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
hill-tops 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 rough face and burly figure, so quietly
protective of her, stood in the rosy light of the bright evening sky,
without saying a word. However strange the form of speech into which he
might have fashioned the feeling, if he had had to give it utterance,
the Captain felt, as sensibly as the most eloquent of men could have
done, that there was something in the tranquil time and in its softened
beauty that would make the wounded heart of Florence overflow; and that
it was better that such tears should have their way. So not a word spake
Captain Cuttle. But when he felt his arm clasped closer, and when he
felt the lonely head come nearer to it, and lay itself against his
homely coarse blue sleeve, he pressed it gently with his rugged hand,
and understood it, and was understood.

'Better now, my pretty!' said the Captain. 'Cheerily, cheerily, I'll go
down below, and get some dinner ready. Will you come down of your own
self, arterwards, pretty, or shall Ed'ard Cuttle come and fetch you?'

As Florence assured him that she was quite able to walk downstairs, the
Captain, though evidently doubtful of his own hospitality in permitting
it, left her to do so, and immediately set about roasting a fowl at
the fire in the little parlour. To achieve his cookery with the greater
skill, he pulled off his coat, tucked up his wristbands, and put on his
glazed hat, without which assistant he never applied himself to any nice
or difficult undertaking.

After cooling her aching head and burning face in the fresh water which
the Captain's care had provided for her while she slept, Florence went
to the little mirror to bind up her disordered hair. Then she knew--in
a moment, for she shunned it instantly, that on her breast there was the
darkening mark of an angry hand.

Her tears burst forth afresh at the sight; she was ashamed and afraid of
it; but it moved her to no anger against him. Homeless and fatherless,
she forgave him everything; hardly thought that she had need to forgive
him, or that she did; but she fled from the idea of him as she had fled
from the reality, and he was utterly gone and lost. There was no such
Being in the world.

What to do, or where to live, Florence--poor, inexperienced girl!--could
not yet consider. She had indistinct dreams of finding, a long way off,
some little sisters to instruct, who would be gentle with her, and to
whom, under some feigned name, she might attach herself, and who
would grow up in their happy home, and marry, and be good to their old
governess, and perhaps entrust her, in time, with the education of their
own daughters. And she thought how strange and sorrowful it would be,
thus to become a grey-haired woman, carrying her secret to the grave,
when Florence Dombey was forgotten. But it was all dim and clouded to
her now. She only knew that she had no Father upon earth, and she said
so, many times, with her suppliant head hidden from all, but her Father
who was in Heaven.

Her little stock of money amounted to but a few guineas. With a part of
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
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 his apostrophe with this abrupt appeal to Florence, the
Captain bade her good-night, and descended the stairs, while Florence
remained at the top, holding the candle out to light him down. He was
lost in the obscurity, and, judging from the sound of his receding
footsteps, was in the act of turning into the little parlour, when
his head and shoulders unexpectedly emerged again, as from the deep,
apparently for no other purpose than to repeat, 'Drownded, ain't he,
pretty?' For when he had said that in a tone of tender condolence, he
disappeared.

Florence was very sorry that she should unwittingly, though naturally,
have awakened these associations in the mind of her protector, by taking
refuge there; and sitting down before the little table where the Captain
had arranged the telescope and song-book, and those other rarities,
thought of Walter, and of all that was connected with him in the past,
until she could have almost wished to lie down on her bed and fade away.
But in her lonely yearning to the dead whom she had loved, no thought
of home--no possibility of going back--no presentation of it as yet
existing, or as sheltering her father--once entered her thoughts. She
had seen the murder done. In the last lingering natural aspect in which
she had cherished him through so much, he had been torn out of her
heart, defaced, and slain. The thought of it was so appalling to
her, that she covered her eyes, and shrunk trembling from the least
remembrance of the deed, or of the cruel hand that did it. If her fond
heart could have held his image after that, it must have broken; but it
could not; and the void was filled with a wild dread that fled from all
confronting with its shattered fragments--with such a dread as could
have risen out of nothing but the depths of such a love, so wronged.

She dared not look into the glass; for the sight of the darkening mark
upon her bosom made her afraid of herself, as if she bore about her
something wicked. She covered it up, with a hasty, faltering hand, and
in the dark; and laid her weary head down, weeping.

The Captain did not go to bed for a long time. He walked to and fro in
the shop and in the little parlour, for a full hour, and, appearing
to have composed himself by that exercise, sat down with a grave and
thoughtful face, and read out of a Prayer-book the forms of prayer
appointed to be used at sea. These were not easily disposed of; the good
Captain being a mighty slow, gruff reader, and frequently stopping at
a hard word to give himself such encouragement as 'Now, my lad! With a
will!' or, 'Steady, Ed'ard Cuttle, steady!' which had a great effect
in helping him out of any difficulty. Moreover, his spectacles greatly
interfered with his powers of vision. But notwithstanding these
drawbacks, the Captain, being heartily in earnest, read the service to
the very last line, and with genuine feeling too; and approving of it
very much when he had done, turned in, under the counter (but not before
he had been upstairs, and listened at Florence's door), with a serene
breast, and a most benevolent visage.

The Captain turned out several times in the course of the night,
to assure himself that his charge was resting quietly; and once, at
daybreak, found that she was awake: for she called to know if it were
he, on hearing footsteps near her door.

'Yes, my lady lass,' replied the Captain, in a growling whisper. 'Are
you all right, di'mond?'

Florence thanked him, and said 'Yes.'

The Captain could not lose so favourable an opportunity of applying
his mouth to the keyhole, and calling through it, like a hoarse breeze,
'Poor Wal'r! Drownded, ain't he?' after which he withdrew, and turning
in again, slept till seven o'clock.

Nor was he free from his uneasy and embarrassed manner all that day;
though Florence, being busy with her needle in the little parlour, was
more calm and tranquil than she had been on the day preceding. Almost
always when she raised her eyes from her work, she observed the captain
looking at her, and thoughtfully stroking his chin; and he so often
hitched his arm-chair close to her, as if he were going to say something
very confidential, and hitched it away again, as not being able to
make up his mind how to begin, that in the course of the day he cruised
completely round the parlour in that frail bark, and more than once went
ashore against the wainscot or the closet door, in a very distressed
condition.

It was not until the twilight that Captain Cuttle, fairly dropping
anchor, at last, by the side of Florence, began to talk at all
connectedly. But when the light of the fire was shining on the walls
and ceiling of the little room, and on the tea-board and the cups and
saucers that were ranged upon the table, and on her calm face turned
towards the flame, and reflecting it in the tears that filled her eyes,
the Captain broke a long silence thus:

'You never was at sea, my own?'

'No,' replied Florence.

