 Chapter 49 of Dumbie and Son Chapter 49 The Midshipman Makes a Discovery It was long before Florence awoke. The day was in its prime, the day was in its wane, and still, uneasy in mind and body, she slept on, unconscious of her strange bed, of the noise and turmoil in the street, and of the light that shone outside the shaded window. Perfect unconsciousness of what had happened in the home that existed no more, even the deep slumber of exhaustion could not produce. Some undefined and mournful recollection of it, dozing uneasily, but never sleeping, pervaded all her rest. A dull sorrow, like a half lulled sense of pain, was always present to her, and her pale cheek was often o' wet with tears, and the honest captain, softly putting in his head from time to time at the half-closed door, could have desired to see it. The sun was getting low in the west, and, glancing out of a red mist, pierced with its rays, opposite loopholes and pieces of fretwork in the spires of city churches, as if with golden arrows that struck through and through them. And far away a thwart the river, and its flat banks, it was gleaming like a path of fire, and out at sea it was irradiating sails of ships, and, looked towards from quiet churchyards upon hilltops in the country, it was steeping distant prospects in a flush and glow that seemed to mingle earth and sky together in one glorious suffusion. When Florence, opening her heavy eyes, lay at first, looking without interest or recognition at the unfamiliar walls around her, and listening in the same regardless manner to the noises in the street. But presently she started up upon her couch, gazed round with a surprised and vacant look, and recollected all. My pretty! said the captain, knocking at the door. Watch here! Dear friend! cried Florence, hurrying to him. Is it you? The captain felt so much pride in the name, and was so pleased by the gleam of pleasure in her face when she saw him, that he kissed his hook by way of reply in speechless gratification. Watch here, bright diamond! said the captain. I have surely slept very long, returned Florence. When did I come here? yesterday? This year, blessed day, my lady lasts, replied the captain. Has there been no night? Is it still day? asked Florence. Getting on for evening now, my pretty! said the captain, drawing back the curtain of the window. See! Florence with her hand upon the captain's arm, so sorrowful and timid, and the captain with his rough face and burly figure so quietly protective of her, stood in the rosy light of the bright evening sky without saying a word. However strange the form of speech into which he might have fashioned the feeling, if he had to give it utterance, the captain felt, as sensibly as the most eloquent of men could have done, that there was something in the tranquil time, and in its softened beauty, that would make the wounded heart of Florence overflow, and that it was better that such tears should have their way. So not a word spake Captain Cuttle, but when he felt his arm clasped closer, and when he felt the lonely head come nearer to it, and lay itself against his homely coarse blue sleeve, he pressed it gently with his rugged hand, and understood it, and was understood. Never now, my pretty, said the captain, cheerily, cheerily, I'll go down below, and get some dinner ready. Will you come down of your own self, afterwards, pretty, or shall Eddard Cuttle come and fetch you? As Florence assured him that she was quite able to walk downstairs, the captain, though evidently doubtful of his own hospitality in permitting it, left her to do so, and immediately set about roasting a fowl at the fire in the little parlour. To achieve his cookery with the greatest skill, he pulled off his coat, tucked up his wrist bands, and put on his glazed hat, without which assistant he never applied himself to any nice or difficult undertaking. After cooling her aching head and burning face in the fresh water which the captain's care had provided for her while she slept, Florence went to the little mirror to bind up her disordered hair. Then she knew, in a moment, for she shunned it instantly, that on her breast there was the darkening mark of an angry hand. Her tears burst forth afresh at the sight. She was ashamed and afraid of it, but it moved her to no anger against him. Homeless and fatherless, she forgave him everything. Hardly thought that she had need to forgive him, or that she did. But she fled from the idea of him, as she had fled from the reality, and he was utterly gone and lost. There was no such being in the world. What to do, or where to live, Florence, poor inexperienced girl, could not yet consider. She had indistinct dreams of finding, a long way off, some little sisters to instruct, who would be gentle with her, and to whom, under some feigned name, she might attach herself, and who would grow up in their happy home, and marry, and be good to their old governess, and perhaps entrust her in time with the education of their own daughters. And she thought how strange and sorrowful it would be, thus to become a grey-haired woman carrying her secret to the grave when Florence Domby was forgotten. But it was all dim and clouded to her now. She only knew that she had no father upon earth, and she said so many times, with her supply and head hidden from all, but her father, who was in heaven. Her little stock of money amounted to but a few guineas. With the part of this it would be necessary to buy some clothes, for she had none but those she wore. She was too desolate to think how soon her money would be gone. Too much a child and worldly matters to be greatly troubled on that score yet, even if her other trouble had been less. She tried to calm her thoughts and stay her tears, to quiet the hurry in her throbbing head, and bring herself to believe that what had happened were but the events of a few hours ago, instead of weeks or months as they appeared, and went down to her kind protector. The captain had spread the cloth with great care, and was making some egg-sauce in a little saucepan, basting the fowl from time to time during the process with a strong interest, as it turned and browned on a string before the fire. Having propped Florence up with cushions on the sofa, which was already wheeled into a warm corner for her greater comfort, the captain pursued his cooking with extraordinary skill, making hot gravy in a second little saucepan, boiling a handful of potatoes in a third, never forgetting the egg-sauce in the first, and making an impartial round of basting and stirring with the most useful of spoons every minute. Besides these cares, the captain had to keep his eye on a diminutive frying-pan in which some sausages were hissing and bubbling in a most musical manner, and there was never such a radiant cook as the captain looked, in the heightened heat of these functions, it being impossible to say whether his face or his glazed hat shone the brighter. The dinner being at length quite ready, captain Cuddle dished and served it up with no less dexterity than he had cooked it. He then dressed for dinner by taking off his glazed hat and putting on his coat. Not done, he wheeled the table close against Florence on the sofa, said Grace, unscrewed his hook, screwed his fork into its place, and did the honours of the table. "'My lady lass,' said the captain, "'Cheer up, try to eat a deal. Stand by, my dearie. Lever wing it is, sars it is, sausage it is, and potato,' all which the captain ranged symmetrically on a plate, and pouring hot gravy on the hole with the useful spoon set before his cherished guest. "'The whole row of deadlights is up for her, lady lass,' observed the captain, encouragingly, "'and everything is made snug. Joyean pick a bit, my pretty, if Waller was here.' "'Ah, if I had him for my brother now,' cried Florence. "'Don't, don't, he gone, my pretty,' said the captain, "'a worst to oblige me. He was your natural-born friend, like warranty-pet.' Florence had no words to answer with. She only said, "'Oh, dear, dear Paul, oh, Walter.'" The wary plank she walked on, murmured the captain, looking at her dooping face. He was as high esteemed by Waller as the water bruxes by the heart which never regizes. I see him now, the wary day as he was waited on them, dumby books, a speaking of her with his face a-glistening with dew, least ways with his modest sentiments, like a new-blowed rose at dinner. "'Well, well, if our poor Waller was here, my lady lass, or if he could be, for he's grounded, ain't he?' Florence shook her head. "'Yes, yes, grounded,' said the captain, soothingly. "'As I was saying, if he could be here, he'd beg and pray of you, my precious, to pick a little bit, but look out for your own sweet health, whereby hold your own, my lady lass, as if it was for Waller's sake, and lay your pretty head to the wind.'" Florence assayed to eat a morsel for the captain's pleasure. The captain, meanwhile, who seemed to have quite forgotten his own dinner, laid down his knife and fork, and drew his chair to the sofa. "'Waller was a trim lad, weren't he precious?' said the captain, after sitting for some time silently rubbing his chin with his eyes fixed upon her. "'And a brave lad, and a good lad,' Florence tearfully assented. "'And he's grounded, beauty ain't he?' said the captain, in a soothing voice. Florence could not but ascend again. "'He was older than you, my lady lass,' pursued the captain. "'But you was like two children together at first, weren't you?' Florence answered, "'Yes.'" "'And Waller's grounded,' said the captain, "'A.D.'' The repetition of this inquiry was a curious source of consolation. But it seemed to be one to Captain Cuttle, for he came back to