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, “Hooroar, my lad! Indiwidually, I’m o’ your opinion.”
Walter, with his 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—”
“Ay, ay, my lad,” said the Captain approvingly.
“—And that you have missed the letter, anyhow?”
“Why, Wal’r,” 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 o’ science, old Sol 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 here Midshipman 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, Wal’r,” 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 goodwill. “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 Dombey.”
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 Dombey 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 “Awast!” or a “Stand by!” or something or other, equally pertinent to the occasion; but it was rendered so extremely feeble by the total discomfiture 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!”
“Hooroar, my lad!” exclaimed the Captain, in a burst of uncontrollable satisfaction. “Hooroar! hooroar! hooroar!”
“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 abaft.
“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 two being jintly—”
“Dear Captain Cuttle!” remonstrated Walter. “I being here! Miss Dombey, 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?”
“Wal’r, my lad,” hinted the Captain, with some revival of his discomfiture, “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 angel’s face forever, by taking advantage of her being here for refuge, so trusting and so unprotected, to endeavour 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.”
“Wal’r, my lad,” said the Captain, drooping more and more, “prowiding as there is any just cause or impediment why two persons should not be jined 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 banns. 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 wery much down by the head, along o’ this here, or but what I’ve gone clean about. But as to Lady lass, Wal’r, mind you, wot’s respect and duty to her, is respect and duty in my articles, howsumever disapinting; and therefore I follows 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 Cuttle,” 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