'Ay,' said the Captain, reverentially; 'it's a almighty element. There's
wonders in the deep, my pretty. Think on it when the winds is roaring
and the waves is rowling. Think on it when the stormy nights is so pitch
dark,' said the Captain, solemnly holding up his hook, 'as you can't
see your hand afore you, excepting when the wiwid lightning reweals the
same; and when you drive, drive, drive through the storm and dark, as
if you was a driving, head on, to the world without end, evermore, amen,
and when found making a note of. Them's the times, my beauty, when a man
may say to his messmate (previously a overhauling of the wollume), "A
stiff nor'wester's blowing, Bill; hark, don't you hear it roar now! Lord
help 'em, how I pitys all unhappy folks ashore now!"' Which quotation,
as particularly applicable to the terrors of the ocean, the Captain
delivered in a most impressive manner, concluding with a sonorous 'Stand
by!'

'Were you ever in a dreadful storm?' asked Florence.

'Why ay, my lady lass, I've seen my share of bad weather,' said the
Captain, tremulously wiping his head, 'and I've had my share of knocking
about; but--but it ain't of myself as I was a meaning to speak. Our dear
boy,' drawing closer to her, 'Wal'r, darling, as was drownded.'

The Captain spoke in such a trembling voice, and looked at Florence with
a face so pale and agitated, that she clung to his hand in affright.

'Your face is changed,' cried Florence. 'You are altered in a moment.
What is it? Dear Captain Cuttle, it turns me cold to see you!'

'What! Lady lass,' returned the Captain, supporting her with his hand,
'don't be took aback. No, no! All's well, all's well, my dear. As I was
a saying--Wal'r--he's--he's drownded. Ain't he?'

Florence looked at him intently; her colour came and went; and she laid
her hand upon her breast.

'There's perils and dangers on the deep, my beauty,' said the Captain;
'and over many a brave ship, and many and many a bould heart, the secret
waters has closed up, and never told no tales. But there's escapes upon
the deep, too, and sometimes one man out of a score,--ah! maybe out of
a hundred, pretty,--has been saved by the mercy of God, and come home
after being given over for dead, and told of all hands lost. I--I know
a story, Heart's Delight,' stammered the Captain, 'o' this natur, as
was told to me once; and being on this here tack, and you and me sitting
alone by the fire, maybe you'd like to hear me tell it. Would you,
deary?'

Florence, trembling with an agitation which she could not control or
understand, involuntarily followed his glance, which went behind her
into the shop, where a lamp was burning. The instant that she turned her
head, the Captain sprung out of his chair, and interposed his hand.

'There's nothing there, my beauty,' said the Captain. 'Don't look
there.'

'Why not?' asked Florence.

The Captain murmured something about its being dull that way, and about
the fire being cheerful. He drew the door ajar, which had been standing
open until now, and resumed his seat. Florence followed him with her
eyes, and looked intently in his face.

'The story was about a ship, my lady lass,' began the Captain, 'as
sailed out of the Port of London, with a fair wind and in fair weather,
bound for--don't be took aback, my lady lass, she was only out'ard
bound, pretty, only out'ard bound!'

The expression on Florence's face alarmed the Captain, who was himself
very hot and flurried, and showed scarcely less agitation than she did.

'Shall I go on, Beauty?' said the Captain.

'Yes, yes, pray!' cried Florence.

The Captain made a gulp as if to get down something that was sticking in
his throat, and nervously proceeded:

'That there unfort'nate ship met with such foul weather, out at sea, as
don't blow once in twenty year, my darling. There was hurricanes ashore
as tore up forests and blowed down towns, and there was gales at sea in
them latitudes, as not the stoutest wessel ever launched could live in.
Day arter day that there unfort'nate ship behaved noble, I'm told, and
did her duty brave, my pretty, but at one blow a'most her bulwarks
was stove in, her masts and rudder carved away, her best man swept
overboard, and she left to the mercy of the storm as had no mercy but
blowed harder and harder yet, while the waves dashed over her, and beat
her in, and every time they come a thundering at her, broke her like a
shell. Every black spot in every mountain of water that rolled away was
a bit o' the ship's life or a living man, and so she went to pieces,
Beauty, and no grass will never grow upon the graves of them as manned
that ship.'

'They were not all lost!' cried Florence. 'Some were saved!--Was one?'

'Aboard o' that there unfort'nate wessel,' said the Captain, rising from
his chair, and clenching his hand with prodigious energy and exultation,
'was a lad, a gallant lad--as I've heerd tell--that had loved, when
he was a boy, to read and talk about brave actions in shipwrecks--I've
heerd him! I've heerd him!--and he remembered of 'em in his hour of
need; for when the stoutest and oldest hands was hove down, he was firm
and cheery. It warn't the want of objects to like and love ashore that
gave him courage, it was his nat'ral mind. I've seen it in his face,
when he was no more than a child--ay, many a time!--and when I thought
it nothing but his good looks, bless him!'

'And was he saved!' cried Florence. 'Was he saved!'

'That brave lad,' said the Captain,--'look at me, pretty! Don't look
round--'

Florence had hardly power to repeat, 'Why not?'

'Because there's nothing there, my deary,' said the Captain. 'Don't be
took aback, pretty creetur! Don't, for the sake of Wal'r, as was dear
to all on us! That there lad,' said the Captain, 'arter working with the
best, and standing by the faint-hearted, and never making no complaint
nor sign of fear, and keeping up a spirit in all hands that made
'em honour him as if he'd been a admiral--that lad, along with the
second-mate and one seaman, was left, of all the beatin' hearts that
went aboard that ship, the only living creeturs--lashed to a fragment of
the wreck, and driftin' on the stormy sea.'

'Were they saved?' cried Florence.

'Days and nights they drifted on them endless waters,' said the Captain,
'until at last--No! Don't look that way, pretty!--a sail bore down upon
'em, and they was, by the Lord's mercy, took aboard: two living and one
dead.'

'Which of them was dead?' cried Florence.

'Not the lad I speak on,' said the Captain.

'Thank God! oh thank God!'

'Amen!' returned the Captain hurriedly. 'Don't be took aback! A minute
more, my lady lass! with a good heart!--aboard that ship, they went a
long voyage, right away across the chart (for there warn't no touching
nowhere), and on that voyage the seaman as was picked up with him died.
But he was spared, and--'

The Captain, without knowing what he did, had cut a slice of bread from
the loaf, and put it on his hook (which was his usual toasting-fork),
on which he now held it to the fire; looking behind Florence with great
emotion in his face, and suffering the bread to blaze and burn like
fuel.

'Was spared,' repeated Florence, 'and--?'

'And come home in that ship,' said the Captain, still looking in the
same direction, 'and--don't be frightened, pretty--and landed; and one
morning come cautiously to his own door to take a obserwation, knowing
that his friends would think him drownded, when he sheered off at the
unexpected--'

'At the unexpected barking of a dog?' cried Florence, quickly.

'Yes,' roared the Captain. 'Steady, darling! courage! Don't look round
yet. See there! upon the wall!'

There was the shadow of a man upon the wall close to her. She started
up, looked round, and with a piercing cry, saw Walter Gay behind her!

