelt Florence herself."Papa! Dearest papa! I have come back to ask forgiveness. I never can be happy more, without it!"Unchanged still. Of all the world, unchanged. Raising the same face to his as on that miserable night. Askinghisforgiveness!"Dear papa, oh, don't look strangely on me! I never meant to leave you. I never thought of it, before or afterwards. I was frightened when I went away and could not think. Papa, dear, I am changed. I am penitent. I know my fault. I know my duty better now. Papa, don't cast me off or I shall die!"He tottered to his chair. He felt her draw his arms about her neck: he felt her put her own round his; he felt her kisses on his face; he felt her wet cheek laid against his own; he felt—oh, how deeply!—all that he had done.Upon the breast that he had bruised, against the heart that he had almost broken, she laid his face, now covered with his hands, and said, sobbing,—"I have been far away, dear papa, and could not come back before this. I have been across the seas, and I have a home of my own over there now. Oh, I want you to see it! I want to take you there; for my home isyourhome—always, always! Say you will pardon me, will come to me!"He would have said it if he could. He would have raised his hands and besoughtherfor pardon, but she caught them in her own and put them down hurriedly."You will come, I know, dear papa! And I will know by that that you forgive me. And we will never talk about what is past and forgotten; never again!"As she clung closer to him, in another burst of tears, he kissed her on the lips, and, lifting up his eyes, said, "Oh, my God, forgive me, for I need it very much!"With that he dropped his head again, lamenting over and caressing her, and there was not a sound in all the house for a long, long time; they remaining clasped in one another's arms, in the glorious sunshine that had crept in with Florence.THE STORY OF PIP AS TOLD BY HIMSELFI. HOW PIP HELPED THE CONVICTMy father's family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer than Pip. So I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip.I give Pirrip as my father's family name, on the authority of his tombstone and my sister—Mrs. Joe Gargery, who married the blacksmith. As I never saw my father or my mother, my first fancies regarding what they were like were unreasonably derived from their tombstones.Ours was the marsh country down by the river, within twenty miles of the sea. My most vivid memory of these early days was of a raw evening about dusk. At such a time I found out for certain that this bleak spot where I chanced to be wandering all alone was the churchyard; that the low, leaden line beyond was the river; and that the small bundle of shivers growing afraid of it all and beginning to cry was myself—Pip."Hold your noise!" cried a terrible voice, as a man started up from among the graves at the side of the church porch.He was a fearful looking man, clad in coarse gray, covered with mud and brambles, and with a great clanking chain upon his leg."Tell us your name!" said the man."Quick!""Pip, sir.""Show us where you live," said the man. "P'int out the place!"I pointed to where our village lay, on the flat in-shore among the trees a mile or more from the church.The man, after looking at me for a moment, turned me upside-down and emptied my pockets. There was nothing in them but 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, and I saw the steeple under my feet—when the church came to itself, I say, I was seated on a high tombstone, trembling, while he ate the bread ravenously."You young dog," said the man, licking his lips, "what fat cheeks you ha' got."I believe they were fat, though I was at that time undersized for my years, and not strong."Darnmeif I couldn't eat 'em," said the man, with a threatening shake of his head, "and if I ha'nt half a mind to't!"I earnestly expressed my hope that he wouldn't, and held tighter to the tombstone on which he had put me; partly to keep myself upon it; partly to keep myself from crying."Now lookee here!" said the man. "Where's your mother?""There, sir!" said I.He started, made a short run, and stopped and looked over his shoulder."There, sir!" I timidly explained, pointing to an inscription on a stone; "that's my mother.""Oh!" said he, coming back. "And is that your father alonger your mother?""Yes, sir," said I; "him too; 'late of this parish.'""Ha!" he muttered then, considering. "Who d' ye live with—supposin' you're kindly let to live, which I ha'nt made up my mind about?""My sister, sir—Mrs. Joe Gargery—wife of Joe Gargery, the blacksmith, sir.""Blacksmith, eh?" said he, and looked down at his leg.After darkly looking at his leg and at me several times, he came closer to my tombstone, took me by both arms, and tilted me back as far as he could hold me, so that his eyes looked most powerfully down into mine, and mine looked most helplessly up into his."Now lookee here," he said, "the question being whether you're to be let to live. You know what a file is?""Yes, sir.""And you know what wittles is?""Yes, sir."After each question he tilted me over a little more, so as to give me a greater sense of helplessness and danger."You get me a file." He tilted me again. "And you get me some wittles. If you don't—!"He tilted me again and shook me till my teeth chattered."In—indeed—I will, sir," said I, "if you will only let me go. I'll run all the way home.""Well, see that you come back. But to-morrow morning will do—early—before day. I'll wait for you here."As he released me, I needed no second bidding, but scurried away as fast as I could, and soon reached the blacksmith shop.My sister, Mrs. Joe Gargery, was more than twenty years older than I, and had established a great reputation with herself and the neighbors because she had brought me up "by hand." Having at that time to find out for myself what the expression meant, 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.She was not a good-looking woman, my sister; and I had a general impression that she must have made Joe Gargery marry her by hand. Joe was a fair man, with curls of flaxen hair on each side of his smooth face, and with eyes of such a very undecided blue that they seemed to have somehow got mixed with their own whites. He was a mild, good-natured, sweet-tempered, easy-going, foolish, dear fellow—a sort of Hercules in strength, and also in weakness.My sister, Mrs. Joe, with black hair and eyes, had such a prevailing redness of skin that I sometimes used to wonder whether it was possible she washed herself with a nutmeg-grater instead of soap. She was tall and bony, and almost always wore a coarse apron, fastened behind with two loops, and having a bib in front that was stuck full of pins and needles.Joe's forge adjoined our house, which was a wooden house, as many of the dwellings in our country were—most of them, at that time. When I ran home from the churchyard the forge was shut up, and Joe was sitting alone in the kitchen. Joe and I being fellow-sufferers, and having confidences as such, Joe imparted a confidence to me the moment I raised the latch of the door and peeped in at him opposite to it, sitting in the chimney corner."Mrs. Joe has been out a dozen times looking for you, Pip. And she's out now, making it a baker's dozen.""Is she?""Yes, Pip," said Joe; "and what's worse, she's got Tickler with her."At this dismal intelligence, I twisted the only button on my waistcoat round and round, and looked in great depression at the fire. Tickler was a wax-ended piece of cane, worn smooth by collision with my tickled frame."She sot down," said Joe, "and she got up, and she made a grab at Tickler, and she Rampaged out. That's what she did," said Joe, slowly clearing the fire between the lower bars with the poker, and looking at it; "she Rampaged out, Pip.""Has she been gone long, Joe?" I always treated him as no more than my equal."Well," said Joe, glancing up at the Dutch clock, "she's been on the Rampage, this last spell, about five minutes, Pip. She's a coming! Get behind the door, old chap, and have the jack-towel betwixt you."I took the advice. My