The days that followed were one long agony to Pip. When Herbert returned he told him the whole story. Herbert was shocked and surprised, but he was true to his friendship and together they planned what to do.
It was clear to Pip that he could not spend any more of Magwitch's money; indeed, recoiling from him as he did, he would gladly have repaid every penny if it had been possible. To make the matter worse, it seemed that Magwitch had brought a great deal of money with him and was determined that Pip should move into a fashionable house, buy fast horses, keep servants and live most expensively.
Pip hesitated to tell Magwitch his decision, however, for what the convict now planned showed how much he had thought of him and loved him in his rough way during all his years in Australia.
Meanwhile he and Herbert kept Magwitch hidden as much as possible, and gave out that the old man was Pip's uncle, on a visit from the country.
Unluckily, however, Magwitch's presence in London had been seen. He had been recognized in the street and followed to Pip's rooms. And the man who saw him was his bitterest enemy—Compeyson, the breaker of Miss Havisham's heart, who had first made Magwitch a criminal, and whom the convict so hated. Compeyson had served out his term, and was now free. He saw his chance to pay the old grudge with Magwitch's life. In order, however, to make sure of his capture he decided to entice Pip away and bring the police upon Magwitch when he would have no one to warn him.
Meanwhile, unconscious of this plot, Pip made a last visit to Miss Havisham. He felt now that hewas again poor and without prospects, and with small hope of winning Estella.
But finding her there, in Miss Havisham's presence, he told her how dearly he had always loved her since the first day they had met. She seemed moved by his distress, but her heart had not yet awakened. She told him that she was about to marry one whom he knew for a coarse, brutal man, in every way beneath her. And then Pip knew for certain that Miss Havisham's bitter teaching had borne its fruit at last, and that Estella was to marry this man, not because she loved him, but merely as a final stab to all the other worthier ones.
In spite of her years of self-torture and revengeful thoughts, Miss Havisham had still a spark of real pity. As Pip reminded her of the wreck she had made of him, through Estella, and through allowing him falsely to believe her his benefactor, his agony struck her with remorse. She put her hand to her heart as he ended, and as he left them he saw through his own tears her hand still pressed to her side and her faded face ghastly in the candlelight.
Sick with despair, Pip went back to London, to learn from Wemmick, Mr. Jaggers's friendly clerk, that the rooms were being watched, and that he and Herbert (who in the absence of Pip had confided in him) had removed Magwitch to another lodging—a room overlooking the river, from which it would be easier, if worst came to worst, to get him on a ship and so out of the country.
To do this it was necessary to wait for a favorable chance. So Pip, providing for Magwitch's comfort meantime, bought a boat, and he and Herbert rowed daily up and down the river, so that when the time came to row the convict to some sea-going ship they would know the turns of the stream.
Pip soon learned that Compeyson was their spy. Wopsle, who in Pip's boyhood had been the clerk in the village church, had turned actor (he made, to be sure, a very poor one!), and was now playing in London. In the theater one night he recognized in the audience the pale-faced convict whom he had once, with Joe, the blacksmith, and little Pip, seen dragged back to capture by his more powerful fellow. Pip had long ago learned from Magwitch that this man was Compeyson, and when Wopsle said he had seen him sitting directly back of Pip at the play, the latter realized that they had this bitter enemy to reckon with, and that Magwitch was in terrible danger.
Only once was this time of waiting interrupted, and that was by a letter from Miss Havisham begging Pip to come to see her. He went, and she told him she realized now too late how wicked her plans had been, and begged him with tears to try to forgive her. Pip, sore as his own heart was, forgave her freely, and he was glad ever afterward that he had done so, for that same evening, while he was standing near her, her yellowed wedding veil, sweeping too near the hearth, caught fire and inan instant her whole dress burst into flame. Pip worked desperately to put out the fire, but she was so frightfully burned that it was plain she could not live long. His own hands and arms were painfully injured, so that he returned to London with one arm, for the time being, almost useless.
Compeyson, meanwhile, made friends with Orlick, and between them they wrote Pip a letter, decoying him to a lonely hut in the marshes. When he came there Orlick threw a noose over his head, tied him to the wall and would have killed him with a great stone-hammer but for Herbert, who broke down the door and rushed in just in time to put Orlick to flight and to save Pip's life. Herbert had picked up the letter Pip had thrown down, read it, seen in it something suspicious, and had followed from London.
Pip saw now there was no time to lose if he would save Magwitch. They made haste to London, and when night fell, took the convict in the rowboat and rowing a few miles down the river, waited to board a steamer bound for Germany.
What happened next happened very speedily. They were about to board the steamer when a boat containing Compeyson and some police shot out from the bank, Compeyson calling on Magwitch to surrender. The two boats clashed together, and the steamer, unable to stop, ran them both down. At the same moment Magwitch seized Compeyson and they went into the water together.
When Pip came to himself the steamer had gone, his own boat had sunk and he and Herbert had been dragged aboard the other. A few minutes later Magwitch was picked up, badly injured in the chest, and was handcuffed. But they did not find Compeyson—the other had killed him in that fearful struggle under water.
That night Magwitch was lodged in jail. Before many days he was tried for returning to England and was sentenced to be hanged. But it was clear before the trial ended that his injury would never let him live to suffer this penalty.
And now, as he saw the convict lying day by day drawing nearer to death, calling him "dear boy" and watching for his face, all the loathing and repugnance Pip had felt for him vanished away. He had sat beside the sick man at his trial; now he sat beside his cot each day in his cell, holding his hand. He knew there could be no longer any possibility of his taking the fortune the convict would leave, for, being condemned to death, all Magwitch's property went to the Crown. But he did not tell this to Magwitch.
One thing he discovered, however, which he told the dying man. This concerned Estella. As the film of death came over the convict's face Pip said:
"Dear Magwitch, you had a child once, whom you loved and lost. She is living still. She is a lady and very beautiful. And I love her!" And hearing this last glad news, Magwitch died.
Before this happened Herbert had left England for Egypt where his business took him. Left alone, after the strain, Pip fell sick of a fever and in the midst of this found himself arrested for debt.
That was the last he knew for many weeks. When he came to himself he found Joe, the true-hearted blacksmith, nursing him. He had paid Pip's debts. Miss Havisham was dead and Orlick had been sent to jail for robbing Uncle Pumblechook's house.
Joe's faithfulness smote Pip with a sense of his own ingratitude. After a visit to the old forge with Joe and Biddy, now Joe's wife, Pip felt how true were the old friends. He buried for ever the past false pride and folly and knew himself for all his trials a nobler man.
