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hesitation, 'do you think, Fanny, that if you were to put it off for a

few months, it might be, considering all things, best?'

'No, little Tortoise,' retorted Fanny, with exceeding sharpness. 'I

don't think anything of the kind.'

Here, she threw her bonnet from her altogether, and flounced into a

chair. But, becoming affectionate almost immediately, she flounced out

of it again, and kneeled down on the floor to take her sister, chair and

all, in her arms.

'Don't suppose I am hasty or unkind, darling, because I really am not.

But you are such a little oddity! You make one bite your head off,

when one wants to be soothing beyond everything. Didn't I tell you, you

dearest baby, that Edmund can't be trusted by himself? And don't you

know that he can't?'

'Yes, yes, Fanny. You said so, I know.'

'And you know it, I know,' retorted Fanny. 'Well, my precious child! If

he is not to be trusted by himself, it follows, I suppose, that I should

go with him?'

'It--seems so, love,' said Little Dorrit.

'Therefore, having heard the arrangements that are feasible to carry

out that object, am I to understand, dearest Amy, that on the whole you

advise me to make them?'

'It--seems so, love,' said Little Dorrit again.

'Very well,' cried Fanny with an air of resignation, 'then I suppose it

must be done! I came to you, my sweet, the moment I saw the doubt, and

the necessity of deciding. I have now decided. So let it be.'

After yielding herself up, in this pattern manner, to sisterly advice

and the force of circumstances, Fanny became quite benignant: as one

who had laid her own inclinations at the feet of her dearest friend, and

felt a glow of conscience in having made the sacrifice. 'After all, my

Amy,' she said to her sister, 'you are the best of small creatures, and

full of good sense; and I don't know what I shall ever do without you!'

With which words she folded her in a closer embrace, and a really fond

one.

'Not that I contemplate doing without You, Amy, by any means, for I hope

we shall ever be next to inseparable. And now, my pet, I am going

to give you a word of advice. When you are left alone here with Mrs

General--'

'I am to be left alone here with Mrs General?' said Little Dorrit,

quietly.

'Why, of course, my precious, till papa comes back! Unless you call

Edward company, which he certainly is not, even when he is here, and

still more certainly is not when he is away at Naples or in Sicily. I

was going to say--but you are such a beloved little Marplot for putting

one out--when you are left alone here with Mrs General, Amy, don't you

let her slide into any sort of artful understanding with you that she is

looking after Pa, or that Pa is looking after her. She will if she can.

I know her sly manner of feeling her way with those gloves of hers. But

don't you comprehend her on any account. And if Pa should tell you when

he comes back, that he has it in contemplation to make Mrs General your

mama (which is not the less likely because I am going away), my advice

to you is, that you say at once, "Papa, I beg to object most strongly.

Fanny cautioned me about this, and she objected, and I object." I don't

mean to say that any objection from you, Amy, is likely to be of the

smallest effect, or that I think you likely to make it with any degree

of firmness. But there is a principle involved--a filial principle--and

I implore you not to submit to be mother-in-lawed by Mrs General,

without asserting it in making every one about you as uncomfortable as

possible. I don't expect you to stand by it--indeed, I know you won't,

Pa being concerned--but I wish to rouse you to a sense of duty. As to

any help from me, or as to any opposition that I can offer to such a

match, you shall not be left in the lurch, my love. Whatever weight

I may derive from my position as a married girl not wholly devoid of

attractions--used, as that position always shall be, to oppose that

woman--I will bring to bear, you May depend upon it, on the head and

false hair (for I am confident it's not all real, ugly as it is and

unlikely as it appears that any One in their Senses would go to the

expense of buying it) of Mrs General!' Little Dorrit received this

counsel without venturing to oppose it but without giving Fanny any

reason to believe that she intended to act upon it. Having now, as

it were, formally wound up her single life and arranged her worldly

affairs, Fanny proceeded with characteristic ardour to prepare for the

serious change in her condition.

