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.




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