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

after hours to keep him company over the way without his knowing it.”

Flora really had tears in her eyes now, and they showed her to great advantage.

“Over and above which,” said Flora, “I earnestly beg you as the dearest thing that ever was if you’ll still excuse the familiarity from one who moves in very different circles to let Arthur understand that I don’t know after all whether it wasn’t all nonsense between us though pleasant at the time and trying too and certainly Mr. F. did work a change and the spell being broken nothing could be expected to take place without weaving it afresh which various circumstances have combined to prevent of which perhaps not the least powerful was that it was not to be, I am not prepared to say that if it had been agreeable to Arthur and had brought itself about naturally in the first instance I should not have been very glad being of a lively disposition and moped at home where papa undoubtedly is the most aggravating of his sex and not improved since having been cut down by the hand of the Incendiary into something of which I never saw the counterpart in all my life but jealousy is not my character nor ill-will though many faults.”

Without having been able closely to follow Mrs. Finching through this labyrinth, Little Dorrit understood its purpose, and cordially accepted the trust.

“The withered chaplet my dear,” said Flora, with great enjoyment, “is then perished the column is crumbled and the pyramid is standing upside down upon its what’s-his-name call it not giddiness call it not weakness call it not folly I must now retire into privacy and look upon the ashes of departed joys no more but taking a further liberty of paying for the pastry which has formed the humble pretext of our interview will forever say Adieu!”

Mr. F.’s Aunt, who had eaten her pie with great solemnity, and who had been elaborating some grievous scheme of injury in her mind since her first assumption of that public position on the Marshal’s steps, took the present opportunity of addressing the following Sibyllic apostrophe to the relict of her late nephew.

“Bring him for’ard, and I’ll chuck him out o’ winder!”

Flora tried in vain to soothe the excellent woman by explaining that they were going home to dinner. Mr. F.’s Aunt persisted in replying, “Bring him for’ard and I’ll chuck him out o’ winder!” Having reiterated this demand an immense number of times, with a sustained glare of defiance at Little Dorrit, Mr. F.’s Aunt folded her arms, and sat down in the corner of the pie-shop parlour; steadfastly refusing to budge until such time as “he” should have been “brought for’ard,” and the chucking portion of his destiny accomplished.

In this condition of things, Flora confided to Little Dorrit that she had not seen Mr. F.’s Aunt so full of life and character for weeks; that she would find it necessary to remain there “hours perhaps,” until the inexorable old lady could be softened; and that she could manage her best alone. They parted, therefore, in the friendliest manner, and with the kindest feeling on both sides.

Mr. F.’s Aunt holding out like a grim fortress, and Flora becoming in need of refreshment, a messenger was despatched to the hotel for the tumbler already glanced at, which was afterwards replenished. With the aid of its content, a newspaper, and some skimming of the cream of the pie-stock, Flora got through the remainder of the day in perfect good humour; though occasionally embarrassed by the consequences of an idle rumour which circulated among the credulous infants of the neighbourhood, to the effect that an old lady had sold herself to the pie-shop to be made up, and was then sitting in the pie-shop parlour, declining to complete her contract. This attracted so many young persons of both sexes, and, when the shades of evening began to fall, occasioned so much interruption to the business, that the merchant became very pressing in his proposals that Mr. F.’s Aunt should be removed. A conveyance was accordingly brought to the door, which, by the joint efforts of the merchant and Flora, this remarkable woman was at last induced to enter; though not without even then putting her head out of the window, and demanding to have him “brought for’ard” for the purpose originally mentioned. As she was observed at this time to direct baleful glances towards the Marshalsea, it has been supposed that this admirably consistent female intended by “him,” Arthur Clennam. This, however, is mere speculation; who the person was, who, for the satisfaction of Mr. F.’s Aunt’s mind, ought to have been brought forward and never was brought forward, will never be positively known.

The autumn days went on, and Little Dorrit never came to the Marshalsea now and went away without seeing him. No, no, no.

One morning, as Arthur listened for the light feet that every morning ascended winged to his heart, bringing the heavenly brightness of a new love into the room where the old love had wrought so hard and been so true; one morning, as he listened, he heard her coming, not alone.

“Dear Arthur,” said her delighted voice outside the door, “I have someone here. May I bring someone in?”

He had thought from the tread there were two with her. He answered “Yes,” and she came in with Mr. Meagles. Sun-browned and jolly Mr. Meagles looked, and he opened his arms and folded Arthur in them, like a sun-browned and jolly father.

“Now I am all right,” said Mr. Meagles, after a minute or so. “Now it’s over. Arthur, my dear fellow, confess at once that you expected me before.”

“I did,” said Arthur; “but Amy told me⁠—”

“Little Dorrit. Never any other name.” (It was she who whispered it.)

“⁠—But my Little Dorrit told me that, without asking for any further explanation, I was not to expect you until I saw you.”

“And now you see me, my boy,” said Mr. Meagles, shaking him by the