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 Cuttle. 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. MacStinger; and arming himself with his large stick, in case of an appeal to arms being rendered necessary by any unforeseen circumstance.
The pride Captain Cuttle had, in giving his arm to Florence, and escorting her some two or three hundred yards, keeping a bright lookout all the time, and attracting the attention of everyone who passed them, by his great vigilance and numerous precautions, was extreme. Arrived at the shop, the Captain felt it 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 sight 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 have not spent any of it. I have money of my own.”
“My lady lass,” returned 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, “Ay, ay, put it anywheres, my lady lass, so long as you know where to find it again. It ain’t o’ no use to me,” said the Captain. “I wonder I haven’t chucked it away afore 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 opening the door of the little Midshipman’s berth, 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 Leadenhall 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 negus (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 heart,” said Captain Cuttle 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 Wal’r!” said the Captain.
“Poor, poor Walter!” sighed Florence.
“Drownded, ain’t he?” said the Captain.
Florence shook her head, and sighed.
“Good night, my lady lass!” said Captain Cuttle, putting out his hand.
“God bless you, dear, kind friend!”
But the Captain lingered still.
“Is anything the matter, dear Captain Cuttle?” 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 Wal’r!” said the Captain. “My Wal’r, as I used to call you! Old Sol Gills’s nevy! Welcome to all as knowed you, as the flowers in May! Where are you got to, brave boy? Drownded, ain’t he?”
Concluding
