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 me that again,' cried Mr Dorrit, quite beside himself, 'and I'll
take the poker to you!'
John Chivery backed to the door.
'Stop, sir!' cried Mr Dorrit. 'Stop! Sit down. Confound you sit down!'
John Chivery dropped into the chair nearest the door, and Mr Dorrit
walked up and down the room; rapidly at first; then, more slowly. Once,
he went to the window, and stood there with his forehead against the
glass. All of a sudden, he turned and said:
'What else did you come for, Sir?'
'Nothing else in the world, sir. Oh dear me! Only to say, Sir, that I
hoped you was well, and only to ask if Miss Amy was Well?'
'What's that to you, sir?' retorted Mr Dorrit.
'It's nothing to me, sir, by rights. I never thought of lessening the
distance betwixt us, I am sure. I know it's a liberty, sir, but I never
thought you'd have taken it ill. Upon my word and honour, sir,' said
Young John, with emotion, 'in my poor way, I am too proud to have come,
I assure you, if I had thought so.'
Mr Dorrit was ashamed. He went back to the window, and leaned his
forehead against the glass for some time. When he turned, he had his
handkerchief in his hand, and he had been wiping his eyes with it, and
he looked tired and ill.
'Young John, I am very sorry to have been hasty with you, but--ha--some
remembrances are not happy remembrances, and--hum--you shouldn't have
come.'
'I feel that now, sir,' returned John Chivery; 'but I didn't before, and
Heaven knows I meant no harm, sir.'
'No. No,' said Mr Dorrit. 'I am--hum--sure of that. Ha. Give me your
hand, Young John, give me your hand.'
Young John gave it; but Mr Dorrit had driven his heart out of it, and
nothing could change his face now, from its white, shocked look.
'There!' said Mr Dorrit, slowly shaking hands with him. 'Sit down again,
Young John.'
'Thank you, sir--but I'd rather stand.'
Mr Dorrit sat down instead. After painfully holding his head a little
while, he turned it to his visitor, and said, with an effort to be easy:
'And how is your father, Young John? How--ha--how are they all, Young
John?'
'Thank you, sir, They're all pretty well, sir. They're not any ways
complaining.'
'Hum. You are in your--ha--old business I see, John?' said Mr Dorrit,
with a glance at the offending bundle he had anathematised.
'Partly, sir. I am in my'--John hesitated a little--'father's business
likewise.'
'Oh indeed!' said Mr Dorrit. 'Do you--ha hum--go upon the ha--'
'Lock, sir? Yes, sir.'
'Much to do, John?'
'Yes, sir; we're pretty heavy at present. I don't know how it is, but we
generally ARE pretty heavy.'
'At this time of the year, Young John?'
'Mostly at all times of the year, sir. I don't know the time that makes
much difference to us. I wish you good night, sir.'
'Stay a moment, John--ha--stay a moment. Hum. Leave me the cigars, John,
I--ha--beg.'
'Certainly, sir.' John put them, with a trembling hand, on the table.
'Stay a moment, Young John; stay another moment. It would be a--ha--a
gratification to me to send a little--hum--Testimonial, by such a trusty
messenger, to be divided among--ha hum--them--them--according to their
wants. Would you object to take it, John?'
'Not in any ways, sir. There's many of them, I'm sure, that would be the
better for it.'
'Thank you, John. I--ha--I'll write it, John.'
His hand shook so that he was a long time writing it, and wrote it in
a tremulous scrawl at last. It was a cheque for one hundred pounds. He
folded it up, put it in Young john's hand, and pressed the hand in his.
'I hope you'll--ha--overlook--hum--what has passed, John.'
'Don't speak of it, sir, on any accounts. I don't in any ways bear
malice, I'm sure.'
But nothing while John was there could change John's face to its natural
colour and expression, or restore John's natural manner.
'And, John,' said Mr Dorrit, giving his hand a final pressure, and
releasing it, 'I hope we--ha--agree that we have spoken together
in confidence; and that you will abstain, in going out, from saying
anything to any one that might--hum--suggest that--ha--once I--'
'Oh! I assure you, sir,' returned John Chivery, 'in my poor humble way,
sir, I'm too proud and honourable to do it, sir.'
Mr Dorrit was not too proud and honourable to listen at the door that
he might ascertain for himself whether John really went straight out, or
lingered to have any talk with any one. There was no doubt that he went
direct out at the door, and away down the street with a quick step.
After remaining alone for an hour, Mr Dorrit rang for the Courier,
who found him with his chair on the hearth-rug, sitting with his back
towards him and his face to the fire. 'You can take that bundle of
cigars to smoke on the journey, if you like,' said Mr Dorrit, with
a careless wave of his hand. 'Ha--brought by--hum--little offering
from--ha--son of old tenant of mine.'
