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 in an 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.



LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF NICHOLAS NICKLEBY

Published 1839

Scene: London, Portsmouth and the Country

Time: About 1830

CHARACTERS

Nicholas Nickleby A young gentleman

Mrs. Nickleby His mother

Kate His sister

Ralph Nickleby His uncle A miserly money-lender

Noggs Ralph Nickleby's clerk

Squeers The proprietor of Dotheboys Hall, a country school for boys

Mrs. Squeers His wife

Fanny Their daughter

Wackford Their son

Smike A poor drudge at Dotheboys Hall Befriended by Nicholas. In reality Ralph Nickleby's son

Madame Mantalini A London dressmaker Kate's first employer

Mr. Mantalini Her husband

Miss Knag Her forewoman

Sir Mulberry Hawk A dissolute man of the world

Lord Frederick Verisopht A young nobleman Hawk's friend

Mr. Vincent Crummles Manager of a theater in Portsmouth

Mrs. Crummles His wife

Ninetta Their daughter Known as "The Infant Phenomenon"

Mrs. Wititterly A would-be fashionable lady Kate's second employer

The Cheeryble Brothers Twin merchants Nicholas's benefactors

Bray A spendthrift and invalid

Madeline His daughter

Gride A miser



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY

I

NICHOLAS AT DOTHEBOYS HALL

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 spoke to 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 were miserable. 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 Squeers had 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.

II

NICHOLAS BECOMES AN ACTOR

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 Nickleby called 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 a man 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 role 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.

III

NICHOLAS COMES TO KATE'S RESCUE

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 drinking toasts 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 loved by 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.

IV

WHAT HAPPENED TO EVERYBODY

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 were determined 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 him marry 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 stepping between 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 be transported 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 for seven 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.



DEALINGS WITH THE FIRM OF DOMBEY AND SON WHOLESALE, RETAIL, AND FOR EXPORTATION

Published 1846-1848

Scene: London, Brighton, and France

Time: About 1830 to 1846

CHARACTERS

Mr. Dombey A London merchant Head of the firm of Dombey and Son

"Little Paul" His son

Florence His daughter Called by little Paul, "Floy"

Edith Granger A widow Later, Mr. Dombey's wife

Walter Gay A clerk for Dombey and Son Later, Florence's husband

Solomon Gills His uncle A ship's instrument maker. Known as Old Sol

Captain Cuttle A retired seaman Bosom friend of Old Sol's

Carker Manager for Dombey and Son

Mrs. Pipchin Proprietress of a children's boarding-house at Brighton Later, Mr. Dombey's housekeeper

Doctor Blimber Proprietor of a boys' school at Brighton

Major Bagstock A retired army officer

Diogenes Doctor Blimber's dog Later a pet of Florence's



DOMBEY AND SON

I

LITTLE PAUL

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. So selfishly 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 the heaps 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 though the little shop, in which he spent his evenings, was a ship. He had a deep, rumbling voice, in which he would sing Lovely 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 of sitting, 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, who used 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 silver watch, 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, his father 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.

II

HOW FLORENCE LOST HER FATHER

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 she would 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 pretended that 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 but his 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 if Edith 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 care for 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 white teeth 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 Edith treated 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 and more 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.

III

HOW FLORENCE REACHED A REFUGE

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 found her. 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 Cuttle did have a wonderful secret. 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—not as 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 Florence remembered 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.

IV

HOW FLORENCE FOUND HER FATHER AT LAST

Mr. Dombey, alone in the silent house, had made no search for Florence. His pride bade him hide all traces of his grief and rage from the world. He had only one thought—to find where Carker had fled with his wife, to follow and to kill him. He hired detectives and at last discovered that Carker had gone to a certain city in France. And to that place he followed him.

