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woman was very sure of it, she said. So Mr Dorrit bought a gift of

each sort, and paid handsomely for it. As he strolled back to his hotel

afterwards, he carried his head high: having plainly got up his castle

now to a much loftier altitude than the two square towers of Notre Dame.

Building away with all his might, but reserving the plans of his castle

exclusively for his own eye, Mr Dorrit posted away for Marseilles.

Building on, building on, busily, busily, from morning to night. Falling

asleep, and leaving great blocks of building materials dangling in the

air; waking again, to resume work and get them into their places. What

time the Courier in the rumble, smoking Young john's best cigars, left

a little thread of thin light smoke behind--perhaps as he built a castle

or two with stray pieces of Mr Dorrit's money.

Not a fortified town that they passed in all their journey was as

strong, not a Cathedral summit was as high, as Mr Dorrit's castle.

Neither the Saone nor the Rhone sped with the swiftness of that peerless

building; nor was the Mediterranean deeper than its foundations; nor

were the distant landscapes on the Cornice road, nor the hills and bay

of Genoa the Superb, more beautiful. Mr Dorrit and his matchless castle

were disembarked among the dirty white houses and dirtier felons of

Civita Vecchia, and thence scrambled on to Rome as they could, through

the filth that festered on the way.

CHAPTER 19. The Storming of the Castle in the Air

The sun had gone down full four hours, and it was later than most

travellers would like it to be for finding themselves outside the walls

of Rome, when Mr Dorrit's carriage, still on its last wearisome

stage, rattled over the solitary Campagna. The savage herdsmen and

the fierce-looking peasants who had chequered the way while the light

lasted, had all gone down with the sun, and left the wilderness

blank. At some turns of the road, a pale flare on the horizon, like an

exhalation from the ruin-sown land, showed that the city was yet far

off; but this poor relief was rare and short-lived. The carriage dipped

down again into a hollow of the black dry sea, and for a long time there

was nothing visible save its petrified swell and the gloomy sky.

Mr Dorrit, though he had his castle-building to engage his mind, could

not be quite easy in that desolate place. He was far more curious, in

every swerve of the carriage, and every cry of the postilions, than he

had been since he quitted London. The valet on the box evidently quaked.

The Courier in the rumble was not altogether comfortable in his mind. As

often as Mr Dorrit let down the glass and looked back at him (which was

very often), he saw him smoking John Chivery out, it is true, but still

generally standing up the while and looking about him, like a man who

had his suspicions, and kept upon his guard. Then would Mr Dorrit,

pulling up the glass again, reflect that those postilions were

cut-throat looking fellows, and that he would have done better to have

slept at Civita Vecchia, and have started betimes in the morning. But,

for all this, he worked at his castle in the intervals.

And now, fragments of ruinous enclosure, yawning window-gap and crazy

wall, deserted houses, leaking wells, broken water-tanks, spectral

cypress-trees, patches of tangled vine, and the changing of the track to

a long, irregular, disordered lane where everything was crumbling away,

from the unsightly buildings to the jolting road--now, these objects

showed that they were nearing Rome. And now, a sudden twist and stoppage

of the carriage inspired Mr Dorrit with the mistrust that the brigand

moment was come for twisting him into a ditch and robbing him; until,

letting down the glass again and looking out, he perceived himself

assailed by nothing worse than a funeral procession, which came

mechanically chaunting by, with an indistinct show of dirty vestments,

lurid torches, swinging censers, and a great cross borne before a

priest. He was an ugly priest by torchlight; of a lowering aspect, with

an overhanging brow; and as his eyes met those of Mr Dorrit, looking

bareheaded out of the carriage, his lips, moving as they chaunted,

seemed to threaten that important traveller; likewise the action of

his hand, which was in fact his manner of returning the traveller's

salutation, seemed to come in aid of that menace. So thought Mr Dorrit,

made fanciful by the weariness of building and travelling, as the priest

drifted past him, and the procession straggled away, taking its dead

along with it. Upon their so-different way went Mr Dorrit's company too;

and soon, with their coach load of luxuries from the two great capitals

of Europe, they were (like the Goths reversed) beating at the gates of

Rome.