He sailed to Egypt, where he became a clerk in Herbert's business house, and finally a partner, and it was eleven years before he was in England again.
Then, one day he went down to the old ruined house where Miss Havisham had lived.
He entered the weed-grown garden, and there on a bench, a sad, beautiful widow, sat Estella. Her husband had treated her brutally till he died, and she had learned through suffering to know that she had a heart and had thrown away the one thing that could have made her happy—Pip's love.
When Pip and she left the old house that day it was hand in hand, never to part again.
Published1839
Scene:London, Portsmouth and the CountryTime:About 1830
Nicholas NicklebyA young gentlemanMrs. NicklebyHis motherKateHis sisterRalph NicklebyHis uncleA miserly money-lenderNoggsRalph Nickleby's clerkSqueersThe proprietor of Dotheboys Hall,a country school for boysMrs. SqueersHis wifeFannyTheir daughterWackfordTheir sonSmikeA poor drudge at Dotheboys HallBefriended by Nicholas. In reality Ralph Nickleby's sonMadame MantaliniA London dressmakerKate's first employerMr. MantaliniHer husbandMiss KnagHer forewomanSir Mulberry HawkA dissolute man of the worldLord Frederick VerisophtA young noblemanHawk's friendMr. Vincent CrummlesManager of a theater in PortsmouthMrs. CrummlesHis wifeNinettaTheir daughterKnown as "The Infant Phenomenon"Mrs. WititterlyA would-be fashionable ladyKate's second employerThe Cheeryble BrothersTwin merchantsNicholas's benefactorsBrayA spendthrift and invalidMadelineHis daughterGrideA miser
Once on a time, in England, there were two brothers named Nickleby who had grown up to be very different men. Ralph was a rich and miserly money-lender who gained his wealth by persecuting the poor of London—a thin, cold-hearted, crafty man with a cruel smile. The other, who lived in the country, was generous but poor, so that when he died he left his wife and two children, Nicholas and Kate, with hardly a penny to keep them from starving.
In their trouble the mother decided to go and try to obtain help from her husband's brother, Ralph Nickleby.
Ralph was angry when he learned they had come to London, for he loved his gold better than anything else in the world. He lived in Golden Square, a very rich part of the city, in a great fine house, all alone save for one servant, and he kept only one clerk.
This clerk, who was named Noggs, had one glass eye and long, bony fingers which he had an uncomfortable habit of cracking together when he spoketo any one. He had once been rich, but he had given his money to Ralph Nickleby to invest for him, and the money-lender had ended by getting it all, so that the poor man at last had to become the other's clerk. When he first saw Nicholas and Kate, Noggs was sorry enough for them, because he knew it would be little help they would get from their stingy uncle.
Nicholas was proud-mettled, and his very bearing angered the money-lender. He called him a young puppy, and a pauper besides, to which Nicholas replied with heat and spirit. His mother succeeded in smoothing things over for the time, and though Ralph Nickleby from that moment hated the boy, he grudgingly promised her to get him a situation as a teacher.
The school the miser selected was one called Dotheboys Hall, a long, cold-looking, tumble-down building, one story high, in a dreary part of the country. It belonged to a man named Squeers, a burly, ruffianly hypocrite, who pretended to the world to be a kind, fatherly master, but in fact treated his pupils with such cruelty that almost the only ones ever sent there were poor little orphans, whose guardians were glad to get rid of them. Squeers had an oily, wrinkled face and flat shiny hair, brushed straight up from his forehead. His sleeves were too long and his trousers too short, and he carried a leather whip about in his pocket to punish the boys with.
Mrs. Squeers was a fat woman, who wore a soiled dressing-gown, kept her hair in curl papers all day, and always had a yellow handkerchief tied around her neck. She was as cruel as her husband. They had one daughter and a son named Wackford. The latter they kept as plump as could be, so he would serve as an advertisement of the school; the rest of the boys, however, were pale and thin.
No wonder, for they got almost nothing to eat. For dinner all they had was a bowl of thin porridge with a wedge of bread for a spoon. When they had eaten the porridge they ate the spoon. Once a week they were forced to swallow a dreadful mixture of brimstone and sulphur, because this dose took away their appetites so that they ate less for several days afterward. They were made to sleep five in a bed, and were poorly clothed, for whenever a new boy came Mrs. Squeers took his clothes away from him for Wackford, and made the new boy wear any old ones she could find. They were allowed to write only letters telling how happy they were there, and when letters came for any of them, Mrs. Squeers opened them first and took for herself any money that they contained.
There was no attempt at teaching at Dotheboys Hall. The books were dirty and torn and the classes were scarecrows. All the boys were made to work hard at chores about the place, and were flogged almost every day, so that their lives weremiserable. What Squeers wanted was the money their guardians paid him for keeping them.
This was the kind of school for which Nicholas found himself hired at very low wages as a teacher.
He knew nothing about it yet, however, and thought himself lucky and his uncle kind as he bade his mother and Kate good-by and took the coach for Dotheboys Hall. Noggs, Ralph Nickleby's one-eyed clerk, was there to see him off, and put a letter into his hand as he started. Nicholas was so sad at leaving the two he loved best in the world, that he put it into his pocket and for the time forgot all about it.
On his arrival next day Nicholas's heart sank into his boots. When he saw the boys gathered in the barn, which served for a school-room, he was ready to die with shame and disgust to think he was to be a teacher in such a place.
But he had no money to take him back to London, and because he did not want to make his mother and Kate unhappy, he wrote them as cheerfully as he could. The letter Noggs had given him he remembered at last to read. It told him the writer feared his uncle had deceived him in regard to the school, and said if Nicholas needed a friend at any time, he would find one in him, Noggs. These kind words from the old clerk brought tears to Nicholas's eyes.
Of all the wretched boys there Nicholas pitied most a poor fellow named Smike, whom Squeershad made a drudge. He was tall and lanky and wore a little boy's suit, too short in the arms and legs. He had been placed there when a child, and the man who had brought him had disappeared and left no money to pay for his keep. Squeers's cruelties had made the unfortunate lad simple-minded. Besides this he was lame. Nicholas helped Smike all he could, and the poor fellow was so grateful that he followed the other about like a slave.
Squeers's daughter was named Fanny. She had red hair, which she wore in five exact rows on the top of her head. She thought herself very beautiful and at once fell in love with Nicholas. As he could not help showing that he did not like her, Miss Fanny grew spiteful and in revenge began to persecute Smike, knowing Nicholas liked him.