Now Edith, desperate as she had been, had not really been so wicked as Mr. Dombey supposed her. She had deserted him, but she had not run away with Carker. In all the trouble between herself and Mr. Dombey, Carker (the smooth, smiling hypocrite!) had labored to make matters worse. He had lied to Mr. Dombey about his wife and taunted her with her position, and done everything in his power to make them hate each other more bitterly. At last, when he saw Edith could bear it no longer, he had begged her to run away with him, and when she refused, he had threatened her in many cowardly ways. But Edith hated him as much as she disliked her husband, and had not the least idea of running away with him. She had pretended to Carker that she would do so, and had led her husband and everybody else to think she had done so, but this was only to wound her husband's pride, and to punish him for all his tortures. Carker had followed her to France, but, once there, he had found the tables turned. Edith laughed at him and scorned him, and sent him from her, baffled and furious.

Carker was thus caught in his own trap. He had lost his own position and reputation, and had gained nothing for all his evil plots. And besides this, he was a fugitive, and Mr. Dombey, the man he had wronged, was on his track.

When he learned his enemy had followed him to France, Carker, raging, but cowardly, fled back to England; and back to England Edith's revengeful husband followed him day and night. The wicked manager knew no more peace or rest. He traveled into the country, seeking some lonely village in which to hide, but he could not shake off that grim pursuer.

They met at last face to face one day on a railroad platform when neither was expecting to see the other.

In the surprise of the meeting, Carker's foot slipped—he stepped backward, directly in the path of the engine that was roaring up the track. It caught him, and tossed him, and tore him limb from limb, and its iron wheels crushed and ground him to pieces.

And that was the end of Carker, of the white teeth and false smile, and Mr. Dombey went back to London, still proud and alone, still cold and forbidding.

But his conscience at last had begun to cry out against him, and to deafen its voice he plunged more and more recklessly into business, spending money too lavishly, and taking risks of which, in other days, he would not have thought.

The months went by and little by little the old firm of Dombey and Son became more entangled. Soon there were whispers that the business was in difficulty, but Mr. Dombey did not hear them. One morning the crash came. A bank closed and then suddenly the word went around that the old firm had failed.

It was too true. The proud, hard-hearted merchant, who had driven his daughter from him, was ruined and a beggar. His rich friends, whom he had treated so haughtily, shrugged their shoulders and sneered. Even Major Bagstock at his club grew purple in the face with chuckling.

The servants were all sent away, most of the furniture was sold at a public sale, and the old man, who had once been so proud and held his gray head so high, still sat on hour after hour in the echoing house, so empty now that even the rats would not live in it. What was he thinking?

At last, in his agony, his sorrow, his remorse, his despair, he remembered Florence. He saw again her trembling lips, her lonely face longing for love—the terrible hopeless change that came over it when his own cruel arm struck her on that final day when she had stood before him.

His pride at last had fallen. He knew now himself what it was to be rejected and deserted. He thought how the daughter he had disliked, of them all, had never changed in her love for him. And by his own act he had lost her for ever. His son, his wife, his fortune, all had gone, and now at last in his wretchedness he knew that Florence would always have been true to him if he had only let her.

Days passed, but he never left the house; every night he wandered through the empty rooms like a ghost. He grew to be a haggard, wasted likeness of himself. And one day the thought came to him that it would be better if he, too, were dead, even if it be by his own hand. This thought clung to him. He could not shake it off.

One day he took a pistol from his dressing-table and sat hugging it to his breast. At length he rose and stood in front of a mirror with the weapon in his hand.

But suddenly he heard a cry—a piercing, loving, rapturous cry—and he saw at his feet, clasping his knees, with her face lifted to his, Florence, his long-lost daughter.

"Papa, dearest papa!" she cried, "I have come back to you. I never can be happy more without you."

He tottered to a chair, feeling her draw his arms around her neck. He felt her wet cheek laid against his own. He heard her soft voice telling him that now she herself had a little child—a baby boy born at sea—whom she and Walter had named Paul.

"Dear papa," she said, "you will come home with me. We will teach our little child to love and honor you, and we will tell him when he can understand that you had a son of that name once, and that he died and that you were sorry; but that he is gone to Heaven, where we all hope to see him sometime. Kiss me, papa, as a promise that you will be reconciled. Never let us be parted any more!"

His hard heart had been melting while she spoke. As she clung closer to him he kissed her, and she heard him mutter, "Oh, God forgive me, for I need it very much!"

She drew him to his feet, and walking with a feeble gait he went with her. With her eyes upon his face and his arm about her, she led him to the coach waiting at the door and carried him away.

