Dombey and Son
“Write!” echoed the Captain. “Write, Sol Gills?”
“Ay,” said the old man, “either to Barbados, or Jamaica, or Demerara,
that was what I asked.”
“What you asked, Sol Gills?” repeated the Captain.
“Ay,” said the old man. “Don’t you know, Ned? Sure you have not
forgotten? Every time I wrote to you.”
The Captain took off his glazed hat, hung it on his hook, and smoothing
his hair from behind with his hand, sat gazing at the group around him:
a perfect image of wondering resignation.
“You don’t appear to understand me, Ned!” observed old Sol.
“Sol Gills,” returned the Captain, after staring at him and the rest
for a long time, without speaking, “I’m gone about and adrift. Pay out
a word or two respecting them adwenturs, will you! Can’t I bring up,
nohows? Nohows?” said the Captain, ruminating, and staring all round.
“You know, Ned,” said Sol Gills, “why I left here. Did you open my
packet, Ned?”
“Why, ay, ay,” said the Captain. “To be sure, I opened the packet.”
“And read it?” said the old man.
“And read it,” answered the Captain, eyeing him attentively, and
proceeding to quote it from memory. “‘My dear Ned Cuttle, when I left
home for the West Indies in forlorn search of intelligence of my dear-’
There he sits! There’s Wal”r!” said the Captain, as if he were relieved
by getting hold of anything that was real and indisputable.
“Well, Ned. Now attend a moment!” said the old man. “When I wrote
first—that was from Barbados—I said that though you would receive that
letter long before the year was out, I should be glad if you would open
the packet, as it explained the reason of my going away. Very good,
Ned. When I wrote the second, third, and perhaps the fourth times—that
was from Jamaica—I said I was in just the same state, couldn’t rest,
and couldn’t come away from that part of the world, without knowing
that my boy was lost or saved. When I wrote next—that, I think, was
from Demerara, wasn’t it?”
“That he thinks was from Demerara, warn’t it!” said the Captain,
looking hopelessly round.
“—I said,” proceeded old Sol, “that still there was no certain
information got yet. That I found many captains and others, in that
part of the world, who had known me for years, and who assisted me with
a passage here and there, and for whom I was able, now and then, to do
a little in return, in my own craft. That everyone was sorry for me,
and seemed to take a sort of interest in my wanderings; and that I
began to think it would be my fate to cruise about in search of tidings
of my boy, until I died.”
“Began to think as how he was a scientific Flying Dutchman!” said the
Captain, as before, and with great seriousness.
“But when the news come one day, Ned,—that was to Barbados, after I got
back there,—that a China trader home’ard bound had been spoke, that had
my boy aboard, then, Ned, I took passage in the next ship and came
home; arrived at home tonight to find it true, thank God!” said the
old man, devoutly.
The Captain, after bowing his head with great reverence, stared all
round the circle, beginning with Mr Toots, and ending with the
Instrument-maker; then gravely said:
“Sol Gills! The observation as I’m a-going to make is calc’lated to
blow every stitch of sail as you can carry, clean out of the
bolt-ropes, and bring you on your beam ends with a lurch. Not one of
them letters was ever delivered to Ed’ard Cuttle. Not one o’ them
letters,” repeated the Captain, to make his declaration the more solemn
and impressive, “was ever delivered unto Ed’ard Cuttle, Mariner, of
England, as lives at home at ease, and doth improve each shining hour!”
“And posted by my own hand! And directed by my own hand, Number nine
Brig Place!” exclaimed old Sol.
The colour all went out of the Captain’s face and all came back again
in a glow.
“What do you mean, Sol Gills, my friend, by Number nine Brig Place?”
inquired the Captain.
“Mean? Your lodgings, Ned,” returned the old man. “Mrs What’s-her-name!
I shall forget my own name next, but I am behind the present time—I
always was, you recollect—and very much confused. Mrs—”
“Sol Gills!” said the Captain, as if he were putting the most
improbable case in the world, “it ain’t the name of MacStinger as
you’re a trying to remember?”
“Of course it is!” exclaimed the Instrument-maker. “To be sure Ned. Mrs
MacStinger!”
Captain Cuttle, whose eyes were now as wide open as they would be, and
the knobs upon whose face were perfectly luminous, gave a long shrill
whistle of a most melancholy sound, and stood gazing at everybody in a
state of speechlessness.
“Overhaul that there again, Sol Gills, will you be so kind?” he said at
last.
“All these letters,” returned Uncle Sol, beating time with the
forefinger of his right hand upon the palm of his left, with a
steadiness and distinctness that might have done honour, even to the
infallible chronometer in his pocket, “I posted with my own hand, and
directed with my own hand, to Captain Cuttle, at Mrs MacStinger’s,
Number nine Brig Place.”
The Captain took his glazed hat off his hook, looked into it, put it
on, and sat down.
“Why, friends all,” said the Captain, staring round in the last state
of discomfiture, “I cut and run from there!”
“And no one knew where you were gone, Captain Cuttle?” cried Walter
hastily.
“Bless your heart, Wal”r,” said the Captain, shaking his head, “she’d
never have allowed o’ my coming to take charge o’ this here property.
Nothing could be done but cut and run. Lord love you, Wal”r!” said the
Captain, “you’ve only seen her in a calm! But see her when her angry
passions rise—and make a note on!”
“I’d give it her!” remarked the Nipper, softly.