Smike stood this as long as he could, but at last one day he ran away. Squeers was furious. He took one chaise and Mrs. Squeers another, and off they went in different directions to find him. Nicholas was miserable, for he knew Smike would be caught. Sure enough, on the second day Mrs. Squeers returned, dragging her victim. When Squeers arrived Smike was taken from the cellar, where he had been locked up, and brought before the assembled boys for a public thrashing.
At the rain of brutal blows which began Nicholas's blood boiled. He stepped forward, crying "Stop!"
For answer Squeers struck him savagely in the face with his heavy ruler. Then Nicholas threw away his self-control, and leaping on the bully, to the unmeasured delight of the boys, took the ruler from him and thrashed him until he cried for mercy. All the while Mrs. Squeers was trying to drag the victor away by his coat tails, while the spiteful Miss Fanny threw inkstands at his head.
When his arm was tired Nicholas gave Squeers a final blow, which knocked him senseless into a corner, coolly went to his room, packed his few belongings in a bundle and left Dotheboys Hall for ever.
He was two hundred and fifty miles from London and had very little money. Snow was falling and for that night he took refuge in an empty barn. In the morning he awoke, startled, to see a figure sitting by him. It was Smike, who had followed him.
The poor creature fell on his knees. "Let me go with you!" he cried. "I want no clothes and I can beg my food. I will be your faithful servant. Only let me go with you."
"And so you shall!" said Nicholas. "Come!" He rose, took up his bundle, gave his hand to Smike and so they set out toward London together.
Meanwhile Ralph Nickleby, the money-lender, had given Kate and her mother leave to live in a rickety, unoccupied house which he owned. It was a dingy building on an old wharf, but Noggs, the clerk, himself cleaned and furnished one of its rooms so that it was fairly comfortable. When they were settled Ralph took Kate to a dressmaker's, where he got her a situation, hoping thus they would not call on him for any money.
The dressmaker called herself Madame Mantalini. Her real name was Muntle, but she thought the other sounded better. Her husband was a plump, lazy man with huge side-whiskers, who spent most of the time curling them and betting on horse-races. He gambled away all the money Madame Mantalini made, but he pretended to be terribly fond of her, and was always calling her his "little fairy" and his "heart's delight," so that the silly woman always forgave him. He tried to kiss Kate the first day, which made her detest him.
At Madame Mantalini's Kate had to stand up all day trying on dresses for rich ladies, who were often rude to her. And because they preferred to be waited on by the pretty, rosy-cheeked girl, Miss Knag, the ugly forewoman, hated the child, and did all she could to make her unhappy.
Kate's mother used to wait each evening on the street corner outside, and they would walk home together. They had no idea what trouble Nicholas was having all this time, because he had written them such cheerful letters, and whenever they felt sadder than usual they would comfort themselves by thinking how well he was getting along and what a fine position he had.
If they could have seen him when he finally got to London after running away from Dotheboys Hall, they would hardly have known him. Both he and poor Smike were hungry and muddy and tired. Remembering Noggs's kind letter, Nicholas went first to the little garret where the clerk lived, and through him he found a cheap room on the roof of the building, which he rented for himself and Smike. Then he started out to find his mother and Kate.
He would have hastened if he had guessed what was happening or how badly Kate had been treated by Ralph Nickleby.
The evening before, as it happened, Kate had been invited to dinner at her uncle's fine house, and there she had met two dissipated young men—Lord Frederick Verisopht and Sir Mulberry Hawk, the latter of whom had looked at her and talked to her so rudely that she had indignantly left the table and gone home. She had not slept a wink that night, and the next morning, to make her and her mother more wretched still, Ralph Nicklebycalled with a letter he had just received from Fanny Squeers, declaring that Nicholas was a thief and a scoundrel; that he had tried to murder her father and all his family, and had run off with one of the pupils of Dotheboys Hall.
To be sure, neither of them believed it, but if made them very unhappy. And then, just as Ralph was reading them the last line of the letter, in came Nicholas! You may be sure he comforted them and told them it was a lie. He told Ralph what he thought of him also in stern language, which made his uncle angrier than ever.
Then, seeing that his presence was making things worse, and realizing in what poverty his dear ones were, and that they were so wholly dependent on Ralph for help, Nicholas came to a very brave determination. He told them that, as he could not help them himself, he would go away from them until his fortune bettered. So, bidding them good-by, and telling his uncle he should keep watch over them and that if any harm came to them he would hold him accountable, Nicholas went sadly back to his garret room and to Smike.
He tried hard for some days to find a situation, but failed, and he would not take money from Noggs, who was so poor himself. So at last, with Smike, he set out on foot for Portsmouth, which was a seaport, thinking there they might find a chance to go as sailors in some ship.
At an inn on the way, however, Nicholas met aman who caused him to change all his plans. This man was a Mr. Vincent Crummles. When Nicholas first saw him in the inn he was teaching his two sons to make-believe fight with swords. They were practising for a play, for Mr. Crummles was manager of a theater in Portsmouth, and he proposed that Nicholas join the company and become an actor.
There seemed nothing else to do, so Nicholas agreed, and next day they went to the Portsmouth theater, where he was introduced to all the company.
It was a very curious mixture. There was Mrs. Crummles, who took the tickets, and little Miss Crummles, whom the bills called "The Infant Phenomenon," and who was always said to be only ten years old. There was a slim young man with weak eyes who played the lover, and a fat man with a turned-up nose who played the funny countryman, and a shabby old man whose breath smelled of gin, who took the part of the good old banker with the gray side-whiskers. Then there was the lady who acted the rôle of the wicked adventuress, and all the others.
Nicholas had to begin by writing a play which had parts for all of them, and it proved a great success. Smike, whom he drilled himself, took the part of a hungry boy, and he looked so starved, naturally, from his life with Squeers, that he was tremendously applauded.
One of the other actors was so jealous at the play's success that he sent Nicholas a challenge to a duel, but Nicholas walked on to the stage before the whole company and knocked the actor down, and after that he had no trouble and was a great favorite.
He might have stayed a long time at Mr. Crummles's theater, for he had earned quite a good deal of money, but one day he got a letter from Noggs, the clerk, telling him that all was not well with his mother and Kate. And without waiting an hour, Nicholas resigned from the company and, with Smike, set out again for London.