She had no thought of him but as a brother, a brother rescued from the
grave; a shipwrecked brother saved and at her side; and rushed into his
arms. In all the world, he seemed to be her hope, her comfort, refuge,
natural protector. 'Take care of Walter, I was fond of Walter!' The dear
remembrance of the plaintive voice that said so, rushed upon her soul,
like music in the night. 'Oh welcome home, dear Walter! Welcome to this
stricken breast!' She felt the words, although she could not utter them,
and held him in her pure embrace.

Captain Cuttle, in a fit of delirium, attempted to wipe his head
with the blackened toast upon his hook: and finding it an uncongenial
substance for the purpose, put it into the crown of his glazed hat,
put the glazed hat on with some difficulty, essayed to sing a verse of
Lovely Peg, broke down at the first word, and retired into the shop,
whence he presently came back express, with a face all flushed and
besmeared, and the starch completely taken out of his shirt-collar, to
say these words:

'Wal'r, my lad, here is a little bit of property as I should wish to
make over, jintly!'

The Captain hastily produced the big watch, the teaspoons, the
sugar-tongs, and the canister, and laying them on the table, swept them
with his great hand into Walter's hat; but in handing that singular
strong box to Walter, he was so overcome again, that he was fain to make
another retreat into the shop, and absent himself for a longer space of
time than on his first retirement.

But Walter sought him out, and brought him back; and then the Captain's
great apprehension was, that Florence would suffer from this new shock.
He felt it so earnestly, that he turned quite rational, and positively
interdicted any further allusion to Walter's adventures for some days
to come. Captain Cuttle then became sufficiently composed to relieve
himself of the toast in his hat, and to take his place at the tea-board;
but finding Walter's grasp upon his shoulder, on one side, and Florence
whispering her tearful congratulations on the other, the Captain
suddenly bolted again, and was missing for a good ten minutes.

But never in all his life had the Captain's face so shone and glistened,
as when, at last, he sat stationary at the tea-board, looking from
Florence to Walter, and from Walter to Florence. Nor was this effect
produced or at all heightened by the immense quantity of polishing
he had administered to his face with his coat-sleeve during the last
half-hour. It was solely the effect of his internal emotions. There was
a glory and delight within the Captain that spread itself over his whole
visage, and made a perfect illumination there.

The pride with which the Captain looked upon the bronzed cheek and the
courageous eyes of his recovered boy; with which he saw the generous
fervour of his youth, and all its frank and hopeful qualities, shining
once more, in the fresh, wholesome manner, and the ardent face, would
have kindled something of this light in his countenance. The admiration
and sympathy with which he turned his eyes on Florence, whose beauty,
grace, and innocence could have won no truer or more zealous champion
than himself, would have had an equal influence upon him. But the
fulness of the glow he shed around him could only have been engendered
in his contemplation of the two together, and in all the fancies
springing out of that association, that came sparkling and beaming into
his head, and danced about it.

How they talked of poor old Uncle Sol, and dwelt on every little
circumstance relating to his disappearance; how their joy was moderated
by the old man's absence and by the misfortunes of Florence; how they
released Diogenes, whom the Captain had decoyed upstairs some time
before, lest he should bark again; the Captain, though he was in one
continual flutter, and made many more short plunges into the shop, fully
comprehended. But he no more dreamed that Walter looked on Florence, as
it were, from a new and far-off place; that while his eyes often sought
the lovely face, they seldom met its open glance of sisterly affection,
but withdrew themselves when hers were raised towards him; than he
believed that it was Walter's ghost who sat beside him. He saw them
together in their youth and beauty, and he knew the story of their
younger days, and he had no inch of room beneath his great blue
waistcoat for anything save admiration of such a pair, and gratitude for
their being reunited.

They sat thus, until it grew late. The Captain would have been content
to sit so for a week. But Walter rose, to take leave for the night.

'Going, Walter!' said Florence. 'Where?'

'He slings his hammock for the present, lady lass,' said Captain Cuttle,
'round at Brogley's. Within hail, Heart's Delight.'

'I am the cause of your going away, Walter,' said Florence. 'There is a
houseless sister in your place.'

'Dear Miss Dombey,' replied Walter, hesitating--'if it is not too bold
to call you so!--'

'Walter!' she exclaimed, surprised.

'--If anything could make me happier in being allowed to see and speak
to you, would it not be the discovery that I had any means on earth of
doing you a moment's service! Where would I not go, what would I not do,
for your sake?'

She smiled, and called him brother.

'You are so changed,' said Walter--

'I changed!' she interrupted.

'--To me,' said Walter, softly, as if he were thinking aloud, 'changed to
me. I left you such a child, and find you--oh! something so different--'

'But your sister, Walter. You have not forgotten what we promised to
each other, when we parted?'

'Forgotten!' But he said no more.

'And if you had--if suffering and danger had driven it from your
thoughts--which it has not--you would remember it now, Walter, when you
find me poor and abandoned, with no home but this, and no friends but
the two who hear me speak!'

'I would! Heaven knows I would!' said Walter.

'Oh, Walter,' exclaimed Florence, through her sobs and tears. 'Dear
brother! Show me some way through the world--some humble path that I may
take alone, and labour in, and sometimes think of you as one who will
protect and care for me as for a sister! Oh, help me, Walter, for I need
help so much!'

'Miss Dombey! Florence! I would die to help you. But your friends are
proud and rich. Your father--'

'No, no! Walter!' She shrieked, and put her hands up to her head, in an
attitude of terror that transfixed him where he stood. 'Don't say that
word!'

He never, from that hour, forgot the voice and look with which she
stopped him at the name. He felt that if he were to live a hundred
years, he never could forget it.

Somewhere--anywhere--but never home! All past, all gone, all lost, and
broken up! The whole history of her untold slight and suffering was in
the cry and look; and he felt he never could forget it, and he never
did.

She laid her gentle face upon the Captain's shoulder, and related how
and why she had fled. If every sorrowing tear she shed in doing so, had
been a curse upon the head of him she never named or blamed, it would
have been better for him, Walter thought, with awe, than to be renounced
out of such a strength and might of love.

'There, precious!' said the Captain, when she ceased; and deep attention
the Captain had paid to her while she spoke; listening, with his glazed
hat all awry and his mouth wide open. 'Awast, awast, my eyes! Wal'r,
dear lad, sheer off for to-night, and leave the pretty one to me!'

Walter took her hand in both of his, and put it to his lips, and kissed
it. He knew now that she was, indeed, a homeless wandering fugitive;
but, richer to him so, than in all the wealth and pride of her right
station, she seemed farther off than even on the height that had made
him giddy in his boyish dreams.

Captain Cuttle, perplexed by no such meditations, guarded Florence to
her room, and watched at intervals upon the charmed ground outside her
door--for such it truly was to him--until he felt sufficiently easy
in his mind about her, to turn in under the counter. On abandoning his
watch for that purpose, he could not help calling once, rapturously,
through the keyhole, 'Drownded. Ain't he, pretty?'--or, when he got
downstairs, making another trial at that verse of Lovely Peg. But it
stuck in his throat somehow, and he could make nothing of it; so he went
to bed, and dreamed that old Sol Gills was married to Mrs MacStinger,
and kept prisoner by that lady in a secret chamber on a short allowance
of victuals.