sister, Mrs. Joe, throwing the door wide open, and finding an obstruction behind it, immediately divined the cause, and applied Tickler to its farther investigation."Where have you been?" she demanded, between tickles."I have only been to the churchyard," said I, crying and rubbing myself."Churchyard!" repeated my sister. "If it warn't for me you'd been to the churchyard long ago, and stayed there! Who brought you up by hand?"My thoughts strayed from that question as I looked disconsolately at the fire. For the fugitive out on the marshes with the ironed leg, the file, the food, and the dreadful pledge I was under to steal, from under my sister's very roof, rose before me in the avenging coals."Ha!" said Mrs. Joe, restoring Tickler to his station. "Churchyard, indeed! You may well say churchyard, you two." (One of us, by the by, had not said it at all.) "You'll drivemeto the churchyard betwixt you, one of these days, and oh, a pr-r-recious pair you'd be without me!"As she applied herself to set the tea-things, Joe peeped down at me over his leg, as if he were mentally calculating what kind of pair we should make, under such circumstances. After that, he sat feeling his right-side flaxen curls and whisker, and following Mrs. Joe about with his blue eyes, as his manner always was at squally times.My sister had a sudden, severe way of cutting and buttering bread, which never varied. Now she ripped me off a section of loaf, bidding me eat and be thankful. Though I was hungry, I dared not eat; for she was a strict housekeeper who would miss any further slices, and I must not let that dreadful man out in the churchyard go hungry. So I resolved to put my hunk of bread and butter down the leg of my trousers—a plan which I presently found the chance to carry out.It was Christmas Eve, and I had to stir the pudding for next day with a copper-stick. I tried it with the load upon my leg (and that made me think afresh of the man with the load onhisleg), and found the tendency of exercise to bring the bread-and-butter out at my ankle quite unmanageable. Happily, I slipped away and deposited that part of my conscience in my garret bedroom."Hark!" said I, when I had done my stirring, and was taking a final warm in the chimney corner before being sent up to bed; "was that great guns, Joe?""Ah!" said Joe. "There's another conwict off.""What does that mean, Joe?" said I.Mrs. Joe, who always took explanations upon herself, said snappishly, "Escaped. Escaped.""There was a conwict off last night," added Joe, "after sunset-gun. And they fired warning of him. And now it appears they're firing warning of another.""Who's firing?" said I."Drat that boy," interposed my sister, frowning at me over her work, "what a questioner he is. Ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies."It was not very polite to herself, I thought, as she always answered. But she never was polite, unless there was company.Presently Joe said to me in a quiet kind of whisper. "Hulks, Pip; prison ships. They're firing because one of the thieves on the hulks is got away."Thieves! Prison ships! And here I was planning to rob my sister of the bread and butter; and honest Joe of a file! Truly conscience is a fearful thing, yet there was no turning back for me.That night the rest of the dreadful deed was done. Just before daybreak I crept out, carrying the file which I had found among Joe's tools, the slice of bread, and a pie which was too convenient in the pantry, and which I took in the hope it was not intended for early use and would not be missed for some time.I found the man with the iron waiting for me, crouched behind a tombstone."Are you alone?" he asked hoarsely."Yes, sir.""No one following you?""No, sir.""Well," said he, "I believe you. Give me them wittles, quick."I had often watched a large dog of ours eating his food; and I now noticed a decided similarity between the dog's way of eating and the man's. The man took strong, sharp, sudden bites, just like the dog. He swallowed, or rather snapped up, every mouthful, too soon and too fast; and he looked sideways here and there while he ate, as if he thought there was danger in every direction of somebody's coming to take the pie away."Now give us hold of the file, boy," he said, when he had finished swallowing.I did so, and he bent to the iron like a madman, and began filing it away in quick, fierce rasps. I judged this a good time to slip away, and he paid no further attention to me. The last I heard of him, the file was still going."And where the mischief ha' you been?" was Mrs. Joe's Christmas salutation, when I and my conscience showed ourselves.I said I had been down to hear the chimes."Ah, well!" observed Mrs. Joe. "You might ha' done worse."Not a doubt of that, I thought.We were to have a superb dinner—so Joe slyly told me—consisting of a leg of pork and greens, a pair of roast stuffed fowls, and a handsome pie which had been baked the day before.I started when he spoke about the pie, but his blue eyes beamed upon me kindly.My sister having so much to do, was going to church vicariously; that is to say, Joe and I were going. In his working clothes, Joe was a well-knit characteristic-looking blacksmith; in his holiday clothes, he was more like a scarecrow in good circumstances, than anything else. Nothing that he wore then fitted him or seemed to belong to him. On the present festive occasion he emerged from his room, when the blithe bells were ringing, the picture of misery, in a full suit of Sunday penitentials. As to me, I think my sister must have had some general idea that I was a young offender who must be punished each holy-day by being put into clothes so tight that I could on no account move my arms and legs without danger of something bursting.Joe and I going to church, therefore, must have been a moving spectacle for compassionate minds. Yet, what I suffered outside was nothing to what I underwent within. The terrors that had assailed me whenever Mrs. Joe had gone near the pantry, or out of the room, were only to be equalled by the remorse with which my mind dwelt on what my hands had done. Under the weight of my wicked secret, I pondered whether even the Church would be powerful enough to shield me from the wrath to come.Mr. Wopsle, the clerk at church, was to dine with us; and Mr. Hubble, the wheelwright, and Mrs. Hubble; and Uncle Pumblechook (Joe's uncle, but Mrs. Joe appropriated him), who was a well-to-do cornchandler in the nearest town, and drove his own chaise-cart. The dinner hour was half-past one.When Joe and I got home, we found the table laid, and Mrs. Joe dressed, and the dinner dressing, and the front door unlocked (it never was at any other time) for the company to enter by, and everything most splendid. And still, not a word of the robbery.Oh, the agony of that festive dinner! During each helping of my plate I ate mechanically, hardly daring to lift my eyes, and clutching frantically at the leg of the table for support. With each mouthful we drew nearer to that pie—and discovery! But as they chattered away, I felt a faint hope that they might perhaps forget the pie.They did not, for presently my sister said to Joe, "Clean plates—cold."I got a fresh hold on the table leg. I foresaw I was doomed."You must taste," said my sister, addressing the guests with her best grace, "you must finish with a pie, in honor of Uncle Pumblechook."The company murmured their compliments. Uncle Pumblechook, sensible of having deserved well of his fellow-creatures, said,—quite vivaciously, all things considered,—"Well, Mrs. Joe, we'll do our best endeavors; let us have a cut at this same pie."My sister went out to get it. I heard her steps proceed to the pantry. I saw Mr. Pumblechook balance his knife. I saw reawakening appetite in the Roman nostrils of Mr. Wopsle. I heard Mr. Hubble remark that "a bit of savory pie would lay atop of anything you could mention, and do no harm," and I heard Joe say "you shall have some, Pip." I have never been absolutely certain whether I uttered a shrill yell of terror, merely in spirit, or in the bodily hearing of the company. I felt that I could bear no more, and that I must run away. I released the leg of the table, and ran for my life.But I ran no farther than the house door, for there I ran headforemost into a party of soldiers with their muskets, one of whom held out a pair of handcuffs to me, saying, "Here you are, look sharp, come on!"The vision of a file of soldiers caused the dinner party to rise from the table in confusion, and caused Mrs. Joe, re-entering the kitchen empty-handed, to stop short and stare, in her wondering lament of "Gracious goodness, gracious me, what's gone—with the—pie!""Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen," said the sergeant, "but as I have mentioned at the door to this smart young shaver" (which he hadn't), "I am on a chase in the name of the king, and I want the blacksmith.""And pray, what might you want with him?" retorted my sister, quick to resent his being wanted at all."Missis," returned the gallant sergeant, "speaking for myself, I should reply, the honor and pleasure of his fine wife's acquaintance; speaking for the king, I answer, a little job done."This was received as rather neat in the sergeant; insomuch that Mr. Pumblechook cried audibly, "Good again!""You see, blacksmith," said the sergeant, who had by this time picked out Joe with his eye, "we have had an accident with these, and I find the lock of one of 'em goes wrong, and the coupling don't act pretty. As they are wanted for immediate service, will you throw your eye over them?"Joe threw his eye over them, and pronounced that the job would necessitate the lighting of his forge fire, and would take nearer two hours than one."Will it? Then will you set about it at once, blacksmith," said the off-hand sergeant, "as it's on his Majesty's service. And if my men can bear a hand anywhere, they'll make themselves useful." With that, he called to his men, who came trooping into the kitchen one after another, and piled their arms in a corner.All these things I saw without then knowing that I saw them, for I was in an agony of apprehension. But, beginning to perceive that the handcuffs were not for me, and that the military had so far got the better of the pie as to put it in the background, I collected a little more of my scattered wits.
[image]MRS. PIPCHIN AND PAUL DOMBEY.
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MRS. PIPCHIN AND PAUL DOMBEY.
Then came the holidays, and a grand party at the school, to which Florence came, looking so beautiful in her simple ball dress that Paul could hardly make up his mind to let her go again.
"But what is the matter, Floy?" he asked, almost sure he saw a tear on her face.
"Nothing, dear. We will go home together, and I'll nurse you till you are strong again."
"Nurse me!" echoed Paul.
Paul couldn't understand what that had to do with it, nor why the other guests looked on so seriously, nor why Florence turned away her face for a moment, and then turned it back, lighted up again with smiles.
"Floy," said Paul, holding a ringlet of her dark hair in his hand. "Tell me, dear. Doyouthink I have grown old-fashioned?"
His sister laughed and fondled him, and told him "No."
"Because I know they say so," returned Paul, "and I want to know what they mean, Floy."
Florence would have sat by him all night, and would not have danced at all of her own accord, but Paul made her, by telling her how much it pleased him. And he told her the truth, too; for his small heart swelled, and his face glowed, when he saw how much they all admired her, and how she was the beautiful little rosebud of the room.
Then after the party came the leave-takings, for Paul was going home. And every one was good to him—even the pompous doctor, and Cornelia—and bade him good-bye with many regrets; for they were afraid, as they looked upon his pinched, wan face, that he would not be able to come back and take up that load of heavy books ever again.
There was a great deal, the next day and afterwards, which Paul could not quite get clear in his mind. As, why they stopped at Mrs. Pipchin's for a while instead of going straight home; why he lay in bed, with Florence sitting by him; whether that had been his father in the room, or only a tall shadow on the wall.
He could not even remember whether he had often said to Florence, "Oh, Floy, take me home and never leave me!" but he thought he had. He fancied sometimes he had heard himself repeating, "Take me home, Floy! take me home!"
But he could remember, when he got home, and was carried up the well-remembered stairs, that there had been the rumbling of a coach for many hours together, while he lay upon the seat, with Florence still beside him, and Mrs. Pipchin sitting opposite. He remembered his old bed too, when they laid him down in it; but there was something else, and recent, too, that still perplexed him.
"I want to speak to Florence, if you please," he said. "To Florence by herself, for a moment!"
She bent down over him, and the others stood away.
"Floy, my pet, wasn't that papa in the hall, when they brought me from the coach?"
"Yes, dear."
"He didn't cry, and go into his room, Floy, did he, when he saw me coming in?"
Florence shook her head, and pressed her lips against his cheek.
"I'm very glad he didn't cry," said little Paul. "I thought he did. Don't tell them that I asked."
Paul never rose from his little bed. He lay there, listening to the noises in the street quite tranquilly; not caring much how time went, but watching everything about him with observing eyes. And when visitors or servants came softly to the door to inquire how he was, he always answered for himself, "I am better; I am a great deal better, thank you! Tell papa so!"
And sometimes when he awoke out of a feverish dream, in which he thought a river was bearing him away, he would see a figure seated motionless, with bowed head, at the foot of his couch. Then he would stretch out his hands and cry, "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, and without first pausing by the bedside—Paul held him round the neck, and repeated those words to him several times, and very earnestly; and Paul never saw him in his room at any time, whether it were day or night, but he called out "Don't be so sorry for me! Indeed, I am quite happy!" 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.
Then one day he asked to see all his friends, and shook hands with each one quietly, and bade them good-bye. His father he clung to as though he felt more deeply for that proud man's sorrow and disappointment, than any unhappiness on his own account. For he was going to his mother—about whom he had often talked with Florence in these closing days.
"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! They always said so!"
Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the stream was lulling him to rest. How green 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.
"Mamma 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, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of Immortality! And look upon us, angels of young children, with regards not quite estranged, when the swift river bears us to the ocean!
HOW FLORENCE CAME INTO HER OWN
The death of Paul, far from softening Mr. Dombey's heart toward his daughter, only served to widen the gap between them. He had been secretly hurt by Paul's preference for Florence, and now was more cold and distant with her than ever.
She, poor child, had this deep sorrow to bear in addition to the loss of Paul. Many and many a night when no one in the house was stirring, and the lights were all extinguished, she would softly leave her own room, and with noiseless feet descend the staircase, and approach her father's door. Against it, scarcely breathing, she would rest her face and head, and press her lips, in the yearning of her love. She crouched upon the cold stone floor outside it, every night, to listen even for his breath; and in her one absorbing wish to be allowed to show him some affection, to be a consolation to him, to win him over to some tenderness for her, his solitary child, she would have knelt down at his feet, if she had dared, in humble supplication.