Mr. Dombey was very ill for a long time. When he recovered he was no longer his old self, but a gentle, loving, white-haired old man. Walter did not go to sea again, but found a position of great trust and confidence in London, and in their home the old man felt growing stronger and stronger his new-found love for the daughter whom till now he had never really known.

Florence never saw Edith again but once. Then the latter came back to bid her farewell for ever before she went to live in Italy. In these years Edith had seen her own pride and grieved for her fault. There were tears in her stern, dark eyes when Florence asked if she would send some message to Mr. Dombey.

"Tell him," she answered, "that if in his own present he can find a reason to think less bitterly of me, I asked him to do so. I will try to forgive him his share of blame; let him try to forgive me mine."

Time went happily by in the home of Walter and Florence. They often visited the little shop where stood the wooden midshipman, now in a new suit of paint. The sign above the door had become "Gills and Cuttle," for Old Sol and the Captain had gone into partnership, and the firm had grown rich through the successes of some of Solomon Gills's old investments which had finally turned out well.

Walter was beloved by everybody who knew him, and in time refounded the old firm of Dombey and Son.

Often in the summer, on the sea-beach, old Mr. Dombey might have been seen wandering with Florence's little children. The oldest was little Paul, and he thought of him sometimes almost as of the other little Paul who died.

But most of all the old gentleman loved the little girl. He could not bear to see her sit apart or with a cloud on her face. He often stole away to look at her in her sleep, and was fondest and most loving to her when there was no one by.

The child used to say then sometimes:

"Dear grandpa, why do you cry when you kiss me?"

But he would only answer, "Little Florence! Little Florence!" and smooth away the curls that shaded her earnest eyes.



THE POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF THE PICKWICK CLUB

Published 1836-1837

Scene: London, Neighboring Towns, Bath, and the Country

Time: 1827 to 1831

CHARACTERS

Mr. Samuel Pickwick A gentleman of an inquiring mind Founder and chairman of "The Pickwick Club"

Sam Weller His body-servant

Mrs. Bardell His London landlady

Tupman } } Snodgrass} Members of "The Pickwick Club" } Winkle }

Alfred Jingle A strolling actor and adventurer Later, known as "Fitz-Marshall"

Job Trotter His servant

Mrs. Budger A rich widow

Doctor Slammer An army surgeon Mrs. Budger's suitor

Mr. Wardle A country gentleman A friend of the Pickwickians

Emily His daughter

Miss Wardle His spinster sister

Joe Mr. Wardle's footman Known as "The Fat Boy"

Tony Weller A stage driver. Sam's father

Mrs. Weller His second wife

Mrs. Leo Hunter A lady with a fondness for knowing celebrated persons

Mr. Peter Magnus One of Mr. Pickwick's traveling acquaintances

Nupkins Mayor of Ipswich

Mrs. Nupkins His wife

Miss Nupkins His daughter

Ben Allen } } Medical students Bob Sawyer }

Arabella Allen Ben's pretty sister

Sergeant Buzfuz Mrs. Bardell's lawyer

Mr. Dowler One of Mr. Pickwick's acquaintances at Bath

Mrs. Dowler His wife

Mr. Angelo Cyrus Bantam A society leader at Bath

Mary Nupkins's pretty housemaid



THE PICKWICK PAPERS

I

THE PICKWICKIANS BEGIN THEIR ADVENTURES THEY MEET MR. ALFRED JINGLE, AND WINKLE IS INVOLVED IN A DUEL

Once upon a time, in London, there was a club called "The Pickwick Club." Mr. Samuel Pickwick, its founder and chairman, was a benevolent, simple-hearted old gentleman of some wealth, with a taste for science. He delighted to invent the most profound theories, to explain the most ordinary happenings and to write long papers to be read before the Club. He had a large bald head, and eyes that twinkled behind round spectacles, and he made a speech with one hand under his coat tails and the other waving in the air.

His fellow members looked upon Mr. Pickwick as a very great man, and when he proposed that he and three others form a "Corresponding Society," which should travel about and forward to the club accounts of their adventures, the idea was at once adopted.