Florence wakes up in the evening and Cuttles makes her dinner. Cuttle brings up Walter several times, lamenting his loss. They go to the shop to buy some things for Florence and when they return, Cuttle seems to have something he wants to tell her, but won't reveal it. The following night, Cuttle muses on the experience of being at sea, and offers to tell Florence a story. He tells the story of a ship that encountered a severe storm, leading to a large loss of life. One noble young man, as well a second-mate and one other sailor, survived by climbing aboard a piece of wreckage. After drifting for days, they were retrieved, with two of them, including the noble young man, still alive. The ship that picked them up took them on a long voyage, during which the other remaining sailor died. But the noble young man was finally able to return home. By this point, it is obvious that Cuttle is telling the story of Walter's ship, and his miraculous survival. As Florence realizes this, Walter emerges into the room. After a happy reunion, Walter is shocked to learn that Florence no longer has a home or family


There was an empty room above-stairs at the wooden Midshipman's, which,
in days of yore, had been Walter's bedroom. Walter, rousing up the
Captain betimes in the morning, proposed that they should carry thither
such furniture out of the little parlour as would grace it best, so that
Florence might take possession of it when she rose. As nothing could be
more agreeable to Captain Cuttle than making himself very red and short
of breath in such a cause, he turned to (as he himself said) with a
will; and, in a couple of hours, this garret was transformed into a
species of land-cabin, adorned with all the choicest moveables out of
the parlour, inclusive even of the Tartar frigate, which the Captain
hung up over the chimney-piece with such extreme delight, that he could
do nothing for half-an-hour afterwards but walk backward from it, lost
in admiration.

The Captain could be induced by no persuasion of Walter's to wind up the
big watch, or to take back the canister, or to touch the sugar-tongs and
teaspoons. 'No, no, my lad;' was the Captain's invariable reply to any
solicitation of the kind, 'I've made that there little property over,
jintly.' These words he repeated with great unction and gravity,
evidently believing that they had the virtue of an Act of Parliament,
and that unless he committed himself by some new admission of ownership,
no flaw could be found in such a form of conveyance.

It was an advantage of the new arrangement, that besides the greater
seclusion it afforded Florence, it admitted of the Midshipman being
restored to his usual post of observation, and also of the shop shutters
being taken down. The latter ceremony, however little importance the
unconscious Captain attached to it, was not wholly superfluous; for,
on the previous day, so much excitement had been occasioned in
the neighbourhood, by the shutters remaining unopened, that the
Instrument-maker's house had been honoured with an unusual share of
public observation, and had been intently stared at from the opposite
side of the way, by groups of hungry gazers, at any time between sunrise
and sunset. The idlers and vagabonds had been particularly interested in
the Captain's fate; constantly grovelling in the mud to apply their
eyes to the cellar-grating, under the shop-window, and delighting their
imaginations with the fancy that they could see a piece of his coat as
he hung in a corner; though this settlement of him was stoutly disputed
by an opposite faction, who were of opinion that he lay murdered with
a hammer, on the stairs. It was not without exciting some discontent,
therefore, that the subject of these rumours was seen early in the
morning standing at his shop-door as hale and hearty as if nothing
had happened; and the beadle of that quarter, a man of an ambitious
character, who had expected to have the distinction of being present at
the breaking open of the door, and of giving evidence in full uniform
before the coroner, went so far as to say to an opposite neighbour, that
the chap in the glazed hat had better not try it on there--without more
particularly mentioning what--and further, that he, the beadle, would
keep his eye upon him.

'Captain Cuttle,' said Walter, musing, when they stood resting from
their labours at the shop-door, looking down the old familiar street; it
being still early in the morning; 'nothing at all of Uncle Sol, in all
that time!'

'Nothing at all, my lad,' replied the Captain, shaking his head.

'Gone in search of me, dear, kind old man,' said Walter: 'yet never
write to you! But why not? He says, in effect, in this packet that you
gave me,' taking the paper from his pocket, which had been opened in
the presence of the enlightened Bunsby, 'that if you never hear from
him before opening it, you may believe him dead. Heaven forbid! But
you would have heard of him, even if he were dead! Someone would have
written, surely, by his desire, if he could not; and have said, "on such
a day, there died in my house," or "under my care," or so forth, "Mr
Solomon Gills of London, who left this last remembrance and this last
request to you".'

The Captain, who had never climbed to such a clear height of probability
before, was greatly impressed by the wide prospect it opened, and
answered, with a thoughtful shake of his head, 'Well said, my lad; wery
well said.'

'I have been thinking of this, or, at least,' said Walter, colouring,
'I have been thinking of one thing and another, all through a sleepless
night, and I cannot believe, Captain Cuttle, but that my Uncle Sol (Lord
bless him!) is alive, and will return. I don't so much wonder at his
going away, because, leaving out of consideration that spice of the
marvellous which was always in his character, and his great affection
for me, before which every other consideration of his life became
nothing, as no one ought to know so well as I who had the best of
fathers in him,'--Walter's voice was indistinct and husky here, and he
looked away, along the street,--'leaving that out of consideration, I
say, I have often read and heard of people who, having some near and
dear relative, who was supposed to be shipwrecked at sea, have gone down
to live on that part of the sea-shore where any tidings of the missing
ship might be expected to arrive, though only an hour or two sooner than
elsewhere, or have even gone upon her track to the place whither she was
bound, as if their going would create intelligence. I think I should do
such a thing myself, as soon as another, or sooner than many, perhaps.
But why my Uncle shouldn't write to you, when he so clearly intended
to do so, or how he should die abroad, and you not know it through some
other hand, I cannot make out.'

Captain Cuttle observed, with a shake of his head, that Jack Bunsby
himself hadn't made it out, and that he was a man as could give a pretty
taut opinion too.

'If my Uncle had been a heedless young man, likely to be entrapped by
jovial company to some drinking-place, where he was to be got rid of for
the sake of what money he might have about him,' said Walter; 'or if he
had been a reckless sailor, going ashore with two or three months' pay
in his pocket, I could understand his disappearing, and leaving no trace
behind. But, being what he was--and is, I hope--I can't believe it.'

'Wal'r, my lad,' inquired the Captain, wistfully eyeing him as he
pondered and pondered, 'what do you make of it, then?'

'Captain Cuttle,' returned Walter, 'I don't know what to make of it. I
suppose he never has written! There is no doubt about that?'

'If so be as Sol Gills wrote, my lad,' replied the Captain,
argumentatively, 'where's his dispatch?'

'Say that he entrusted it to some private hand,' suggested Walter, 'and
that it has been forgotten, or carelessly thrown aside, or lost. Even
that is more probable to me, than the other event. In short, I not
only cannot bear to contemplate that other event, Captain Cuttle, but I
can't, and won't.'

