Even as he would be sparing of his trouble at the Marshalsea door, and
would keep a visitor who wanted to go out, waiting for a few moments if
he saw another visitor coming down the yard, so that one turn of the key
should suffice for both, similarly he would often reserve a remark if he
perceived another on its way to his lips, and would deliver himself of
the two together. As to any key to his inner knowledge being to be
found in his face, the Marshalsea key was as legible as an index to the
individual characters and histories upon which it was turned.
That Mr Pancks should be moved to invite any one to dinner at
Pentonville, was an unprecedented fact in his calendar. But he invited
Young John to dinner, and even brought him within range of the dangerous
(because expensive) fascinations of Miss Rugg. The banquet was appointed
for a Sunday, and Miss Rugg with her own hands stuffed a leg of mutton
with oysters on the occasion, and sent it to the baker's--not THE
baker's but an opposition establishment.
Provision of oranges, apples, and nuts was also made.
And rum was brought home by Mr Pancks on
Saturday night, to gladden the visitor's heart. The store of creature
comforts was not the chief part of the visitor's reception. Its special
feature was a foregone family confidence and sympathy. When Young John
appeared at half-past one without the ivory hand and waistcoat of golden
sprigs, the sun shorn of his beams by disastrous clouds, Mr Pancks
presented him to the yellow-haired Ruggs as the young man he had so
often mentioned who loved Miss Dorrit. 'I am glad,' said Mr Rugg,
challenging him specially in that character, 'to have the distinguished
gratification of making your acquaintance, sir. Your feelings do you
honour.
You are young; may you never outlive your feelings! If I was
to outlive my own feelings, sir,' said Mr Rugg, who was a man of many
words, and was considered to possess a remarkably good address; 'if I
was to outlive my own feelings, I'd leave fifty pound in my will to the
man who would put me out of existence.'
Miss Rugg heaved a sigh. 'My daughter, sir,' said Mr Rugg.
'Anastatia, you are no stranger to the
state of this young man's affections. My daughter has had her trials,
sir'--Mr Rugg might have used the word more pointedly in the singular
number--'and she can feel for you.'
Young John, almost overwhelmed by the touching nature of this greeting,
professed himself to that effect. 'What I envy you, sir, is,' said Mr Rugg, 'allow me to take your hat--we
are rather short of pegs--I'll put it in the corner, nobody will tread
on it there--What I envy you, sir, is the luxury of your own feelings. I
belong to a profession in which that luxury is sometimes denied us.'