The three that Mr. Pickwick chose were named Tupman, Snodgrass and Winkle. Tupman was middle-aged with a double chin and was so fat that for years he had not seen the watch chain that crossed his silk waistcoat. But he had a youthful, romantic disposition, and a great liking for the fair sex. Snodgrass, who had no parents, was a ward of Mr. Pickwick's and imagined himself a poet. Winkle was a young man whose father had sent him to London to learn life; he wore a green shooting-coat and his great ambition was to be considered a sportsman, though at heart he was afraid of either a horse or a gun. With these three companions Mr. Pickwick prepared to set out in search of adventures.

Next morning as he drove in a cab to the inn where all were to take the coach, Mr. Pickwick began to chat with the driver. The cabman amused himself by telling the most impossible things, all of which Mr. Pickwick believed. When he said his horse was forty-two years old and that he often kept him out three weeks at a time without resting, down it went in Mr. Pickwick's note-book as a wonderful instance of the endurance of horses. Unfortunately, however, the driver thought Mr. Pickwick was putting down the number of the cab so as to complain of him, and as they arrived just then at the inn, he jumped from his seat with the intention of fighting his dismayed passenger. He knocked off Mr. Pickwick's spectacles and, dancing back and forth as the other's three comrades rushed to the rescue, planted a blow in Mr. Snodgrass's eye, another in Tupman's waistcoat and ended by knocking all the breath out of Winkle's body.

From this dilemma they were rescued by a tall, thin, long-haired, young man in a faded green coat, worn black trousers and patched shoes, who seized Mr. Pickwick and lugged him into the inn by main force, talking with a jaunty independent manner and in rapid and broken sentences:

"This way, sir—where's your friends?—all a mistake—never mind—here, waiter—brandy and water—raw beefsteak for the gentleman's eye—eh,—ha-ha!"

The seedy-looking stranger, whose name was Alfred Jingle, was a passenger on the same coach that day and entertained the Pickwickians with marvelous stories of his life in Spain. None of these was true, to be sure, but they were all entered in Mr. Pickwick's note-book. In gratitude, that night the latter invited Jingle to dinner at the town inn where they stopped.

The dinner was long, and almost before it was over not only Mr. Pickwick, but Snodgrass and Winkle also were asleep. Tupman, however, was more wakeful; a ball, the waiter had told him, was to be held that night on the upper floor and he longed to attend it. Jingle readily agreed, especially when Tupman said he could borrow for him a blue dress suit, the property of the sleeping Winkle.

They were soon dressed and at the ball. Jingle's jaunty air gained him a number of introductions. Before long he was dancing with a little old widow named Mrs. Budger, who was very rich, and to whom he at once began to make love. There was an army surgeon present named Slammer—a short fat man with a ring of upright black hair around his head, and a bald plain on top of it—who had been courting the rich widow himself. Doctor Slammer was old; Jingle was young, and the lady felt flattered. Every moment the doctor grew angrier and at last tried to pick a quarrel with the wearer of the blue dress suit, at which Jingle only laughed. The ball over, Tupman and Jingle went down stairs. Winkle's clothes were returned to their place, and Jingle, promising to join the party at dinner next day, took his departure.

The Pickwickians were hardly awake next morning when an army officer came to the inn inquiring which gentleman of their number owned a blue dress suit with gilt buttons. When told that Mr. Winkle had such a costume he demanded to see him, and at once, in the name of his friend Doctor Slammer, challenged him to fight a duel that night at sunset.

Poor Winkle almost fainted with surprise. When the stranger explained that the wearer of the blue suit had insulted Doctor Slammer, Winkle concluded that he must have drunk too much wine at dinner, changed his clothes, gone somewhere, and insulted somebody—of all of which he had no recollection. He saw no way, therefore, but to accept the bloodthirsty challenge, hoping that something would happen to prevent the duel.

Winkle was dreadfully afraid, for he had never fired a pistol in his life. He chose Snodgrass for his second, hoping the latter would tell Mr. Pickwick; but Snodgrass, he soon found to his dismay, had no idea of doing so. The day wore heavily away, and Winkle could think of no escape. At sunset they walked to the appointed spot—a lonely field—and at last Winkle found himself, pistol in hand, opposite another man armed likewise, and waiting the signal to shoot.