Noggs was right. Ralph Nickleby had never ceased to persecute Kate and her mother. In fact, when he had invited Kate to the dinner at which she had been insulted, it was for his own evil purpose. He had done so, hoping she might impress the foolish young Lord Verisopht, whose money he was hoping to get, and whom he wished to attract to his house.
The young nobleman, as Ralph had intended, fell in love with Kate's sweet face at once, and found out from her uncle where she lived.
She had lost her first position at the dressmaker's(for Mr. Mantalini had thrown away his wife's money on race-horses until the sheriff had seized the business), and she was acting now as companion to a Mrs. Wititterly, a pale, languid lady who considered herself a very fashionable person indeed, and was always suffering from imaginary ailments. Lord Frederick and Sir Mulberry Hawk came often to the house, pretending to flatter Mrs. Wititterly, but really to see Kate, who heartily disliked them both.
Mrs. Wititterly at last came to realize that the two men at whose attentions she had felt so flattered really cared only for her young companion, and, being vain and jealous, she tormented and scolded Kate till the poor girl's life was a burden.
At length, feeling that she could endure it no longer, Kate went to Ralph and begged him with tears to help her find another situation, but the money-lender refused to aid her. Noggs, the clerk, was sorry for her, but could do nothing except write to Nicholas, and this was the reason for the letter that had brought Nicholas post-haste back to London.
Just what kind of persecution Kate had had to bear he learned by accident almost as soon as he got there.
As he sat in a coffee-house he suddenly heard the words, "little Kate Nickleby," spoken by a man behind him. He turned and listened.
Four men whom he had never seen were drinkingtoasts to her, and Nicholas grew hot with rage at the coarse words they used. Sitting there, scarcely able to contain himself, he heard the whole story of his Uncle Ralph's plot, he heard his sister's sufferings derided, her goodness jeered at, her beauty made the subject of insolent jests. One of the four men, of course, was Lord Frederick Verisopht, and the coarsest and the most vulgar of them all, as may be guessed, was Sir Mulberry Hawk.
White with anger, Nicholas confronted the party and, throwing down his card on the table, declared that the lady in question was his sister, and demanded of Hawk his name. Hawk refused to answer. Nicholas called him a liar and a coward, and seating himself, swore the other should not leave his sight before he knew who he was.
When Hawk attempted to enter his carriage Nicholas sprang on to the step. The other, in a fury, struck him with the whip, and Nicholas, wrenching it from him, with one blow laid open Hawk's cheek. The horse, frightened at the struggle, started off at a terrific speed, and Nicholas felt himself hurled to the ground.
As he rose, he saw the runaway horse, whirling across the pavement, upset the carriage with a crash of breaking glass. Nicholas had no doubt that the man it held had been frightfully hurt if not killed. He felt faint from his own fall, and it was with difficulty that he reached Noggs's garret, whither,before the adventure in the coffee-room, he had sent Smike to announce his coming.
His first step now was to write a letter to Ralph, telling him he at last knew what a villain he was, and that he and his mother and sister cast him off for ever, with shame that they had ever asked his aid. The next day Nicholas took Kate from the Wititterly house and his mother from her poor lodging, and rented them rooms in another part of the city. Then he started out to find some employment for himself.
For a long time he was unsuccessful, but one day (and a very lucky day Nicholas thought it ever afterward) he met on the street a round-faced, jolly-looking old gentleman, with whom he fell into conversation, and before long, almost without knowing it, he had told him all his troubles.
This old gentleman was named Cheeryble, and the firm to which he belonged was Cheeryble Brothers. He and his twin brother had come to London, barefoot, when they were boys, and though they had grown very rich, they had never forgotten what it was to be poor and wretched. The old gentleman asked Nicholas to come with him to his office and there they met the other Mr. Cheeryble.
Nicholas could scarcely tell the two brothers apart, for they were like as two peas. They were precisely the same size, wore clothes just alike and laughed in the same key. Each had even lost exactly the same number of teeth. They were lovedby everybody, for they went through life doing good wherever they could. They both liked Nicholas at once, and the upshot was that they gave him a position in their counting-room and rented a pleasant cottage near by for his mother and Kate.
So there Nicholas took up work and they were all happy and comfortable—very different from Ralph Nickleby, the money-lender, in his fine house, with only the memory of his own wickedness for company.
Ralph Nickleby's hatred had been growing day by day. As he could not harm Nicholas now, he tried to hurt him through Smike. He sent for Squeers, and the latter, finding Smike alone one day on the street, seized him, put him in a coach and started to take him back to Dotheboys Hall. But luckily his victim escaped and got back to London.
Then Ralph formed a wicked plot to get Smike surely into their hands. He hired a man to claim that he was the boy's father, who had first taken him to Squeers's school. Squeers, too, swore to this lying tale. But the Cheeryble brothers suspected the story, and when Ralph saw they weredetermined to help Nicholas protect Smike, he was afraid to go any further with the plan. So he smothered his rage for the time being, and meanwhile a most important thing happened to Nicholas—he fell in love!
It came about in this way: There was a man named Bray, who had been arrested for debt and was allowed to live only in a certain street under the guardianship of the jailer, for this was the law in England then. He was slowly dying of heart-disease, and all the money he had to live on was what his only daughter, a lovely girl named Madeline, earned by painting and selling pictures.
The Cheeryble brothers had learned of their poverty, (for it was hard for Madeline to find purchasers), and they sent Nicholas to buy some of the pictures. He was to pretend to be a dealer, so that Madeline would not suspect it was done for charity. Nicholas went more than once and soon had fallen very much in love with Madeline Bray.
He was not the only one who admired her, however. There was an old man named Gride, almost as stingy as Ralph Nickleby, who had discovered by accident that a large sum of money really belonged to Madeline, which she and her father knew nothing about, and he thought it would be a fine thing to marry her and thus get this fortune into his hands. Now, Ralph Nickleby was one of the men who was keeping Bray a prisoner, and so Gride went to him and asked him to help himmarry Madeline. If Bray made his daughter marry the old miser he himself was to be set free. Ralph, for his share, was to get some of the money the old man Gride knew should be Madeline's.
It was a pretty plan and it pleased Ralph, for he cared little what lives he ruined so long as he got money by it. So he agreed, and soon convinced Bray (who, ill as he was, was utterly selfish) that it would be a fine thing for Madeline to marry the hideous old Gride and so free her father. At length, in despair, because she thought it her duty to her heartless father, Madeline consented to do so.
Nicholas might never have known of this till after the wedding, but luckily Noggs, the clerk, had overheard the old skinflint make the bargain with Ralph, and when one day Nicholas confessed that he was in love with Madeline, the good-hearted clerk told him all that he had found out.
