With a quick perception that it was intended to relate to what she had asked, little Florence laid aside the bonnet she had held in her hand until now, and sat down on a stool at the Nurse’s feet, looking up into her face.
“Once upon a time,” said Richards, “there was a lady—a very good lady, and her little daughter dearly loved her.”
“A very good lady and her little daughter dearly loved her,” repeated the child.
“Who, when God thought it right that it should be so, was taken ill and died.”
The child shuddered.
“Died, never to be seen again by anyone on earth, and was buried in the ground where the trees grow.”
“The cold ground?” said the child, shuddering again.
“No! The warm ground,” returned Polly, seizing her advantage, “where the ugly little seeds turn into beautiful flowers, and into grass, and corn, and I don’t know what all besides. Where good people turn into bright angels, and fly away to Heaven!”
The child, who had dropped her head, raised it again, and sat looking at her intently.
“So; let me see,” said Polly, not a little flurried between this earnest scrutiny, her desire to comfort the child, her sudden success, and her very slight confidence in her own powers. “So, when this lady died, wherever they took her, or wherever they put her, she went to God! and she prayed to Him, this lady did,” said Polly, affecting herself beyond measure; being heartily in earnest, “to teach her little daughter to be sure of that in her heart: and to know that she was happy there and loved her still: and to hope and try—Oh, all her life—to meet her there one day, never, never, never to part any more.”
“It was my Mama!” exclaimed the child, springing up, and clasping her round the neck.
“And the child’s heart,” said Polly, drawing her to her breast: “the little daughter’s heart was so full of the truth of this, that even when she heard it from a strange nurse that couldn’t tell it right, but was a poor mother herself and that was all, she found a comfort in it—didn’t feel so lonely—sobbed and cried upon her bosom—took kindly to the baby lying in her lap—and—there, there, there!” said Polly, smoothing the child’s curls and dropping tears upon them. “There, poor dear!”
“Oh well, Miss Floy! And won’t your Pa be angry neither!” cried a quick voice at the door, proceeding from a short, brown, womanly girl of fourteen, with a little snub nose, and black eyes like jet beads. “When it was ’tickerlerly given out that you wasn’t to go and worrit the wet nurse.”
“She don’t worry me,” was the surprised rejoinder of Polly. “I am very fond of children.”
“Oh! but begging your pardon, Mrs. Richards, that don’t matter, you know,” returned the black-eyed girl, who was so desperately sharp and biting that she seemed to make one’s eyes water. “I may be very fond of pennywinkles, Mrs. Richards, but it don’t follow that I’m to have ’em for tea.”
“Well, it don’t matter,” said Polly.
“Oh, thank’ee, Mrs. Richards, don’t it!” returned the sharp girl. “Remembering, however, if you’ll be so good, that Miss Floy’s under my charge, and Master Paul’s under your’n.”
“But still we needn’t quarrel,” said Polly.
“Oh no, Mrs. Richards,” rejoined Spitfire. “Not at all, I don’t wish it, we needn’t stand upon that footing, Miss Floy being a permanency, Master Paul a temporary.” Spitfire made use of none but comma pauses; shooting out whatever she had to say in one sentence, and in one breath, if possible.
“Miss Florence has just come home, hasn’t she?” asked Polly.
“Yes, Mrs. Richards, just come, and here, Miss Floy, before you’ve been in the house a quarter of an hour, you go a smearing your wet face against the expensive mourning that Mrs. Richards is a wearing for your Ma!” With this remonstrance, young Spitfire, whose real name was Susan Nipper, detached the child from her new friend by a wrench—as if she were a tooth. But she seemed to do it, more in the excessively sharp exercise of her official functions, than with any deliberate unkindness.
“She’ll be quite happy, now she has come home again,” said Polly, nodding to her with an encouraging smile upon her wholesome face, “and will be so pleased to see her dear Papa tonight.”
“Lork, Mrs. Richards!” cried Miss Nipper, taking up her words with a jerk. “Don’t. See her dear Papa indeed! I should like to see her do it!”
“Won’t she then?” asked Polly.
“Lork, Mrs. Richards, no, her Pa’s a deal too wrapped up in somebody else, and before there was a somebody else to be wrapped up in she never was a favourite, girls are thrown away in this house, Mrs. Richards, I assure you.”
The child looked quickly from one nurse to the other, as if she understood and felt what was said.
“You surprise me!” cried Polly. “Hasn’t Mr. Dombey seen her since—”
“No,” interrupted Susan Nipper. “Not once since, and he hadn’t hardly set his eyes upon her before that for months and months, and I don’t think he’d have known her for his own child if he had met her in the streets, or would know her for his own child if he was to meet her in the streets tomorrow, Mrs. Richards, as to me,” said Spitfire, with a giggle, “I doubt if he’s aweer of my existence.”
“Pretty dear!” said Richards; meaning, not Miss Nipper, but the little Florence.
“Oh! there’s a Tartar within a hundred miles of where we’re now in conversation, I can tell you, Mrs. Richards, present company always excepted too,” said Susan Nipper; “wish you good morning, Mrs. Richards, now Miss Floy, you come along with me, and don’t go hanging back like a naughty wicked child that judgments is no example to, don’t!”
In spite of being thus adjured, and in spite also of some hauling on the part of Susan Nipper, tending towards the dislocation of her right shoulder, little Florence broke away, and kissed