At that moment Doctor Slammer saw that the man he faced was not the one who had insulted him at the ball. Explanations were soon made and the whole party walked back together to the inn, where Winkle introduced his new friends to the Pickwickians. Jingle, however, was with the latter, and Doctor Slammer at once recognized him as the wearer of the blue dress suit. The doctor flew into a rage and only the statement of his fellow officer, that Jingle was not a gentleman, but a strolling actor far beneath the doctor's dignity, prevented an encounter. As it was, Slammer stumped off in anger, leaving the Pickwickians to enjoy the evening in their own way.

II

TUPMAN HAS A LOVE-AFFAIR WITH A SPINSTER, AND THE PICKWICKIANS FIND OUT THE REAL CHARACTER OF JINGLE

Next day a military drill was held just outside the town and the Pickwickians went to see it. In the confusion of running officers and prancing horses they became separated from one another. Mr. Pickwick, Snodgrass and Winkle found themselves between two lines of troops, in danger of being run down. At this moment they saw Tupman standing in an open carriage near by and, hurrying to it, were hoisted in.

The carriage belonged to a short, stout old gentleman named Wardle who had attended some of the club's meetings in London and knew Mr. Pickwick by sight. He lived at a place near by called Dingley Dell, from which he had driven to see the drill, with his old maid sister and his own two pretty daughters. Fastened behind was a big hamper of lunch and on the box was a fat boy named Joe, whom Mr. Wardle kept as a curiosity because he did nothing but eat and sleep. Joe went on errands fast asleep and snored as he waited on the table. He had slept all through the roaring of the cannon and the old gentleman had to pinch him awake to serve the luncheon.

They had a merry time that day, Tupman being deeply smitten with the charms of the elderly Miss Wardle, and Snodgrass no less in love with Emily, one of the pretty daughters. When the review was over the old gentleman invited them all to visit Dingley Dell next day.

Early in the morning they set out, Mr. Pickwick driving Tupman and Snodgrass in a chaise, while Winkle rode on horseback to uphold his reputation as a sportsman. Mr. Pickwick was distrustful of the horse he hired, but the hostler assured him that even a wagon-load of monkeys with their tails burnt off would not make him shy.

Winkle had never ridden a horse before, but he was ashamed to admit it.

For a while all went well; then the luckless Winkle dropped his whip and when he dismounted the horse would not let him mount again. Mr. Pickwick got out of the chaise to help, and at this the animal jerked the bridle away and trotted home. Hearing the clatter the other horse bolted, too. Snodgrass and Tupman jumped for their lives and the chaise was smashed to pieces against a wooden bridge. With difficulty the horse was freed from the ruins and, leading him, the four friends walked the seven miles to Dingley Dell, where they found Mr. Wardle and the fat boy, the latter fast asleep as usual, posted in the lane to meet them.

Brushes, a needle and thread and some cherry-brandy soon cured their rents and bruises and they forgot their misfortunes in an evening of pleasure. Mr. Wardle's mother was a deaf old lady with an ear-trumpet, who loved to play whist. When she disliked a person she would pretend she could not hear a word he said, but Mr. Pickwick's jollity and compliments made her forget even to use her ear-trumpet. Tupman flirted with the spinster aunt and Snodgrass whispered poetry into Emily's ear to his heart's content.

Next morning Mr. Wardle took Winkle rook-shooting. The pair set out with their guns, preceded by the fat boy and followed by Mr. Pickwick, Snodgrass and the corpulent Tupman. Winkle, who disliked to admit his ignorance of guns, showed it in a painful way. His first shot missed the birds, and lodged itself in the arm of Tupman, who fell to the ground. The confusion that followed can not be described. They bound up his wounds and supported him to the house, where the ladies waited at the garden gate, Mr. Wardle calling out to them not to be frightened.

The warning, however, had no effect on the spinster aunt. At the sight of her Tupman wounded, she began to scream. Old Mr. Wardle told her not to be a fool, but Tupman was affected almost to tears and spoke her name with such romantic tenderness that the poor foolish lady felt quite a flutter at her heart.