Nicholas was in great trouble, for he loved Madeline very dearly. He went to her and begged her not to marry Gride, but she thought it her duty. He went to Gride, too, but the hideous old miser only sneered at him.
At last, in desperation, he told Kate, and the brother and sister went together to Bray's house. They reached it just as the wedding was about to begin.
Ralph Nickleby, who was there, foamed with fury to find the nephew he so hated again steppingbetween him and his evil designs. He tried to bar them out, but Nicholas forced him back.
They would doubtless have come to blows, but at that moment there came from another room the sound of a fall, and a scream from Madeline. The excitement had proved too much for her father. His heart had failed and he had fallen dead on the floor. Thus Providence interfered to bring the wicked scheme of the marriage to naught.
Vainly did Gride bemoan the loss of the money he had hoped to gain, and vainly did Ralph Nickleby, with curses, try to prevent. Nicholas thrust them both aside, lifted the unconscious Madeline as easily as if she had been a baby, placed her with Kate in a coach and, daring Ralph to follow; jumped up beside the coachman and bade him drive away.
He took her to his own home, where his mother and Kate cared for her tenderly till she had recovered from the shock and was her own lovely self again.
The penalty that he had so long deserved was soon to overtake Ralph Nickleby. He lost much of his wealth through a failure, and close on the heels of this misfortune came the news that the infamous plot he had formed against Smike had been discovered and that Squeers, his accomplice, had been arrested.
The most terrible blow came last. A man whom Ralph had long ago ruined and had caused to betransported for a crime, confessed that he had been the one who, many years before, had left Smike at Dotheboys Hall, and he confessed also that Smike was really Ralph Nickleby's own son by a secret marriage. Ralph had not known this, because the man, in revenge, had falsely told him the child was dead.
The knowledge that, in Smike, he had been persecuting his own son was the crowning blow for cruel Ralph Nickleby. When he heard this he locked himself up alone in his great house and never was seen alive again. His body was found in the garret where he had hanged himself to a rafter.
Poor Smike, however, did not live to sorrow over the villainy of his father. The exposure and hardships of his years at Squeers's school had broken his health. He had for long been gradually growing weaker, and at last one day he died peacefully, with Nicholas's arms around him.
Every one of whose villainy this story tells came to a bad end. Sir Mulberry Hawk quarreled with young Lord Verisopht and shot him dead in the duel that followed. For this he himself had to fly to a foreign country, where he finally died miserably in jail. Gride, the miser who had plotted to marry Madeline, met almost as terrible a fate as Ralph's. His house was broken into by burglars one night and he was found murdered in his bed.
Squeers was declared guilty and transported forseven years. When the news reached Dotheboys Hall such a cheer arose as had never been heard there. It came on the weekly "treacle day," and the boys ducked young Wackford in the soup kettle and made Mrs. Squeers swallow a big dose of her own brimstone. Then, big and little, they all ran away, just as Nicholas and Smike had done.
Kate married a nephew of the Cheeryble brothers, and Nicholas, of course, married Madeline, and in time became a partner in the firm. All of them lived near by, and their little children played together under the watchful care of old Noggs, the one-eyed clerk, who loved them all alike.
The children laid flowers every day on poor Smike's grave, and often their eyes filled with tears as they spoke low and softly of the dead cousin they had never known.
Published1846–1848
Scene:London, Brighton, and FranceTime:About 1830 to 1846
Mr. DombeyA London merchantHead of the firm of Dombey and Son"Little Paul"His sonFlorenceHis daughterCalled by little Paul, "Floy"Edith GrangerA widowLater, Mr. Dombey's wifeWalter GayA clerk for Dombey and SonLater, Florence's husbandSolomon GillsHis uncleA ship's instrument maker. Known as Old SolCaptain CuttleA retired seamanBosom friend of Old Sol'sCarkerManager for Dombey and SonMrs. PipchinProprietress of a children's boarding-house at BrightonLater, Mr. Dombey's housekeeperDoctor BlimberProprietor of a boys' school at BrightonMajor BagstockA retired army officerDiogenesDoctor Blimber's dogLater a pet of Florence's
In London there was once a business house known as Dombey and Son. It had borne that name for generations, though at the time this story begins Mr. Dombey, the head of the house, had no son. He was a merchant, hard, cold and selfish, who thought the world was made only for his firm to trade in. He had one little daughter, Florence, but never since her birth had he loved or petted her because of his disappointment that she was not a boy.
When at last a son was born to him it wakened something at the bottom of his cold and heavy heart that he had never known before. He scarcely grieved for his wife, who died when the baby was born, but gave all his thought to the child. He named him Paul, and began at once to long for the time when he should become old enough to be a real member of the firm in which all his own interest centered—Dombey and Son. He hired the best nurse he could find, and, when he was not at his office, would sit and watch the baby Paul hour after hour, laying plans for his future. Soselfishly was the father's soul wrapped up in this that he scarcely ever noticed poor, lonely little Florence, whose warm heart was starving for affection.
Little Paul's nurse was very fond of him, and of his sister, too; but she had children of her own also, and one day, instead of walking up and down with Florence and the baby near the Dombey house, she took the children to another part of the city to visit her own home.
This was a wrong thing to do, and resulted in a very unhappy adventure for Florence. On their way home a mad bull broke away from his keepers and charged through the crowded street. There was great screaming and confusion and people ran in every direction, Florence among the rest. She ran for a long way, and when she stopped, her nurse was nowhere to be seen. Terrified to find herself lost in the great city, she began to cry.
The next thing she knew, an ugly old woman, with red-rimmed eyes and a mouth that mumbled all the while, grasped her by the wrist and dragged her through the shabby doorway of a dirty house into a back room heaped with rags.
"I want that pretty frock," said she, "and that little bonnet and your petticoat. Come! Take them off!"
Florence, dreadfully frightened, obeyed. The old woman took away her shoes, too, and made her put on some filthy ragged clothing from theheaps on the floor. Then she let her go, first making her promise she would not ask any one to show her the way home.
The poor child could think of nothing else but to find her father's office at Dombey and Son's, and for two hours she walked, asking the way of everybody she met. She might not have found it at all, but at a wharf where she wandered, there happened to be a young clerk of Dombey and Son's, and the minute he was pointed out to her she felt such trust in his bright and open face that she caught his hand and sobbed out all her story.