No one knew it. No one thought of it. The door was ever closed, and he shut up within. He went out once or twice, and it was said in the house that he was very soon going on a journey; but he lived in those rooms, and lived alone, and never saw her or inquired for her. Perhaps he did not even know that she was in the house.
But one night Florence found the door slightly ajar. She paused a moment tremblingly, and then pushed it open and entered.
Her father sat at his old table in the middle room. He had been arranging some papers and destroying others, and the latter lay in fragile ruins before him. The rain dripped heavily upon the glass panes in the outer room, where he had so often watched poor Paul, a baby; and the low complainings of the wind were heard without.
He sat with his eyes fixed on the table, so immersed in thought that a far heavier tread than the light foot of his child could make, might have failed to rouse him. His face was turned towards her. By the waning lamp, and at that haggard hour, it looked worn and dejected; and in the utter loneliness surrounding him there was an appeal to Florence that struck home.
"Papa! papa! Speak to me, dear papa!"
He started at her voice.
"What is the matter?" he said sternly. "Why do you come here? What has frightened you?"
If anything had frightened her, it was the face he turned upon her. The glowing love within the breast of his young daughter froze before it, and she stood and looked at him as if stricken into stone. There was not one touch of tenderness or pity in it.
Did he see before him the successful rival of his son, in health and life? Did he look upon his own successful rival in that son's affection? Did a mad jealousy and withered pride poison sweet remembrances that should have endeared and made her precious to him? Could it be possible that it was gall to him to look upon her in her beauty and her promise: thinking of his infant boy!
Florence had no such thoughts. But love is quick to know when it is spurned and hopeless; and hope died out of hers, as she stood looking in her father's face.
"I ask you, Florence, are you frightened? Is there anything the matter, that you come here?"
"I came, papa—"
"Against my wishes. Why?"
She saw he knew why—it was written broadly on his face—and dropped her head upon her hands with one prolonged low cry.
He took her by the arm. His hand was cold and loose, and scarcely closed upon her.
"You are tired, I dare say," he said, taking up the light and leading her towards the door, "and want rest. We all want rest. Go, Florence. You have been dreaming."
The dream she had had was over then, God help her! and she felt that it could never more come back.
"I will remain here to light you up the stairs. The whole house is yours, above there," said her father, slowly. "You are its mistress now. Good-night!"
Still covering her face, she sobbed, and answered "Good-night, dear papa," and silently ascended. Once she looked back as if she would have returned to him, but for fear. It was a momentary thought, too hopeless to encourage; and her father stood therewith the light—hard, unresponsive, motionless—until her fluttering dress was lost in the darkness.
The days that followed were lonely and sad indeed for the child. Her father went away upon a journey, and she was left entirely alone in the great house, but for the companionship of a faithful maid, Susan Nipper, and of her dog Diogenes.
Then some kind friends in the country took pity upon her loneliness and invited her to visit them.
When she came home she was amazed to find huge scaffolds built all around the house. It was being remodelled. Only her own little room had not been changed. The explanation for all this work came a few days later when her father came home accompanied by two ladies. One was old and greatly overdressed. The other—her daughter—was very beautiful, but with a cold, hard face.
"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 mamma."
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 not 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 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 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, and they turned and went up the staircase. The beautiful lady lingered a moment to whisper to the little girl.
"Florence," said the lady hurriedly, and looking into her face with great earnestness, "You will not begin by hating me?"
"By hating you, mamma!" cried Florence, winding her arm round her neck, and returning the look.
"Hush! Begin by thinking well of me," said the beautiful lady. "Begin by believing that I will try to make you happy and that I am prepared to love you, Florence."
Again she pressed her to her breast—she had spoken in a rapid manner, but firmly—and Florence saw her rejoin them in the other room.
And now Florence began to hope that she would learn from her new and beautiful mamma how to gain her father's love; and in her sleep that night, in her lost old home, her own mamma smiled radiantly upon the hope, and blessed it. Dreaming Florence!
Very soon after this her new mamma came to live with them; and the gloomy house took on some semblance of life. But the marriage was not a happy one. Even Florence could see that. Mrs. Dombey's face did not belie her character. She was haughty and reserved—a fitting match for Mr. Dombey. He had married her out of a desire to have a suitable ornament for his home and position in society. She—it was whispered—had been lured into a "fine" marriage by her matchmaking mother. It was no wonder, then, that the marriage should be unhappy.
Only toward Florence did the proud lady unbend. The child's impulsive greeting had stirred her heart in a sudden and surprising way; and when Mrs. Dombey saw how lonely she was and how her life had been starved, she tried to make good her promise to the child to love her and be good to her always.
But once again poor Florence was misunderstood by her father. He saw that his cold wife cared only for the child, and he thought that just as Florence had cheated him out of some of Paul's love she was now estranging his wife from him. It was cruelly unjust, but Mr. Dombey was so arrogant that he could see things only in his own narrow way.
Thus matters went along in this unhappy house for several months. Mr. and Mrs. Dombey met rarely, except at the table or in some social gathering, when the words which passed between them were of the coldest.
Then Mr. Dombey hit upon the meanest trick of his weak nature. When he found that he could not "humble" his wife by ordinary means, he called in his business manager, Carker, a smooth, deceitful man, whose hair was plastered down close to his white forehead and whose teeth shone in a continual sly smile. To Carker Mr. Dombey would entrust various messages for Mrs. Dombey, as to the running of the house, the hiring of servants, and the like. Mr. Dombey knew that she would resent such petty interference, especially through an outsider; but he did not know that she submitted quietly to these indignities simply for the sake of Florence, whom she wished to protect. And even her love for the girl was given in secret, for the same reason.
Florence, long since awakened from her dream, mournfully observed the estrangement between her father and new mother; and saw it widen more and more, and knew that there was greater bitterness between them every day. It had been very hard to have all her love repulsed, but it now seemed harder to be compelled to doubt her father, or choose between him and this mother, so affectionate and dear to her, yet whose other moods she could only witness with distrust or fear.
One great sorrow, however, was spared her. She never had the least suspicion that Mrs. Dombey, by her tenderness for her, widened the separation from her father, or gave him new cause of dislike. If she had thought it, for a single moment, what grief she would have felt, what sacrifice she would have tried to make, poor loving girl!
No word was ever spoken between Florence and her mother now, on these subjects. Mrs. Dombey had said there ought to be between them, in that wise, a silence like the grave itself; and Florence felt that she was right.