'Hope, you see, Wal'r,' said the Captain, sagely, 'Hope. It's that
as animates you. Hope is a buoy, for which you overhaul your Little
Warbler, sentimental diwision, but Lord, my lad, like any other buoy, it
only floats; it can't be steered nowhere. Along with the figure-head of
Hope,' said the Captain, 'there's a anchor; but what's the good of my
having a anchor, if I can't find no bottom to let it go in?'

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 look-out 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 door-step, or that I again have hold of this true
hand. Do you?'

'No, no, Wal'r,' returned the Captain, with his beaming

'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 for
ever, 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 think we should exert ourselves to find someone who would
be a proper attendant for Miss Dombey while she remains here, and who
may be trusted. None of her relations may. It's clear Miss Dombey feels
that they are all subservient to her father. What has become of Susan?'

'The young woman?' returned the Captain. 'It's my belief as she was sent
away again the will of Heart's Delight. I made a signal for her when
Lady lass first come, and she rated of her wery high, and said she had
been gone a long time.'

'Then,' said Walter, 'do you ask Miss Dombey where she's gone, and we'll
try to find her. The morning's getting on, and Miss Dombey will soon be
rising. You are her best friend. Wait for her upstairs, and leave me to
take care of all down here.'

The Captain, very crest-fallen indeed, echoed the sigh with which Walter
said this, and complied. Florence was delighted with her new room,
anxious to see Walter, and overjoyed at the prospect of greeting her old
friend Susan. But Florence could not say where Susan was gone, except
that it was in Essex, and no one could say, she remembered, unless it
were Mr Toots.

With this information the melancholy Captain returned to Walter, and
gave him to understand that Mr Toots was the young gentleman whom he had
encountered on the door-step, and that he was a friend of his, and that
he was a young gentleman of property, and that he hopelessly adored
Miss Dombey. The Captain also related how the intelligence of Walter's
supposed fate had first made him acquainted with Mr Toots, and how there
was solemn treaty and compact between them, that Mr Toots should be mute
upon the subject of his love.

The question then was, whether Florence could trust Mr Toots; and
Florence saying, with a smile, 'Oh, yes, with her whole heart!' it
became important to find out where Mr Toots lived. This, Florence didn't
know, and the Captain had forgotten; and the Captain was telling Walter,
in the little parlour, that Mr Toots was sure to be there soon, when in
came Mr Toots himself.

'Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, rushing into the parlour without any
ceremony, 'I'm in a state of mind bordering on distraction!'

Mr Toots had discharged those words, as from a mortar, before he
observed Walter, whom he recognised with what may be described as a
chuckle of misery.

'You'll excuse me, Sir,' said Mr Toots, holding his forehead, 'but
I'm at present in that state that my brain is going, if not gone, and
anything approaching to politeness in an individual so situated would
be a hollow mockery. Captain Gills, I beg to request the favour of a
private interview.'

'Why, Brother,' returned the Captain, taking him by the hand, 'you are
the man as we was on the look-out for.'

'Oh, Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, 'what a look-out that must be, of
which I am the object! I haven't dared to shave, I'm in that rash state.
I haven't had my clothes brushed. My hair is matted together. I told the
Chicken that if he offered to clean my boots, I'd stretch him a Corpse
before me!'

All these indications of a disordered mind were verified in Mr Toots's
appearance, which was wild and savage.

'See here, Brother,' said the Captain. 'This here's old Sol Gills's nevy
Wal'r. Him as was supposed to have perished at sea.'

Mr Toots took his hand from his forehead, and stared at Walter.

'Good gracious me!' stammered Mr Toots. 'What a complication of misery!
How-de-do? I--I--I'm afraid you must have got very wet. Captain Gills,
will you allow me a word in the shop?'

He took the Captain by the coat, and going out with him whispered:

'That then, Captain Gills, is the party you spoke of, when you said that
he and Miss Dombey were made for one another?'

'Why, ay, my lad,' replied the disconsolate Captain; 'I was of that mind
once.'

'And at this time!' exclaimed Mr Toots, with his hand to his forehead
again. 'Of all others!--a hated rival! At least, he ain't a hated
rival,' said Mr Toots, stopping short, on second thoughts, and taking
away his hand; 'what should I hate him for? No. If my affection has been
truly disinterested, Captain Gills, let me prove it now!'

Mr Toots shot back abruptly into the parlour, and said, wringing Walter
by the hand:

'How-de-do? I hope you didn't take any cold. I--I shall be very glad if
you'll give me the pleasure of your acquaintance. I wish you many happy
returns of the day. Upon my word and honour,' said Mr Toots, warming
as he became better acquainted with Walter's face and figure, 'I'm very
glad to see you!'

'Thank you, heartily,' said Walter. 'I couldn't desire a more genuine
and genial welcome.'

'Couldn't you, though?' said Mr Toots, still shaking his hand. 'It's
very kind of you. I'm much obliged to you. How-de-do? I hope you left
everybody quite well over the--that is, upon the--I mean wherever you
came from last, you know.'

All these good wishes, and better intentions, Walter responded to
manfully.

'Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, 'I should wish to be strictly
honourable; but I trust I may be allowed now, to allude to a certain
subject that--'

'Ay, ay, my lad,' returned the Captain. 'Freely, freely.'

'Then, Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, 'and Lieutenant Walters--are you
aware that the most dreadful circumstances have been happening at Mr
Dombey's house, and that Miss Dombey herself has left her father, who,
in my opinion,' said Mr Toots, with great excitement, 'is a Brute,
that it would be a flattery to call a--a marble monument, or a bird
of prey,--and that she is not to be found, and has gone no one knows
where?'

'May I ask how you heard this?' inquired Walter.

'Lieutenant Walters,' said Mr Toots, who had arrived at that appellation
by a process peculiar to himself; probably by jumbling up his Christian
name with the seafaring profession, and supposing some relationship
between him and the Captain, which would extend, as a matter of course,
to their titles; 'Lieutenant Walters, I can have no objection to make a
straightforward reply. The fact is, that feeling extremely interested
in everything that relates to Miss Dombey--not for any selfish reason,
Lieutenant Walters, for I am well aware that the most able thing I could
do for all parties would be to put an end to my existence, which can
only be regarded as an inconvenience--I have been in the habit of
bestowing a trifle now and then upon a footman; a most respectable young
man, of the name of Towlinson, who has lived in the family some time;
and Towlinson informed me, yesterday evening, that this was the state of
things. Since which, Captain Gills--and Lieutenant Walters--I have been
perfectly frantic, and have been lying down on the sofa all night, the
Ruin you behold.'

'Mr Toots,' said Walter, 'I am happy to be able to relieve your mind.
Pray calm yourself. Miss Dombey is safe and well.'

