Little Dorrit - Page 184/462

'Ecod, sir, he was Pitching into our people the other day in the most

tremendous manner. Went up to our place and Pitched into my father to

that extent that it was necessary to order him out. Came back to

our Department, and Pitched into me. Look here. You never saw such a

fellow.' 'What did he want?'

'Ecod, sir,' returned Young Barnacle, 'he said he wanted to know, you

know! Pervaded our Department--without an appointment--and said he

wanted to know!'

The stare of indignant wonder with which Young Barnacle accompanied

this disclosure, would have strained his eyes injuriously but for

the opportune relief of dinner. Mr Meagles (who had been extremely

solicitous to know how his uncle and aunt were) begged him to conduct

Mrs Meagles to the dining-room. And when he sat on Mrs Meagles's right

hand, Mr Meagles looked as gratified as if his whole family were there.

All the natural charm of the previous day was gone. The eaters of the

dinner, like the dinner itself, were lukewarm, insipid, overdone--and

all owing to this poor little dull Young Barnacle. Conversationless at

any time, he was now the victim of a weakness special to the occasion,

and solely referable to Clennam. He was under a pressing and continual

necessity of looking at that gentleman, which occasioned his eye-glass

to get into his soup, into his wine-glass, into Mrs Meagles's plate, to

hang down his back like a bell-rope, and be several times disgracefully

restored to his bosom by one of the dingy men. Weakened in mind by his

frequent losses of this instrument, and its determination not to stick

in his eye, and more and more enfeebled in intellect every time he

looked at the mysterious Clennam, he applied spoons to his eyes,

forks, and other foreign matters connected with the furniture of the

dinner-table.

His discovery of these mistakes greatly increased his

difficulties, but never released him from the necessity of looking at

Clennam. And whenever Clennam spoke, this ill-starred young man was

clearly seized with a dread that he was coming, by some artful device,

round to that point of wanting to know, you know.

It may be questioned, therefore, whether any one but Mr Meagles had much

enjoyment of the time. Mr Meagles, however, thoroughly enjoyed Young

Barnacle. As a mere flask of the golden water in the tale became a full

fountain when it was poured out, so Mr Meagles seemed to feel that this

small spice of Barnacle imparted to his table the flavour of the whole

family-tree.

In its presence, his frank, fine, genuine qualities

paled; he was not so easy, he was not so natural, he was striving after

something that did not belong to him, he was not himself. What a strange

peculiarity on the part of Mr Meagles, and where should we find another

such case! At last the wet Sunday wore itself out in a wet night; and Young

Barnacle went home in a cab, feebly smoking; and the objectionable Gowan

went away on foot, accompanied by the objectionable dog. Pet had taken

the most amiable pains all day to be friendly with Clennam, but Clennam

had been a little reserved since breakfast--that is to say, would have

been, if he had loved her.