In this state of affairs her father was brought home suffering and ill, and gloomily retired to his own rooms, where he was tended by servants, not approached by his wife, and had no friend or companion but Mr. Carker, who always withdrew near midnight.
Every night Florence would listen out in the hall for news of him, after leaving her mother. But, late one evening, she was surprised to see a bright light burning in her room, and her mother sitting before the dying fire looking so fiercely at it that it terrified her.
"Mamma!" she cried, "what is the matter?"
Mrs. Dombey started; looking at her with such a strange dread in her face that Florence was more frightened than before.
"Mamma!" said Florence, hurriedly advancing. "Dear mamma! what is the matter?"
"I have not been well," said Mrs. Dombey, shaking, and still looking at her in the same strange way. "I have had bad dreams, my love."
"And have not yet been to bed, mamma?"
"No," she returned. "Half-waking dreams."
Her features gradually softened; and suffering Florence to come close to her, within her embrace, she said in a tender manner, "But what does my bird do here! What does my bird do here!"
"I have been uneasy, mamma, in not seeing you to-night, and in not knowing how papa was; and I—"
Florence stopped there, and said no more.
"Is it late?" her mother asked, fondly putting back the curls that mingled with her own dark hair, and strayed upon her face.
"Very late. Near day."
"Near day!" she repeated in surprise.
"Mamma!" said Florence. "Oh, mamma, what can I do, what should I do, to make us happier? Is there anything?"
"Nothing," she replied.
"Are you sure of that? Can it never be? If I speak now of what is in my thoughts, in spite of what we have agreed," said Florence, "you will not blame me, will you?"
"It is useless," she replied, "useless. I have told you, dear, that I have had bad dreams. Nothing can change them, or prevent their coming back."
"I do not understand," said Florence, gazing on her agitated face, which seemed to darken as she looked.
Her mother's clenched hand tightened on the trembling arm she had in hers, and as she looked down on the alarmed and wondering face, her own feelings subsided. "Oh, Florence!" she said, "I think I have been nearly mad to-night!" and humbled her proud head upon the girl's neck, and burst into tears.
"Don't leave me! be near me! I have no hope but in you!" These words she said a score of times.
Florence was greatly puzzled and distressed, and could only repeat her promise of love and trust.
Through six months that followed upon Mr. Dombey's illness and recovery, no outward change was shown between him and his wife. Both were cold and proud; and still Mr. Carker—a man whom she detested——bore his petty commands to her.
As for Florence, the little hope she had ever held for happiness in their new home was quite gone now. That home was nearly two years old, and even the patient trust that was in her could not survive the daily blight of such an experience.
Florence loved her father still, but by degrees had come to love him rather as some dear one who had been, or who might have been, than as the hard reality before her eyes. Something of the softened sadness with which she loved the memory of little Paul or her mother, seemed to enter now into her thoughts of him, and to make them, as it were, a dear remembrance. Whether it was that he was dead to her, and that partly for this reason, partly for his share in those old objects of her affection, and partly for the long association of him with hopes that were withered and tendernesses he had frozen, she could not have told; but the father whom she loved began to be a vague and dreamy idea to her; hardly more substantially connected with her real life than the image she would sometimes conjure up of her dear brother yet alive, and growing to be a man, who would protect and cherish her.
The change, if it may be called one, had stolen on her like the change from childhood to womanhood, and had come with it. Florence was almost seventeen, when, in her lonely musings, she was conscious of these thoughts.
She was often alone now, for the old association between her and her mamma was greatly changed. At the time of her father's illness, and when he was lying in his room downstairs, Florence had first observed that Edith avoided her. Wounded and shocked, and yet unable to reconcile this with her affection when they did meet, she sought her in her own room at night, once more.
"Mamma," said Florence, stealing softly to her side, "have I offended you?"
She answered "No."
"I must have done something," said Florence. "Tell me what it is. You have changed your manner to me, dear mamma. I cannot say how instantly I feel the least change; for I love you with my whole heart."
"As I do you," said Mrs. Dombey. "Ah, Florence, believe me never more than now!"
"Why do you go away from me so often, and keep away?" asked Florence. "And why do you sometimes look so strangely on me, dear mamma? You do so, do you not?"
"Dear Florence, it is for your good. Why, I cannot tell you now. But you will believe I have always tried to make you happy, dear, will you not?"
"Mamma," said Florence, anxiously, "there is a change in you, in more than what you say to me, which alarms me. Let me stay with you a little."
"No, dearest. I am best left alone now, and I do best to keep apart from you, of all else. Ask me no questions, but believe that what I am, I am not of my own will, or for myself. Forgive me for having ever darkened your dark home—I am a shadow on it, I know well—and let us never speak of this again."
"Mamma," sobbed Florence, "we are not to part?"
"We do this that we may not part," said her mother. "Ask no more. Go, Florence! My love and my remorse go with you!"
Thus did Mrs. Dombey hide from Florence one dark secret—that her husband was displeased with their love for each other. It was for Florence's welfare that she felt compelled to hide her affections.
From that hour Florence and she were as they had been no more. For days together they would seldom meet, except at table, and when Mr. Dombey was present. Then Mrs. Dombey, imperious, inflexible, and silent, never looked at her. Whenever Mr. Carker was of the party, as he often was during the progress of Mr. Dombey's recovery, she was more distant towards her than at other times. Yet she and Florence never encountered, when there was no one by, but she would embrace her as affectionately as of old, though not with the same relenting of her proud aspect; and often when she had been out late she would steal up to Florence's room as she had been used to do in the dark, and whisper "Good-night."
Then came a dreadful day not long afterwards when it was found that Mrs. Dombey had fled from her home. The day was the second anniversary of this ill-starred marriage; and the poor, misguided woman left a note for her husband telling him that she had gone away with the man whom he had trusted most (and whom she hated most) Mr. Carker. It was a foolish way to be revenged for the harsh treatment she had received, but it served her purpose. Mr. Dombey was wounded in his most vulnerable spot—his pride.
As for Florence, she was overcome with grief; yet in the midst of her own emotion she could realize her father's bitterness. Yielding at once to the impulse of her affection and forgetful of his past coldness, Florence hurried to him with her arms stretched out and crying, "Oh dear, dear papa!" tried to clasp him round the neck.
But in his wild despair he shook her off so roughly that she almost fell to the floor; telling her she could join her mother, for all he cared, as they had always been in league against him.
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 nor speak one word of reproach. She only uttered a single low cry of pain and then fled from the house like a hunted animal.
Without a roof over her head—without father or mother, she was indeed an orphan.
While the days went by, after Florence's flight, what was the proud man doing? Did he ever think of his daughter or wonder where she had gone? Did he suppose she had come home again and was leading her old life in the weary house? He did not utter her name or make any search for her. He might have thought of her constantly, or not at all. It was all one for any sign he made.
