Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens (suggested reading .TXT) 📕

“My goodness, Arthur⁠—Doyce and Clennam really easier to me with old remembrances⁠—who ever heard of Mr. F.’s Aunt doing needlework and going out by the day?”

“Going out by the day! Do you speak of Little Dorrit?”

“Why yes of course,” returned Flora; “and of all the strangest names I ever heard the strangest, like a place down in the country with a turnpike, or a favourite pony or a puppy or a bird or something from a seed-shop to be put in a garden or a flowerpot and come up speckled.”

“Then, Flora,” said Arthur, with a sudden interest in the conversation, “Mr. Casby was so kind as to mention Little Dorrit to you, was he? What did he say?”

“Oh you know what papa is,” rejoined Flora, “and how aggravatingly he sits looking beautiful and turning his thumbs over and over one another till he makes one giddy if one keeps one’s eyes upon him, he said when we were talking of you⁠—I don’t know who began the subject Arthur (Doyce and Clennam) but I am sure it wasn’t me, at least I hope not but you really must excuse my confessing more on that point.”

“Certainly,” said Arthur. “By all means.”

“You are very ready,” pouted Flora, coming to a sudden stop in a captivating bashfulness, “that I must admit, Papa said you had spoken of her in an earnest way and I said what I have told you and that’s all.”

“That’s all?” said Arthur, a little disappointed.

“Except that when Pancks told us of your having embarked in this business and with difficulty persuaded us that it was really you I said to Mr. F.’s Aunt then we would come and ask you if it would be agreeable to all parties that she should be engaged at our house when required for I know she often goes to your mama’s and I know that your mama has a very touchy temper Arthur⁠—Doyce and Clennam⁠—or I never might have married Mr. F. and might have been at this hour but I am running into nonsense.”

“It was very kind of you, Flora, to think of this.”

Poor Flora rejoined with a plain sincerity which became her better than her youngest glances, that she was glad he thought so. She said it with so much heart that Clennam would have given a great deal to buy his old character of her on the spot, and throw it and the mermaid away forever.

“I think, Flora,” he said, “that the employment you can give Little Dorrit, and the kindness you can show her⁠—”

“Yes and I will,” said Flora, quickly.

“I am sure of it⁠—will be a great assistance and support to her. I do not feel that I have the right to tell you what I know of her, for I acquired the knowledge confidentially, and under circumstances that bind me to silence. But I have an interest in the little creature, and a respect for her that I cannot express to you. Her life has been one of such trial and devotion, and such quiet goodness, as you can scarcely imagine. I can hardly think of her, far less speak of her, without feeling moved. Let that feeling represent what I could tell you, and commit her to your friendliness with my thanks.”

Once more he put out his hand frankly to poor Flora; once more poor Flora couldn’t accept it frankly, found it worth nothing openly, must make the old intrigue and mystery of it. As much to her own enjoyment as to his dismay, she covered it with a corner of her shawl as she took it. Then, looking towards the glass front of the countinghouse, and seeing two figures approaching, she cried with infinite relish, “Papa! Hush, Arthur, for Mercy’s sake!” and tottered back to her chair with an amazing imitation of being in danger of swooning, in the dread surprise and maidenly flutter of her spirits.

The Patriarch, meanwhile, came inanely beaming towards the countinghouse in the wake of Pancks. Pancks opened the door for him, towed him in, and retired to his own moorings in a corner.

“I heard from Flora,” said the Patriarch with his benevolent smile, “that she was coming to call, coming to call. And being out, I thought I’d come also, thought I’d come also.”

The benign wisdom he infused into this declaration (not of itself profound), by means of his blue eyes, his shining head, and his long white hair, was most impressive. It seemed worth putting down among the noblest sentiments enunciated by the best of men. Also, when he said to Clennam, seating himself in the proffered chair, “And you are in a new business, Mr. Clennam? I wish you well, sir, I wish you well!” he seemed to have done benevolent wonders.

“Mrs. Finching has been telling me, sir,” said Arthur, after making his acknowledgments; the relict of the late Mr. F. meanwhile protesting, with a gesture, against his use of that respectable name; “that she hopes occasionally to employ the young needlewoman you recommended to my mother. For which I have been thanking her.”

The Patriarch turning his head in a lumbering way towards Pancks, that assistant put up the notebook in which he had been absorbed, and took him in tow.

“You didn’t recommend her, you know,” said Pancks; “how could you? You knew nothing about her, you didn’t. The name was mentioned to you, and you passed it on. That’s what you did.”

“Well!” said Clennam. “As she justifies any recommendation, it is much the same thing.”

“You are glad she turns out well,” said Pancks, “but it wouldn’t have been your fault if she had turned out ill. The credit’s not yours as it is, and the blame wouldn’t have been yours as it might have been. You gave no guarantee. You knew nothing about her.”

“You are not acquainted, then,” said Arthur, hazarding a random question, “with any of her family?”

“Acquainted with any of her family?” returned Pancks. “How should you be acquainted