“Would you, do you think, my dear?” returned the Captain, with feeble
admiration. “Well, my dear, it does you credit. But there ain’t no wild
animal I wouldn’t sooner face myself. I only got my chest away by means
of a friend as nobody’s a match for. It was no good sending any letter
there. She wouldn’t take in any letter, bless you,” said the Captain,
“under them circumstances! Why, you could hardly make it worth a man’s
while to be the postman!”
“Then it’s pretty clear, Captain Cuttle, that all of us, and you and
Uncle Sol especially,” said Walter, “may thank Mrs MacStinger for no
small anxiety.”
The general obligation in this wise to the determined relict of the
late Mr MacStinger, was so apparent, that the Captain did not contest
the point; but being in some measure ashamed of his position, though
nobody dwelt upon the subject, and Walter especially avoided it,
remembering the last conversation he and the Captain had held together
respecting it, he remained under a cloud for nearly five minutes—an
extraordinary period for him when that sun, his face, broke out once
more, shining on all beholders with extraordinary brilliancy; and he
fell into a fit of shaking hands with everybody over and over again.
At an early hour, but not before Uncle Sol and Walter had questioned
each other at some length about their voyages and dangers, they all,
except Walter, vacated Florence’s room, and went down to the parlour.
Here they were soon afterwards joined by Walter, who told them Florence
was a little sorrowful and heavy-hearted, and had gone to bed. Though
they could not have disturbed her with their voices down there, they
all spoke in a whisper after this: and each, in his different way, felt
very lovingly and gently towards Walter’s fair young bride: and a long
explanation there was of everything relating to her, for the
satisfaction of Uncle Sol; and very sensible Mr Toots was of the
delicacy with which Walter made his name and services important, and
his presence necessary to their little council.
“Mr Toots,” said Walter, on parting with him at the house door, “we
shall see each other to-morrow morning?”
“Lieutenant Walters,” returned Mr Toots, grasping his hand fervently,
“I shall certainly be present.”
“This is the last night we shall meet for a long time—the last night we
may ever meet,” said Walter. “Such a noble heart as yours, must feel, I
think, when another heart is bound to it. I hope you know that I am
very grateful to you?”
“Walters,” replied Mr Toots, quite touched, “I should be glad to feel
that you had reason to be so.”
“Florence,” said Walter, “on this last night of her bearing her own
name, has made me promise—it was only just now, when you left us
together—that I would tell you—with her dear love—”
Mr Toots laid his hand upon the doorpost, and his eyes upon his hand.
“—With her dear love,” said Walter, “that she can never have a friend
whom she will value above you. That the recollection of your true
consideration for her always, can never be forgotten by her. That she
remembers you in her prayers tonight, and hopes that you will think of
her when she is far away. Shall I say anything for you?”
“Say, Walter,” replied Mr Toots indistinctly, “that I shall think of
her every day, but never without feeling happy to know that she is
married to the man she loves, and who loves her. Say, if you please,
that I am sure her husband deserves her—even her!—and that I am glad of
her choice.”
Mr Toots got more distinct as he came to these last words, and raising
his eyes from the doorpost, said them stoutly. He then shook Walter’s
hand again with a fervour that Walter was not slow to return and
started homeward.
Mr Toots was accompanied by the Chicken, whom he had of late brought
with him every evening, and left in the shop, with an idea that
unforeseen circumstances might arise from without, in which the prowess
of that distinguished character would be of service to the Midshipman.
The Chicken did not appear to be in a particularly good humour on this
occasion. Either the gas-lamps were treacherous, or he cocked his eye
in a hideous manner, and likewise distorted his nose, when Mr Toots,
crossing the road, looked back over his shoulder at the room where
Florence slept. On the road home, he was more demonstrative of
aggressive intentions against the other foot-passengers, than comported
with a professor of the peaceful art of self-defence. Arrived at home,
instead of leaving Mr Toots in his apartments when he had escorted him
thither, he remained before him weighing his white hat in both hands by
the brim, and twitching his head and nose (both of which had been many
times broken, and but indifferently repaired), with an air of decided
disrespect.
His patron being much engaged with his own thoughts, did not observe
this for some time, nor indeed until the Chicken, determined not to be
overlooked, had made divers clicking sounds with his tongue and teeth,
to attract attention.
“Now, Master,” said the Chicken, doggedly, when he, at length, caught
Mr Toots’s eye, “I want to know whether this here gammon is to finish
it, or whether you’re a going in to win?”
“Chicken,” returned Mr Toots, “explain yourself.”
“Why then, here’s all about it, Master,” said the Chicken. “I ain’t a
cove to chuck a word away. Here’s wot it is. Are any on ’em to be
doubled up?”
When the Chicken put this question he dropped his hat, made a dodge and
a feint with his left hand, hit a supposed enemy a violent blow with
his right, shook his head smartly, and recovered himself.
“Come, Master,” said the Chicken. “Is it to be gammon or pluck? Which?”
“Chicken,” returned Mr Toots, “your expressions are coarse, and your
meaning is obscure.”
“Why, then, I tell you what, Master,” said the Chicken. “This is where
it is. It’s mean.”
“What is mean, Chicken?” asked Mr Toots.
“It is,” said the Chicken, with a frightful corrugation of his broken
nose. “There! Now, Master! Wot! When you could go and blow on this here
match to the stiff’un;” by which depreciatory appellation it has been