Little Dorrit Charles Dickens (e reader for manga TXT) 📖

Flora had “gone to lie down” in the next room, concurrently with which retirement a smell of something to drink had broken out in the house. The Patriarch was fast asleep, with his philanthropic mouth open under a yellow pocket-handkerchief in the dining-room. At this quiet time, Mr. Pancks softly appeared before her, urbanely nodding.

“Find it a little dull, Miss Dorrit?” inquired Pancks in a low voice.

“No, thank you, sir,” said Little Dorrit.

“Busy, I see,” observed Mr. Pancks, stealing into the room by inches. “What are those now, Miss Dorrit?”

“Handkerchiefs.”

“Are they, though!” said Pancks. “I shouldn’t have thought it.” Not in the least looking at them, but looking at Little Dorrit. “Perhaps you wonder who I am. Shall I tell you? I am a fortune-teller.”

Little Dorrit now began to think he was mad.

“I belong body and soul to my proprietor,” said Pancks; “you saw my proprietor having his dinner below. But I do a little in the other way, sometimes; privately, very privately, Miss Dorrit.”

Little Dorrit looked at him doubtfully, and not without alarm. “I wish you’d show me the palm of your hand,” said Pancks. “I should like to have a look at it. Don’t let me be troublesome.”

He was so far troublesome that he was not at all wanted there, but she laid her work in her lap for a moment, and held out her left hand with her thimble on it.

“Years of toil, eh?” said Pancks, softly, touching it with his blunt forefinger. “But what else are we made for? Nothing. Hallo!” looking into the lines. “What’s this with bars? It’s a College! And what’s this with a grey gown and a black velvet cap? it’s a father! And what’s this with a clarinet? It’s an uncle! And what’s this in dancing-shoes? It’s a sister! And what’s this straggling about in an idle sort of a way? It’s a brother! And what’s this thinking for ’em all? Why, this is you, Miss Dorrit!”

Her eyes met his as she looked up wonderingly into his face, and she thought that although his were sharp eyes, he was a brighter and gentler-looking man than she had supposed at dinner. His eyes were on her hand again directly, and her opportunity of confirming or correcting the impression was gone.

“Now, the deuce is in it,” muttered Pancks, tracing out a line in her hand with his clumsy finger, “if this isn’t me in the corner here! What do I want here? What’s behind me?”

He carried his finger slowly down to the wrist, and round the wrist, and affected to look at the back of the hand for what was behind him.

“Is it any harm?” asked Little Dorrit, smiling.

“Deuce a bit!” said Pancks. “What do you think it’s worth?”

“I ought to ask you that. I am not the fortune-teller.”

“True,” said Pancks. “What’s it worth? You shall live to see, Miss Dorrit.”

Releasing the hand by slow degrees, he drew all his fingers through his prongs of hair, so that they stood up in their most portentous manner; and repeated slowly, “Remember what I say, Miss Dorrit. You shall live to see.”

She could not help showing that she was much surprised, if it were only by his knowing so much about her.

“Ah! That’s it!” said Pancks, pointing at her. “Miss Dorrit, not that, ever!”

More surprised than before, and a little more frightened, she looked to him for an explanation of his last words.

“Not that,” said Pancks, making, with great seriousness, an imitation of a surprised look and manner that appeared to be unintentionally grotesque. “Don’t do that. Never on seeing me, no matter when, no matter where. I am nobody. Don’t take on to mind me. Don’t mention me. Take no notice. Will you agree, Miss Dorrit?”

“I hardly know what to say,” returned Little Dorrit, quite astounded. “Why?”

“Because I am a fortune-teller. Pancks the gipsy. I haven’t told you so much of your fortune yet, Miss Dorrit, as to tell you what’s behind me on that little hand. I have told you you shall live to see. Is it agreed, Miss Dorrit?”

“Agreed that I⁠—am⁠—to⁠—”

“To take no notice of me away from here, unless I take on first. Not to mind me when I come and go. It’s very easy. I am no loss, I am not handsome, I am not good company, I am only my proprietors grubber. You need do no more than think, ‘Ah! Pancks the gipsy at his fortune-telling⁠—he’ll tell the rest of my fortune one day⁠—I shall live to know it.’ Is it agreed, Miss Dorrit?”

“Ye-es,” faltered Little Dorrit, whom he greatly confused, “I suppose so, while you do no harm.”

“Good!” Mr. Pancks glanced at the wall of the adjoining room, and stooped forward. “Honest creature, woman of capital points, but heedless and a loose talker, Miss Dorrit.” With that he rubbed his hands as if the interview had been very satisfactory to him, panted away to the door, and urbanely nodded himself out again.

If Little Dorrit were beyond measure perplexed by this curious conduct on the part of her new acquaintance, and by finding herself involved in this singular treaty, her perplexity was not diminished by ensuing circumstances. Besides that Mr. Pancks took every opportunity afforded him in Mr. Casby’s house of significantly glancing at her and snorting at her⁠—which was not much, after what he had done already⁠—he began to pervade her daily life. She saw him in the street, constantly. When she went to Mr. Casby’s, he was always there. When she went to Mrs. Clennam’s, he came there on any pretence, as if to keep her in his sight. A week had not gone by, when she found him to her astonishment in the Lodge one night, conversing with the turnkey on duty, and to all appearance one of his familiar companions. Her next surprise was to find him equally at his ease within the prison; to hear of his presenting himself among the visitors at her father’s Sunday levee; to see him arm in arm with a Collegiate friend about the yard; to