The Flight of Florence
In the wildness of her sorrow, shame, and terror, the forlorn girl
hurried through the sunshine of a bright morning, as if it were the
darkness of a winter night. Wringing her hands and weeping bitterly,
insensible to everything but the deep wound in her breast, stunned by
the loss of all she loved, left like the sole survivor on a lonely
shore from the wreck of a great vessel, she fled without a thought,
without a hope, without a purpose, but to fly somewhere anywhere.
The cheerful vista of the long street, burnished by the morning light,
the sight of the blue sky and airy clouds, the vigorous freshness of
the day, so flushed and rosy in its conquest of the night, awakened no
responsive feelings in her so hurt bosom. Somewhere, anywhere, to hide
her head! somewhere, anywhere, for refuge, never more to look upon the
place from which she fled!
But there were people going to and fro; there were opening shops, and
servants at the doors of houses; there was the rising clash and roar of
the day’s struggle. Florence saw surprise and curiosity in the faces
flitting past her; saw long shadows coming back upon the pavement; and
heard voices that were strange to her asking her where she went, and
what the matter was; and though these frightened her the more at first,
and made her hurry on the faster, they did her the good service of
recalling her in some degree to herself, and reminding her of the
necessity of greater composure.
Where to go? Still somewhere, anywhere! still going on; but where! She
thought of the only other time she had been lost in the wild wilderness
of London—though not lost as now—and went that way. To the home of
Walter’s Uncle.
Checking her sobs, and drying her swollen eyes, and endeavouring to
calm the agitation of her manner, so as to avoid attracting notice,
Florence, resolving to keep to the more quiet streets as long as she
could, was going on more quietly herself, when a familiar little shadow
darted past upon the sunny pavement, stopped short, wheeled about, came
close to her, made off again, bounded round and round her, and
Diogenes, panting for breath, and yet making the street ring with his
glad bark, was at her feet.
“Oh, Di! oh, dear, true, faithful Di, how did you come here? How could
I ever leave you, Di, who would never leave me?”
Florence bent down on the pavement, and laid his rough, old, loving,
foolish head against her breast, and they got up together, and went on
together; Di more off the ground than on it, endeavouring to kiss his
mistress flying, tumbling over and getting up again without the least
concern, dashing at big dogs in a jocose defiance of his species,
terrifying with touches of his nose young housemaids who were cleaning
doorsteps, and continually stopping, in the midst of a thousand
extravagances, to look back at Florence, and bark until all the dogs
within hearing answered, and all the dogs who could come out, came out
to stare at him.
With this last adherent, Florence hurried away in the advancing
morning, and the strengthening sunshine, to the City. The roar soon
grew more loud, the passengers more numerous, the shops more busy,
until she was carried onward in a stream of life setting that way, and
flowing, indifferently, past marts and mansions, prisons, churches,
market-places, wealth, poverty, good, and evil, like the broad river
side by side with it, awakened from its dreams of rushes, willows, and
green moss, and rolling on, turbid and troubled, among the works and
cares of men, to the deep sea.
At length the quarters of the little Midshipman arose in view. Nearer
yet, and the little Midshipman himself was seen upon his post, intent
as ever on his observations. Nearer yet, and the door stood open,
inviting her to enter. Florence, who had again quickened her pace, as
she approached the end of her journey, ran across the road (closely
followed by Diogenes, whom the bustle had somewhat confused), ran in,
and sank upon the threshold of the well-remembered little parlour.
The Captain, in his glazed hat, was standing over the fire, making his
morning’s cocoa, with that elegant trifle, his watch, upon the
chimney-piece, for easy reference during the progress of the cookery.
Hearing a footstep and the rustle of a dress, the Captain turned with a
palpitating remembrance of the dreadful Mrs MacStinger, at the instant
when Florence made a motion with her hand towards him, reeled, and fell
upon the floor.
The Captain, pale as Florence, pale in the very knobs upon his face,
raised her like a baby, and laid her on the same old sofa upon which
she had slumbered long ago.