A surgeon found the wound a slight one, and as a cricket match was to be played that day, the host left Tupman in the care of the ladies and carried off the others to the game.

When they reached the field, the first words that fell on Mr. Pickwick's ear made him start:

"This way—capital fun—glorious day—make yourself at home—glad to see you—very." It was Jingle, still clad in his faded green coat. He had fallen in with the visiting players, and by telling wonderful tales of the games he had played in the West Indies, soon convinced them he was a great cricket player. Seeing him greet Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Wardle, thinking him a friend of his guest, procured him an invitation to the dinner that followed the match. There Jingle made good use of his time in eating and drinking, and at midnight was heard leading with great effect the chorus:

"We won't go home till morning."

Meanwhile, the romantic Tupman at Dingley Dell had been free to woo the middle-aged spinster. This he did with such success that when evening came, he and she sat together in a vine-covered arbor in the garden like a pair of carefully folded kid gloves—bound up in each other. He had just printed a kiss on her lips when both looked up to see the fat boy, perfectly motionless, staring into the arbor.

"Supper's ready," said the fat boy, and his look was so blank that they both concluded he must have been asleep and had seen nothing.

It was long past midnight when a tremendous noise told that the absent ones had returned. All rushed to the kitchen, where Jingle's voice was heard crying: "Cricket dinner—glorious party—capital songs—very good—wine ma'am—wine!" Mr. Pickwick, Snodgrass and Winkle went to bed, but the talkative Jingle remained with the ladies and before they retired had made Tupman almost mad with jealousy by his attentions to the spinster aunt, who showed herself greatly pleased with his politeness.

Now the fat boy, for once in his life, had not been asleep when he had announced supper that evening. He had seen Tupman's love-making, and took the first occasion to tell the deaf old lady, as she sat in the garden arbor next morning. He was obliged to shout it in her ear, and thus the whole story was overheard by Jingle, who happened to be near.

The deceitful Jingle saw in this a chance to benefit himself. The spinster, he thought, had money; what could he better do than turn her against Tupman, and marry her himself? With this plan he went to Tupman, recited what the fat boy had told, and advised him, for a time, in order to throw off the suspicions of the old lady and of Mr. Wardle, to pay special attention to one of the younger daughters and to pretend to care nothing for the spinster. He told Tupman that the latter herself had made this plan and wished him to carry it out for her sake. Tupman, thinking it the wish of his lady-love, did this with such success that the old lady concluded the fat boy must have been dreaming.

The spinster, however, thought Tupman false, and Jingle used the next few days to make such violent love to her that the silly creature believed him, forgot Tupman, and agreed to run away with the deceiver to London.

There was great excitement when their absence was discovered, and the wrathful Mr. Wardle and Mr. Pickwick pursued them at once in a four-horse chaise. They rode all night and, reaching London, at once began to inquire at various inns to find a trace of the runaway pair.

They came at length to one called The White Hart, in whose courtyard a round-faced man-servant was cleaning boots. This servant, whose name was Sam Weller, wore a coat with blue glass buttons, a bright red handkerchief tied around his neck and an old white hat stuck on the side of his head. He spoke with a quaint country accent, but he was a witty fellow, with a clever answer for every one.

"Werry well, I'm agreeable," he said when Mr. Pickwick gave him a gold piece. "What the devil do you want with me, as the man said when he see the ghost?"

With Sam Weller's aid, they soon found that Jingle and the spinster were there, and entered the room in which the couple sat at the very moment Jingle was showing the marriage license which he had just brought. The spinster at once went into violent hysterics, and Jingle, seeing the game was up, accepted the sum of money which Mr. Wardle offered him to take himself off.

There were deep lamentations when the confiding spinster found herself deserted by the faithless Jingle, and slowly and sadly Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Wardle bore her back to Dingley Dell.

The heartbroken Tupman had already left there, and with feelings of gloom Mr. Pickwick, with Snodgrass and Winkle, also departed.