it again and again. Florence feigned to push from her her untasted dinner, and to lie back on her sofa, gave him her hand, feeling that she had disappointed him, though truly wishing to have pleased him after all his trouble. But he held it in his own, which shook as he held it. And appearing to have quite forgotten all about the dinner, and her want of appetite, went on growling at intervals in a ruminating tone of sympathy, "'Poor Waller, I, I, drowned ain't he?' and always waited for her answer, in which the great point of these sinker reflections appeared to consist. The fowl and sausages were cold, and the gravy and the egg-sauce stagnant, before the captain remembered that they were on the board, and fell to with the assistance of Diogenes, whose united efforts quickly dispatched the banquet. The captain's delight and wonder at the quiet housewifery of Florence in assisting to clear the table, arrange the parlour, and sweep up the hearth, only to be equaled by the fervency of his protest when she began to assist him, were gradually raised to that degree, that at last he could not choose but do nothing himself, and stand looking at her as if she were some fairy, daintily performing these offices for him, the red rim on his forehead glowing again in his unspeakable admiration. But when Florence, taking down his pipe from the mantel-shelf, gave it into his hand, and entreated him to smoke it, the good captain was so bewildered by her attention that he held it as if he had never held a pipe in all his life. Likewise when Florence, looking into the little cupboard, took out the case-bottle, and mixed a perfect glass of grog for him, unasked, and set it at his elbow, his ruddy nose turned pale, he felt himself so graced and honoured. When he had filled his pipe in an absolute reverie of satisfaction, Florence lighted it for him. The captain, having no power to object or to prevent her, and resuming her place on the old sofa, looked at him with a smile so loving and so grateful, a smile that showed him so plainly how her forlorn heart turned to him, as her face did, through grief at the smoke of the pipe, got into the captain's throat, and made him cough, and got into the captain's eyes, and made them blink and water. The manner in which the captain tried to make believe that the cause of these effects lay hidden in the pipe itself, and the way in which he looked into the bowl for it, and not finding it there, pretended to blow it out of the stem, was wonderfully pleasant. The pipe soon getting into better condition, he fell into that state of repose becoming a good-spoker, but sat with his eyes fixed on Florence, and with a beaming placidity not to be described, and stopping every now and then to discharge a little cloud from his lips, slowly puffed it forth, as if it were a scroll coming out of his mouth, bearing the legend, poor waller, eye, eye, drownded, ain't he? After which he would resume his smoking with infinite gentleness. Unlike as they were externally, and they could scarcely be a more decided contrast than between Florence and her delicate youth and beauty, and Captain Cuddle with his knobby face, his great broad weather-beaten person, and his gruff voice, in simple instance of the world's ways, and the world's perplexities and dangers, they were nearly on a level. No child could have surpassed Captain Cuddle in inexperience of everything but wind and weather, in simplicity, credulity, and generous trustfulness. Faith, hope, and charity shared his whole nature among them. An odd sort of romance, perfectly unimaginative, yet perfectly unreal, and subject to no considerations of worldly prudence or practicability, was the only partner they had in his character. As the Captain sat and smoked, and looked at Florence, God knows what impossible pictures in which she was the principal figure presented themselves to his mind. Equally vague and uncertain, though not so sanguine, were her own thoughts of the life before her. And even as her tears made prismatic colors in the light she gazed at, so, through her new and heavy grief, she already saw a rainbow faintly shining in the far-off sky. A wandering princess, and a good monster in a storybook, might have sat by the fireside, and talked as Captain Cuddle and poor Florence talked, and not have looked very much unlike them. The Captain was not troubled with the faintest idea of any difficulty in retaining Florence, or of any responsibility thereby incurred. Having put up the shutters and locked the door, he was quite satisfied on this head. If she had been a ward in chancery, it would have made no difference at all to Captain Cuddle. He was the last man in the world to be troubled by any such considerations. So the Captain smoked his pipe very comfortably, and Florence and he meditated after their own manner. When the pipe was out, they had some tea, and then Florence entreated him to take her to some neighbouring shop, where she could buy the few necessaries she immediately wanted. It being quite dark, the Captain consented, peeping carefully out first, as he had been wont to do in his time of hiding from Mrs. McStinger, and arming himself with his large stick, in case of an appeal to arms being rendered necessary by any unforeseen circumstance. The pride Captain Cuddle had in giving his arm to Florence, and escorting her some two or three hundred yards, keeping a bright look out all the time, and attracting the attention of everyone who passed them, by his great vigilance and numerous precautions, was extreme. Out of the shop, the Captain felt at a point of delicacy to retire during the making of the purchases, as they were to consist of wearing apparel. But he previously deposited his tin canister on the counter, and informing the young lady of the establishment that it contained fourteen pound two, requested her, in case that amount of property should not be sufficient, to defray the expenses of his niece's little outfit. At the word niece, he bestowed a most significant look on Florence, accompanied with pantomime, expressive of sagacity and mystery, to have the goodness to sing out, and he would make up the difference from his pocket. Casually consulting his big watch, as a deep means of dazzling the establishment, and impressing it with a sense of property, the Captain then kissed his hook to his niece, and retired outside the window, where it was a choice site to see his great face looking in from time to time among the silks and ribbons, with an obvious misgiving that Florence had been spirited away by a back door. Dear Captain Cuttle, said Florence, when she came out with a parcel, the size of which greatly disappointed the Captain, who had expected to see a porter following with a bale of goods. I don't want this money, indeed. I've not spent any of it. I have money of my own. My lady lass! I turn the baffled Captain, looking straight down the street before them. Take care on it for me. Will you be so good? Till such time as I ask ye for it. May I put it back in its usual place? said Florence, and keep it there. The Captain was not at all gratified by this proposal, but he answered, I, I, put it anywhere as my lady lass, so long as you know where to find it again. It ain't no no use to me, said the Captain. I wonder I haven't chucked it away for now. The Captain was quite disheartened for the moment, but he revived at the first touch of Florence's arm, and they returned with the same precautions as they had come. The Captain opened the door of the little midshipman's birth, and diving in, with a suddenness which his great practice only could have taught him. During Florence's slumber in the morning, he had engaged the daughter of an elderly lady who usually sat under a blue umbrella in Leddenhall Market, selling poultry, to come and put her room in order, and render her any little services she required. And this damsel, now appearing, Florence found everything about her as convenient and orderly, if not as handsome, as in the terrible dream she had once called home. When they were alone again, the Captain insisted on her eating a slice of dry toast, and drinking a glass of spiced neigis, which he made to perfection, and encouraging her with every kind word and inconsequential quotation he could possibly think of, led her upstairs to her bedroom. But he too had something on his mind, and was not easy in his manner. Good night, dear Art, said Captain Cuddle to her at her chamber door. Florence raised her lips to his face, and kissed him. At any other time, the Captain would have been overbalanced by such a token of her affection and gratitude. But now, although he was very sensible of it, he looked in her face with even more uneasiness than he had testified before, and seemed unwilling to leave her. Poor Waller, said the Captain. Poor, poor Walter, sighed Florence. Drowned, ain't he, said the Captain. Florence shook her head and sighed. Good night, my lady lass, said Captain Cuddle, putting out his hand. God bless you, dear kind friend. But the Captain lingered still. Is anything the matter, dear Captain Cuddle? said Florence, easily alarmed in her then state of mind. Have you anything to tell me? To tell you, lady lass? replied the Captain, meeting her eyes in confusion. No, no. What should I have to tell you, pretty? You don't expect as I've got anything good to tell you, sure? No, said Florence, shaking her head. The Captain looked at her wistfully and repeated, No, still lingering and still showing embarrassment. Poor Waller, said the Captain. My Waller, as I used to call you, old Saul Gil's Neve. Welcome to all as knowed you as the flowers in May. Where have you got to, brave boy? Drowned, ain't he? Concluding his