“It’s Heart’s Delight!” said the Captain, looking intently in her face.
“It’s the sweet creetur grow’d a woman!”
Captain Cuttle was so respectful of her, and had such a reverence for
her, in this new character, that he would not have held her in his
arms, while she was unconscious, for a thousand pounds.
“My Heart’s Delight!” said the Captain, withdrawing to a little
distance, with the greatest alarm and sympathy depicted on his
countenance. “If you can hail Ned Cuttle with a finger, do it!”
But Florence did not stir.
“My Heart’s Delight!” said the trembling Captain. “For the sake of
Wal”r drownded in the briny deep, turn to, and histe up something or
another, if able!”
Finding her insensible to this impressive adjuration also, Captain
Cuttle snatched from his breakfast-table a basin of cold water, and
sprinkled some upon her face. Yielding to the urgency of the case, the
Captain then, using his immense hand with extraordinary gentleness,
relieved her of her bonnet, moistened her lips and forehead, put back
her hair, covered her feet with his own coat which he pulled off for
the purpose, patted her hand—so small in his, that he was struck with
wonder when he touched it—and seeing that her eyelids quivered, and
that her lips began to move, continued these restorative applications
with a better heart.
“Cheerily,” said the Captain. “Cheerily! Stand by, my pretty one, stand
by! There! You’re better now. Steady’s the word, and steady it is. Keep
her so! Drink a little drop o’ this here,” said the Captain. “There you
are! What cheer now, my pretty, what cheer now?”
At this stage of her recovery, Captain Cuttle, with an imperfect
association of a Watch with a Physician’s treatment of a patient, took
his own down from the mantel-shelf, and holding it out on his hook, and
taking Florence’s hand in his, looked steadily from one to the other,
as expecting the dial to do something.
“What cheer, my pretty?” said the Captain. “What cheer now? You’ve done
her some good, my lad, I believe,” said the Captain, under his breath,
and throwing an approving glance upon his watch. “Put you back
half-an-hour every morning, and about another quarter towards the
arternoon, and you’re a watch as can be ekalled by few and excelled by
none. What cheer, my lady lass!”
“Captain Cuttle! Is it you?” exclaimed Florence, raising herself a
little.
“Yes, yes, my lady lass,” said the Captain, hastily deciding in his own
mind upon the superior elegance of that form of address, as the most
courtly he could think of.
“Is Walter’s Uncle here?” asked Florence.
“Here, pretty?” returned the Captain. “He ain’t been here this many a
long day. He ain’t been heerd on, since he sheered off arter poor
Wal”r. But,” said the Captain, as a quotation, “Though lost to sight,
to memory dear, and England, Home, and Beauty!”
“Do you live here?” asked Florence.
“Yes, my lady lass,” returned the Captain.
“Oh, Captain Cuttle!” cried Florence, putting her hands together, and
speaking wildly. “Save me! keep me here! Let no one know where I am!
I’ll tell you what has happened by-and-by, when I can. I have no one in
the world to go to. Do not send me away!”
“Send you away, my lady lass!” exclaimed the Captain. “You, my Heart’s
Delight! Stay a bit! We’ll put up this here deadlight, and take a
double turn on the key!”
With these words, the Captain, using his one hand and his hook with the
greatest dexterity, got out the shutter of the door, put it up, made it
all fast, and locked the door itself.
When he came back to the side of Florence, she took his hand, and
kissed it. The helplessness of the action, the appeal it made to him,
the confidence it expressed, the unspeakable sorrow in her face, the
pain of mind she had too plainly suffered, and was suffering then, his
knowledge of her past history, her present lonely, worn, and
unprotected appearance, all so rushed upon the good Captain together,
that he fairly overflowed with compassion and gentleness.
“My lady lass,” said the Captain, polishing the bridge of his nose with
his arm until it shone like burnished copper, “don’t you say a word to
Ed’ard Cuttle, until such times as you finds yourself a riding smooth
and easy; which won’t be today, nor yet to-morrow. And as to giving of
you up, or reporting where you are, yes verily, and by God’s help, so I
won’t, Church catechism, make a note on!”
