Florence, trembling with an agitation which she could not control or understand, involuntarily followed his glance, which went behind her into the shop where a lamp was burning. The instant that she turned her head, the captain sprung out of his chair, and interposed his hand.

"There's nothing there, my Beauty," said the captain. "Don't look there!"

Then he murmured something about its being dull that way, and about the fire being cheerful. He drew the door ajar, which had been standing open until now, and resumed his seat. Florence looked intently in his face.

"The story was about a ship, my Lady La.s.s," began the captain, "as sailed out of the port of London, with a fair wind and in fair weather, bound for--Don't be took aback my Lady La.s.s, she was only out'ard.

Pretty, only out'ard bound!"

The expression on Florence's face alarmed the captain, who was himself very hot and flurried, and showed scarcely less agitation than she did.

"Shall I go on, Beauty?" said the captain.

"Yes, yes, pray!" cried Florence.

The captain made a gulp as if to get down something that was stuck in his throat, and nervously proceeded:

"That there unfortunate ship met with such foul weather, out at sea, as don't blow once in twenty year, my darling. There was hurricanes ash.o.r.e as tore up forests and blowed down towns, and there was gales at sea, even in them lat.i.tudes, as not the stoutest wessel ever launched could live in. Day arter day, that there unfort'nate ship behaved n.o.ble, I'm told, and did her duty brave, my Pretty, but at one blow a'most her bulwarks was stove in, her masts and rudder carried away, her best men swept overboard, and she left in the mercy of the storm as had no mercy, but blowed harder and harder yet, while the waves dashed over her, and beat her in, and every time they come a thundering at her, broke her like a sh.e.l.l. Every black spot in every mountain of water that rolled away was a bit of the ship's life, or a living man, and so she went to pieces, Beauty, and no gra.s.s will never grow upon the graves of them as manned that ship."

"They were not all lost!" cried Florence. "Some were saved! Was one?"

"Aboard o' that there unfortunate wessel," said the captain, rising from his chair, and clenching his hand with prodigious energy and exultation, "was a lad, a gallant lad--as I've heard tell--that had loved when he was a boy to read and talk about brave actions in shipwrecks--I've heerd him!--I've heerd him!--and he remembered of 'em in his hour of need; for when the stoutest hearts and oldest hands was hove down, he was firm and cheery. It wa'n't the want of objects to like and love ash.o.r.e that gave him courage; it was his nat'ral mind. I've seen it in his face when he was no more than a child--ah, many a time!--and when I thought it nothing but his good looks, bless him!"

"And was he saved?" cried Florence. "Was he saved?"

"That brave lad," said the captain,--"look at me, pretty! Don't look round--"

Florence had hardly power to repeat, "Why not?"

"Because there's nothing there, my deary," said the captain. "Don't be took aback, pretty creetur! Don't for the sake of Wal'r as was dear to all on us! That there lad," said the captain, "arter working with the best, and standing by the fainthearted, and never making no complaint nor sign of fear, and keeping up a spirit in all hands that made 'em honor him as if he'd been a admiral--that lad, alone with the second mate and one seaman, was left, of all the beatin' hearts that went aboard that ship, the only living creeturs--lashed to a fragment of the wreck, and drifting on the stormy sea."

"Were they saved?" cried Florence.

"Days and nights they drifted on them endless waters," said the captain, "until at last--no! don't look that way, Pretty!--a sail bore down upon 'em, and they was, by the Lord's mercy, took aboard, two living, and one dead."

"Which of them was dead?" cried Florence.

"Not the lad I speak on," said the captain.

"Thank G.o.d! Oh, thank G.o.d!"

"Amen!" returned the captain hurriedly. "Don't be took aback! A minute more, my Lady La.s.s! with a good heart!--Aboard that ship, they went a long voyage, right away across the chart (for there wa'n't no touching nowhere), and on that voyage the seaman as was picked up with him died.

But he was spared, and--."