'Sir!' cried Mr Toots, starting from his chair and shaking hands with
him anew, 'the relief is so excessive, and unspeakable, that if you were
to tell me now that Miss Dombey was married even, I could smile. Yes,
Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, appealing to him, 'upon my soul and body,
I really think, whatever I might do to myself immediately afterwards,
that I could smile, I am so relieved.'

'It will be a greater relief and delight still, to such a generous mind
as yours,' said Walter, not at all slow in returning his greeting, 'to
find that you can render service to Miss Dombey. Captain Cuttle, will
you have the kindness to take Mr Toots upstairs?'

The Captain beckoned to Mr Toots, who followed him with a bewildered
countenance, and, ascending to the top of the house, was introduced,
without a word of preparation from his conductor, into Florence's new
retreat.

Poor Mr Toots's amazement and pleasure at sight of her were such, that
they could find a vent in nothing but extravagance. He ran up to her,
seized her hand, kissed it, dropped it, seized it again, fell upon one
knee, shed tears, chuckled, and was quite regardless of his danger of
being pinned by Diogenes, who, inspired by the belief that there was
something hostile to his mistress in these demonstrations, worked round
and round him, as if only undecided at what particular point to go in
for the assault, but quite resolved to do him a fearful mischief.

'Oh Di, you bad, forgetful dog! Dear Mr Toots, I am so rejoiced to see
you!'

'Thankee,' said Mr Toots, 'I am pretty well, I'm much obliged to you,
Miss Dombey. I hope all the family are the same.'

Mr Toots said this without the least notion of what he was talking
about, and sat down on a chair, staring at Florence with the liveliest
contention of delight and despair going on in his face that any face
could exhibit.

'Captain Gills and Lieutenant Walters have mentioned, Miss Dombey,'
gasped Mr Toots, 'that I can do you some service. If I could by any
means wash out the remembrance of that day at Brighton, when I conducted
myself--much more like a Parricide than a person of independent
property,' said Mr Toots, with severe self-accusation, 'I should sink
into the silent tomb with a gleam of joy.'

'Pray, Mr Toots,' said Florence, 'do not wish me to forget anything in
our acquaintance. I never can, believe me. You have been far too kind
and good to me always.'

'Miss Dombey,' returned Mr Toots, 'your consideration for my feelings is
a part of your angelic character. Thank you a thousand times. It's of no
consequence at all.'

'What we thought of asking you,' said Florence, 'is, whether you
remember where Susan, whom you were so kind as to accompany to the
coach-office when she left me, is to be found.'

'Why I do not certainly, Miss Dombey,' said Mr Toots, after a little
consideration, 'remember the exact name of the place that was on the
coach; and I do recollect that she said she was not going to stop there,
but was going farther on. But, Miss Dombey, if your object is to find
her, and to have her here, myself and the Chicken will produce her with
every dispatch that devotion on my part, and great intelligence on the
Chicken's, can ensure.'

Mr Toots was so manifestly delighted and revived by the prospect of
being useful, and the disinterested sincerity of his devotion was so
unquestionable, that it would have been cruel to refuse him. Florence,
with an instinctive delicacy, forbore to urge the least obstacle, though
she did not forbear to overpower him with thanks; and Mr Toots proudly
took the commission upon himself for immediate execution.

'Miss Dombey,' said Mr Toots, touching her proffered hand, with a pang
of hopeless love visibly shooting through him, and flashing out in
his face, 'Good-bye! Allow me to take the liberty of saying, that your
misfortunes make me perfectly wretched, and that you may trust me,
next to Captain Gills himself. I am quite aware, Miss Dombey, of my own
deficiencies--they're not of the least consequence, thank you--but I am
entirely to be relied upon, I do assure you, Miss Dombey.'

With that Mr Toots came out of the room, again accompanied by the
Captain, who, standing at a little distance, holding his hat under his
arm and arranging his scattered locks with his hook, had been a not
uninterested witness of what passed. And when the door closed behind
them, the light of Mr Toots's life was darkly clouded again.

'Captain Gills,' said that gentleman, stopping near the bottom of the
stairs, and turning round, 'to tell you the truth, I am not in a frame
of mind at the present moment, in which I could see Lieutenant Walters
with that entirely friendly feeling towards him that I should wish to
harbour in my breast. We cannot always command our feelings, Captain
Gills, and I should take it as a particular favour if you'd let me out
at the private door.'

'Brother,' returned the Captain, 'you shall shape your own course.
Wotever course you take, is plain and seamanlike, I'm wery sure.'

'Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, 'you're extremely kind. Your good
opinion is a consolation to me. There is one thing,' said Mr Toots,
standing in the passage, behind the half-opened door, 'that I hope
you'll bear in mind, Captain Gills, and that I should wish Lieutenant
Walters to be made acquainted with. I have quite come into my property
now, you know, and--and I don't know what to do with it. If I could
be at all useful in a pecuniary point of view, I should glide into the
silent tomb with ease and smoothness.'

Mr Toots said no more, but slipped out quietly and shut the door upon
himself, to cut the Captain off from any reply.

Florence thought of this good creature, long after he had left her,
with mingled emotions of pain and pleasure. He was so honest and
warm-hearted, that to see him again and be assured of his truth to her
in her distress, was a joy and comfort beyond all price; but for that
very reason, it was so affecting to think that she caused him a moment's
unhappiness, or ruffled, by a breath, the harmless current of his life,
that her eyes filled with tears, and her bosom overflowed with pity.
Captain Cuttle, in his different way, thought much of Mr Toots too;
and so did Walter; and when the evening came, and they were all
sitting together in Florence's new room, Walter praised him in a most
impassioned manner, and told Florence what he had said on leaving
the house, with every graceful setting-off in the way of comment and
appreciation that his own honesty and sympathy could surround it with.

Mr Toots did not return upon the next day, or the next, or for several
days; and in the meanwhile Florence, without any new alarm, lived like
a quiet bird in a cage, at the top of the old Instrument-maker's house.
But Florence drooped and hung her head more and more plainly, as the
days went on; and the expression that had been seen in the face of the
dead child, was often turned to the sky from her high window, as if it
sought his angel out, on the bright shore of which he had spoken: lying
on his little bed.

Florence had been weak and delicate of late, and the agitation she had
undergone was not without its influences on her health. But it was no
bodily illness that affected her now. She was distressed in mind; and
the cause of her distress was Walter.

Interested in her, anxious for her, proud and glad to serve her, and
showing all this with the enthusiasm and ardour of his character,
Florence saw that he avoided her. All the long day through, he seldom
approached her room. If she asked for him, he came, again for the moment
as earnest and as bright as she remembered him when she was a lost
child in the staring streets; but he soon became constrained--her quick
affection was too watchful not to know it--and uneasy, and soon left
her. Unsought, he never came, all day, between the morning and the
night. When the evening closed in, he was always there, and that was
her happiest time, for then she half believed that the old Walter of her
childhood was not changed. But, even then, some trivial word, look,
or circumstance would show her that there was an indefinable division
between them which could not be passed.