This the Captain said, reference and all, in one breath, and with much
solemnity; taking off his hat at “yes verily,” and putting it on again,
when he had quite concluded.
Florence could do but one thing more to thank him, and to show him how
she trusted in him; and she did it. Clinging to this rough creature as
the last asylum of her bleeding heart, she laid her head upon his
honest shoulder, and clasped him round his neck, and would have kneeled
down to bless him, but that he divined her purpose, and held her up
like a true man.
“Steady!” said the Captain. “Steady! You’re too weak to stand, you see,
my pretty, and must lie down here again. There, there!” To see the
Captain lift her on the sofa, and cover her with his coat, would have
been worth a hundred state sights. “And now,” said the Captain, “you
must take some breakfast, lady lass, and the dog shall have some too.
And arter that you shall go aloft to old Sol Gills’s room, and fall
asleep there, like a angel.”
Captain Cuttle patted Diogenes when he made allusion to him, and
Diogenes met that overture graciously, half-way. During the
administration of the restoratives he had clearly been in two minds
whether to fly at the Captain or to offer him his friendship; and he
had expressed that conflict of feeling by alternate waggings of his
tail, and displays of his teeth, with now and then a growl or so. But
by this time, his doubts were all removed. It was plain that he
considered the Captain one of the most amiable of men, and a man whom
it was an honour to a dog to know.
In evidence of these convictions, Diogenes attended on the Captain
while he made some tea and toast, and showed a lively interest in his
housekeeping. But it was in vain for the kind Captain to make such
preparations for Florence, who sorely tried to do some honour to them,
but could touch nothing, and could only weep and weep again.
“Well, well!” said the compassionate Captain, “arter turning in, my
Heart’s Delight, you’ll get more way upon you. Now, I’ll serve out your
allowance, my lad.” To Diogenes. “And you shall keep guard on your
mistress aloft.”
Diogenes, however, although he had been eyeing his intended breakfast
with a watering mouth and glistening eyes, instead of falling to,
ravenously, when it was put before him, pricked up his ears, darted to
the shop-door, and barked there furiously: burrowing with his head at
the bottom, as if he were bent on mining his way out.
“Can there be anybody there!” asked Florence, in alarm.
“No, my lady lass,” returned the Captain. “Who’d stay there, without
making any noise! Keep up a good heart, pretty. It’s only people going
by.”
But for all that, Diogenes barked and barked, and burrowed and
burrowed, with pertinacious fury; and whenever he stopped to listen,
appeared to receive some new conviction into his mind, for he set to,
barking and burrowing again, a dozen times. Even when he was persuaded
to return to his breakfast, he came jogging back to it, with a very
doubtful air; and was off again, in another paroxysm, before touching a
morsel.
“If there should be someone listening and watching,” whispered
Florence. “Someone who saw me come—who followed me, perhaps.”
“It ain’t the young woman, lady lass, is it?” said the Captain, taken
with a bright idea.
“Susan?” said Florence, shaking her head. “Ah no! Susan has been gone
from me a long time.”
“Not deserted, I hope?” said the Captain. “Don’t say that that there
young woman’s run, my pretty!”
“Oh, no, no!” cried Florence. “She is one of the truest hearts in the
world!”
The Captain was greatly relieved by this reply, and expressed his
satisfaction by taking off his hard glazed hat, and dabbing his head
all over with his handkerchief, rolled up like a ball, observing
several times, with infinite complacency, and with a beaming
countenance, that he know’d it.
“So you’re quiet now, are you, brother?” said the Captain to Diogenes.
“There warn’t nobody there, my lady lass, bless you!”
Diogenes was not so sure of that. The door still had an attraction for
him at intervals; and he went snuffing about it, and growling to
himself, unable to forget the subject. This incident, coupled with the
Captain’s observation of Florence’s fatigue and faintness, decided him
to prepare Sol Gills’s chamber as a place of retirement for her
immediately. He therefore hastily betook himself to the top of the
house, and made the best arrangement of it that his imagination and his
means suggested.
