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

worse,” retorted Fanny, determined not to admit anything in extenuation, “for then you have no excuse. If they had known about us, you might have felt yourself called upon to conciliate them. That would have been a weak and ridiculous mistake, but I can respect a mistake, whereas I can’t respect a wilful and deliberate abasing of those who should be nearest and dearest to us. No. I can’t respect that. I can do nothing but denounce that.”

“I never offend you wilfully, Fanny,” said Little Dorrit, “though you are so hard with me.”

“Then you should be more careful, Amy,” returned her sister. “If you do such things by accident, you should be more careful. If I happened to have been born in a peculiar place, and under peculiar circumstances that blunted my knowledge of propriety, I fancy I should think myself bound to consider at every step, ‘Am I going, ignorantly, to compromise any near and dear relations?’ That is what I fancy I should do, if it was my case.”

Mr. Dorrit now interposed, at once to stop these painful subjects by his authority, and to point their moral by his wisdom.

“My dear,” said he to his younger daughter, “I beg you to⁠—ha⁠—to say no more. Your sister Fanny expresses herself strongly, but not without considerable reason. You have now a⁠—hum⁠—a great position to support. That great position is not occupied by yourself alone, but by⁠—ha⁠—by me, and⁠—ha hum⁠—by us. Us. Now, it is incumbent upon all people in an exalted position, but it is particularly so on this family, for reasons which I⁠—ha⁠—will not dwell upon, to make themselves respected. To be vigilant in making themselves respected. Dependants, to respect us, must be⁠—ha⁠—kept at a distance and⁠—hum⁠—kept down. Down. Therefore, your not exposing yourself to the remarks of our attendants by appearing to have at any time dispensed with their services and performed them for yourself, is⁠—ha⁠—highly important.”

“Why, who can doubt it?” cried Miss Fanny. “It’s the essence of everything.”

“Fanny,” returned her father, grandiloquently, “give me leave, my dear. We then come to⁠—ha⁠—to Mr. Clennam. I am free to say that I do not, Amy, share your sister’s sentiments⁠—that is to say altogether⁠—hum⁠—altogether⁠—in reference to Mr. Clennam. I am content to regard that individual in the light of⁠—ha⁠—generally⁠—a well-behaved person. Hum. A well-behaved person. Nor will I inquire whether Mr. Clennam did, at any time, obtrude himself on⁠—ha⁠—my society. He knew my society to be⁠—hum⁠—sought, and his plea might be that he regarded me in the light of a public character. But there were circumstances attending my⁠—ha⁠—slight knowledge of Mr. Clennam (it was very slight), which,” here Mr. Dorrit became extremely grave and impressive, “would render it highly indelicate in Mr. Clennam to⁠—ha⁠—to seek to renew communication with me or with any member of my family under existing circumstances. If Mr. Clennam has sufficient delicacy to perceive the impropriety of any such attempt, I am bound as a responsible gentleman to⁠—ha⁠—defer to that delicacy on his part. If, on the other hand, Mr. Clennam has not that delicacy, I cannot for a moment⁠—ha⁠—hold any correspondence with so⁠—hum⁠—coarse a mind. In either case, it would appear that Mr. Clennam is put altogether out of the question, and that we have nothing to do with him or he with us. Ha⁠—Mrs. General!”

The entrance of the lady whom he announced, to take her place at the breakfast-table, terminated the discussion. Shortly afterwards, the courier announced that the valet, and the footman, and the two maids, and the four guides, and the fourteen mules, were in readiness; so the breakfast party went out to the convent door to join the cavalcade.

Mr. Gowan stood aloof with his cigar and pencil, but Mr. Blandois was on the spot to pay his respects to the ladies. When he gallantly pulled off his slouched hat to Little Dorrit, she thought he had even a more sinister look, standing swart and cloaked in the snow, than he had in the firelight overnight. But, as both her father and her sister received his homage with some favour, she refrained from expressing any distrust of him, lest it should prove to be a new blemish derived from her prison birth.

Nevertheless, as they wound down the rugged way while the convent was yet in sight, she more than once looked round, and descried Mr. Blandois, backed by the convent smoke which rose straight and high from the chimneys in a golden film, always standing on one jutting point looking down after them. Long after he was a mere black stick in the snow, she felt as though she could yet see that smile of his, that high nose, and those eyes that were too near it. And even after that, when the convent was gone and some light morning clouds veiled the pass below it, the ghastly skeleton arms by the wayside seemed to be all pointing up at him.

More treacherous than snow, perhaps, colder at heart, and harder to melt, Blandois of Paris by degrees passed out of her mind, as they came down into the softer regions. Again the sun was warm, again the streams descending from glaciers and snowy caverns were refreshing to drink at, again they came among the pine-trees, the rocky rivulets, the verdant heights and dales, the wooden chalets and rough zigzag fences of Swiss country. Sometimes the way so widened that she and her father could ride abreast. And then to look at him, handsomely clothed in his fur and broadcloths, rich, free, numerously served and attended, his eyes roving far away among the glories of the landscape, no miserable screen before them to darken his sight and cast its shadow on him, was enough.

Her uncle was so far rescued from that shadow of old, that he wore the clothes they gave him, and performed some ablutions as a sacrifice to the family credit, and went where he was taken, with a certain patient animal enjoyment, which seemed to express that the air and change did him good. In all other respects, save one, he shone with no