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.”