It was very clean already; and the Captain, being an orderly man, and
accustomed to make things ship-shape, converted the bed into a couch,
by covering it all over with a clean white drapery. By a similar
contrivance, the Captain converted the little dressing-table into a
species of altar, on which he set forth two silver teaspoons, a
flower-pot, a telescope, his celebrated watch, a pocket-comb, and a
song-book, as a small collection of rarities, that made a choice
appearance. Having darkened the window, and straightened the pieces of
carpet on the floor, the Captain surveyed these preparations with great
delight, and descended to the little parlour again, to bring Florence
to her bower.
Nothing would induce the Captain to believe that it was possible for
Florence to walk upstairs. If he could have got the idea into his head,
he would have considered it an outrageous breach of hospitality to
allow her to do so. Florence was too weak to dispute the point, and the
Captain carried her up out of hand, laid her down, and covered her with
a great watch-coat.
“My lady lass!” said the Captain, “you’re as safe here as if you was at
the top of St Paul’s Cathedral, with the ladder cast off. Sleep is what
you want, afore all other things, and may you be able to show yourself
smart with that there balsam for the still small woice of a wounded
mind! When there’s anything you want, my Heart’s Delight, as this here
humble house or town can offer, pass the word to Ed’ard Cuttle, as’ll
stand off and on outside that door, and that there man will wibrate
with joy.” The Captain concluded by kissing the hand that Florence
stretched out to him, with the chivalry of any old knight-errant, and
walking on tiptoe out of the room.
Descending to the little parlour, Captain Cuttle, after holding a hasty
council with himself, decided to open the shop-door for a few minutes,
and satisfy himself that now, at all events, there was no one loitering
about it. Accordingly he set it open, and stood upon the threshold,
keeping a bright look-out, and sweeping the whole street with his
spectacles.
“How de do, Captain Gills?” said a voice beside him. The Captain,
looking down, found that he had been boarded by Mr Toots while sweeping
the horizon.
“How are, you, my lad?” replied the Captain.
“Well, I’m pretty well, thank’ee, Captain Gills,” said Mr Toots. “You
know I’m never quite what I could wish to be, now. I don’t expect that
I ever shall be any more.”
Mr Toots never approached any nearer than this to the great theme of
his life, when in conversation with Captain Cuttle, on account of the
agreement between them.
“Captain Gills,” said Mr Toots, “if I could have the pleasure of a word
with you, it’s—it’s rather particular.”
“Why, you see, my lad,” replied the Captain, leading the way into the
parlour, “I ain’t what you may call exactly free this morning; and
therefore if you can clap on a bit, I should take it kindly.”
“Certainly, Captain Gills,” replied Mr Toots, who seldom had any notion
of the Captain’s meaning. “To clap on, is exactly what I could wish to
do. Naturally.”
“If so be, my lad,” returned the Captain. “Do it!”
The Captain was so impressed by the possession of his tremendous
secret—by the fact of Miss Dombey being at that moment under his roof,
while the innocent and unconscious Toots sat opposite to him—that a
perspiration broke out on his forehead, and he found it impossible,
while slowly drying the same, glazed hat in hand, to keep his eyes off
Mr Toots’s face. Mr Toots, who himself appeared to have some secret
reasons for being in a nervous state, was so unspeakably disconcerted
by the Captain’s stare, that after looking at him vacantly for some
time in silence, and shifting uneasily on his chair, he said:
“I beg your pardon, Captain Gills, but you don’t happen to see anything
particular in me, do you?”
“No, my lad,” returned the Captain. “No.”
“Because you know,” said Mr Toots with a chuckle, “I know I’m wasting
away. You needn’t at all mind alluding to that. I—I should like it.
Burgess and Co. have altered my measure, I’m in that state of thinness.
It’s a gratification to me. I—I’m glad of it. I—I’d a great deal rather
go into a decline, if I could. I’m a mere brute you know, grazing upon
the surface of the earth, Captain Gills.”