III

MR. PICKWICK HAS AN INTERESTING SCENE WITH MRS. BARDELL, HIS HOUSEKEEPER. FURTHER PURSUIT OF JINGLE LEADS TO AN ADVENTURE AT A YOUNG LADIES' BOARDING-SCHOOL

Mr. Pickwick lived in lodgings, let for a single gentleman, in the house of a Mrs. Bardell, a widow with one little boy. For a long time she had secretly adored her benevolent lodger, as some one far above her own humble station.

Mr. Pickwick had not forgotten Sam Weller, the servant who had aided in the pursuit of Jingle, and on returning to London he wrote, asking Sam to come to see him, intending to offer him a position as body-servant. Sam came promptly and Mr. Pickwick then proceeded to tell his landlady of his plan—a more or less delicate matter, since it would cause some change in her household affairs.

"Mrs. Bardell," said he, "do you think it a much greater expense to keep two people than one?"

"La, Mr. Pickwick!" answered Mrs. Bardell, fancying she saw matrimony in his eye. "That depends on whether it's a saving person."

"Very true," said Mr. Pickwick, "but the person I have in my eye"—here he looked at Mrs. Bardell—"has this quality. And to tell you the truth, I have made up my mind."

Mrs. Bardell blushed to her cap border. Her lodger was going to propose! "Oh, Mr. Pickwick!" she said, "you're very kind, sir. I'm sure I ought to be a very happy woman."

"It'll save you a deal of trouble," Mr. Pickwick went on, "and when I'm in town you'll always have somebody to sit with you."

"Oh, you dear—" said Mrs. Bardell.

Mr. Pickwick started.

"Oh, you kind, good, playful dear!" said Mrs. Bardell, and flung herself on his neck with a cataract of tears.

The astonished Mr. Pickwick struggled violently, pleading and reproving, but in vain. Mrs. Bardell clung the tighter, and exclaiming frantically that she would never leave him, fainted away in his arms. At the same moment Tupman, Winkle and Snodgrass entered the room. Mr. Pickwick tried to explain, but in their faces he read that they suspected him of making love to the widow.

This reflection made him miserable and ill at ease. He lost no time in taking Sam Weller into his service, on condition that he travel with the Pickwickians in their further search for adventures, and at once proposed to his three comrades another journey.

Next day, therefore, found them on the road for Eatanswill, a town near London which was then on the eve of a political election. This was a very exciting struggle and interested them greatly.

Here, one morning soon after their arrival, a fancy dress breakfast was given by Mrs. Leo Hunter, a lady who had once written an Ode to an Expiring Frog and who made a great point of knowing everybody who was at all celebrated for anything. All of the Pickwickians attended the breakfast. Mr. Pickwick's dignity was too great for him to don a fancy costume, but the rest wore them, Tupman going as a bandit in a green velvet coat with a two-inch tail.

Mrs. Leo Hunter herself, in the character of Minerva, insisted on presenting Mr. Pickwick to all the guests.

In the midst of the gaiety Mrs. Leo Hunter's husband called out: "My dear, here comes Mr. Fitz-Marshall," and, to his astonishment, Mr. Pickwick heard a well-known voice exclaiming: "Coming, my dear ma'am—crowds of people—full room—hard work—very!"

It was Jingle. Mr. Pickwick indignantly faced him, but the impostor, at the first glance turned and fled. Mr. Pickwick, after hurriedly questioning his hostess, who told him Mr. Fitz-Marshall lived at an inn in a village not far away, left the entertainment instantly, bent on pursuit. With Sam Weller, his faithful servant, he took the next stage-coach and nightfall found him lodged in a room in that very inn, while Sam set himself to discover Jingle's whereabouts.

With the money Mr. Wardle had paid him Jingle had set up as a gentleman: he even had a servant—a sneaking fellow with a sallow, solemn face and lank hair, named Job Trotter, who could burst into tears whenever it suited his purpose and whose favorite occupation seemed to be reading a hymn-book. Sam Weller soon picked an acquaintance with Job, and it was not long before the latter confided to him that Jingle his master (whom he pretended to think very wicked) had plotted to run away that same night, with a beautiful young lady from a boarding-school just outside the village, at which he was a frequent caller. Job said his master was such a villain that he had made up his mind to betray him.