The captain, without knowing what he did, had cut a slice of bread from the loaf, and put it on his hook (which was his usual toasting fork), on which he now held it to the fire; looking behind Florence with great emotions in his face, and suffering the bread to blaze and burn like fuel.

"Was spared," repeated Florence, "and--"

"And come home in that ship," said the captain, still looking in the same direction, "and--don't be frightened, Pretty!--and landed; and one morning come cautiously to his own door to take a observation, knowing that his friends would think him drowned, when he sheered off at the unexpected--"

"At the unexpected barking of a dog?" cried Florence quickly.

"Yes!" roared the captain. "Steady, darling! courage! Don't look round yet. See there! upon the wall!"

There was the shadow of a man upon the wall close to her. She started up, looked round, and, with a piercing cry, saw Walter Gay behind her!

She had no thought of him but as a brother, a brother rescued from the grave; a shipwrecked brother, saved, and at her side,--and rushed into his arms. In all the world he seemed to be her hope, her comfort, refuge, natural protector. In his home-coming,--her champion and knight-errant from childhood's early days,--there came to Florence a compensation for all that she had suffered.

On that night within the little Shop a light arose for her that never ceased to shed its brilliance on her path. Young, strong, and powerful, Walter Gay in his chivalrous reverence and love for her, would henceforth protect her life from sadness.

Except from that one great sorrow that he could not lift;--she was estranged from her father's love and care;--but in sweet submission she bent her shoulders to the burden of that loss, and accepted the new joy of Walter's return with a lightened heart.

Years later, when Mr. Dombey by a turn of fortune's wheel, was left alone in his dreary mansion, broken in mind and body, bereft of all his wealth; deserted alike by friends and servants;--it was Florence, the neglected, spurned, exiled daughter, who came like a good household angel and clung to him, caressing him, forgetting all but love, and love that outlasts injuries.

As she clung close to him, he kissed her on the lips and lifting up his eyes, said, "Oh, my G.o.d, _forgive me_, for I need it very much!"

With that he dropped his head again, lamenting over her and caressing her, and there was not a sound in all the house for a long, long, time; they remaining clasped in one another's arms, in the glorious sunshine that had crept in with Florence. And so we leave them--Father and Daughter--united at last in an undying affection.

CHARLEY

[Ill.u.s.tration: CHARLEY]

CHARLEY

When I, Esther Summerson, was taken from the school where the early years of my childhood had been spent; having no home or parents, as had the other girls in the school, my guardian, Mr. Jarndyce, gave me a home with him, where I was companion to his young and lovely ward, Ada Clare.

I soon grew deeply attached to Ada, the dearest girl in the world; to my guardian, the kindest and most thoughtful of men; and to Bleak House, my happy home.

One day, upon hearing of the death of a poor man whom we had known, and learning that he had left three motherless children in great poverty, my guardian and I set out to discover for ourselves the extent of their need. We were directed to a chandler's shop in Bell Yard, a narrow, dark alley, where we found an old woman, who replied to my inquiry for Neckett's children: "Yes, surely, Miss. Three pair, if you please. Door right opposite the stairs." And she handed me a key across the counter.

As she seemed to take it for granted I knew what to do with the key, I inferred it must be intended for the children's door, so without any more questions I led the way up a dark stair.

Reaching the top room designated, I tapped at the door, and a little shrill voice inside said, "We are locked in. Mrs. Blinder's got the key!"

I applied the key, and opened the door. In a poor room, with a sloping ceiling, and containing very little furniture, was a mite of a boy, some five or six years old, nursing and hushing a heavy child of eighteen months. There was no fire, though the weather was cold; both children were wrapped in some poor shawls and tippets, as a subst.i.tute.

Their clothing was not so warm, however, but that their noses looked red and pinched, and their small figures shrunken, as the boy walked up and down, nursing and hushing the child with its head on his shoulder.

"Who has locked you up here alone?" we naturally asked.

"Charley," said the boy.

"Is Charley your brother?"

"No, she's my sister, Charlotte. Father called her Charley."