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

CHARACTERS

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.