Dombey and Son
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 in 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 height and 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 Cuttle 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. That 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, and try to eat a deal.
Stand by, my deary! Liver wing it is. Sarse it is. Sassage it is. And
potato!” all which the Captain ranged symmetrically on a plate, and
pouring hot gravy on the whole with the useful spoon, set before his
cherished guest.
“The whole row o’ dead lights is up, for’ard, lady lass,” observed the
Captain, encouragingly, “and everythink is made snug. Try and pick a
bit, my pretty. If Wal”r was here—”
“Ah! If I had him for my brother now!” cried Florence.
“Don’t! don’t take on, my pretty!” said the Captain, “awast, to obleege
me! He was your nat’ral born friend like, warn’t he, Pet?”
Florence had no words to answer with. She only said, “Oh, dear, dear
Paul! oh, Walter!”
“The wery planks she walked on,” murmured the Captain, looking at her
drooping face, “was as high esteemed by Wal”r, as the water brooks is
by the hart which never rejices! I see him now, the wery day as he was
rated on them Dombey books, a speaking of her with his face a
glistening with doo—leastways with his modest sentiments—like a new
blowed rose, at dinner. Well, well! If our poor Wal”r was here, my lady
lass—or if he could be—for he’s drownded, ain’t he?”
Florence shook her head.
“Yes, yes; drownded,” 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
leetle bit, with a look-out for your own sweet health. Whereby, hold
your own, my lady lass, as if it was for Wal”r’s sake, and lay your
pretty head to the wind.”
Florence essayed 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.
“Wal”r was a trim lad, warn’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 drownded, Beauty, ain’t he?” said the Captain, in a soothing
voice.
Florence could not but assent again.
“He was older than you, my lady lass,” pursued the Captain, “but you
was like two children together, at first; wam’t you?”
Florence answered “Yes.”
“And Wal”r’s drownded,” said the Captain. “Ain’t he?”
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, fain 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
Wal”r. Ay, ay! Drownded. Ain’t he?” And always waited for her answer,
in which the great point of these singular 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 equalled 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, that 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 smoker; 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 Wal”r, ay, ay. Drownded, ain’t he?” after which he would
resume his smoking with infinite gentleness.
Unlike as they were externally—and there could scarcely be a more
decided contrast than between Florence in her delicate youth and
beauty, and Captain Cuttle with his knobby face, his great broad
weather-beaten person, and his gruff voice—in simple innocence of the
world’s ways and the world’s perplexities and dangers, they were nearly
on a level. No child could have surpassed Captain Cuttle 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 colours 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
Cuttle 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 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
look-out 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