apostrophe, with his abrupt appeal to Florence, the Captain bade her good night, and descended the stairs, while Florence remained at the top, holding the candle out to light him down. He was lost in the obscurity, and, judging from the sound of his receding footsteps, was in the act of turning into the little parlour, when his head and shoulders unexpectedly emerged again, as from the deep, apparently for no other purpose, and to repeat, Drowned, ain't he pretty? For when he had said that, in a tone of tender condolence, he disappeared. Florence was very sorry that she should unwittingly, though naturally, have awakened these associations in the mind of her protector, by taking refuge there, and sitting down before the little table where the Captain had arranged the telescope and song-book, and those other rarities, thought of Waller, and of all that was connected with him in the past, until she could have almost wished to lie down on her bed, and fade away. But in her lonely yearning to the dead whom she had loved, no thought of home, no possibility of going back, no presentation of it as yet existing, or a sheltering her father, once entered her thoughts. She had seen the murder done, in the last lingering natural aspect in which she had cherished him through so much. He had been torn out of her heart, defaced, and slain. The thought of it was so appalling to her, that she covered her eyes and shrunk trembling from the least remembrance of the deed, or of the cruel hand that did it. If her fond heart could have held his image after that, it must have broken. But it could not, and the void was filled with a wild dread that fled from all confronting with its shattered fragments, with such a dread as could have risen out of nothing but the depths of such a love, so wronged. She dared not look into the glass, but the sight of the darkening mark upon her bosom made her afraid of herself, as if she bore about her something wicked. She covered it up, with a hasty, faltering hand, and in the dark, and laid her weary head down, weeping. The captain did not go to bed for a long time. He walked to and fro in the shop, and in the little parlour, for a full hour, and, appearing to have composed himself by that exercise, sat down with a grave and thoughtful face, and read out of a prayer-book the forms of prayer appointed to be used at sea. These were not easily disposed of, the good captain being a mighty, slow, gruff reader, and frequently stopping at a hard word to give himself such encouragement as, Now my lad, with a will, or steady, edder, cuddle, steady, which had a great effect in helping him out of any difficulty. Moreover, his spectacles greatly interfered with his powers of vision. But notwithstanding these drawbacks, the captain, being heartily in earnest, read the service to the very last line, and with genuine feeling, too, and approving of it very much when he had done, turned in under the counter, but not before he had been upstairs and listened at Florence's door, with a serene breast and a most benevolent visage. The captain turned out several times in the course of the night, to assure himself that his charge was resting quietly, and once, at daybreak, found that she was awake, for she called to know if it were he on hearing footsteps near her door. Yes, my lady lass, replied the captain in a growling whisper, Are you all right, Diamond? Florence thanked him and said, Yes. The captain could not lose so favourable an opportunity of applying his mouth to the keyhole and calling through it like a horse breeze. Poor water! Drowned it eighty! After which he withdrew, and turning in again, slept till seven o'clock. Nor was he free from his uneasy and embarrassed manner all that day, though Florence, being busy with her needle in the little parlour, was more calm and tranquil than she had been on the day proceeding. Almost always when she raised her eyes from her work, she observed the captain looking at her and thoughtfully stroking his chin, and he so often hitched his armchair close to her, as if he were going to say something very confidential, and hitched it away again, as not being able to make up his mind how to begin, that in the course of the day he cruised completely round the parlour in that frail bark, and more than once went ashore against the wainscote or the closet door in a very distressed condition. It was not until the twilight that Captain Cuttle, fairly dropping anchor, at last by the side of Florence, began to torque it all connectedly. But when the light of the fire was shining on the walls and ceiling of the little room, and on the teaboard and the cups and saucers that were ranged upon the table, and on her calm face turned towards the flame, and reflecting it in the tears that filled her eyes, the captain broke along silence thus, You never was at sea, my own? No, replied Florence. I, said the captain, reverentially, It's an almighty element. There is wonders in the deep, my pretty. Think on it, when the winds is roaring and the waves is rowling. Think on it, when the stormy nights is so pitch dark, said the captain, solemnly holding up his hook, as you can't see your hand before you, except in when the weird lightning wheels the same. And when you drive, drive, drive through the storm and dark, as if you was a driving head on to the world without end, evermore our men, and when found make a note of. Them's the time's, my beauty. When a man may say to his messmate, previously a o-wall in the volume, a stiff north-western's blowing-bill, Hark! Don't you hear it roar now? Lord, help him! How are pity's all unhappy folks ashore now? Which quotation, as particularly applicable to the terrors of the ocean, the captain delivered in a most impressive manner, concluding with the sonorous stand-boy. Were you ever in a dreadful storm? asked Florence. Why, I, my lady lass, I've seen my share of bed-weatherer, said the captain, tremulously wiping his head, and I've had my share of knocking about, but it ain't of myself as I was a-meaning to speak. Our dear boy, drawing closer to her, wallower, darling, as was grounded, the captain spoke in such a trembling voice, and looked at Florence with a face so pale and agitated, that she clung to his hand in a fright. Your face has changed, cried Florence. You are altered in a moment. What is it, dear Captain Cattle? It turns me cold to see you. What, lady lass? returned the captain, supporting her with his hand. Don't we took her back? No, no, no, all's well, all's well, my dear. As I was a-saying, wallower, he's, he's grounded, ain't he? Florence looked at him intently. Her colour came and went, and she laid her hand upon her breast. There is perils and dangers on the deep, my beauty, said the captain. And over many a brave ship, and many, and many a bold heart, the secret waters has closed up, and never told no tales. But there is escapes upon the deep, too, and sometimes one man out of a score, maybe out of a hundred pretty, has been saved by the mercy of God, and come home after being given over for dead, and told of all hands lost. I, I know a story, heart's delight, stammered the captain, or this nature, as was told to me once, and being on this ear attack, and you and me sitting alone by the fire, maybe you'd like to hear me tell it, would you, dearie? 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 is nothing there, my beauty, said the captain. Don't look there. Why not? asked Florence. The captain 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 followed him with her eyes, and looked intently in his face. The story was about a ship, my lady lass, began the captain. A sail out of the port of London, with a fair wind and in fair weather, bound for—don't be took aback, my lady lass—she was only outer bound, pretty only outer 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 sticking 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 oracans ashore, as tar up forests and blow down towns, and there was gales at sea in them latitudes, as not the stoutest vessel ever launched could live in. Day after day, that there unfortunate ship behaved noble, I'm told, and did her duty brave, my pretty. But at one blow, almost her bull walks was stovin'. Her masts and rudder carved away, her best man swept overboard, and she left the mercy of the storm as had no mercy, but blow'd harder and harder yet, while the waves dashed over her, and beat her in, and every time they come a thundernatter broke her like a shell. 