But this was sure. He did not think that he had lost her. He had no suspicion of the truth that she had fled away from him. He had lived too long shut up in his pride, seeing her a patient, gentle creature in his path, to have any fear of that. And so he waited, day by day, until she should make her appearance on the stairs or at the table as before.
But the days dragged slowly by and she did not come.
The sea had ebbed and flowed through a whole year. Through a whole year the winds and clouds had come and gone; the ceaseless work of Time had been performed, in storm and sunshine. Through a whole year the famous House of Dombey and Son had fought a fight for life, against doubtful rumors, unsuccessful ventures, and most of all, against the bad judgment of its head, who would not contract its enterprises by a hair's breadth, and would not listen to a word of warning that the ship he strained so hard against the storm was weak, and could not bear it.
For Mr. Dombey had grown strangely indifferent and reckless, and plunged blindly into speculation.
The year was out, and the great House was down.
One summer afternoon there was a buzz and whisper, about the streets of London, of a great failure. A certain cold, proud man, well known there, was not there, nor was he represented there. Next day it was noised abroad that Dombey and Son had stopped, and next night there was a list of bankrupts published, headed by that name.
Nobody's opinion stayed the misfortune, lightened it, or made it heavier. It was understood that the affairs of the House were to be wound up as they best could be; that Mr. Dombey freely resigned everything he had, and asked for no favor from any one. That any resumption of the business was out of the question, as he would listen to no friendly negotiation having that compromise in view; that he had relinquished every post of trust or distinction he had held as a man respected among merchants; and that he was a broken man.
The old home where Paul had died and whence Florence had fled away was now empty and deserted—a wreck of what it had been. All the furniture and hangings had been sold to satisfy Mr. Dombey's creditors; and he now lived there alone in one cheerless room—a man without friends, without hope.
But at last he began to come to his senses; to see what a treasure he had cast away in Florence; to recall his own injustice and cruelty toward her.
In the miserable night he thought of it; in the dreary day, the wretched dawn, the ghostly, memory-haunted twilight, he remembered. In agony, in sorrow, in remorse, in despair!
"Papa! papa!" He heard the words again, and saw the face. He saw it fall upon the trembling hands, and heard the one prolonged, low cry go upward.
Oh! He did remember it! The rain that fell upon the roof, the wind that mourned outside the door, had foreknowledge in their melancholy sound. He knew now what he had done. He knew now that he had called down that upon his head, which bowed it lower than the heaviest stroke of fortune. He knew now what it was to be rejected and deserted; now, when every loving blossom he had withered in his innocent daughter's heart was snowing down in ashes on him.
He thought of her as she had been that night when he and his bride came home. He thought of her as she had been in all the home events of the abandoned house. He thought now that of all around him, she alone had never changed. His boy had faded into dust, his proud wife had deserted him, his flatterer and friend had been transformed into the worst of villains, his riches had melted away, the very walls that sheltered him looked on him as a stranger; she alone had turned the same mild, gentle look upon him always. Yes, to the latest and the last. She had never changed to him—nor had he ever changed to her—and she was lost.
As, one by one, they fell away before his mind—his baby hope, his wife, his friend, his fortune—oh, how the mist through which he had seen her cleared, and showed him her true self! How much better than this that he had loved her as he had his boy, and lost her as he had his boy, and laid them in their early grave together!
As the days dragged by, it seemed to him that he should go mad with remorse and longing. He haunted Paul's room and Florence's room—so empty now—as though they were his only dwelling-place. He had meant to go away, but clung to this tie in the house as the last and only thing left to him. He would go to-morrow. To-morrow came. He would go to-morrow. Every night, within the knowledge of no human creature, he came forth, and wandered through the despoiled house like a ghost. Many a morning when the day broke, with altered face drooping behind the closed blind in his window, he pondered on the loss of his two children. It was one child no more. He reunited them in his thoughts, and they were never asunder.
Then, one day, when strange fancies oppressed him more than usual, he paused at Florence's door and gazed wildly down as though suddenly awakened from a dream.
He heard a cry—a loving, pleading voice—and there at his knees knelt Florence herself.
"Papa! Dearest papa! I have come back to ask forgiveness. I never can be happy more, without it!"
Unchanged still. Of all the world, unchanged. Raising the same face to his as on that miserable night. Askinghisforgiveness!
"Dear papa, oh, don't look strangely on me! I never meant to leave you. I never thought of it, before or afterwards. I was frightened when I went away and could not think. Papa, dear, I am changed. I am penitent. I know my fault. I know my duty better now. Papa, don't cast me off or I shall die!"
He tottered to his chair. He felt her draw his arms about her neck: he felt her put her own round his; he felt her kisses on his face; he felt her wet cheek laid against his own; he felt—oh, how deeply!—all that he had done.
Upon the breast that he had bruised, against the heart that he had almost broken, she laid his face, now covered with his hands, and said, sobbing,—
"I have been far away, dear papa, and could not come back before this. I have been across the seas, and I have a home of my own over there now. Oh, I want you to see it! I want to take you there; for my home isyourhome—always, always! Say you will pardon me, will come to me!"
He would have said it if he could. He would have raised his hands and besoughtherfor pardon, but she caught them in her own and put them down hurriedly.
"You will come, I know, dear papa! And I will know by that that you forgive me. And we will never talk about what is past and forgotten; never again!"
As she clung closer to him, in another burst of tears, he kissed her on the lips, and, lifting up his eyes, said, "Oh, my God, forgive me, for I need it very much!"
With that he dropped his head again, lamenting over and caressing her, and there was not a sound in all the house for a long, long time; they remaining clasped in one another's arms, in the glorious sunshine that had crept in with Florence.
THE STORY OF PIP AS TOLD BY HIMSELF
I. HOW PIP HELPED THE CONVICT
My father's family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer than Pip. So I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip.
I give Pirrip as my father's family name, on the authority of his tombstone and my sister—Mrs. Joe Gargery, who married the blacksmith. As I never saw my father or my mother, my first fancies regarding what they were like were unreasonably derived from their tombstones.
Ours was the marsh country down by the river, within twenty miles of the sea. My most vivid memory of these early days was of a raw evening about dusk. At such a time I found out for certain that this bleak spot where I chanced to be wandering all alone was the churchyard; that the low, leaden line beyond was the river; and that the small bundle of shivers growing afraid of it all and beginning to cry was myself—Pip.
"Hold your noise!" cried a terrible voice, as a man started up from among the graves at the side of the church porch.
He was a fearful looking man, clad in coarse gray, covered with mud and brambles, and with a great clanking chain upon his leg.
"Tell us your name!" said the man.
"Quick!"
"Pip, sir."
"Show us where you live," said the man. "P'int out the place!"
