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

“I am one of the many he has ruined. Yes.”

“He must have been an exceedingly clever fellow,” said Ferdinand Barnacle.

Arthur, not being in the mood to extol the memory of the deceased, was silent.

“A consummate rascal, of course,” said Ferdinand, “but remarkably clever! One cannot help admiring the fellow. Must have been such a master of humbug. Knew people so well⁠—got over them so completely⁠—did so much with them!”

In his easy way, he was really moved to genuine admiration.

“I hope,” said Arthur, “that he and his dupes may be a warning to people not to have so much done with them again.”

“My dear Mr. Clennam,” returned Ferdinand, laughing, “have you really such a verdant hope? The next man who has as large a capacity and as genuine a taste for swindling, will succeed as well. Pardon me, but I think you really have no idea how the human bees will swarm to the beating of any old tin kettle; in that fact lies the complete manual of governing them. When they can be got to believe that the kettle is made of the precious metals, in that fact lies the whole power of men like our late lamented. No doubt there are here and there,” said Ferdinand politely, “exceptional cases, where people have been taken in for what appeared to them to be much better reasons; and I need not go far to find such a case; but they don’t invalidate the rule. Good day! I hope that when I have the pleasure of seeing you, next, this passing cloud will have given place to sunshine. Don’t come a step beyond the door. I know the way out perfectly. Good day!”

With those words, the best and brightest of the Barnacles went downstairs, hummed his way through the Lodge, mounted his horse in the front courtyard, and rode off to keep an appointment with his noble kinsman, who wanted a little coaching before he could triumphantly answer certain infidel Snobs who were going to question the Nobs about their statesmanship.

He must have passed Mr. Rugg on his way out, for, a minute or two afterwards, that ruddy-headed gentleman shone in at the door, like an elderly Phoebus.

“How do you do today, sir?” said Mr. Rugg. “Is there any little thing I can do for you today, sir?”

“No, I thank you.”

Mr. Rugg’s enjoyment of embarrassed affairs was like a housekeeper’s enjoyment in pickling and preserving, or a washerwoman’s enjoyment of a heavy wash, or a dustman’s enjoyment of an overflowing dustbin, or any other professional enjoyment of a mess in the way of business.

“I still look round, from time to time, sir,” said Mr. Rugg, cheerfully, “to see whether any lingering Detainers are accumulating at the gate. They have fallen in pretty thick, sir; as thick as we could have expected.”

He remarked upon the circumstance as if it were matter of congratulation: rubbing his hands briskly, and rolling his head a little.

“As thick,” repeated Mr. Rugg, “as we could reasonably have expected. Quite a shower-bath of ’em. I don’t often intrude upon you now, when I look round, because I know you are not inclined for company, and that if you wished to see me, you would leave word in the Lodge. But I am here pretty well every day, sir. Would this be an unseasonable time, sir,” asked Mr. Rugg, coaxingly, “for me to offer an observation?”

“As seasonable a time as any other.”

“Hum! Public opinion, sir,” said Mr. Rugg, “has been busy with you.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Might it not be advisable, sir,” said Mr. Rugg, more coaxingly yet, “now to make, at last and after all, a trifling concession to public opinion? We all do it in one way or another. The fact is, we must do it.”

“I cannot set myself right with it, Mr. Rugg, and have no business to expect that I ever shall.”

“Don’t say that, sir, don’t say that. The cost of being moved to the Bench is almost insignificant, and if the general feeling is strong that you ought to be there, why⁠—really⁠—”

“I thought you had settled, Mr. Rugg,” said Arthur, “that my determination to remain here was a matter of taste.”

“Well, sir, well! But is it good taste, is it good taste? That’s the question.” Mr. Rugg was so soothingly persuasive as to be quite pathetic. “I was almost going to say, is it good feeling? This is an extensive affair of yours; and your remaining here where a man can come for a pound or two, is remarked upon as not in keeping. It is not in keeping. I can’t tell you, sir, in how many quarters I heard it mentioned. I heard comments made upon it last night in a parlour frequented by what I should call, if I did not look in there now and then myself, the best legal company⁠—I heard, there, comments on it that I was sorry to hear. They hurt me on your account. Again, only this morning at breakfast. My daughter (but a woman, you’ll say: yet still with a feeling for these things, and even with some little personal experience, as the plaintiff in Rugg and Bawkins) was expressing her great surprise; her great surprise. Now under these circumstances, and considering that none of us can quite set ourselves above public opinion, wouldn’t a trifling concession to that opinion be⁠—Come, sir,” said Rugg, “I will put it on the lowest ground of argument, and say, amiable?”

Arthur’s thoughts had once more wandered away to Little Dorrit, and the question remained unanswered.

“As to myself, sir,” said Mr. Rugg, hoping that his eloquence had reduced him to a state of indecision, “it is a principle of mine not to consider myself when a client’s inclinations are in the scale. But, knowing your considerate character and general wish to oblige, I will repeat that I should prefer your being in the Bench. Your case has made a noise; it is a creditable case to be professionally concerned in; I should feel on a better