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 grass will never grow upon the graves of them as man that ship. They were not all lost, cried Florence. Some were saved, was one. A board of that there unfortunate vessel, so the captain, rising from his chair, and clenching his hand with the prodigious energy and exultation, was a lad, a gallant lad, as I veered tell, that I'd loved, when he was a boy, to read and talk about brave actions and shipwrecks. I veered him, I veered him, and he remembered of him in his hour of need. But when the stoutest and oldest hands was hoved down, he was firm and cheery. It weren't the want of objects to like and love a shore that gave him courage. It was his natural mind. I've seen it in his face, when he was no more than a child. I, 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 is nothing there, my dearie, said the captain, don't be took aback, pretty creature, don't, for the sake of waller, as was dear to all on us. That there lad, said the captain, art her working with the best, and standing by the faint-hearted, and never making no complaint, no sign of fear, and keeping up my spirit in all hands, that made him honour him, as if he'd been an admiral. That lad, along with a second mate and one seamen, was left of all the beaten arts that went aboard that ship. The only living creatures, 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, no, don't look that way, pretty. A sail bore down upon him, 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 God! Oh, thank God! Amen! returned the captain hurriedly. Don't be took aback! A minute more, my lady lass, with a good heart. Abored that ship, they went a long voyage, right away across the chart, for there weren't no touching nowhere. And on that voyage, the seamen, 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 emotion in his face, and suffering the bread to blaze and burn like fuel. What's 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 an observation, knowing that his friends would think him drowned, when he sheared 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 of the 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. Take care of Walter! I was fond of Walter. The dear remembrance of the plaintive voice that said so rushed upon her soul like music in the night. Oh, welcome home, dear Walter! Welcome to this stricken breast! She felt the words, although she could not utter them, and held him in her pure embrace. Captain Cuttle, in a fit of delirium, attempted to wipe his head with the blackened toast upon his hook, and finding it an uncongenial substance for the purpose, put it into the crown of his glazed hat, put the glazed hat on with some difficulty, assayed to sing a verse of lovely peg, broke down at the first word, and retired into the shop, whence he presently came back, express, with the face all flushed and besmeared, and the starch completely taken out of his shirt-collar, to say these words. Walter, my lad, here is a little bit of property as I should wish to make over gently. The captain hastily produced the big watch, the teaspoons, the sugar tongs, and the canister, and laying them on the table, swept them with his great hand into Walter's hat. But in handing that singular strongbox to Walter, he was so overcome again, that he was feigned to make another retreat into the shop, and absent himself for a longer space of time than on his first retirement. But Walter sought him out and brought him back, and then the captain's great apprehension was that Florence would suffer from this new shock. He felt it so earnestly that he turned quite rational and positively interdicted any further allusion to Walter's adventures for some days to come. Captain Cuddle then became sufficiently composed to relieve himself of the toast in his hat, and to take his place at the teaboard. But finding Walter's grasp upon his shoulder, on one side, and Florence whispering her tearful congratulations on the other, the captain was very happy and the captain suddenly bowed it again, and was missing for a good ten minutes. But never in all his life had the captain's face so shunned and glistened, as when at last he sat stationary at the teaboard, looking from Florence to Walter, and from Walter to Florence. Nor was this effect produced or at all heightened by the immense quantity of polishing he had administered to his face with his coat sleeve during the last half hour. It was solely the effect of his internal emotions. There was a glory and delight within the captain that spread itself over his whole visage, and made a perfect illumination there. The pride with which the captain looked upon the bronzed cheek and the courageous eyes of his recovered boy, with which he saw the generous fervour of his youth, and all its frank and hopeful qualities shining once more in the fresh, wholesome manner, and the ardent face would have kindled something of this light in his countenance. The admiration and sympathy with which he turned his eyes on Florence, whose beauty, grace, and innocence could have won no truer or more zealous champion than himself, would have had an equal influence upon him. But the fullness of the glow he shed around him could only have been engendered in his contemplation of the two together, and in all the fancies springing out of that association that came sparkling and beaming into his head and danced about it. How they talked of poor old Uncle Sol, and dwelt on every little circumstance relating to his disappearance. How their joy was moderated by the old man's absence and by the misfortunes of Florence. How they released diogenes whom the captain had decoyed upstairs some time before, lest he should bark again. The captain, though he was in one continual flutter, and made many more short plungers into the shop, fully comprehended. But he no more dreamed that Walter looked on Florence, as it were, from a new and far-off place, that while his eyes often sought the lovely face, they seldom met its open glance of sisterly affection, but withdrew themselves when hers were raised towards him, and he believed that it was Walter's ghost who sat beside him. He saw them together in their youth and beauty, and he knew the story of their younger days, that he had no inch of room beneath his great blue waistcoat for anything save admiration of such a pair, and gratitude for their being reunited. They sat thus until it grew late. The captain would have been content to sit so for a week, but Walter rose to take leave for the night. Going, Walter, said Florence, where? He slings his hammock for the present lady lass, said Captain Cattle, round at Broglie's, within hail, hearts delayed. I am the cause of your going away, Walter, said Florence. There is a houseless sister in your place. Dear Miss Domby, replied Walter, hesitating, if it is not too bold to call you so. Walter, she exclaimed, surprised. If anything could make me happier in being allowed to see and speak to you, would it not be the discovery that I had any means on earth of doing your moment service? Where would I not go? What would I not do for your sake? She smiled and called him brother. You are so changed, said Walter. I changed, she interrupted. To me, said Walter softly, as if you were thinking aloud, changed to me. I left you such a child, and find you, oh, something so different. But your sister, Walter, you've not forgotten what we promised to each other when we parted. Forgotten? But he said no more. And if you had, if suffering and danger had driven it from your thoughts, which it has not, you would remember it now, Walter, when you find me poor and abandoned, with no home but this, and no friends but the two who hear me speak. I would. Heaven knows I would, said Walter. Oh, Walter! exclaimed Florence through her solvies and tears. Dear brother, show me some way through the world, some humble path that I may take alone and labour in, and sometimes think of you as one who will protect and care for me as for a sister. Oh, help me, Walter, for I need help so much. Miss Dombie, Florence, I would die to help you, but your friends are proud and rich. Your father, no, no, Walter! She shrieked and put her hands up to her head in an attitude of terror that transfixed him where he stood. Don't say that word! He never from that hour forgot the voice and look with which he stopped him at the name. He felt that if he were to live a hundred years, he never could forget it. Somewhere, anywhere, but never home, all past, all gone, all lost, and broken up. The whole history of her untold slight and suffering was in the cry and look, and he felt he never could forget it, and he never did. She laid her gentle face upon the captain's shoulder and related how and why she had fled. If every sorrowing tear she shared in doing so had been a curse upon the head of him she never named or blamed, it would have been better for him, Walter, thought with awe and to be renounced out of such a strength and might of love. They're precious, said the captain when she ceased, and deep attention the captain had paid to her while she spoke, listening with his glazed hat all awry and his mouth wide open. Awust, awust, my eyes! Waller, dear lad, cheer off for tonight, and leave the pretty wonder me. Walter took her hand in both of his, and put it to his lips and kissed it. He knew now that she was indeed a homeless wandering fugitive, but richer to him so than in all the wealth and pride of her right station, she seemed farther off than ever on the height that had made him giddy in his boyish dreams. Captain Cuddle, perplexed by no such meditations, guarded Florence to her room and watched at intervals upon the charmed ground outside her door, for such it truly was to him, until he felt sufficiently easy in his mind about her to turn in under the counter. On abandoning his watch for that purpose, he could not help calling once rapturously through the key-hole, Drowned, ain't he pretty? Or when he got downstairs, making another trial at that verse of lovely peg. But it stuck in his throat somehow, and he could make nothing of it, so he went to bed, and dreamed that old Sol Gilles was married to Mrs. McStinger, and kept prisoner by that lady in a secret chamber on a short allowance of vitals. End of Chapter 49 Chapter 50 of Dombe and Son This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Mill Nicholson Dombe and Son by Charles Dickens Chapter 50 Mr. Toots's Complaint There was an empty room above stairs at the wooden midshipments, which in days of yore had been Walter's bedroom. Walter, rousing up the Captain B. Times in the morning, proposed that they should carry thither such furniture out of the little parlour as would grace it best, so that Florence might take possession of it when she rose. As nothing could be more agreeable to Captain Cuddle, and making himself very rare and short of breath in such a cause, he turned to, as he himself