“No, thank’ee,” said the Captain. “Nothing. Only I’ll take it as a favour if you’ll part company for the present. I believe, brother,” wringing his hand again, “that, after Wal’r, and on a different model, you’re as good a lad as ever stepped.”
“Upon my word and honour, Captain Gills,” returned Mr. Toots, giving the Captain’s hand a preliminary slap before shaking it again, “it’s delightful to me to possess your good opinion. Thank’ee.”
“And bear a hand and cheer up,” said the Captain, patting him on the back. “What! There’s more than one sweet creetur in the world!”
“Not to me, Captain Gills,” replied Mr. Toots gravely. “Not to me, I assure you. The state of my feelings towards Miss Dombey is of that unspeakable description, that my heart is a desert island, and she lives in it alone. I’m getting more used up every day, and I’m proud to be so. If you could see my legs when I take my boots off, you’d form some idea of what unrequited affection is. I have been prescribed bark, but I don’t take it, for I don’t wish to have any tone whatever given to my constitution. I’d rather not. This, however, is forbidden ground. Captain Gills, goodbye!”
Captain Cuttle cordially reciprocating the warmth of Mr. Toots’s farewell, locked the door behind him, and shaking his head with the same remarkable expression of pity and tenderness as he had regarded him with before, went up to see if Florence wanted him.
There was an entire change in the Captain’s face as he went upstairs. He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief, and he polished the bridge of his nose with his sleeve as he had done already that morning, but his face was absolutely changed. Now, he might have been thought supremely happy; now, he might have been thought sad; but the kind of gravity that sat upon his features was quite new to them, and was as great an improvement to them as if they had undergone some sublimating process.
He knocked softly, with his hook, at Florence’s door, twice or thrice; but, receiving no answer, ventured first to peep in, and then to enter: emboldened to take the latter step, perhaps, by the familiar recognition of Diogenes, who, stretched upon the ground by the side of her couch, wagged his tail, and winked his eyes at the Captain, without being at the trouble of getting up.
She was sleeping heavily, and moaning in her sleep; and Captain Cuttle, with a perfect awe of her youth, and beauty, and her sorrow, raised her head, and adjusted the coat that covered her, where it had fallen off, and darkened the window a little more that she might sleep on, and crept out again, and took his post of watch upon the stairs. All this, with a touch and tread as light as Florence’s own.
Long may it remain in this mixed world a point not easy of decision, which is the more beautiful evidence of the Almighty’s goodness—the delicate fingers that are formed for sensitiveness and sympathy of touch, and made to minister to pain and grief, or the rough hard Captain Cuttle hand, that the heart teaches, guides, and softens in a moment!
Florence slept upon her couch, forgetful of her homelessness and orphanage, and Captain Cuttle watched upon the stairs. A louder sob or moan than usual, brought him sometimes to her door; but by degrees she slept more peacefully, and the Captain’s watch was undisturbed.
XLIX
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 oftener wet with tears than 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 athwart 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, “what cheer?”
“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.
“What cheer, bright di’mond?” said the Captain.
“I have surely slept very long,” returned Florence. “When did I come here? Yesterday?”
“This here blessed day, my lady lass,” 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