This lad's name was Walter Gay. He lived with his uncle, honest old Solomon Gills, a maker of ship's instruments, who kept a little shop with the wooden figure of a midshipman set outside. Very few customers ever came into the shop, and, indeed, hardly any one else, for Old Sol, as the neighbors called him, had only one intimate friend.
This friend was a retired seaman named Captain Cuttle, who always dressed in blue, as if he were a bird and those were his feathers. He had a hook instead of a hand attached to his right wrist, a shirt collar so large that it looked like a small sail, and wherever he went he carried in his left hand a thick stick that was covered all over (like his nose) with knobs.
Captain Cuttle used to talk on land just as if he were at sea. He would say "Steady!" and "Belay, there!" and called Old Sol "Shipmate," as thoughthe little shop, in which he spent his evenings, was a ship. He had a deep, rumbling voice, in which he would singLovely Peg, the only song he knew, and which he never but once got through to the last line. But in spite of his queer ways and talk, Captain Cuttle had the softest, kindest heart in the world. He thought old Solomon Gills the greatest man alive, and was as fond as possible of "Wal'r," as he called the nephew. And, indeed, Walter was a handsome boy, and as good as he was handsome.
Walter soothed Florence's tears and took her, ragged clothes and all, straight home to Solomon Gills's shop, where his uncle gave her a warm supper, while Walter ran to the Dombey house with the news that she was found, and to bring back a dress for her to wear.
So Florence's adventure turned out very well in one way, since through it she first met Walter Gay; but it turned out badly in another way, for Mr. Dombey was angry that any one should have seen a daughter of his in such a plight, and, unjustly enough, treasured this anger against Walter. Florence, however, never forgot her rescuer after that day, and as for Walter, he fell quite in love with her.
Florence loved her little brother very dearly, but Paul, in the constant companionship of his father, grew up without boys or play. His face was old and wistful, and he had an old-fashioned way ofsitting, brooding in his little arm-chair beside his father, looking into the fire. He used to ask strange, wise questions, and the only time he seemed childlike at all was when he was with Florence. He was never strong and well, like her, but he grew tired easily, and used to say that his bones ached.
Mr. Dombey at length grew anxious about Paul's health and sent him with Florence to Brighton, a town on the sea-coast, to the house of a Mrs. Pipchin, a stooped old lady with a mottled face, a hooked nose and a hard gray eye.
Mrs. Pipchin took little children to board, and her idea of "managing" them was to give them everything they didn't like and nothing they did like. She lived in a gloomy house, so windy that it always sounded to any one in it like a great shell which one had to hold to his ear whether he liked it or not. The children there stayed most of the time in a bare room they called "the dungeon," with a big ragged fireplace in it. They, had only bread and butter and rice to eat, while Mrs. Pipchin had tea and mutton chops and buttered toast and other nice things.
Little Paul's father did not know what a dreary place this was for a child, or doubtless he would not have sent him there. Mr. Dombey knew so little about children that it seemed as if he had never been a child himself. Paul was not happy—except when he was out on the beach with Florence, whoused to draw him in a little carriage and sing to him and tell him stories. Once a week Mr. Dombey came to Brighton and then she and little Paul would go to his hotel to take tea with him.
Paul seemed to find a curious fascination in Mrs. Pipchin. He would sit by the hour before the fire looking steadily at her, where she sat with her old black cat beside her, till his gaze quite disturbed her. He did not care to play with other children—only with Florence, whom he called "Floy." Often, as they sat together on the beach, he would ask her what it was the sea was always saying, and would rise up on his couch to listen to something he seemed to hear, far, far away.
Walter Gay, meanwhile, in London, was working away and thinking often of Florence. He was greatly worried about his Uncle Solomon, for the business of the old instrument maker was in a bad way, and Old Sol himself was melancholy.
One day Walter came home from his work at Dombey and Son's to find that an officer had taken possession of the shop and all that was in it for debt. His old Uncle Sol was sobbing like a child, and not knowing what else to do, he went post-haste for Captain Cuttle.
He found the captain with his hat on, peeling potatoes with a knife screwed into the wooden socket in his wrist instead of the hook. When he told him what had happened, Captain Cuttle jumped up, put all the money he had, his silverwatch, some spoons and a pair of sugar-tongs into his pocket and went back at once with him to the shop.
But the debt, he found, was far too big to be thus paid, and Captain Cuttle advised Walter to go to Mr. Dombey and ask him to help them, or else everything in the shop would have to be sold, and that would kill old Solomon Gills.
It was Saturday, and Mr. Dombey had gone to see little Paul, so Walter and Captain Cuttle took the next coach for Brighton.
They found him with the children at breakfast, and Walter, discouraged by his cold look, faltered lamely through his story, while Captain Cuttle laid on the table the money, the watch, the spoons and the sugar-tongs, offering them to help pay the debt. Mr. Dombey was astonished at his strange appearance and indignant at being annoyed by such an errand, so that Florence, seeing his mood and Walter's trouble, began to sob. Little Paul, however, stood looking from Walter to his father so intently and wisely that the latter, telling him he was one day to be a part of Dombey and Son, asked him if he would like to loan Walter the money.
Paul joyfully said yes, and Mr. Dombey, telling Walter that it was to be considered a loan from the boy, gave him a note which would at once release his uncle from his difficulty. So Walter and Captain Cuttle went gladly back to London.
Soon after this, when Paul was six years old, hisfather thought he should be studying, so he put him in a school next door to Mrs. Pipchin's.
The master was Doctor Blimber, a portly gentleman in knee-breeches, with a bald head and a double chin. He made all the boys there study much too hard; even those only six years old had to learn Greek and history. Poor little Paul did the best he could, but such difficult tasks made him giddy and dull. It was only the Saturdays he enjoyed; these he spent with Florence on the seashore or in Mrs. Pipchin's bare room.
Paul would have broken down sooner under Doctor Blimber's system but that Florence bought all the books he studied and studied them herself, so as to help him on Saturdays. People called him "old-fashioned," and that troubled him a great deal, but he tried to love even the old watch-dog at Doctor Blimber's, and before the holidays came everybody in the school liked him.
But before the term ended little Paul fell sick. He seemed not to be ill of any particular disease, but only weak; so weak he had to sit propped up with pillows at the entertainment Doctor Blimber gave on the final evening. After that everything was hazy until he found himself, somehow, at home in bed, with Florence beside him.
He lay there day after day, watching and dreaming. He dreamed often of a swift, silent river that flowed on and on, and he wanted to stop it with his hands.