And she could not but see that these revealings of a great alteration
in Walter manifested themselves in despite of his utmost efforts to hide
them. In his consideration for her, she thought, and in the earnestness
of his desire to spare her any wound from his kind hand, he resorted
to innumerable little artifices and disguises. So much the more did
Florence feel the greatness of the alteration in him; so much the
oftener did she weep at this estrangement of her brother.

The good Captain--her untiring, tender, ever zealous friend--saw it,
too, Florence thought, and it pained him. He was less cheerful and
hopeful than he had been at first, and would steal looks at her and
Walter, by turns, when they were all three together of an evening, with
quite a sad face.

Florence resolved, at last, to speak to Walter. She believed she knew
now what the cause of his estrangement was, and she thought it would be
a relief to her full heart, and would set him more at ease, if she
told him she had found it out, and quite submitted to it, and did not
reproach him.

It was on a certain Sunday afternoon, that Florence took this
resolution. The faithful Captain, in an amazing shirt-collar, was
sitting by her, reading with his spectacles on, and she asked him where
Walter was.

'I think he's down below, my lady lass,' returned the Captain.

'I should like to speak to him,' said Florence, rising hurriedly as if
to go downstairs.

'I'll rouse him up here, Beauty,' said the Captain, 'in a trice.'

Thereupon the Captain, with much alacrity, shouldered his book--for he
made it a point of duty to read none but very large books on a Sunday,
as having a more staid appearance: and had bargained, years ago, for
a prodigious volume at a book-stall, five lines of which utterly
confounded him at any time, insomuch that he had not yet ascertained of
what subject it treated--and withdrew. Walter soon appeared.

'Captain Cuttle tells me, Miss Dombey,' he eagerly began on coming
in--but stopped when he saw her face.

'You are not so well to-day. You look distressed. You have been
weeping.'

He spoke so kindly, and with such a fervent tremor in his voice, that
the tears gushed into her eyes at the sound of his words.

'Walter,' said Florence, gently, 'I am not quite well, and I have been
weeping. I want to speak to you.'

He sat down opposite to her, looking at her beautiful and innocent face;
and his own turned pale, and his lips trembled.

'You said, upon the night when I knew that you were saved--and oh! dear
Walter, what I felt that night, and what I hoped!--'

He put his trembling hand upon the table between them, and sat looking
at her.

'--that I was changed. I was surprised to hear you say so, but I
understand, now, that I am. Don't be angry with me, Walter. I was too
much overjoyed to think of it, then.'

She seemed a child to him again. It was the ingenuous, confiding, loving
child he saw and heard. Not the dear woman, at whose feet he would have
laid the riches of the earth.

'You remember the last time I saw you, Walter, before you went away?'

He put his hand into his breast, and took out a little purse.

'I have always worn it round my neck! If I had gone down in the deep, it
would have been with me at the bottom of the sea.'

'And you will wear it still, Walter, for my old sake?'

'Until I die!'

She laid her hand on his, as fearlessly and simply, as if not a day had
intervened since she gave him the little token of remembrance.

'I am glad of that. I shall be always glad to think so, Walter. Do you
recollect that a thought of this change seemed to come into our minds at
the same time that evening, when we were talking together?'

'No!' he answered, in a wondering tone.

'Yes, Walter. I had been the means of injuring your hopes and prospects
even then. I feared to think so, then, but I know it now. If you were
able, then, in your generosity, to hide from me that you knew it too,
you cannot do so now, although you try as generously as before. You do.
I thank you for it, Walter, deeply, truly; but you cannot succeed.
You have suffered too much in your own hardships, and in those of your
dearest relation, quite to overlook the innocent cause of all the peril
and affliction that has befallen you. You cannot quite forget me in that
character, and we can be brother and sister no longer. But, dear
Walter, do not think that I complain of you in this. I might have known
it--ought to have known it--but forgot it in my joy. All I hope is that
you may think of me less irksomely when this feeling is no more a secret
one; and all I ask is, Walter, in the name of the poor child who was
your sister once, that you will not struggle with yourself, and pain
yourself, for my sake, now that I know all!'

Walter had looked upon her while she said this, with a face so full of
wonder and amazement, that it had room for nothing else. Now he caught
up the hand that touched his, so entreatingly, and held it between his
own.

'Oh, Miss Dombey,' he said, 'is it possible that while I have been
suffering so much, in striving with my sense of what is due to you, and
must be rendered to you, I have made you suffer what your words disclose
to me? Never, never, before Heaven, have I thought of you but as the
single, bright, pure, blessed recollection of my boyhood and my youth.
Never have I from the first, and never shall I to the last, regard your
part in my life, but as something sacred, never to be lightly thought
of, never to be esteemed enough, never, until death, to be forgotten.
Again to see you look, and hear you speak, as you did on that night when
we parted, is happiness to me that there are no words to utter; and to
be loved and trusted as your brother, is the next gift I could receive
and prize!'

'Walter,' said Florence, looking at him earnestly, but with a changing
face, 'what is that which is due to me, and must be rendered to me, at
the sacrifice of all this?'

'Respect,' said Walter, in a low tone. 'Reverence.'

The colour dawned in her face, and she timidly and thoughtfully withdrew
her hand; still looking at him with unabated earnestness.

'I have not a brother's right,' said Walter. 'I have not a brother's
claim. I left a child. I find a woman.'

The colour overspread her face. She made a gesture as if of entreaty
that he would say no more, and her face dropped upon her hands.

They were both silent for a time; she weeping.

'I owe it to a heart so trusting, pure, and good,' said Walter, 'even
to tear myself from it, though I rend my own. How dare I say it is my
sister's!'

She was weeping still.

'If you had been happy; surrounded as you should be by loving and
admiring friends, and by all that makes the station you were born to
enviable,' said Walter; 'and if you had called me brother, then, in your
affectionate remembrance of the past, I could have answered to the name
from my distant place, with no inward assurance that I wronged your
spotless truth by doing so. But here--and now!'

'Oh thank you, thank you, Walter! Forgive my having wronged you so much.
I had no one to advise me. I am quite alone.'

'Florence!' said Walter, passionately. 'I am hurried on to say, what I
thought, but a few moments ago, nothing could have forced from my lips.
If I had been prosperous; if I had any means or hope of being one day
able to restore you to a station near your own; I would have told you
that there was one name you might bestow upon--me--a right above all
others, to protect and cherish you--that I was worthy of in nothing but
the love and honour that I bore you, and in my whole heart being yours.
I would have told you that it was the only claim that you could give me
to defend and guard you, which I dare accept and dare assert; but that
if I had that right, I would regard it as a trust so precious and so
priceless, that the undivided truth and fervour of my life would poorly
acknowledge its worth.'

The head was still bent down, the tears still falling, and the bosom
swelling with its sobs.

'Dear Florence! Dearest Florence! whom I called so in my thoughts before
I could consider how presumptuous and wild it was. One last time let me
call you by your own dear name, and touch this gentle hand in token of
your sisterly forgetfulness of what I have said.'