The more Mr Toots went on in this way, the more the Captain was weighed
down by his secret, and stared at him. What with this cause of
uneasiness, and his desire to get rid of Mr Toots, the Captain was in
such a scared and strange condition, indeed, that if he had been in
conversation with a ghost, he could hardly have evinced greater
discomposure.
“But I was going to say, Captain Gills,” said Mr Toots. “Happening to
be this way early this morning—to tell you the truth, I was coming to
breakfast with you. As to sleep, you know, I never sleep now. I might
be a Watchman, except that I don’t get any pay, and he’s got nothing on
his mind.”
“Carry on, my lad!” said the Captain, in an admonitory voice.
“Certainly, Captain Gills,” said Mr Toots. “Perfectly true! Happening
to be this way early this morning (an hour or so ago), and finding the
door shut—”
“What! were you waiting there, brother?” demanded the Captain.
“Not at all, Captain Gills,” returned Mr Toots. “I didn’t stop a
moment. I thought you were out. But the person said—by the bye, you
don’t keep a dog, you, Captain Gills?”
The Captain shook his head.
“To be sure,” said Mr Toots, “that’s exactly what I said. I knew you
didn’t. There is a dog, Captain Gills, connected with—but excuse me.
That’s forbidden ground.”
The Captain stared at Mr Toots until he seemed to swell to twice his
natural size; and again the perspiration broke out on the Captain’s
forehead, when he thought of Diogenes taking it into his head to come
down and make a third in the parlour.
“The person said,” continued Mr Toots, “that he had heard a dog barking
in the shop: which I knew couldn’t be, and I told him so. But he was as
positive as if he had seen the dog.”
“What person, my lad?” inquired the Captain.
“Why, you see there it is, Captain Gills,” said Mr Toots, with a
perceptible increase in the nervousness of his manner. “It’s not for me
to say what may have taken place, or what may not have taken place.
Indeed, I don’t know. I get mixed up with all sorts of things that I
don’t quite understand, and I think there’s something rather weak in
my—in my head, in short.”
The Captain nodded his own, as a mark of assent.
“But the person said, as we were walking away,” continued Mr Toots,
“that you knew what, under existing circumstances, might occur—he said
‘might,’ very strongly—and that if you were requested to prepare
yourself, you would, no doubt, come prepared.”
“Person, my lad” the Captain repeated.
“I don’t know what person, I’m sure, Captain Gills,” replied Mr Toots,
“I haven’t the least idea. But coming to the door, I found him waiting
there; and he said was I coming back again, and I said yes; and he said
did I know you, and I said, yes, I had the pleasure of your
acquaintance—you had given me the pleasure of your acquaintance, after
some persuasion; and he said, if that was the case, would I say to you
what I have said, about existing circumstances and coming prepared, and
as soon as ever I saw you, would I ask you to step round the corner, if
it was only for one minute, on most important business, to Mr Brogley’s
the Broker’s. Now, I tell you what, Captain Gills—whatever it is, I am
convinced it’s very important; and if you like to step round, now, I’ll
wait here till you come back.”
The Captain, divided between his fear of compromising Florence in some
way by not going, and his horror of leaving Mr Toots in possession of
the house with a chance of finding out the secret, was a spectacle of
mental disturbance that even Mr Toots could not be blind to. But that
young gentleman, considering his nautical friend as merely in a state
of preparation for the interview he was going to have, was quite
satisfied, and did not review his own discreet conduct without chuckle.
At length the Captain decided, as the lesser of two evils, to run round
to Brogley’s the Broker’s: previously locking the door that
communicated with the upper part of the house, and putting the key in
his pocket. “If so be,” said the Captain to Mr Toots, with not a little
shame and hesitation, “as you’ll excuse my doing of it, brother.”
“Captain Gills,” returned Mr Toots, “whatever you do, is satisfactory
to me.”
The Captain thanked him heartily, and promising to come back in less
than five minutes, went out in quest of the person who had entrusted Mr
Toots with this mysterious message. Poor Mr Toots, left to himself, lay
down upon the sofa, little thinking who had reclined there last, and,
gazing up at the skylight and resigning himself to visions of Miss
Dombey, lost all heed of time and place.