"Why will it never stop, Floy?" he would ask her. "It is bearing me away, I think."
There were many shadowy figures that came and went. One came often and sat long, but never spoke. One day he saw it was his father, and he called out to it: "Don't be so sorry for me, dear papa. Indeed, I am quite happy."
Once he roused himself, and there were many about the bed: Florence, his father, his old nurse and Walter Gay, and he called each by name and waved his hand to them.
Florence took him in her arms and he heard the swift river flowing.
"How fast it runs, Floy! It is taking me with it. There is a shore before me now. Who is standing on the bank?"
He put his hands together behind her neck, as he had been used to do at his prayers.
"Mama is like you, Floy," he said. "I know her by her face. The light about the head is shining upon me as I go."
So little Paul died.
It was a sad, sad house for many days after that, and Florence, in her loneliness, often thought her heart would break. Her father she scarcely ever saw, for he sat alone in his room. Every night shewould steal down the dark hall to his door, and lay her head against the panels, hungering for a little love; but he thought only of his dead son, and gave no sign of tenderness to her.
One of Doctor Blimber's pupils begged for and brought her Diogenes, the old watch-dog which little Paul had petted at the school and this dog was all she had to love. She had not seen Walter Gay since the death of her brother, though he himself thought of her very often.
Walter's prospects, thanks to an enemy he had made without knowing it, had changed since then. This enemy was Carker, the manager at Dombey and Son's.
Carker was a thin man, with the whitest, most regular teeth, which he continually showed in an unpleasant smile. There was something cat-like about him; the more he disliked a person the wider was his smile. Carker had a brother whom he hated, and Walter unconsciously earned his enmity by liking and being kind to this brother.
Mr. Dombey was not fond of Walter either, the less so because Florence liked him, and disliking Florence, he disliked all for whom she cared. So, between Mr. Dombey and Carker, Walter was ordered to go, on business for the firm, on a long voyage to the West Indies.
Walter was not deceived. He knew he was not sent there for his own good, but in order not to worry his uncle he and Captain Cuttle pretendedthat it was a splendid opportunity. So old Solomon Gills tried not to sorrow for his going.
Florence heard of the voyage, and, the night before Walter sailed, in she came to the little shop where Walter had brought her years before when she had been lost. She kissed Old Sol and called Walter her brother, and said she would never forget him.
And so Walter, when next day he sailed away, waving his hand to his uncle and Captain Cuttle, went with even more of love in his heart for Florence than he had had.
After his going Florence was lonelier than before. She was all alone, save for the dog Diogenes and her books and music. Her father was much away, and in the evenings she could go into his room and nestle in his easy chair without fear of repulse. She kept the room in order and a fresh nosegay on the table, and never left it without leaving on his deserted desk a kiss and a tear. The purpose of her life, she determined, should be to try continually to let her father know how much she loved him.
But months passed and she had no chance. Her father, in fact, seldom came near the house. He was away visiting in the country with a Major Bagstock, who had struck up an acquaintance with him because of Mr. Dombey's wealth.
Bagstock (who had a habit of referring to himself as "J. B." or "Joey B.," or almost anything buthis full name) was as fat as a dancing bear, with a purple, apoplectic-looking face, and a laugh like a horse's cough. He was a glutton, and stuffed himself so at meals that he did little but choke and wheeze through the latter half of them. He was a great flatterer, however, and he flattered so well that Mr. Dombey, blind from his own pride, thought him a very proper person indeed. And even though everybody laughed at the major, Mr. Dombey always found him most agreeable company.
There was an old lady at the town they visited who was poor, but very fond of fashion and rich people. She had no heart, and was silly enough, even though she was seventy years old, to wear rouge on her cheeks and dress like a girl of seventeen. She had a widowed daughter, Edith Granger, a proud, lovely woman, who despised the life her mother led, but, in spite of this, was weak enough to be influenced by her.
Major Bagstock introduced Mr. Dombey to the mother, and the latter soon made up her mind that her daughter should marry him. The major (who wanted Mr. Dombey to marry so he himself could profit by the dinners and entertainments that would follow) helped this affair on all he could, and Edith, though at times she hated herself for the false part she was playing, agreed to it.
To tell the truth, Mr. Dombey was so full of his own conceit that he never stopped to wonder ifEdith could really love him. She was beautiful and as cold and haughty as he was himself, and that was all he considered. So Major Bagstock and the old lady were soon chuckling and wheezing together with delight at the success of their plan, and before long Edith had promised to marry Florence's father.
Poor Florence! She had other griefs of her own by this time. Carker, of Dombey and Son, with the false smile and the white teeth, came several times to see her, asking if she had messages to send to her father—each time seeming purposely to wound her by recalling her father's dislike. She tried to like the smooth, oily manager, but there was something in his face she could not but distrust.
To add to her trouble, the ship by which Walter Gay had sailed for the West Indies had not yet arrived there. It was long overdue, and in the absence of news people began to fear it had been lost. She went to the little shop where the wooden midshipman stood, but found old Solomon Gills and Captain Cuttle in as great anxiety.
Old Sol, indeed, was soon in such distress for fear Walter had been drowned, that he felt he could bear the suspense no longer. One day, soon after Florence's visit, he disappeared from London, leaving a letter for Captain Cuttle.
This letter said he had gone to the West Indies to search for Walter, and asked the captain to carefor the little shop and keep it open, so that it could be a home for his nephew if he should ever appear. As for himself, Old Sol said if he did not return within a year he would be dead, and the captain should take the shop for his own.
The disappearance of his old friend was a great blow to bluff Captain Cuttle, but, determined to do his part, he left his own lodgings and took up his place at the sign of the wooden midshipman to wait for news either of Walter or of old Solomon Gills.
Florence knew nothing about this, for the captain had not the heart to tell her. And, for her own part, she had much to think of in the approaching marriage of her father, in preparation for which the house was full of painters and paper-hangers, making it over for the bride.
The first time Florence saw Edith was when one day she entered the parlor to find her father there with a strange, beautiful lady beside him. Mr. Dombey told her the lady would soon be her mama, and Edith, touched by the child's sweet face, bent down and kissed her so tenderly that Florence, so starved for affection, began at that moment to love her, and to hope through Edith's love finally to win the love of her father.
The wedding was a very grand one, and many people were at the church to see it. Even Captain Cuttle watched it from the gallery, and Carker's smile, as he looked on, showed more of his whiteteeth than ever. The only thing that marred Florence's happiness and hope on this day was the knowledge that Walter had not been heard from and the fear that he might never return.