I pointed to where our village lay, on the flat in-shore among the trees a mile or more from the church.
The man, after looking at me for a moment, turned me upside-down and emptied my pockets. There was nothing in them but 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, and I saw the steeple under my feet—when the church came to itself, I say, I was seated on a high tombstone, trembling, while he ate the bread ravenously.
"You young dog," said the man, licking his lips, "what fat cheeks you ha' got."
I believe they were fat, though I was at that time undersized for my years, and not strong.
"Darnmeif I couldn't eat 'em," said the man, with a threatening shake of his head, "and if I ha'nt half a mind to't!"
I earnestly expressed my hope that he wouldn't, and held tighter to the tombstone on which he had put me; partly to keep myself upon it; partly to keep myself from crying.
"Now lookee here!" said the man. "Where's your mother?"
"There, sir!" said I.
He started, made a short run, and stopped and looked over his shoulder.
"There, sir!" I timidly explained, pointing to an inscription on a stone; "that's my mother."
"Oh!" said he, coming back. "And is that your father alonger your mother?"
"Yes, sir," said I; "him too; 'late of this parish.'"
"Ha!" he muttered then, considering. "Who d' ye live with—supposin' you're kindly let to live, which I ha'nt made up my mind about?"
"My sister, sir—Mrs. Joe Gargery—wife of Joe Gargery, the blacksmith, sir."
"Blacksmith, eh?" said he, and looked down at his leg.
After darkly looking at his leg and at me several times, he came closer to my tombstone, took me by both arms, and tilted me back as far as he could hold me, so that his eyes looked most powerfully down into mine, and mine looked most helplessly up into his.
"Now lookee here," he said, "the question being whether you're to be let to live. You know what a file is?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you know what wittles is?"
"Yes, sir."
After each question he tilted me over a little more, so as to give me a greater sense of helplessness and danger.
"You get me a file." He tilted me again. "And you get me some wittles. If you don't—!"
He tilted me again and shook me till my teeth chattered.
"In—indeed—I will, sir," said I, "if you will only let me go. I'll run all the way home."
"Well, see that you come back. But to-morrow morning will do—early—before day. I'll wait for you here."
As he released me, I needed no second bidding, but scurried away as fast as I could, and soon reached the blacksmith shop.
My sister, Mrs. Joe Gargery, was more than twenty years older than I, and had established a great reputation with herself and the neighbors because she had brought me up "by hand." Having at that time to find out for myself what the expression meant, 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.
She was not a good-looking woman, my sister; and I had a general impression that she must have made Joe Gargery marry her by hand. Joe was a fair man, with curls of flaxen hair on each side of his smooth face, and with eyes of such a very undecided blue that they seemed to have somehow got mixed with their own whites. He was a mild, good-natured, sweet-tempered, easy-going, foolish, dear fellow—a sort of Hercules in strength, and also in weakness.
My sister, Mrs. Joe, with black hair and eyes, had such a prevailing redness of skin that I sometimes used to wonder whether it was possible she washed herself with a nutmeg-grater instead of soap. She was tall and bony, and almost always wore a coarse apron, fastened behind with two loops, and having a bib in front that was stuck full of pins and needles.
Joe's forge adjoined our house, which was a wooden house, as many of the dwellings in our country were—most of them, at that time. When I ran home from the churchyard the forge was shut up, and Joe was sitting alone in the kitchen. Joe and I being fellow-sufferers, and having confidences as such, Joe imparted a confidence to me the moment I raised the latch of the door and peeped in at him opposite to it, sitting in the chimney corner.
"Mrs. Joe has been out a dozen times looking for you, Pip. And she's out now, making it a baker's dozen."
"Is she?"
"Yes, Pip," said Joe; "and what's worse, she's got Tickler with her."
At this dismal intelligence, I twisted the only button on my waistcoat round and round, and looked in great depression at the fire. Tickler was a wax-ended piece of cane, worn smooth by collision with my tickled frame.
"She sot down," said Joe, "and she got up, and she made a grab at Tickler, and she Rampaged out. That's what she did," said Joe, slowly clearing the fire between the lower bars with the poker, and looking at it; "she Rampaged out, Pip."
"Has she been gone long, Joe?" I always treated him as no more than my equal.
"Well," said Joe, glancing up at the Dutch clock, "she's been on the Rampage, this last spell, about five minutes, Pip. She's a coming! Get behind the door, old chap, and have the jack-towel betwixt you."
I took the advice. My sister, Mrs. Joe, throwing the door wide open, and finding an obstruction behind it, immediately divined the cause, and applied Tickler to its farther investigation.
"Where have you been?" she demanded, between tickles.
"I have only been to the churchyard," said I, crying and rubbing myself.
"Churchyard!" repeated my sister. "If it warn't for me you'd been to the churchyard long ago, and stayed there! Who brought you up by hand?"
My thoughts strayed from that question as I looked disconsolately at the fire. For the fugitive out on the marshes with the ironed leg, the file, the food, and the dreadful pledge I was under to steal, from under my sister's very roof, rose before me in the avenging coals.
"Ha!" said Mrs. Joe, restoring Tickler to his station. "Churchyard, indeed! You may well say churchyard, you two." (One of us, by the by, had not said it at all.) "You'll drivemeto the churchyard betwixt you, one of these days, and oh, a pr-r-recious pair you'd be without me!"
As she applied herself to set the tea-things, Joe peeped down at me over his leg, as if he were mentally calculating what kind of pair we should make, under such circumstances. After that, he sat feeling his right-side flaxen curls and whisker, and following Mrs. Joe about with his blue eyes, as his manner always was at squally times.
My sister had a sudden, severe way of cutting and buttering bread, which never varied. Now she ripped me off a section of loaf, bidding me eat and be thankful. Though I was hungry, I dared not eat; for she was a strict housekeeper who would miss any further slices, and I must not let that dreadful man out in the churchyard go hungry. So I resolved to put my hunk of bread and butter down the leg of my trousers—a plan which I presently found the chance to carry out.
It was Christmas Eve, and I had to stir the pudding for next day with a copper-stick. I tried it with the load upon my leg (and that made me think afresh of the man with the load onhisleg), and found the tendency of exercise to bring the bread-and-butter out at my ankle quite unmanageable. Happily, I slipped away and deposited that part of my conscience in my garret bedroom.
"Hark!" said I, when I had done my stirring, and was taking a final warm in the chimney corner before being sent up to bed; "was that great guns, Joe?"
"Ah!" said Joe. "There's another conwict off."
"What does that mean, Joe?" said I.
Mrs. Joe, who always took explanations upon herself, said snappishly, "Escaped. Escaped."
"There was a conwict off last night," added Joe, "after sunset-gun. And they fired warning of him. And now it appears they're firing warning of another."