The preparation consisted in the despatch of her maid to Paris under the

protection of the Courier, for the purchase of that outfit for a bride

on which it would be extremely low, in the present narrative, to bestow

an English name, but to which (on a vulgar principle it observes

of adhering to the language in which it professes to be written) it

declines to give a French one. The rich and beautiful wardrobe purchased

by these agents, in the course of a few weeks made its way through the

intervening country, bristling with custom-houses, garrisoned by an

immense army of shabby mendicants in uniform who incessantly repeated

the Beggar's Petition over it, as if every individual warrior among them

were the ancient Belisarius: and of whom there were so many Legions,

that unless the Courier had expended just one bushel and a half of

silver money relieving their distresses, they would have worn the

wardrobe out before it got to Rome, by turning it over and over. Through

all such dangers, however, it was triumphantly brought, inch by inch,

and arrived at its journey's end in fine condition.

There it was exhibited to select companies of female viewers, in whose

gentle bosoms it awakened implacable feelings. Concurrently, active

preparations were made for the day on which some of its treasures were

to be publicly displayed. Cards of breakfast-invitation were sent out

to half the English in the city of Romulus; the other half made

arrangements to be under arms, as criticising volunteers, at various

outer points of the solemnity. The most high and illustrious English

Signor Edgardo Dorrit, came post through the deep mud and ruts (from

forming a surface under the improving Neapolitan nobility), to grace

the occasion. The best hotel and all its culinary myrmidons, were set to

work to prepare the feast. The drafts of Mr Dorrit almost constituted a

run on the Torlonia Bank. The British Consul hadn't had such a marriage

in the whole of his Consularity.

The day came, and the She-Wolf in the Capitol might have snarled with

envy to see how the Island Savages contrived these things now-a-days.

The murderous-headed statues of the wicked Emperors of the Soldiery,

whom sculptors had not been able to flatter out of their villainous

hideousness, might have come off their pedestals to run away with the

Bride. The choked old fountain, where erst the gladiators washed, might

have leaped into life again to honour the ceremony. The Temple of

Vesta might have sprung up anew from its ruins, expressly to lend its

countenance to the occasion. Might have done; but did not. Like sentient

things--even like the lords and ladies of creation sometimes--might

have done much, but did nothing. The celebration went off with admirable

pomp; monks in black robes, white robes, and russet robes stopped to

look after the carriages; wandering peasants in fleeces of sheep, begged

and piped under the house-windows; the English volunteers defiled; the

day wore on to the hour of vespers; the festival wore away; the thousand

churches rang their bells without any reference to it; and St Peter

denied that he had anything to do with it.

But by that time the Bride was near the end of the first day's journey

towards Florence. It was the peculiarity of the nuptials that they

were all Bride. Nobody noticed the Bridegroom. Nobody noticed the first

Bridesmaid. Few could have seen Little Dorrit (who held that post) for

the glare, even supposing many to have sought her. So, the Bride had

mounted into her handsome chariot, incidentally accompanied by the

Bridegroom; and after rolling for a few minutes smoothly over a fair

pavement, had begun to jolt through a Slough of Despond, and through a

long, long avenue of wrack and ruin. Other nuptial carriages are said to

have gone the same road, before and since.

If Little Dorrit found herself left a little lonely and a little low

that night, nothing would have done so much against her feeling of

depression as the being able to sit at work by her father, as in the old

time, and help him to his supper and his rest. But that was not to be

thought of now, when they sat in the state-equipage with Mrs General on

the coach-box. And as to supper! If Mr Dorrit had wanted supper, there

was an Italian cook and there was a Swiss confectioner, who must

have put on caps as high as the Pope's Mitre, and have performed the

mysteries of Alchemists in a copper-saucepaned laboratory below, before

he could have got it.

