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

for you, sir, being left in the Lodge just this minute, and a message with it, I thought, happening to be there myself, sir, I would bring it to your room.” The speaker’s attention was much distracted by the piteous spectacle of Little Dorrit at her father’s feet, with her head turned away.

“Indeed, John? Thank you.”

“The letter is from Mr. Clennam, sir⁠—it’s the answer⁠—and the message was, sir, that Mr. Clennam also sent his compliments, and word that he would do himself the pleasure of calling this afternoon, hoping to see you, and likewise,” attention more distracted than before, “Miss Amy.”

“Oh!” As the Father glanced into the letter (there was a banknote in it), he reddened a little, and patted Amy on the head afresh. “Thank you, Young John. Quite right. Much obliged to you for your attention. No one waiting?”

“No, sir, no one waiting.”

“Thank you, John. How is your mother, Young John?”

“Thank you, sir, she’s not quite as well as we could wish⁠—in fact, we none of us are, except father⁠—but she’s pretty well, sir.”

“Say we sent our remembrances, will you? Say kind remembrances, if you please, Young John.”

“Thank you, sir, I will.” And Mr. Chivery junior went his way, having spontaneously composed on the spot an entirely new epitaph for himself, to the effect that Here lay the body of John Chivery, Who, Having at such a date, Beheld the idol of his life, In grief and tears, And feeling unable to bear the harrowing spectacle, Immediately repaired to the abode of his inconsolable parents, And terminated his existence by his own rash act.

“There, there, Amy!” said the Father, when Young John had closed the door, “let us say no more about it.” The last few minutes had improved his spirits remarkably, and he was quite lightsome. “Where is my old pensioner all this while? We must not leave him by himself any longer, or he will begin to suppose he is not welcome, and that would pain me. Will you fetch him, my child, or shall I?”

“If you wouldn’t mind, father,” said Little Dorrit, trying to bring her sobbing to a close.

“Certainly I will go, my dear. I forgot; your eyes are rather red. There! Cheer up, Amy. Don’t be uneasy about me. I am quite myself again, my love, quite myself. Go to your room, Amy, and make yourself look comfortable and pleasant to receive Mr. Clennam.”

“I would rather stay in my own room, Father,” returned Little Dorrit, finding it more difficult than before to regain her composure. “I would far rather not see Mr. Clennam.”

“Oh, fie, fie, my dear, that’s folly. Mr. Clennam is a very gentlemanly man⁠—very gentlemanly. A little reserved at times; but I will say extremely gentlemanly. I couldn’t think of your not being here to receive Mr. Clennam, my dear, especially this afternoon. So go and freshen yourself up, Amy; go and freshen yourself up, like a good girl.”

Thus directed, Little Dorrit dutifully rose and obeyed: only pausing for a moment as she went out of the room, to give her sister a kiss of reconciliation. Upon which, that young lady, feeling much harassed in her mind, and having for the time worn out the wish with which she generally relieved it, conceived and executed the brilliant idea of wishing Old Nandy dead, rather than that he should come bothering there like a disgusting, tiresome, wicked wretch, and making mischief between two sisters.

The Father of the Marshalsea, even humming a tune, and wearing his black velvet cap a little on one side, so much improved were his spirits, went down into the yard, and found his old pensioner standing there hat in hand just within the gate, as he had stood all this time. “Come, Nandy!” said he, with great suavity. “Come upstairs, Nandy; you know the way; why don’t you come upstairs?” He went the length, on this occasion, of giving him his hand and saying, “How are you, Nandy? Are you pretty well?” To which that vocalist returned, “I thank you, honoured sir, I am all the better for seeing your honour.” As they went along the yard, the Father of the Marshalsea presented him to a Collegian of recent date. “An old acquaintance of mine, sir, an old pensioner.” And then said, “Be covered, my good Nandy; put your hat on,” with great consideration.

His patronage did not stop here; for he charged Maggy to get the tea ready, and instructed her to buy certain teacakes, fresh butter, eggs, cold ham, and shrimps: to purchase which collation he gave her a banknote for ten pounds, laying strict injunctions on her to be careful of the change. These preparations were in an advanced stage of progress, and his daughter Amy had come back with her work, when Clennam presented himself; whom he most graciously received, and besought to join their meal.

“Amy, my love, you know Mr. Clennam even better than I have the happiness of doing. Fanny, my dear, you are acquainted with Mr. Clennam.” Fanny acknowledged him haughtily; the position she tacitly took up in all such cases being that there was a vast conspiracy to insult the family by not understanding it, or sufficiently deferring to it, and here was one of the conspirators. “This, Mr. Clennam, you must know, is an old pensioner of mine, Old Nandy, a very faithful old man.” (He always spoke of him as an object of great antiquity, but he was two or three years younger than himself.) “Let me see. You know Plornish, I think? I think my daughter Amy has mentioned to me that you know poor Plornish?”

“O yes!” said Arthur Clennam.

“Well, sir, this is Mrs. Plornish’s father.”

“Indeed? I am glad to see him.”

“You would be more glad if you knew his many good qualities, Mr. Clennam.”

“I hope I shall come to know them through knowing him,” said Arthur, secretly pitying the bowed and submissive figure.

“It is a holiday with him, and he comes to see his old friends, who are always glad to see him,” observed the Father of the Marshalsea.