"Who's firing?" said I.
"Drat that boy," interposed my sister, frowning at me over her work, "what a questioner he is. Ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies."
It was not very polite to herself, I thought, as she always answered. But she never was polite, unless there was company.
Presently Joe said to me in a quiet kind of whisper. "Hulks, Pip; prison ships. They're firing because one of the thieves on the hulks is got away."
Thieves! Prison ships! And here I was planning to rob my sister of the bread and butter; and honest Joe of a file! Truly conscience is a fearful thing, yet there was no turning back for me.
That night the rest of the dreadful deed was done. Just before daybreak I crept out, carrying the file which I had found among Joe's tools, the slice of bread, and a pie which was too convenient in the pantry, and which I took in the hope it was not intended for early use and would not be missed for some time.
I found the man with the iron waiting for me, crouched behind a tombstone.
"Are you alone?" he asked hoarsely.
"Yes, sir."
"No one following you?"
"No, sir."
"Well," said he, "I believe you. Give me them wittles, quick."
I had often watched a large dog of ours eating his food; and I now noticed a decided similarity between the dog's way of eating and the man's. The man took strong, sharp, sudden bites, just like the dog. He swallowed, or rather snapped up, every mouthful, too soon and too fast; and he looked sideways here and there while he ate, as if he thought there was danger in every direction of somebody's coming to take the pie away.
"Now give us hold of the file, boy," he said, when he had finished swallowing.
I did so, and he bent to the iron like a madman, and began filing it away in quick, fierce rasps. I judged this a good time to slip away, and he paid no further attention to me. The last I heard of him, the file was still going.
"And where the mischief ha' you been?" was Mrs. Joe's Christmas salutation, when I and my conscience showed ourselves.
I said I had been down to hear the chimes.
"Ah, well!" observed Mrs. Joe. "You might ha' done worse."
Not a doubt of that, I thought.
We were to have a superb dinner—so Joe slyly told me—consisting of a leg of pork and greens, a pair of roast stuffed fowls, and a handsome pie which had been baked the day before.
I started when he spoke about the pie, but his blue eyes beamed upon me kindly.
My sister having so much to do, was going to church vicariously; that is to say, Joe and I were going. In his working clothes, Joe was a well-knit characteristic-looking blacksmith; in his holiday clothes, he was more like a scarecrow in good circumstances, than anything else. Nothing that he wore then fitted him or seemed to belong to him. On the present festive occasion he emerged from his room, when the blithe bells were ringing, the picture of misery, in a full suit of Sunday penitentials. As to me, I think my sister must have had some general idea that I was a young offender who must be punished each holy-day by being put into clothes so tight that I could on no account move my arms and legs without danger of something bursting.
Joe and I going to church, therefore, must have been a moving spectacle for compassionate minds. Yet, what I suffered outside was nothing to what I underwent within. The terrors that had assailed me whenever Mrs. Joe had gone near the pantry, or out of the room, were only to be equalled by the remorse with which my mind dwelt on what my hands had done. Under the weight of my wicked secret, I pondered whether even the Church would be powerful enough to shield me from the wrath to come.
Mr. Wopsle, the clerk at church, was to dine with us; and Mr. Hubble, the wheelwright, and Mrs. Hubble; and Uncle Pumblechook (Joe's uncle, but Mrs. Joe appropriated him), who was a well-to-do cornchandler in the nearest town, and drove his own chaise-cart. The dinner hour was half-past one.
When Joe and I got home, we found the table laid, and Mrs. Joe dressed, and the dinner dressing, and the front door unlocked (it never was at any other time) for the company to enter by, and everything most splendid. And still, not a word of the robbery.
Oh, the agony of that festive dinner! During each helping of my plate I ate mechanically, hardly daring to lift my eyes, and clutching frantically at the leg of the table for support. With each mouthful we drew nearer to that pie—and discovery! But as they chattered away, I felt a faint hope that they might perhaps forget the pie.
They did not, for presently my sister said to Joe, "Clean plates—cold."
I got a fresh hold on the table leg. I foresaw I was doomed.
"You must taste," said my sister, addressing the guests with her best grace, "you must finish with a pie, in honor of Uncle Pumblechook."
The company murmured their compliments. Uncle Pumblechook, sensible of having deserved well of his fellow-creatures, said,—quite vivaciously, all things considered,—"Well, Mrs. Joe, we'll do our best endeavors; let us have a cut at this same pie."
My sister went out to get it. I heard her steps proceed to the pantry. I saw Mr. Pumblechook balance his knife. I saw reawakening appetite in the Roman nostrils of Mr. Wopsle. I heard Mr. Hubble remark that "a bit of savory pie would lay atop of anything you could mention, and do no harm," and I heard Joe say "you shall have some, Pip." I have never been absolutely certain whether I uttered a shrill yell of terror, merely in spirit, or in the bodily hearing of the company. I felt that I could bear no more, and that I must run away. I released the leg of the table, and ran for my life.
But I ran no farther than the house door, for there I ran headforemost into a party of soldiers with their muskets, one of whom held out a pair of handcuffs to me, saying, "Here you are, look sharp, come on!"
The vision of a file of soldiers caused the dinner party to rise from the table in confusion, and caused Mrs. Joe, re-entering the kitchen empty-handed, to stop short and stare, in her wondering lament of "Gracious goodness, gracious me, what's gone—with the—pie!"
"Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen," said the sergeant, "but as I have mentioned at the door to this smart young shaver" (which he hadn't), "I am on a chase in the name of the king, and I want the blacksmith."
"And pray, what might you want with him?" retorted my sister, quick to resent his being wanted at all.
"Missis," returned the gallant sergeant, "speaking for myself, I should reply, the honor and pleasure of his fine wife's acquaintance; speaking for the king, I answer, a little job done."
This was received as rather neat in the sergeant; insomuch that Mr. Pumblechook cried audibly, "Good again!"
"You see, blacksmith," said the sergeant, who had by this time picked out Joe with his eye, "we have had an accident with these, and I find the lock of one of 'em goes wrong, and the coupling don't act pretty. As they are wanted for immediate service, will you throw your eye over them?"
Joe threw his eye over them, and pronounced that the job would necessitate the lighting of his forge fire, and would take nearer two hours than one.
"Will it? Then will you set about it at once, blacksmith," said the off-hand sergeant, "as it's on his Majesty's service. And if my men can bear a hand anywhere, they'll make themselves useful." With that, he called to his men, who came trooping into the kitchen one after another, and piled their arms in a corner.
All these things I saw without then knowing that I saw them, for I was in an agony of apprehension. But, beginning to perceive that the handcuffs were not for me, and that the military had so far got the better of the pie as to put it in the background, I collected a little more of my scattered wits.