Diogenes was broad awake upon his post, and waiting for his little mistress.
“Oh, Di! Oh, dear Di! Love me for his sake!”
Diogenes already loved her for her own, and didn’t care how much he showed it. So he made himself vastly ridiculous by performing a variety of uncouth bounces in the antechamber, and concluded, when poor Florence was at last asleep, and dreaming of the rosy children opposite, by scratching open her bedroom door: rolling up his bed into a pillow: lying down on the boards, at the full length of his tether, with his head towards her: and looking lazily at her, upside down, out of the tops of his eyes, until from winking and winking he fell asleep himself, and dreamed, with gruff barks, of his enemy.
XIX
Walter Goes Away
The wooden Midshipman at the Instrument-maker’s door, like the hard-hearted little Midshipman he was, remained supremely indifferent to Walter’s going away, even when the very last day of his sojourn in the back parlour was on the decline. With his quadrant at his round black knob of an eye, and his figure in its old attitude of indomitable alacrity, the Midshipman displayed his elfin small-clothes to the best advantage, and, absorbed in scientific pursuits, had no sympathy with worldly concerns. He was so far the creature of circumstances, that a dry day covered him with dust, and a misty day peppered him with little bits of soot, and a wet day brightened up his tarnished uniform for the moment, and a very hot day blistered him; but otherwise he was a callous, obdurate, conceited Midshipman, intent on his own discoveries, and caring as little for what went on about him, terrestrially, as Archimedes at the taking of Syracuse.
Such a Midshipman he seemed to be, at least, in the then position of domestic affairs. Walter eyed him kindly many a time in passing in and out; and poor old Sol, when Walter was not there, would come and lean against the doorpost, resting his weary wig as near the shoe-buckles of the guardian genius of his trade and shop as he could. But no fierce idol with a mouth from ear to ear, and a murderous visage made of parrot’s feathers, was ever more indifferent to the appeals of its savage votaries, than was the Midshipman to these marks of attachment.
Walter’s heart felt heavy as he looked round his old bedroom, up among the parapets and chimney-pots, and thought that one more night already darkening would close his acquaintance with it, perhaps forever. Dismantled of his little stock of books and pictures, it looked coldly and reproachfully on him for his desertion, and had already a foreshadowing upon it of its coming strangeness. “A few hours more,” thought Walter, “and no dream I ever had here when I was a schoolboy will be so little mine as this old room. The dream may come back in my sleep, and I may return waking to this place, it may be: but the dream at least will serve no other master, and the room may have a score, and every one of them may change, neglect, misuse it.”
But his Uncle was not to be left alone in the little back parlour, where he was then sitting by himself; for Captain Cuttle, considerate in his roughness, stayed away against his will, purposely that they should have some talk together unobserved: so Walter, newly returned home from his last day’s bustle, descended briskly, to bear him company.
“Uncle,” he said gaily, laying his hand upon the old man’s shoulder, “what shall I send you home from Barbados?”
“Hope, my dear Wally. Hope that we shall meet again, on this side of the grave. Send me as much of that as you can.”
“So I will, Uncle: I have enough and to spare, and I’ll not be chary of it! And as to lively turtles, and limes for Captain Cuttle’s punch, and preserves for you on Sundays, and all that sort of thing, why I’ll send you shiploads, Uncle: when I’m rich enough.”
Old Sol wiped his spectacles, and faintly smiled.
“That’s right, Uncle!” cried Walter, merrily, and clapping him half a dozen times more upon the shoulder. “You cheer up me! I’ll cheer up you! We’ll be as gay as larks tomorrow morning, Uncle, and we’ll fly as high! As to my anticipations, they are singing out of sight now.”
“Wally, my dear boy,” returned the old man, “I’ll do my best, I’ll do my best.”
“And your best, Uncle,” said Walter, with his pleasant laugh, “is the best best that I know. You’ll not forget what you’re to send me, Uncle?”
“No, Wally, no,” replied the old man; “everything I hear about Miss Dombey, now that she is left alone, poor lamb, I’ll write. I fear it won’t be much though, Wally.”
“Why, I’ll tell you what, Uncle,” said Walter, after a moment’s hesitation, “I have just been up there.”
“Ay, ay, ay?” murmured the old man, raising his eyebrows, and his spectacles with them.
“Not to see her,” said Walter, “though I could have seen her, I daresay, if I had asked, Mr. Dombey being out of town: but to say a parting word to Susan. I thought I might venture to do that, you know, under the circumstances, and remembering when I saw Miss Dombey last.”
“Yes, my boy, yes,” replied his Uncle, rousing himself from a temporary abstraction.
“So I saw her,” pursued Walter, “Susan, I mean: and I told her I was off and away tomorrow. And I said, Uncle, that you had always had an interest in Miss Dombey since that night when she was here, and always wished her well and happy, and always would be proud and glad to serve her in the least: I thought I might say that, you know, under the circumstances. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes, my boy, yes,” replied his Uncle, in the tone as before.
“And I added,” pursued
