He saw in Mr Chivery, with some
astonishment, quite an Allegory of Silence, as he stood with his key on
his lips. '(Private) I ask your pardon again,' said Mr Chivery, 'but could you go
round by Horsemonger Lane?
Could you by any means find time to look in
at that address?' handing him a little card, printed for circulation
among the connection of Chivery and Co., Tobacconists, Importers of pure
Havannah Cigars, Bengal Cheroots, and fine-flavoured Cubas, Dealers in
Fancy Snuffs, &C. &C. '(Private) It an't tobacco business,' said Mr Chivery.'The truth is,
it's my wife. She's wishful to say a word to you, sir, upon a point
respecting--yes,' said Mr Chivery, answering Clennam's look of
apprehension with a nod, 'respecting her.'
'I will make a point of seeing your wife directly.'
'Thank you, sir. Much obliged. It an't above ten minutes out of your
way. Please to ask for Mrs Chivery!' These instructions, Mr Chivery, who
had already let him out, cautiously called through a little slide in the
outer door, which he could draw back from within for the inspection of
visitors when it pleased him.
Arthur Clennam, with the card in his hand, betook himself to the address
set forth upon it, and speedily arrived there. It was a very small
establishment, wherein a decent woman sat behind the counter working
at her needle. Little jars of tobacco, little boxes of cigars, a
little assortment of pipes, a little jar or two of snuff, and a little
instrument like a shoeing horn for serving it out, composed the retail
stock in trade. Arthur mentioned his name, and his having promised to call, on the
solicitation of Mr Chivery. About something relating to Miss Dorrit, he
believed. Mrs Chivery at once laid aside her work, rose up from her seat
behind the counter, and deploringly shook her head.
'You may see him now,' said she, 'if you'll condescend to take a peep.'
With these mysterious words, she preceded the visitor into a little
parlour behind the shop, with a little window in it commanding a very
little dull back-yard. In this yard a wash of sheets and table-cloths
tried (in vain, for want of air) to get itself dried on a line or two;
and among those flapping articles was sitting in a chair, like the
last mariner left alive on the deck of a damp ship without the power of
furling the sails, a little woe-begone young man.
'Our John,' said Mrs Chivery.
Not to be deficient in interest, Clennam asked what he might be doing
there? 'It's the only change he takes,' said Mrs Chivery, shaking her head
afresh. 'He won't go out, even in the back-yard, when there's no linen;
but when there's linen to keep the neighbours' eyes off, he'll sit
there, hours. Hours he will. Says he feels as if it was groves!' Mrs
Chivery shook her head again, put her apron in a motherly way to her
eyes, and reconducted her visitor into the regions of the business.