It was as well that he did so; for although the Captain was not gone
long, he was gone much longer than he had proposed. When he came back,
he was very pale indeed, and greatly agitated, and even looked as if he
had been shedding tears. He seemed to have lost the faculty of speech,
until he had been to the cupboard and taken a dram of rum from the
case-bottle, when he fetched a deep breath, and sat down in a chair
with his hand before his face.
“Captain Gills,” said Toots, kindly, “I hope and trust there’s nothing
wrong?”
“Thank’ee, my lad, not a bit,” said the Captain. “Quite contrairy.”
“You have the appearance of being overcome, Captain Gills,” observed Mr
Toots.
“Why, my lad, I am took aback,” the Captain admitted. “I am.”
“Is there anything I can do, Captain Gills?” inquired Mr Toots. “If
there is, make use of me.”
The Captain removed his hand from his face, looked at him with a
remarkable expression of pity and tenderness, and took him by the hand,
and shook it hard.
“No, thank’ee,” said the Captain. “Nothing. Only I’ll take it as a
favour if you’ll part company for the present. I believe, brother,”
wringing his hand again, “that, after Wal”r, and on a different model,
you’re as good a lad as ever stepped.”
“Upon my word and honour, Captain Gills,” returned Mr Toots, giving the
Captain’s hand a preliminary slap before shaking it again, “it’s
delightful to me to possess your good opinion. Thank’ee.”
“And bear a hand and cheer up,” said the Captain, patting him on the
back. “What! There’s more than one sweet creetur in the world!”
“Not to me, Captain Gills,” replied Mr Toots gravely. “Not to me, I
assure you. The state of my feelings towards Miss Dombey is of that
unspeakable description, that my heart is a desert island, and she
lives in it alone. I’m getting more used up every day, and I’m proud to
be so. If you could see my legs when I take my boots off, you’d form
some idea of what unrequited affection is. I have been prescribed bark,
but I don’t take it, for I don’t wish to have any tone whatever given
to my constitution. I’d rather not. This, however, is forbidden ground.
Captain Gills, goodbye!”
Captain Cuttle cordially reciprocating the warmth of Mr Toots’s
farewell, locked the door behind him, and shaking his head with the
same remarkable expression of pity and tenderness as he had regarded
him with before, went up to see if Florence wanted him.
There was an entire change in the Captain’s face as he went upstairs.
He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief, and he polished the bridge of
his nose with his sleeve as he had done already that morning, but his
face was absolutely changed. Now, he might have been thought supremely
happy; now, he might have been thought sad; but the kind of gravity
that sat upon his features was quite new to them, and was as great an
improvement to them as if they had undergone some sublimating process.
He knocked softly, with his hook, at Florence’s door, twice or thrice;
but, receiving no answer, ventured first to peep in, and then to enter:
emboldened to take the latter step, perhaps, by the familiar
recognition of Diogenes, who, stretched upon the ground by the side of
her couch, wagged his tail, and winked his eyes at the Captain, without
being at the trouble of getting up.
She was sleeping heavily, and moaning in her sleep; and Captain Cuttle,
with a perfect awe of her youth, and beauty, and her sorrow, raised her
head, and adjusted the coat that covered her, where it had fallen off,
and darkened the window a little more that she might sleep on, and
crept out again, and took his post of watch upon the stairs. All this,
with a touch and tread as light as Florence’s own.
Long may it remain in this mixed world a point not easy of decision,
which is the more beautiful evidence of the Almighty’s goodness—the
delicate fingers that are formed for sensitiveness and sympathy of
touch, and made to minister to pain and grief, or the rough hard
Captain Cuttle hand, that the heart teaches, guides, and softens in a
moment!
Florence slept upon her couch, forgetful of her homelessness and
orphanage, and Captain Cuttle watched upon the stairs. A louder sob or
moan than usual, brought him sometimes to her door; but by degrees she
slept more peacefully, and the Captain’s watch was undisturbed.