said, with a will. And in a couple of hours this garret was transformed into a species of land cabin, adorned with all the choicest movables out of the parlour, inclusive even of the tartare frigate, which the Captain hung up over the chimney-piece with such extreme delight that he could do nothing for half an hour afterwards, but walk backwards from it, lost in admiration. The Captain could be induced by no persuasion of Walter's to wind up the big watch, or to take back the canister, or to touch the sugar-tongs and teaspoons. No, no, my lad! was the Captain's invariable reply to any solicitation of the kind. I've made that thither little property over-jinkly! These words he repeated with great unction and gravity, evidently believing that they had the virtue of an act of parliament, and that unless he committed himself by some new admission of ownership, no flaw could be found in such a form of conveyance. It was an advantage of the new arrangement, that besides the greatest occlusion it afforded Florence, it admitted of the midshipman being restored to his usual post of observation, and also of the shop-shutters being taken down. The latter ceremony, however little importance the unconscious Captain attached to it, was not wholly superfluous, for on the previous day so much excitement had been occasioned in the neighbourhood by the shutters remaining unopened, that the instrumentmaker's house had been honoured with an unusual share of public observation, and had been intently stared at from the opposite side of the way by groups of hungry gazers at any time between sunrise and sunset. The idlers and vagabonds had been particularly interested in the captain's fate, constantly grovelling in the mud to apply their eyes to the celograting, under the shop window, and delighting their imaginations with the fancy that they could see a piece of his coat as he hung in a corner, though this settlement of him was stoutly disputed by an opposite faction, who were of opinion that he lay murdered with a hammer on the stairs. It was not without exciting some discontent, therefore, that the subject of these rumours was seen early in the morning, standing at his shop door as hail and hearty as if nothing had happened, and the beedle of that quarter, a man of an ambitious character, who had expected to have the distinction of being present at the breaking open of the door, and of giving evidence in full uniform before the coroner, went so far as to say to an opposite neighbour, at the chap in the glazed hat, had better not try it on there without more particularly mentioning what, and further, that he the beedle would keep his eye upon him. Captain Cuttle, said Walter, musing, when they stood resting from their labours at the shop door, looking down the old familiar street, it being still early in the morning, Nothing at all of Uncle Sol in all that time? Nothing at all, my lad, replied the captain, shaking his head. Gone in search of me, dear kind old man, said Walter, yet never right to you, but why not? He says in effect in this packet that you gave me, taking the paper from his pocket which had been opened in the presence of the enlightened Bunsby, that if you never hear from him before opening it, you may believe him dead, heaven forbid, but you would have heard of him, even if he were dead. Someone would have written surely by his desire if he could not, and have said, on such a day they died in my house, or under my care, or so forth, Mr. Solomon Gills of London, who left this last remembrance, and this last request to you. The captain, who had never climbed to such a clear height of probability before, was greatly impressed by the wide prospect it opened, and answered with a thoughtful shake of his head, Well said, my lad, worry well said. I have been thinking of this, or at least, said Walter, colouring. I have been thinking of one thing and another, all through a sleepless night, and I cannot believe, Captain Cattle, but that my Uncle Sol, Lord bless him, is alive, and will return. I don't so much wonder it is going away, because leaving out of consideration that spice of the marvellous which was always in his character, and his great affection for me, before which every other consideration of his life became nothing, as no one ought to know so well as I, who had the best of fathers in him, Walter's voice was indistinct and husky here, and he looked away along the street. Leaving that out of consideration, I say, I have often read and heard of people who, having some near and dear relative, who was supposed to be shipwrecked at sea, have gone down to live on that part of the seashore where any tidings of the missing ship might be expected to arrive, though only an hour or two sooner than elsewhere, or have even gone upon her track to the place wither she was bound, as if their going would create intelligence. I think I should do such a thing myself, as soon as another, or sooner than many perhaps. But why my uncle shouldn't write to you, when he so clearly intended to do so, or how he should die abroad, and you not know it through some other hand, I cannot make out. Captain Cuttle observed, with the shake of his head, that Jack Bunsby himself hadn't made it out, and that he was a man as could give a pretty taut opinion too. If my uncle had been a heedless young man, likely to be entrapped by Jovial Company to some drinking place where he was to be got rid of for the sake of what money he might have about him, said Walter, or if he had been a reckless sailor going ashore with two or three months' pay in his pocket, I could understand his disappearing and leaving no trace behind. But being what he was, and is, I hope, I can't believe it. Walter, my lad, inquired the captain, wistfully eyeing him as he pondered and pondered. What do you make of it, then? Captain Cuttle, returned Walter, I don't know what to make of it. I suppose he never has written. There is no doubt about that. If so be, as Saul Gilles wrote, my lad, replied the captain argumentatively, whereas is dispatch. Say that he entrusted it to some private hand, suggested Walter, and that it has been forgotten or carelessly thrown aside or lost, even that is more probable to me than the other event. In short, I not only cannot bear to contemplate that other event, Captain Cuttle, but I can't, and won't. Hope, you see, Walter, said the captain, sagely. Hope, it's that as animates you. Hope is a boy for which you overhaul your little wobbler. Sentimental division, but Lord, my lad, like any other boy, it only floats, it can't be steered nowhere. Along with a figurehead of hope, said the captain, there's an anchor. But what's the good of my ammon anchor if I can't find no bottom to let it go in? Captain Cuttle said this rather in his character of a sagacious citizen and householder, bound to impart a morsel from his stores of wisdom to an inexperienced youth than in his own proper person. Indeed, his face was quite luminous as he spoke, with new hope, caught from Walter, and he appropriately concluded by slapping him on the back and saying with enthusiasm, Who are my lad? Individually, I am or your opinion. Walter, with this cheerful laugh, returned the salutation and said, Only one word more about my uncle at present, Captain Cuttle. I suppose it is impossible that he can have written in the ordinary course by mail packet or ship-letter, you understand? I, I, my lad, said the captain approvingly, and that you have missed the letter anyhow. Why, Walter, said the captain, turning his eyes upon him with a faint approach to a severe expression. Ain't I been on the lookout for any tidings of that man of science? Oh, Saul gills your uncle day and night ever since I lost him. Ain't my heart been heavy and watchful always along of him and you? Sleeping and waking, ain't I been upon my post, and wouldn't I scorn to quit it while this ear midshipmen held together? Yes, Captain Cuttle, replied Walter, grasping his hand. I know you would, and I know how faithful and earnest all you say and feel is. I am sure of it. You don't doubt that I am as sure of it as I am that my foot is again upon this doorstep, or that I again have hold of this true hand, do you? No, no, Waller! returned the captain with his beaming face. I'll hazard no more conjectures, said Walter, fervently shaking the hard hand of the Captain, who shook his with no less good will. All I will add is heaven forbid that I should touch my uncle's possessions, Captain Cuttle. Everything that he left here shall remain in the care of the truest of stewards and kindest of men, and if his name is not Cuttle, he has no name. Now, best of friends, about Miss Dombie. There was a change in Walter's manner, as he came to these two words, and when he uttered them, all his confidence and cheerfulness appeared to have deserted him. I thought, before Miss Dombie stopped me when I spoke of her father last night, said Walter, you remember how? The Captain well remembered, and shook his head. I thought, said Walter, before that, that we had but one hard duty to perform, and that it was to prevail upon her to communicate with her friends and to return home. The Captain muttered a feeble awest, or a standby, or something or other, equally pertinent to the occasion, but it was rendered so extremely feeble by the total discomfort with which he received this announcement, that what it was is mere matter of conjecture. But, said Walter, that is over. I think so no longer. I would sooner be put back again upon that piece of wreck on which I have so often floated, since my preservation, in my dreams, and there left to drift, and drive, and die. Hurrah, my lad! exclaimed the Captain, in a burst of uncontrollable