He was sententious and didactic that night. If he had been simply

loving, he would have done Little Dorrit more good; but she accepted him

as he was--when had she not accepted him as he was!--and made the most

and best of him. Mrs General at length retired. Her retirement for the

night was always her frostiest ceremony, as if she felt it necessary

that the human imagination should be chilled into stone to prevent

its following her. When she had gone through her rigid preliminaries,

amounting to a sort of genteel platoon-exercise, she withdrew. Little

Dorrit then put her arm round her father's neck, to bid him good night.

'Amy, my dear,' said Mr Dorrit, taking her by the hand, 'this is the

close of a day, that has--ha--greatly impressed and gratified me.' 'A

little tired you, dear, too?'

'No,' said Mr Dorrit, 'no: I am not sensible of fatigue when it arises

from an occasion so--hum--replete with gratification of the purest

kind.'

Little Dorrit was glad to find him in such heart, and smiled from her

own heart.

'My dear,' he continued, 'this is an occasion--ha--teeming with a good

example. With a good example, my favourite and attached child--hum--to

you.'

Little Dorrit, fluttered by his words, did not know what to say, though

he stopped as if he expected her to say something.

'Amy,' he resumed; 'your dear sister, our Fanny, has contracted

ha hum--a marriage, eminently calculated to extend the basis of

our--ha--connection, and to--hum--consolidate our social relations. My

love, I trust that the time is not far distant when some--ha--eligible

partner may be found for you.'

'Oh no! Let me stay with you. I beg and pray that I may stay with you! I

want nothing but to stay and take care of you!' She said it like one in

sudden alarm.

'Nay, Amy, Amy,' said Mr Dorrit. 'This is weak and foolish, weak

and foolish. You have a--ha--responsibility imposed upon you by your

position. It is to develop that position, and be--hum--worthy of that

position. As to taking care of me; I can--ha--take care of myself.

Or,' he added after a moment, 'if I should need to be taken care of,

I--hum--can, with the--ha--blessing of Providence, be taken care of,

I--ha hum--I cannot, my dear child, think of engrossing, and--ha--as it

were, sacrificing you.'

O what a time of day at which to begin that profession of self-denial;

at which to make it, with an air of taking credit for it; at which to

believe it, if such a thing could be!

'Don't speak, Amy. I positively say I cannot do it. I--ha--must not do

it. My--hum--conscience would not allow it. I therefore, my love, take

the opportunity afforded by this gratifying and impressive occasion

of--ha--solemnly remarking, that it is now a cherished wish and purpose

of mine to see you--ha--eligibly (I repeat eligibly) married.'

'Oh no, dear! Pray!'

'Amy,' said Mr Dorrit, 'I am well persuaded that if the topic were

referred to any person of superior social knowledge, of superior

delicacy and sense--let us say, for instance, to--ha--Mrs General--that

there would not be two opinions as to the--hum--affectionate character

and propriety of my sentiments. But, as I know your loving and dutiful

nature from--hum--from experience, I am quite satisfied that it is

necessary to say no more. I have--hum--no husband to propose at

present, my dear: I have not even one in view. I merely wish that we

should--ha--understand each other. Hum. Good night, my dear and sole

remaining daughter. Good night.

God bless you!'

If the thought ever entered Little Dorrit's head that night, that he

could give her up lightly now in his prosperity, and when he had it in

his mind to replace her with a second wife, she drove it away. Faithful

to him still, as in the worst times through which she had borne him

single-handed, she drove the thought away; and entertained no harder

reflection, in her tearful unrest, than that he now saw everything

through their wealth, and through the care he always had upon him that

they should continue rich, and grow richer.

They sat in their equipage of state, with Mrs General on the box, for

three weeks longer, and then he started for Florence to join Fanny.

Little Dorrit would have been glad to bear him company so far, only for

the sake of her own love, and then to have turned back alone, thinking

of dear England. But, though the Courier had gone on with the Bride, the

Valet was next in the line; and the succession would not have come to

her, as long as any one could be got for money.

Mrs General took life easily--as easily, that is, as she could

take anything--when the Roman establishment remained in their sole

occupation; and Little Dorrit would often ride out in a hired carriage

that was left them, and alight alone and wander among the ruins of old