Next morning's sun saw Mr Dorrit's equipage upon the Dover road, where
every red-jacketed postilion was the sign of a cruel house, established
for the unmerciful plundering of travellers. The whole business of the
human race, between London and Dover, being spoliation, Mr Dorrit was
waylaid at Dartford, pillaged at Gravesend, rifled at Rochester, fleeced
at Sittingbourne, and sacked at Canterbury. However, it being the
Courier's business to get him out of the hands of the banditti, the
Courier brought him off at every stage; and so the red-jackets went
gleaming merrily along the spring landscape, rising and falling to
a regular measure, between Mr Dorrit in his snug corner and the next
chalky rise in the dusty highway.
Another day's sun saw him at Calais. And having now got the Channel
between himself and John Chivery, he began to feel safe, and to find
that the foreign air was lighter to breathe than the air of England.
On again by the heavy French roads for Paris. Having now quite recovered
his equanimity, Mr Dorrit, in his snug corner, fell to castle-building
as he rode along. It was evident that he had a very large castle in
hand. All day long he was running towers up, taking towers down, adding
a wing here, putting on a battlement there, looking to the walls,
strengthening the defences, giving ornamental touches to the interior,
making in all respects a superb castle of it. His preoccupied face so
clearly denoted the pursuit in which he was engaged, that every cripple
at the post-houses, not blind, who shoved his little battered tin-box in
at the carriage window for Charity in the name of Heaven, Charity in the
name of our Lady, Charity in the name of all the Saints, knew as well
what work he was at, as their countryman Le Brun could have known it
himself, though he had made that English traveller the subject of a
special physiognomical treatise.
Arrived at Paris, and resting there three days, Mr Dorrit strolled
much about the streets alone, looking in at the shop-windows, and
particularly the jewellers' windows. Ultimately, he went into the most
famous jeweller's, and said he wanted to buy a little gift for a lady.
It was a charming little woman to whom he said it--a sprightly little
woman, dressed in perfect taste, who came out of a green velvet bower
to attend upon him, from posting up some dainty little books of account
which one could hardly suppose to be ruled for the entry of any articles
more commercial than kisses, at a dainty little shining desk which
looked in itself like a sweetmeat.
For example, then, said the little woman, what species of gift did
Monsieur desire? A love-gift?
Mr Dorrit smiled, and said, Eh, well! Perhaps. What did he know? It was
always possible; the sex being so charming. Would she show him some?
Most willingly, said the little woman. Flattered and enchanted to show
him many. But pardon! To begin with, he would have the great goodness
to observe that there were love-gifts, and there were nuptial gifts.
For example, these ravishing ear-rings and this necklace so superb to
correspond, were what one called a love-gift. These brooches and these
rings, of a beauty so gracious and celestial, were what one called, with
the permission of Monsieur, nuptial gifts.
Perhaps it would be a good arrangement, Mr Dorrit hinted, smiling, to
purchase both, and to present the love-gift first, and to finish with
the nuptial offering?
Ah Heaven! said the little woman, laying the tips of the fingers of her
two little hands against each other, that would be generous indeed, that
would be a special gallantry! And without doubt the lady so crushed with
gifts would find them irresistible.
Mr Dorrit was not sure of that. But, for example, the sprightly little
woman was very sure of it, she said. So Mr Dorrit bought a gift of
each sort, and paid handsomely for it. As he strolled back to his hotel
afterwards, he carried his head high: having plainly got up his castle
now to a much loftier altitude than the two square towers of Notre Dame.
Building away with all his might, but reserving the plans of his castle
exclusively for his own eye, Mr Dorrit posted away for Marseilles.
Building on, building on, busily, busily, from morning to night. Falling
asleep, and leaving great blocks of building materials dangling in the
air; waking again, to resume work and get them into their places. What
time the Courier in the rumble, smoking Young john's best cigars, left
a little thread of thin light smoke behind--perhaps as he built a castle
or two with stray pieces of Mr Dorrit's money.
Not a fortified town that they passed in all their journey was as
strong, not a Cathedral summit was as high, as Mr Dorrit's castle.
Neither the Saone nor the Rhone sped with the swiftness of that peerless
building; nor was the Mediterranean deeper than its foundations; nor
were the distant landscapes on the Cornice road, nor the hills and bay
of Genoa the Superb, more beautiful. Mr Dorrit and his matchless castle
were disembarked among the dirty white houses and dirtier felons of
Civita Vecchia, and thence scrambled on to Rome as they could, through
the filth that festered on the way.