Mr Dorrit was not expected by his own people that night. He had been;

but they had given him up until to-morrow, not doubting that it was

later than he would care, in those parts, to be out. Thus, when his

equipage stopped at his own gate, no one but the porter appeared to

receive him. Was Miss Dorrit from home? he asked. No. She was within.

Good, said Mr Dorrit to the assembling servants; let them keep where

they were; let them help to unload the carriage; he would find Miss

Dorrit for himself. So he went up his grand staircase, slowly, and

tired, and looked into various chambers which were empty, until he saw a

light in a small ante-room. It was a curtained nook, like a tent,

within two other rooms; and it looked warm and bright in colour, as he

approached it through the dark avenue they made.

There was a draped doorway, but no door; and as he stopped here, looking

in unseen, he felt a pang. Surely not like jealousy? For why like

jealousy? There was only his daughter and his brother there: he, with

his chair drawn to the hearth, enjoying the warmth of the evening wood

fire; she seated at a little table, busied with some embroidery work.

Allowing for the great difference in the still-life of the picture, the

figures were much the same as of old; his brother being sufficiently

like himself to represent himself, for a moment, in the composition.

So had he sat many a night, over a coal fire far away; so had she sat,

devoted to him. Yet surely there was nothing to be jealous of in the old

miserable poverty. Whence, then, the pang in his heart?

'Do you know, uncle, I think you are growing young again?'

Her uncle shook his head and said, 'Since when, my dear; since when?'

'I think,' returned Little Dorrit, plying her needle, 'that you have

been growing younger for weeks past. So cheerful, uncle, and so ready,

and so interested.'

'My dear child--all you.'

'All me, uncle!'

'Yes, yes. You have done me a world of good. You have been so

considerate of me, and so tender with me, and so delicate in trying to

hide your attentions from me, that I--well, well, well! It's treasured

up, my darling, treasured up.'

'There is nothing in it but your own fresh fancy, uncle,' said Little

Dorrit, cheerfully.

'Well, well, well!' murmured the old man. 'Thank God!'

She paused for an instant in her work to look at him, and her look

revived that former pain in her father's breast; in his poor weak

breast, so full of contradictions, vacillations, inconsistencies, the

little peevish perplexities of this ignorant life, mists which the

morning without a night only can clear away.

'I have been freer with you, you see, my dove,' said the old man, 'since

we have been alone. I say, alone, for I don't count Mrs General; I

don't care for her; she has nothing to do with me. But I know Fanny was

impatient of me. And I don't wonder at it, or complain of it, for I am

sensible that I must be in the way, though I try to keep out of it as

well as I can. I know I am not fit company for our company. My brother

William,' said the old man admiringly, 'is fit company for monarchs;

but not so your uncle, my dear. Frederick Dorrit is no credit to William

Dorrit, and he knows it quite well. Ah! Why, here's your father, Amy!

My dear William, welcome back! My beloved brother, I am rejoiced to see

you!'

(Turning his head in speaking, he had caught sight of him as he stood in

the doorway.)

Little Dorrit with a cry of pleasure put her arms about her father's

neck, and kissed him again and again. Her father was a little impatient,

and a little querulous. 'I am glad to find you at last, Amy,' he said.

'Ha. Really I am glad to find--hum--any one to receive me at last.

I appear to have been--ha--so little expected, that upon my word

I began--ha hum--to think it might be right to offer an apology

for--ha--taking the liberty of coming back at all.'

'It was so late, my dear William,' said his brother, 'that we had given

you up for to-night.'

'I am stronger than you, dear Frederick,' returned his brother with an

elaboration of fraternity in which there was severity; 'and I hope I can

travel without detriment at--ha--any hour I choose.'

'Surely, surely,' returned the other, with a misgiving that he had given

offence. 'Surely, William.'

