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

its peculiar suppleness of thumb, on Clennam’s arm, “no inventor can be a man of business, you know.”

“No?” said Clennam.

“Why, so the men of business say,” he answered, resuming the walk and laughing outright. “I don’t know why we unfortunate creatures should be supposed to want common sense, but it is generally taken for granted that we do. Even the best friend I have in the world, our excellent friend over yonder,” said Doyce, nodding towards Twickenham, “extends a sort of protection to me, don’t you know, as a man not quite able to take care of himself?”

Arthur Clennam could not help joining in the good-humoured laugh, for he recognised the truth of the description.

“So I find that I must have a partner who is a man of business and not guilty of any inventions,” said Daniel Doyce, taking off his hat to pass his hand over his forehead, “if it’s only in deference to the current opinion, and to uphold the credit of the Works. I don’t think he’ll find that I have been very remiss or confused in my way of conducting them; but that’s for him to say⁠—whoever he is⁠—not for me.”

“You have not chosen him yet, then?”

“No, sir, no. I have only just come to a decision to take one. The fact is, there’s more to do than there used to be, and the Works are enough for me as I grow older. What with the books and correspondence, and foreign journeys for which a Principal is necessary, I can’t do all. I am going to talk over the best way of negotiating the matter, if I find a spare half-hour between this and Monday morning, with my⁠—my Nurse and protector,” said Doyce, with laughing eyes again. “He is a sagacious man in business, and has had a good apprenticeship to it.”

After this, they conversed on different subjects until they arrived at their journey’s end. A composed and unobtrusive self-sustainment was noticeable in Daniel Doyce⁠—a calm knowledge that what was true must remain true, in spite of all the Barnacles in the family ocean, and would be just the truth, and neither more nor less when even that sea had run dry⁠—which had a kind of greatness in it, though not of the official quality.

As he knew the house well, he conducted Arthur to it by the way that showed it to the best advantage. It was a charming place (none the worse for being a little eccentric), on the road by the river, and just what the residence of the Meagles family ought to be. It stood in a garden, no doubt as fresh and beautiful in the May of the Year as Pet now was in the May of her life; and it was defended by a goodly show of handsome trees and spreading evergreens, as Pet was by Mr. and Mrs. Meagles. It was made out of an old brick house, of which a part had been altogether pulled down, and another part had been changed into the present cottage; so there was a hale elderly portion, to represent Mr. and Mrs. Meagles, and a young picturesque, very pretty portion to represent Pet. There was even the later addition of a conservatory sheltering itself against it, uncertain of hue in its deep-stained glass, and in its more transparent portions flashing to the sun’s rays, now like fire and now like harmless water drops; which might have stood for Tattycoram. Within view was the peaceful river and the ferryboat, to moralise to all the inmates saying: Young or old, passionate or tranquil, chafing or content, you, thus runs the current always. Let the heart swell into what discord it will, thus plays the rippling water on the prow of the ferryboat ever the same tune. Year after year, so much allowance for the drifting of the boat, so many miles an hour the flowing of the stream, here the rushes, there the lilies, nothing uncertain or unquiet, upon this road that steadily runs away; while you, upon your flowing road of time, are so capricious and distracted.

The bell at the gate had scarcely sounded when Mr. Meagles came out to receive them. Mr. Meagles had scarcely come out, when Mrs. Meagles came out. Mrs. Meagles had scarcely come out, when Pet came out. Pet scarcely had come out, when Tattycoram came out. Never had visitors a more hospitable reception.

“Here we are, you see,” said Mr. Meagles, “boxed up, Mr. Clennam, within our own home-limits, as if we were never going to expand⁠—that is, travel⁠—again. Not like Marseilles, eh? No allonging and marshonging here!”

“A different kind of beauty, indeed!” said Clennam, looking about him.

“But, Lord bless me!” cried Mr. Meagles, rubbing his hands with a relish, “it was an uncommonly pleasant thing being in quarantine, wasn’t it? Do you know, I have often wished myself back again? We were a capital party.”

This was Mr. Meagles’s invariable habit. Always to object to everything while he was travelling, and always to want to get back to it when he was not travelling.

“If it was summertime,” said Mr. Meagles, “which I wish it was on your account, and in order that you might see the place at its best, you would hardly be able to hear yourself speak for birds. Being practical people, we never allow anybody to scare the birds; and the birds, being practical people too, come about us in myriads. We are delighted to see you, Clennam (if you’ll allow me, I shall drop the Mister); I heartily assure you, we are delighted.”

“I have not had so pleasant a greeting,” said Clennam⁠—then he recalled what Little Dorrit had said to him in his own room, and faithfully added “except once⁠—since we last walked to and fro, looking down at the Mediterranean.”

“Ah!” returned Mr. Meagles. “Something like a look out, that was, wasn’t it? I don’t want a military government, but I shouldn’t mind a little allonging and marshonging⁠—just a dash of it⁠—in this neighbourhood sometimes. It’s Devilish still.”

Bestowing this eulogium on the retired character of his retreat with a