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

tell me so, my dear child. Entrust the truth to me, point out the object of such an interest to me, and I will try with all the zeal, and honour, and friendship and respect that I feel for you, good Little Dorrit of my heart, to do you a lasting service.”

“O thank you, thank you! But, O no, O no, O no!” She said this, looking at him with her work-worn hands folded together, and in the same resigned accents as before.

“I press for no confidence now. I only ask you to repose unhesitating trust in me.”

“Can I do less than that, when you are so good!”

“Then you will trust me fully? Will have no secret unhappiness, or anxiety, concealed from me?”

“Almost none.”

“And you have none now?”

She shook her head. But she was very pale.

“When I lie down tonight, and my thoughts come back⁠—as they will, for they do every night, even when I have not seen you⁠—to this sad place, I may believe that there is no grief beyond this room, now, and its usual occupants, which preys on Little Dorrit’s mind?”

She seemed to catch at these words⁠—that he remembered, too, long afterwards⁠—and said, more brightly, “Yes, Mr. Clennam; yes, you may!”

The crazy staircase, usually not slow to give notice when anyone was coming up or down, here creaked under a quick tread, and a further sound was heard upon it, as if a little steam-engine with more steam than it knew what to do with, were working towards the room. As it approached, which it did very rapidly, it laboured with increased energy; and, after knocking at the door, it sounded as if it were stooping down and snorting in at the keyhole.

Before Maggy could open the door, Mr. Pancks, opening it from without, stood without a hat and with his bare head in the wildest condition, looking at Clennam and Little Dorrit, over her shoulder. He had a lighted cigar in his hand, and brought with him airs of ale and tobacco smoke.

“Pancks the gipsy,” he observed out of breath, “fortune-telling.”

He stood dingily smiling, and breathing hard at them, with a most curious air; as if, instead of being his proprietor’s grubber, he were the triumphant proprietor of the Marshalsea, the Marshal, all the turnkeys, and all the Collegians. In his great self-satisfaction he put his cigar to his lips (being evidently no smoker), and took such a pull at it, with his right eye shut up tight for the purpose, that he underwent a convulsion of shuddering and choking. But even in the midst of that paroxysm, he still essayed to repeat his favourite introduction of himself, “Pa-ancks the gi-ipsy, fortune-telling.”

“I am spending the evening with the rest of ’em,” said Pancks. “I’ve been singing. I’ve been taking a part in White sand and grey sand. I don’t know anything about it. Never mind. I’ll take any part in anything. It’s all the same, if you’re loud enough.”

At first Clennam supposed him to be intoxicated. But he soon perceived that though he might be a little the worse (or better) for ale, the staple of his excitement was not brewed from malt, or distilled from any grain or berry.

“How d’ye do, Miss Dorrit?” said Pancks. “I thought you wouldn’t mind my running round, and looking in for a moment. Mr. Clennam I heard was here, from Mr. Dorrit. How are you, Sir?”

Clennam thanked him, and said he was glad to see him so gay.

“Gay!” said Pancks. “I’m in wonderful feather, sir. I can’t stop a minute, or I shall be missed, and I don’t want ’em to miss me.⁠—Eh, Miss Dorrit?”

He seemed to have an insatiate delight in appealing to her and looking at her; excitedly sticking his hair up at the same moment, like a dark species of cockatoo.

“I haven’t been here half an hour. I knew Mr. Dorrit was in the chair, and I said, ‘I’ll go and support him!’ I ought to be down in Bleeding Heart Yard by rights; but I can worry them tomorrow.⁠—Eh, Miss Dorrit?”

His little black eyes sparkled electrically. His very hair seemed to sparkle as he roughened it. He was in that highly-charged state that one might have expected to draw sparks and snaps from him by presenting a knuckle to any part of his figure.

“Capital company here,” said Pancks.⁠—“Eh, Miss Dorrit?”

She was half afraid of him, and irresolute what to say. He laughed, with a nod towards Clennam.

“Don’t mind him, Miss Dorrit. He’s one of us. We agreed that you shouldn’t take on to mind me before people, but we didn’t mean Mr. Clennam. He’s one of us. He’s in it. An’t you, Mr. Clennam?⁠—Eh, Miss Dorrit?”

The excitement of this strange creature was fast communicating itself to Clennam. Little Dorrit with amazement, saw this, and observed that they exchanged quick looks.

“I was making a remark,” said Pancks, “but I declare I forget what it was. Oh, I know! Capital company here. I’ve been treating ’em all round.⁠—Eh, Miss Dorrit?”

“Very generous of you,” she returned, noticing another of the quick looks between the two.

“Not at all,” said Pancks. “Don’t mention it. I’m coming into my property, that’s the fact. I can afford to be liberal. I think I’ll give ’em a treat here. Tables laid in the yard. Bread in stacks. Pipes in faggots. Tobacco in hayloads. Roast beef and plum-pudding for everyone. Quart of double stout a head. Pint of wine too, if they like it, and the authorities give permission.⁠—Eh, Miss Dorrit?”

She was thrown into such a confusion by his manner, or rather by Clennam’s growing understanding of his manner (for she looked to him after every fresh appeal and cockatoo demonstration on the part of Mr. Pancks), that she only moved her lips in answer, without forming any word.

“And oh, by the by!” said Pancks, “you were to live to know what was behind us on that little hand of yours. And so you shall, you shall, my darling.⁠—Eh, Miss Dorrit?”

He had suddenly checked himself. Where he got all the additional black