She raised her head, and spoke to him with such a solemn sweetness in
her eyes; with such a calm, bright, placid smile shining on him through
her tears; with such a low, soft tremble in her frame and voice; that
the innermost chords of his heart were touched, and his sight was dim as
he listened.

'No, Walter, I cannot forget it. I would not forget it, for the world.
Are you--are you very poor?'

'I am but a wanderer,' said Walter, 'making voyages to live, across the
sea. That is my calling now.'

'Are you soon going away again, Walter?'

'Very soon.'

She sat looking at him for a moment; then timidly put her trembling hand
in his.

'If you will take me for your wife, Walter, I will love you dearly.
If you will let me go with you, Walter, I will go to the world's end
without fear. I can give up nothing for you--I have nothing to resign,
and no one to forsake; but all my love and life shall be devoted to you,
and with my last breath I will breathe your name to God if I have sense
and memory left.'

He caught her to his heart, and laid her cheek against his own, and now,
no more repulsed, no more forlorn, she wept indeed, upon the breast of
her dear lover.

Blessed Sunday Bells, ringing so tranquilly in their entranced and happy
ears! Blessed Sunday peace and quiet, harmonising with the calmness in
their souls, and making holy air around them! Blessed twilight stealing
on, and shading her so soothingly and gravely, as she falls asleep, like
a hushed child, upon the bosom she has clung to!

Oh load of love and trustfulness that lies to lightly there! Ay, look
down on the closed eyes, Walter, with a proudly tender gaze; for in all
the wide wide world they seek but thee now--only thee!

The Captain remained in the little parlour until it was quite dark. He
took the chair on which Walter had been sitting, and looked up at the
skylight, until the day, by little and little, faded away, and the stars
peeped down. He lighted a candle, lighted a pipe, smoked it out, and
wondered what on earth was going on upstairs, and why they didn't call
him to tea.

Florence came to his side while he was in the height of his wonderment.

'Ay! lady lass!' cried the Captain. 'Why, you and Wal'r have had a long
spell o' talk, my beauty.'

Florence put her little hand round one of the great buttons of his coat,
and said, looking down into his face:

'Dear Captain, I want to tell you something, if you please.

The Captain raised his head pretty smartly, to hear what it was.
Catching by this means a more distinct view of Florence, he pushed back
his chair, and himself with it, as far as they could go.

'What! Heart's Delight!' cried the Captain, suddenly elated, 'Is it
that?'

'Yes!' said Florence, eagerly.

'Wal'r! Husband! THAT?' roared the Captain, tossing up his glazed hat
into the skylight.

'Yes!' cried Florence, laughing and crying together.

The Captain immediately hugged her; and then, picking up the glazed hat
and putting it on, drew her arm through his, and conducted her upstairs
again; where he felt that the great joke of his life was now to be made.

'What, Wal'r my lad!' said the Captain, looking in at the door, with his
face like an amiable warming-pan. 'So there ain't NO other character,
ain't there?'

He had like to have suffocated himself with this pleasantry, which he
repeated at least forty times during tea; polishing his radiant face
with the sleeve of his coat, and dabbing his head all over with his
pocket-handkerchief, in the intervals. But he was not without a graver
source of enjoyment to fall back upon, when so disposed, for he was
repeatedly heard to say in an undertone, as he looked with ineffable
delight at Walter and Florence:

'Ed'ard Cuttle, my lad, you never shaped a better course in your life,
than when you made that there little property over, jintly!'

Walter and Cuttle set up rooms so that Florence can be as comfortable as possible. They also talk about Sol Gills. Walter is concerned that he has not contacted Cuttle, but believes that if Sol had in fact died, someone would have notified Cuttle. Walter continues to be astonished that Sol has not sent any letters and asks Cuttle if there is any way he could have missed them, but Cuttle assures him this is impossible. They also determine that Florence should not be sent back to her father's house. When Cuttle raises his hopes of a match between Walter and Florence, Walter is quick to swear that he would never damage her trust, since she thinks of him as a brother. Since it is not appropriate for Florence to continue to live without female supervision, Walter suggests that they find Susan so that she can come and serve as Florence's maid. Having determined that the best person who might know Susan's whereabouts is Toots, they are all happy when Toots himself arrives at the house. Toots is in a state of disorder, and is even more disoriented when he is introduced to Walter. He is briefly resentful, and then quickly warms to him. Toots is still unaware that Florence is at the house, and tells them the story of her having fled from her father's. He is very distressed at her unknown whereabouts and relieved when they tell him that Florence is safe and sound. They take him up to Florence's rooms. He vows to find Susan for her, and a little later, he also tells Cuttle that he would like to use his money to help Florence in any way that he can. A few days pass, and Florence is distressed to realize that, while he is always kind, Walter is watchful and guarded with her. She finally decides to confront him, and asks him to come and speak to her. Florence says that she believes Walter is angry with her because it was due to her that her father sent him on the ill-fated voyage and upended his life. Dismayed, Walter explains that he is in love with her, and has been struggling with trying to conceal his feelings. Hearing this, Florence realizes her own feelings and the two agree to marry. Cuttle is overjoyed with the news

This section reveals that the fallout of the collapse of the Dombey marriage and Florence's departure from her home has mixed results. For Florence, this seems to be a liberating transition. While she is clearly traumatized by feeling that she no longer has any family, the individuals who welcome her demonstrate that love and loyalty can be displayed without blood relations. Indeed, Cuttle, Toots, and Susan rally around her with the unconditional love more typically expected from family members. They love her for who she is, whether or not she has a prestigious social position and wealth. Toots, primarily a comic character, also shows genuine integrity in prioritizing Florence's happiness above his own, and respecting her choice to marry Walter without demonstrating any of the jealousy and bitterness that is so insidious in much of the novel. Moreover, now that Florence is no longer linked with her father, she can more freely choose the kind of family she wants to create for herself, which she does by agreeing to marry Walter. Walter is clear that he would not have approached her or considered himself worthy of her in her former social position, and certainly her father would never have agreed to the match. The pain of Florence's estrangement is offset by her new autonomy and freedom: she can choose to give herself to Walter without needing to seek anyone's approval. While Florence can sometimes seem to be unappealingly passive and dutiful, this section reveals her autonomy, and indeed, her power. As Hilary Schor explains, "in weaving the web of connection that will bring about the novel's happy ending  she moves from the highest realms of English society to the casual working class poverty of the Toodles and the decaying gentility of the Toxes and the Gills" . While Florence's future prospects seem to blossom once she leaves her father's house, Dombey has not learned from the experience and is fixated on preserving his public image and getting revenge on Carker. Some of this desire is shaped by social expectation that he should not tolerate a grave insult, especially from someone who is his social inferior. Dombey's desire for revenge plays into the schemes of Alice and Mrs. Brown; in a sense, others are still manipulating him. He is also fixated on the past, rather than attempting to move forward now that his marriage has ended.