But in spite of her brave hope, after her father and Edith came back from their wedding journey and the life of parties and dinners began, Florence was soon disheartened. In the first flush of confidence she opened all her soul to Edith and begged her to teach her to win her father's liking. But Edith, knowing (as Florence did not know) how she had sold herself in this rich marriage and that she had no particle of love in her heart for her husband, told her sadly that she could not help her. This puzzled Florence greatly, for she loved Edith and knew that Edith loved her in return.
In fact, it was Florence's trust and innocence that made Edith's conscience torture her the more. In Florence's pure presence she felt more and more unworthy, and the knowledge that her husband's hardness of heart was crushing the child's life and happiness made her hate him.
Florence saw, before many months passed, that her father and Edith did not live in love and contentment. Indeed, how could they? She had married for ambition, he for pride, and neither loved nor would yield to the other. They had not the same friends or acquaintances. Hers were people of fashion; his were men of business. At the dinners they gave, Mr. Dombey did not think Edithtreated his friends politely enough. He began to reprove her more and more often, and when she paid no heed he finally chid her openly and sternly in the presence of Carker (who brought his smile and gleaming teeth often to the house), knowing this action would most wound Edith's pride. And at length he took the management of the house out of her hands and hired as housekeeper Mrs. Pipchin, the old ogre of Brighton, at whose house Florence and little Paul had once lived.
The worst of it all was that the more Mr. Dombey grew to dislike his wife the more he saw she loved Florence, and this made him detest the poor child more than ever. He imagined, in his cruel selfishness, that as Florence had come between him and the love of little Paul, so she was now coming between him and his wife. Finally he sent Carker to Edith, telling her she must no longer sit or talk with Florence—that they must see each other only in his presence.
Florence's cup of bitterness was now almost full, for she knew nothing of this command, and, when she saw that Edith avoided her, sorrowed in secret. She was quite alone again now, save for Diogenes. Neither Major Bagstock, her father's flatterer, nor Carker, with his cat-like smile, could she see without a shudder, and all the while her heart was aching for her father's love.
Mr. Dombey's insults were heaped more andmore upon the defenseless Edith, till at last, made desperate by his pride and cruelty, she prepared a terrible revenge. On the morning of the anniversary of their wedding-day Mr. Dombey was startled by the news that Edith had run away with the false-hearted Carker!
On that terrible morning, when the proud old man sat stunned in his room, Florence, yielding to her first impulse of grief and pity for him, ran to him to comfort him. But when she would have thrown her arms around his neck he lifted his arm and struck her so that she tottered.
And as he did so he bade her follow Edith, since they had always been in league!
In that blow Florence felt at last his cruelty, neglect and hatred trampling down any feeling of compassion he may once have had for her. She saw she had no longer a father she could love; and, wringing her hands, with her head bent to hide her agony of tears, ran out of the house that could no more be her home, into the heartless street.
For a long time she ran without purpose, weeping, and not knowing where to go. But at last she thought of the day, so many years before, when she had been lost and when Walter Gay had foundher. He had taken her then to the shop of his uncle, old Solomon Gills. There, she thought, she might at least find shelter.
When she got to the sign of the wooden midshipman she had just enough strength to knock and push open the door, and then, at sight of Captain Cuttle's honest face, all her strength left her, and she fainted on the threshold.
Captain Cuttle was cooking his breakfast. He knew her at once, even though she had grown to be a young lady. He lifted her and laid her on the sofa, calling her his "lady lass," and bathed her face in cold water till she opened her eyes and knew him. She told him all her story, and he comforted her, and told her the shop should be her home just as long as she would stay in it. When she had eaten some toast and drunk some tea he made her lie down in the little upper room and sleep till she woke refreshed at evening.
When she came down the stair she found Captain Cuttle cooking dinner. He seemed to her then to have some great, joyful and mysterious secret. All through the evening and until she went to bed he would persist in drawing the conversation around to Walter, which brought the tears again and again to her eyes.
Then he would rumble out, "Wal'r's drown-ded, ain't he, pretty?" and nod his head and look very wise.
Indeed, Captain Cuttledidhave a wonderfulsecret. While Florence had been sleeping he had received a great piece of news: Walter, whom every one had believed drowned, had escaped death alone of all on the wrecked vessel. He had clung to a spar when the ship went down, and had been picked up by a vessel going in another direction, so he had had no way of sending back news of his safety. The ship that had rescued him had at last brought him back to London, and it would not be long now before he would appear at the shop.
You may guess Captain Cuttle's heart was full of thankfulness. But, not knowing much about such matters, he had an idea that the good news must be broken very gently to Florence. So at last he commenced to tell her a story about a shipwreck in which only one was saved, and then she began to suspect the truth and her heart beat joyfully. Just as he finished the story the door opened. There was Walter himself, alive and well, and with a cry of joy she sprang to his arms.
There was much to talk of that night in the little shop. With her face on Captain Cuttle's shoulder, Florence told him how and why she had left her home. And Walter, as he took her hand and kissed it, knew that she was a homeless, wandering fugitive, but richer to him thus than in all the wealth and pride of her former station, that had once made her seem so far off from him. Very soon after that he told Florence that he loved her—notas a brother, but as something even dearer—and she promised to be his wife.
On the evening before their wedding-day one more surprise came to them. They were all gathered in the shop when the outer door opened. Captain Cuttle suddenly hit the table a terrific blow with his hook, shouted "Sol Gills, ahoy!" and tumbled into the arms of a man in an old, weather-beaten coat. It was old Solomon Gills indeed, returned from his long search, and now, to see Walter there, weeping with joy.
In another moment Walter and Florence were both in his arms, too, and everybody was laughing and crying and talking together. Old Sol had been half-way around the world in his search for Walter, but had finally heard of his safety and started home, knowing he would go there also. It was a very joyous evening, that last evening of Florence's girl life.
The next morning Walter and Florence paid an early visit to the grave of little Paul. She bade it a long good-by, for Walter had become an officer of a ship and she was to make the coming voyage with her husband. Then they went to the church, where they were married, and a few days later they sailed away to China (with Captain Cuttle's big watch and sugar-tongs and teaspoons, that he had once offered to Mr. Dombey, for wedding presents), content in each other's love.
Often, indeed, in this happy honeymoon Florenceremembered the father who had spurned her. But Walter's love had taken away the bitterness of that thought. She tried to love her father now rather as she loved the memory of little Paul—not as a cruel, cold, living man, but as some one who had once lived and who might once have loved her.