satisfaction. To think that she, so young, so good, and beautiful, said Walter, so delicately brought up and born to such a different fortune, should strive with the rough world. But we have seen the gulf that cuts off all behind her, though no one but herself can know how deep it is, and there is no return. Captain Cuttle, without quite understanding this, greatly approved of it, and observed in a tone of strong corroboration that the wind was quite abaffed. She ought not to be alone here, ought she, Captain Cuttle? said Walter anxiously. Well, my lad, replied the Captain, after a little sagacious consideration. I don't know. You being here to keep her company, you see, and you too being jointly? Dear Captain Cuttle, remonstrated Walter, I being here, Miss Domby, in her guileless innocent heart, regards me as her adopted brother. But what would the guile and guilt of my heart be, if I pretended to believe that I had any right to approach her, familiarly, in that character, if I pretended to forget that I am bound in honour not to do it? Walter, my lad, hinted the Captain, with some revival of his discomforture. Ain't there no other character as— Oh! returned Walter, would you have me die in her esteem, in such esteem as hers, and put a veil between myself and her angels' face for ever, by taking advantage of her being here for refuge, so trusting and so unprotected to endeavor to exalt myself into her lover, what do I say? There is no one in the world who would be more opposed to me if I could do so than you. Walter, my lad, said the Captain, drooping more and more, providing, as there is any just cause or impediment, why two persons should not be joined together in the house of bondage, for which you'll overhaul the place and make a note. I hope I should declare it as promised and wowed in the bands, so there ain't no other character. Ain't there, my lad? Walter briskly waved his hand in the negative. Well, my lad, growled the Captain slowly. I won't deny, but what I find myself worry much down by the head, along with this ear, or but what I've gone clean about. But as the Lady lasts, Walter, mind you, what's respect and duty to her is respect and duty in my articles, how some ever disappointin'. And therefore I follow as in your wake, my lad, and feel as you are, no doubt, acting up to yourself. And there ain't no other character. Ain't there, said the Captain, musing over the ruins of his fallen castle with a very despondent face. Now, Captain Cattle, said Walter, starting a fresh point with a gayer air, to cheer the Captain up. But nothing could do that. He was too much concerned. I think we should exert ourselves to find someone who would be a proper attendant to Miss Donby while she remains here, and who may be trusted. None of her relations may. It's clear Miss Donby feels that they are all subservient to her father. What has become of Susan? The young woman, returned the Captain, it's my belief as she was sent away again the will of art's delight. I made a signal for her when Lady lasts first come, and she rated of her very high, and said she had been gone a long time. Then, said Walter, do you ask Miss Donby where she's gone, and we'll try to find her? The morning's getting on, Miss Donby will soon be rising. You are her best friend. Wait for her upstairs, and leave me to take care of all down here. The Captain, very crestfallen indeed, echoed the sigh with which Walter said this, and complied. Florence was delighted with her new room, anxious to see Walter, and overjoyed at the prospect of greeting her old friend Susan. But Florence could not say where Susan was gone, except that it was in Essex, and no one could say she remembered unless it were Mr. Toots. With this information the melancholy Captain returned to Walter, and gave him to understand that Mr. Toots was the young gentleman whom he had encountered on the doorstep, and that he was a friend of his, and that he was a young gentleman of property, and that he hopelessly adored Miss Donby. The Captain also related how the intelligence of Walter's supposed fate had first made him acquainted with Mr. Toots, and how there was solemn treaty and compact between them, that Mr. Toots should be mute upon the subject of his love. The question then was whether Florence could trust Mr. Toots, and Florence, saying with a smile, oh yes, with her whole heart, it became important to find out where Mr. Toots lived. This Florence didn't know, and the Captain had forgotten, and the Captain was telling Walter, in the little parlour, that Mr. Toots was sure to be there soon, when in came Mr. Toots himself. Captain Gills, said Mr. Toots, rushing into the parlour without any ceremony. I'm in a state of mind bordering on distraction. Mr. Toots had discharged those words, as from a mortar, before he observed Walter, whom he recognized with what may be described as a chuckle of misery. You'll excuse me, sir, said Mr. Toots, holding his forehead. But I'm at present in that state that my brain is going, if not gone, and anything approaching to politeness in an individual so situated would be a hollow mockery. Captain Gills, I beg to request the favour of a private interview. Why, brother, returned the Captain, taking him by the hand, you are the man as we was on the lookout for. Oh, Captain Gills, said Mr. Toots, what a lookout that must be, of which I am the object. I haven't dared to shave. I'm in that rash state. I haven't had my clothes brushed. My hair is matted together. I told the chicken, that if he offered to clean my boots, I'd stretch him a corpse before me. All these indications of a disordered mind were verified in Mr. Toots's appearance, which was wild and savage. See here, brother, said the Captain, this year's old Saul goes as Neve Waller. Himmers were supposed to have perished at sea. Mr. Toots took his hand from his forehead and stared at Walter. Good gracious me! stammered Mr. Toots. What a complication of misery! How did he do? I'm afraid he must have got very wet. Captain Gills, will you allow me a word in the shop? He took the Captain by the coat and, going out with him, whispered, That then, Captain Gills, is the party you spoke of when you said that he and Ms. Dumbie were made for one another? Why, I, my lad, replied the disconsolate Captain. I was of that mind once. And at this time, exclaimed Mr. Toots, with his hand to his forehead again, Of all others, I hated rival. At least he ain't a hated rival. Said Mr. Toots, stopping short on second thoughts and taking away his hand. What should I hate him for? No, if my affection has been truly disinterested, Captain Gills, let me prove it now. Mr. Toots shot back abruptly into the parlour, and said, ringing Walter by the hand, How did you? I hope you didn't take any cold. I shall be very glad if you give me the pleasure of your acquaintance. I wish you many happy returns of the day, upon my word and honour. Said Mr. Toots, warring as it became better acquainted with Walter's face and figure. I'm very glad to see you. Thank you, heartily, said Walter. I couldn't desire a more genuine and genial welcome. Couldn't you, though? Said Mr. Toots, still shaking his hand. It's very kind of you. I much obliged to you. How would he do? I hope you left everybody quite well over the—that is, upon the—I mean, wherever you came from last, you know? All these good wishes and better intentions, Walter responded to manfully. Captain Gills, said Mr. Toots, I should wish to be strictly honourable, but trust I may be allowed now to allude to a certain subject that— I, I, my lad, pretend the captain freely, freely. Then, Captain Gills, said Mr. Toots, and Lieutenant Walters, are you aware that the most dreadful circumstances have been happening at Mr. Dombie's house, and that Miss Dombie herself has left her father, who, in my opinion, said Mr. Toots, with great excitement, is a brute, that it would be a flattery to call her a marble monument or a bird of prey, and that she is not to be found in this gun no one knows where. May I ask how you heard this? inquired Walter. Lieutenant Walters, said Mr. Toots, who had arrived at that appellation by a process peculiar to himself, probably by jumbling up his Christian name with the seafaring profession and supposing some relationship between him and the captain, which would extend as a matter of course to their titles. Lieutenant Walters, I can have no objection to make a straightforward reply. The fact is that feeling extremely interested in everything that relates to Miss Dombie, not for any selfish reason, Lieutenant Walters, for I am well aware that the most able thing I could do for all parties would be to put an end to my existence, which can only be regarded as an inconvenience. I have been in the habit of bestowing the trifle now and then upon a footman, a most respectable young man of the name of Toulinson, who has lived in the family some time. And Toulinson informed me yesterday evening that this was the state of things. Since which, Captain Gills, and Lieutenant Walters, I have been perfectly frantic, and have been lying down on the sofa all night, the ruin you behold. Mr. Toots, said Walter, I am happy to be able to relieve your mind. Pray calm yourself. Miss Dombie is safe and well. Sir! cried Mr. Toots, starting from his chair and shaking hands with him and you. The relief is so excessive and unspeakable, that if you were to tell me now that Miss Dombie was married even, I could smile. Yes, Captain Gills! said Mr. Toots, appealing to him. Upon my soul and body I really think, whatever I might do to myself immediately afterwards, that I could smile, I am so relieved. It will be a greater relief and delight still, to such a generous mind as