'Thank you, Amy,' pursued Mr Dorrit, as she helped him to put off his

wrappers. 'I can do it without assistance. I--ha--need not trouble you,

Amy. Could I have a morsel of bread and a glass of wine, or--hum--would

it cause too much inconvenience?'

'Dear father, you shall have supper in a very few minutes.'

'Thank you, my love,' said Mr Dorrit, with a reproachful frost upon him;

'I--ha--am afraid I am causing inconvenience. Hum. Mrs General pretty

well?'

'Mrs General complained of a headache, and of being fatigued; and so,

when we gave you up, she went to bed, dear.'

Perhaps Mr Dorrit thought that Mrs General had done well in being

overcome by the disappointment of his not arriving. At any rate, his

face relaxed, and he said with obvious satisfaction, 'Extremely sorry to

hear that Mrs General is not well.'

During this short dialogue, his daughter had been observant of him, with

something more than her usual interest. It would seem as though he had

a changed or worn appearance in her eyes, and he perceived and resented

it; for he said with renewed peevishness, when he had divested himself

of his travelling-cloak, and had come to the fire: 'Amy, what are you

looking at? What do you see in me that causes you to--ha--concentrate

your solicitude on me in that--hum--very particular manner?'

'I did not know it, father; I beg your pardon. It gladdens my eyes to

see you again; that's all.'

'Don't say that's all, because--ha--that's not all. You--hum--you

think,' said Mr Dorrit, with an accusatory emphasis, 'that I am not

looking well.' 'I thought you looked a little tired, love.'

'Then you are mistaken,' said Mr Dorrit. 'Ha, I am not tired. Ha, hum. I

am very much fresher than I was when I went away.'

He was so inclined to be angry that she said nothing more in her

justification, but remained quietly beside him embracing his arm. As

he stood thus, with his brother on the other side, he fell into a heavy

doze, of not a minute's duration, and awoke with a start.

'Frederick,' he said, turning to his brother: 'I recommend you to go to

bed immediately.'

'No, William. I'll wait and see you sup.'

'Frederick,' he retorted, 'I beg you to go to bed. I--ha--make it a

personal request that you go to bed. You ought to have been in bed long

ago. You are very feeble.'

'Hah!' said the old man, who had no wish but to please him. 'Well, well,

well! I dare say I am.'

'My dear Frederick,' returned Mr Dorrit, with an astonishing superiority

to his brother's failing powers, 'there can be no doubt of it. It is

painful to me to see you so weak. Ha. It distresses me. Hum. I don't

find you looking at all well. You are not fit for this sort of thing.

You should be more careful, you should be very careful.'

'Shall I go to bed?' asked Frederick.

'Dear Frederick,' said Mr Dorrit, 'do, I adjure you! Good night,

brother. I hope you will be stronger to-morrow. I am not at all pleased

with your looks. Good night, dear fellow.' After dismissing his brother

in this gracious way, he fell into a doze again before the old man was

well out of the room: and he would have stumbled forward upon the logs,

but for his daughter's restraining hold.

'Your uncle wanders very much, Amy,' he said, when he was thus roused.

'He is less--ha--coherent, and his conversation is more--hum--broken,

than I have--ha, hum--ever known. Has he had any illness since I have

been gone?' 'No, father.'

'You--ha--see a great change in him, Amy?'

'I have not observed it, dear.'

'Greatly broken,' said Mr Dorrit. 'Greatly broken. My poor,

affectionate, failing Frederick! Ha. Even taking into account what he

was before, he is--hum--sadly broken!'

His supper, which was brought to him there, and spread upon the little

table where he had seen her working, diverted his attention.

She sat at his side as in the days that were gone, for the first time

since those days ended. They were alone, and she helped him to his meat

and poured out his drink for him, as she had been used to do in the

prison. All this happened now, for the first time since their accession

to wealth. She was afraid to look at him much, after the offence he had

taken; but she noticed two occasions in the course of his meal, when

he all of a sudden looked at her, and looked about him, as if the

association were so strong that he needed assurance from his sense of

sight that they were not in the old prison-room. Both times, he put his

hand to his head as if he missed his old black cap--though it had been