Little Dorrit, Charles Dickens [big ebook reader txt] 📗

up, the hour at which he had been called from his stand and the way by which he had come. This did not make the night’s adventure run any less hotly in Mr. Dorrit’s mind, either when he sat down by his fire again, or when he went to bed. All night he haunted the dismal house, saw the two people resolutely waiting, heard the woman with her apron over her face cry out about the noise, and found the body of the missing Blandois, now buried in the cellar, and now bricked up in a wall. XVIII A Castle in the Air

Manifold are the cares of wealth and state. Mr. Dorrit’s satisfaction in remembering that it had not been necessary for him to announce himself to Clennam and Co., or to make an allusion to his having had any knowledge of the intrusive person of that name, had been damped overnight, while it was still fresh, by a debate that arose within him whether or no he should take the Marshalsea in his way back, and look at the old gate. He had decided not to do so; and had astonished the coachman by being very fierce with him for proposing to go over London Bridge and recross the river by Waterloo Bridge⁠—a course which would have taken him almost within sight of his old quarters. Still, for all that, the question had raised a conflict in his breast; and, for some odd reason or no reason, he was vaguely dissatisfied. Even at the Merdle dinner-table next day, he was so out of sorts about it that he continued at intervals to turn it over and over, in a manner frightfully inconsistent with the good society surrounding him. It made him hot to think what the Chief Butler’s opinion of him would have been, if that illustrious personage could have plumbed with that heavy eye of his the stream of his meditations.

The farewell banquet was of a gorgeous nature, and wound up his visit in a most brilliant manner. Fanny combined with the attractions of her youth and beauty, a certain weight of self-sustainment as if she had been married twenty years. He felt that he could leave her with a quiet mind to tread the paths of distinction, and wished⁠—but without abatement of patronage, and without prejudice to the retiring virtues of his favourite child⁠—that he had such another daughter.

“My dear,” he told her at parting, “our family looks to you to⁠—ha⁠—assert its dignity and⁠—hum⁠—maintain its importance. I know you will never disappoint it.”

“No, papa,” said Fanny, “you may rely upon that, I think. My best love to dearest Amy, and I will write to her very soon.”

“Shall I convey any message to⁠—ha⁠—anybody else?” asked Mr. Dorrit, in an insinuating manner.

“Papa,” said Fanny, before whom Mrs. General instantly loomed, “no, I thank you. You are very kind, Pa, but I must beg to be excused. There is no other message to send, I thank you, dear papa, that it would be at all agreeable to you to take.”

They parted in an outer drawing-room, where only Mr. Sparkler waited on his lady, and dutifully bided his time for shaking hands. When Mr. Sparkler was admitted to this closing audience, Mr. Merdle came creeping in with not much more appearance of arms in his sleeves than if he had been the twin brother of Miss Biffin, and insisted on escorting Mr. Dorrit downstairs. All Mr. Dorrit’s protestations being in vain, he enjoyed the honour of being accompanied to the hall-door by this distinguished man, who (as Mr. Dorrit told him in shaking hands on the step) had really overwhelmed him with attentions and services during this memorable visit. Thus they parted; Mr. Dorrit entering his carriage with a swelling breast, not at all sorry that his Courier, who had come to take leave in the lower regions, should have an opportunity of beholding the grandeur of his departure.

The aforesaid grandeur was yet full upon Mr. Dorrit when he alighted at his hotel. Helped out by the Courier and some half-dozen of the hotel servants, he was passing through the hall with a serene magnificence, when lo! a sight presented itself that struck him dumb and motionless. John Chivery, in his best clothes, with his tall hat under his arm, his ivory-handled cane genteelly embarrassing his deportment, and a bundle of cigars in his hand!

“Now, young man,” said the porter. “This is the gentleman. This young man has persisted in waiting, sir, saying you would be glad to see him.”

Mr. Dorrit glared on the young man, choked, and said, in the mildest of tones, “Ah! Young John! It is Young John, I think; is it not?”

“Yes, sir,” returned Young John.

“I⁠—ha⁠—thought it was Young John!” said Mr. Dorrit. “The young man may come up,” turning to the attendants, as he passed on: “oh yes, he may come up. Let Young John follow. I will speak to him above.”

Young John followed, smiling and much gratified. Mr. Dorrit’s rooms were reached. Candles were lighted. The attendants withdrew.

“Now, sir,” said Mr. Dorrit, turning round upon him and seizing him by the collar when they were safely alone. “What do you mean by this?”

The amazement and horror depicted in the unfortunate John’s face⁠—for he had rather expected to be embraced next⁠—were of that powerfully expressive nature that Mr. Dorrit withdrew his hand and merely glared at him.

“How dare you do this?” said Mr. Dorrit. “How do you presume to come here? How dare you insult me?”

“I insult you, sir?” cried Young John. “Oh!”

“Yes, sir,” returned Mr. Dorrit. “Insult me. Your coming here is an affront, an impertinence, an audacity. You are not wanted here. Who sent you here? What⁠—ha⁠—the Devil do you do here?”

“I thought, sir,” said Young John, with as pale and shocked a face as ever had been turned to Mr. Dorrit’s in his life⁠—even in his College life: “I thought, sir, you mightn’t object to have the goodness to accept a bundle⁠—”

“Damn your bundle, sir!” cried Mr. Dorrit, in irrepressible rage. “I⁠—hum⁠—don’t smoke.”

“I humbly beg your pardon, sir. You used to.”

“Tell