yours, said Walter, not at all slow in returning his greeting, to find that you can render service to Miss Dombie. Captain Cuttle, will you have the kindness to take Mr. Toots upstairs? The Captain beckoned to Mr. Toots, who followed him with the bewildered countenance, and, ascending to the top of the house, was introduced without a word of preparation from his conductor into Florence's new retreat. Poor Mr. Toots' amazement and pleasure at sight of her were such that they could find a vent in nothing but extravagance. He ran up to her, seized her hand, kissed it, dropped it, seized it again, fell upon one knee, shed tears, chuckled, and was quite regardless of his danger of being pinned by Diogenes, who, inspired by the belief that there was something hostile to his mistress in these demonstrations, worked round and round him, as if only undecided what particular point to go in for the assault, but quite resolved to do him a fearful mischief. Oh, Di, you bad, forgetful dog. Dear Mr. Toots, I am so rejoiced to see you. Thank ye. So, Mr. Toots, I am pretty well, I am much obliged to you, Miss Dombie, I hope all the family are the same. Mr. Toots said this without the least notion of what he was talking about, and sat down on a chair, staring at Florence with the liveliest contention of delight and despair going on in his face that any face could exhibit. Captain Gilles and Lieutenant Walters have mentioned, Miss Dombie, gasped Mr. Toots, that I can do you some service. If I could by any means wash out the remembrance of that day at Brighton, when I conducted myself much more like a parasite than a person of independent property, said Mr. Toots with severe self-accusation, I should sink into the silent tomb with a gleam of joy. Pray, Mr. Toots, said Florence, do not wish me to forget anything in our acquaintance. I never can. Believe me, you have been far too kind and good to me always. Miss Dombie, returned Mr. Toots, your consideration for my feelings is a part of your angelic character. Thank you a thousand times. It's of no consequence at all. What we thought of asking you, said Florence, is whether you remember where Susan, whom you were so kind as to accompany to the coach office when she left me, is to be found. Why, I do not certainly, Miss Dombie, said Mr. Toots, after a little consideration. Remember the exact name of the place that was on the coach? And I do recollect that she said she was not going to stop there, but was going farther on. But, Miss Dombie, if your object is to find her and to have her here, myself and the chicken will produce her with our every dispatch at devotion on my part and great intelligence on the chickens can ensure. Mr. Toots was so manifestly delighted and revived by the prospect of being useful, and the disinterested sincerity of his devotion was so unquestionable that it would have been cruel to refuse him. Florence, with an instinctive delicacy, forbore to urge the least obstacle, though she did not forbear to overpower him with thanks, and Mr. Toots proudly took the commission upon himself for immediate execution. Miss Dombie, said Mr. Toots, touching her profite hand with a pang of hopeless love visibly shooting through him and flashing out in his face. Goodbye. Allow me to take the liberty of saying that your misfortunes make me perfectly wretched, and that you may trust me next to Captain Gilles himself. I am quite aware, Miss Dombie, of my own deficiencies. They are not of the least consequence, thank you, but I am entirely to be relied upon. I do assure you, Miss Dombie. With that, Mr. Toots came out of the room, again accompanied by the Captain, who, standing at a little distance, holding his hat under his arm and arranging his scattered locks with his hook, had been a not uninterested witness of what passed, and when the door closed behind them, the light of Mr. Toots's life was darkly clouded again. Captain Gilles, said that gentleman, stopping near the bottom of the stairs and turning round, to tell you the truth, I am not in a frame of mind at the present moment, in which I could see Lieutenant Walters with that entirely friendly feeling towards him that I should wish to harbour in my breast. We cannot always command our feelings, Captain Gilles, and I should take it as a particular favour if you'd let me out at the private door. Brother, returned the Captain, you shall shape your own course. Whatever course you take is plain and seeming like, I worry sure. Captain Gilles, said Mr. Toots, you are extremely kind. Your good opinion is a consolation to me. There is one thing, said Mr. Toots, standing in the passage behind the half-open door, that I hope you bear in mind, Captain Gilles, and that I should wish Lieutenant Walters to be made acquainted with. I have quite come into my property now, you know, and I don't know what to do with it. If I could be at all useful in a pecuniary point of view, I should glide into the silent tomb with ease and smoothness. Mr. Toots said no more, but slipped out quietly and shut the door upon himself to cut the Captain off from any reply. Florence thought of this good creature long after he had left her, with mingled emotions of pain and pleasure. He was so honest and warm hearted, that to see him again and be assured of his truth to her in her distress was a joy and comfort beyond all price. But for that very reason it was so affecting to think that she caused him a moment's unhappiness, all ruffled by a breath the harmless current of his life, that her eyes filled with tears and her bosom overflowed with pity. Captain Cuddle, in his different way, thought much of Mr. Toots too, and so did Walter, and when the evening came and they were all sitting together in Florence's new room, Walter praised him in a most impassioned manner, and told Florence what he had said on leaving the house, with every graceful setting off and the way of comment and appreciation that his own honesty and sympathy could surround it with. Mr. Toots did not return upon the next day, or the next, or for several days, and in the meanwhile Florence, without any new alarm, lived like a quiet bird in a cage at the top of the old instrument maker's house. But Florence trooped and hung her head more and more plainly, as the days went on, and the expression that had been seen in the face of the dead child was often turned to the sky from her high window, as if it sought his angel out on the bright shore of which he had spoken, lying on his little bed. Florence had been weak and delicate of late, and the agitation she had undergone was not without its influences on her health. But it was no bodily illness that affected her now. She was distressed in mind, and the cause of her distress was Walter. Interested in her, anxious for her, proud and glad to serve her, and showing all this with the enthusiasm and ardour of his character, Florence saw that he avoided her. All the long day through he seldom approached her room. If she asked for him, he came, again for the moment as earnest and bright as she remembered him, when she was a lost child in the staring streets. But he soon became constrained. Her quick affection was too watchful not to know it, and uneasy, and soon left her. Unsought he never came all day between the morning and the night. When the evening closed in, he was always there, and that was her happiest time, for then she half-believed that the old Walter of her childhood was not changed. But even then, some trivial word, look, or circumstance would show her that there was an indefinable division between them which could not be passed. And she could not but see that these revelings of a great alteration in Walter manifested themselves in despite of his utmost efforts to hide them. In his consideration for her, she thought, and in the earnestness of his desire to spare her any wound from his kind hand, he resorted to innumerable little artifices and disguises. So much the more did Florence feel the greatness of the alteration in him. So much the oftener did she weep at the sustrangement of her brother. The good Captain, her entiring, tender, ever zealous friend, saw it too, Florence thought, and it pained him. He was less cheerful and hopeful than he had been at first, and would still looks at her and Walter by terms when they were all three together of an evening with quite a sad face. Florence resolved at last to speak to Walter. She believed she knew now what the cause of his estrangement was, and she thought it would be a relief to her full heart, and would set him more at ease if she told him she had found it out, and quite submitted to it, and did not approach him. It was on a certain Sunday afternoon that Florence took this resolution. The faithful Captain, in an amazing shirt collar, was sitting by her, reading with his spectacles on, and she asked him where Walter was. I think he's down below, my lady lass, returned the Captain. I should like to speak to him, said Florence, rising hurriedly as if to go downstairs. I'll rouse him up here a beauty, said the Captain, in a choice. Thereupon the Captain, with much alacrity, shouldered his book, for he made it a point of duty to read none but very large books on a Sunday, as having a more staid appearance, and had bargained years ago for a prodigious volume at a bookstore, five lines of which utterly confounded him at any time, in so much that he had not yet ascertained of what subject he treated, and withdrew. Walter soon appeared. Captain Cattle tells me, Miss Dombey, eagerly began on coming in, but stopped when he saw her face. You are not so well today. You look distressed. You have been weeping. He spoke so kindly, and with such a fervent tremor in his voice, at the tears gushed into her eyes at the sound of his words. Walter, said Florence gently, I am not quite well, and I have been weeping. I want to speak to you. He sat down opposite to her, looking at her beautiful and innocent face, and his own turned pale, and his lips trembled. You said, upon the night when I knew that you were saved, and oh, dear Walter, what I felt that night and what I hoped. He put his trembling hand upon the table between them, and sat looking at her. Walter, that I was changed. I was surprised to hear you say so, but I understand now that I am. Don't be angry with me, Walter. I was too much overjoyed to think of it then. She seemed a child to him again. It was the ingenuous, confiding, loving child he saw and heard, not the dear woman at whose feet he would have laid the riches of the earth. You remember the last time I saw you, Walter, before you went away? He put his hand into his breast, and took out a little purse. I have always worn it round my neck. If I had gone down in the deep, it would have been with me at the bottom of the sea. And you will wear it still, Walter, for my old sake? Until I die. She laid her hand on his, as fearlessly and simply, as if not a day had intervened since she gave him the little token of remembrance. I am glad of that. I shall be always glad to think so, Walter. Do you recollect that a thought of this change seemed to come into our minds at the same time that evening when we were talking together? No, he answered, in a wondering tone. Yes, Walter. I had been the means of injuring your hopes and prospects even then. I feared to think so then, but I know it now. If you were able then, in your generosity, to hide from me that you knew it too, you cannot do so now, although you try as generously as before. You do. I thank you for it, Walter, deeply, truly, but you cannot succeed. You have suffered too much in your own hardships, and in those of your dearest relation, quite to overlook the innocent cause of all the peril and affliction that has befallen you. You cannot quite forget me in that character, and we can be brother and sister no longer. But, dear Walter, do not think that I complain of you in this. I might have known it, ought to have known it, but forgot it in my joy. All I hope is that you may think of me less irksomely when this feeling is no more a secret one. And all I ask is, Walter, in the name of the poor child who was your sister once, that you will not struggle with yourself and pain yourself for my sake, now that I know all. Walter had looked upon her while she said this, with a face so full of wonder and amazement, that it had room for nothing else. Now he caught up the hand that touched his so entreatingly, and held it between his own. Oh, Miss Donby, he said, is it possible, that while I have been suffering so much, in striving with my sense of what is due to you, and must be rendered to you, I have made you suffer what your words disclose to me? Never, never before heaven have I thought of you but as the single bright, pure, blessed recollection of my boyhood and my youth. Never have I from the first and never shall I to the last regard your part in my life, but as something sacred, never to be lightly thought of, never to be esteemed enough, never until death to be forgotten. Again to see you look and hear you speak, as you did on that night when we parted, is happiness to me that there are no words to utter, and to be loved and trusted as your brother is the next gift I could receive and prize. Walter, said Florence, looking at him earnestly, but with a changing face, what is that which is due to me and must be rendered to me at the sacrifice of all this? Respect, said Walter, in a low tone. Reverence. The colour dawned in her face, and she timidly and thoughtfully withdrew her hand, still looking at him with unabated earnestness. I have not a brother's right, said Walter. I have not a brother's claim. I left a child. I find a woman. The colour overspread her face. She made a gesture as if of entreaty that he would say no more, and her face dropped upon her hands. They were both silent for a time, she weeping. I owe it to a heart so trusting, pure, and good, said Walter. Even to tear myself from it, though I rend my own, how dare I say it is my sister's. She was weeping still. If you had been happy, surrounded as you should be by loving and admiring friends, and by all that makes the station you were born to enviable, said Walter, and if you had called me brother then, in your affectionate remembrance of the past, I could have answered to the name from my distant place, with no inward assurance that I wronged your spotless tooth by doing so. But here, and now— Oh, thank you! Thank you, Walter! Forgive my having wronged you so much. I had no one to advise me. I am quite alone. Florence, said Walter passionately, I am hurried on to say what I thought, but a few moments ago nothing could have forced from my lips. If I had been prosperous, if I had any means or hope of being one day able to restore you to a station near your own, I would have told you that there was one name you might bestow upon me, a right above all others to protect and cherish you, that I was worthy of in nothing but the love and honour that I bore you, and in my whole heart being yours. I would have told you that it was the only claim that you could give me to defend and guard you, which I dare accept and dare assert, but that if I had that right, I would regard it as a trust so precious and so priceless, that the undivided truth and fervour of my life would poorly acknowledge its worth. The head was still bent down, the tears still falling, and the bosom swelling with its sobs. Dear Florence, dearest Florence, whom I called so in my thoughts before I could consider how presumptuous and wild it was, one last time let me call you by your own dear name and touch this gentle hand in token of your sisterly forgetfulness of what I have said. She raised her head and spoke to him with such a solemn sweetness in her eyes, with such a calm, bright, placid smile shining on him through her tears, with such a low, soft tremble in her frame and voice, at the innermost chords of his heart were touched, and his sight was dim as he listened. No, Walter, I cannot forget it. I would not forget it for the world. Are you—are you very poor? I am but a wanderer, said Walter, making voyages to live across the sea. That is my calling now. Are you soon going away again, Walter? Very soon. She sat looking at him for a moment, then timidly put her trembling hand in his. If you will take me for your wife, Walter, I will love you dearly. If you will let me go with you, Walter, I will go to the world's end without fear. I can give up nothing for you. I have nothing to resign, and no one to forsake. But all my love and life shall be devoted to you, and with my last breath I will breathe your name to God if I have sense and memory left. He caught her to his heart, and laid her cheek against his own, and now, no more repulsed, no more forlorn, she wept indeed upon the breast of her dear lover. Blessed Sunday bells ringing so tranquilly in their entranced and happy ears. Blessed Sunday peace and quiet, harmonising with the calmness in their souls, and making holy air around them. Blessed twilight stealing on, and shading her so soothingly and gravely, as she falls asleep, like a hushed child upon the bosom she has clung to. Oh, load of love and trustfulness, that lies so lightly there. I look down on the closed eyes, Walter with a proudly tender gaze, for in all the wide, wide world they seek but thee now, only thee. The captain remained on the little parlour until it was quite dark. He took the chair on which Walter had been sitting, and looked up at the skylight, until the day, by little and little, faded away, and the stars peeped down. He lighted a candle, lighted a pipe, smoked it out, and wondered what on earth was going on upstairs, and why they didn't call him to tea. Florence came to his side, while he was in the height of his wonderment. Aye, lady lass! cried the captain. Why, you and Warrer, have had a long spell at orc, my beauty! Florence put her little hand round one of the great buttons of his coat, and said, looking down into his face, Dear Captain, I want to tell you something, if you please. The captain raised his head pretty smartly to hear what it was. Catching by this means a more distinct view of Florence, he pushed back his chair, and himself with it, as far as they could go. What art delight! cried the captain, suddenly elated. Is it that? Yes, said Florence eagerly. Warrer, husband, that! Walled the captain, tossing up his glazed hat into the skylight. Yes! cried Florence, laughing and crying together. The captain immediately hugged her, and then, picking up the glazed hat, and putting it on, drew her arm through his, and conducted her upstairs again, where he felt that the great joke of his life was now to be made. What! Warrer, my lad! said the captain, looking in at the door, with his face like an amiable warming pan. So there ain't no other character, ain't there? He had like to have suffocated himself with this pleasantry, which he repeated at least forty times during tea, polishing his radiant face with the sleeve of his coat, and dabbing his head all over with his pocket handkerchief in the intervals. But he was not without a graver source of enjoyment to fall back upon, when so disposed, for he was repeatedly heard to say, in an undertone, as he looked with ineffable delight at Walter and Florence, Edward Cutler, my lad! You never shaped a better course in your life, than when you made that there little property over gently. End of chapter 50.