第 26 页

that Pancks is come in?' And so, with a snort and a puff, he worked out

by another door.

Now, in the old days at home, certain audacious doubts respecting the

last of the Patriarchs, which were afloat in the air, had, by some

forgotten means, come in contact with Arthur's sensorium. He was aware

of motes and specks of suspicion in the atmosphere of that time; seen

through which medium, Christopher Casby was a mere Inn signpost, without

any Inn--an invitation to rest and be thankful, when there was no place

to put up at, and nothing whatever to be thankful for. He knew that some

of these specks even represented Christopher as capable of harbouring

designs in 'that head,' and as being a crafty impostor. Other motes

there were which showed him as a heavy, selfish, drifting Booby, who,

having stumbled, in the course of his unwieldy jostlings against other

men, on the discovery that to get through life with ease and credit,

he had but to hold his tongue, keep the bald part of his head well

polished, and leave his hair alone, had had just cunning enough to seize

the idea and stick to it. It was said that his being town-agent to

Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle was referable, not to his having the least

business capacity, but to his looking so supremely benignant that nobody

could suppose the property screwed or jobbed under such a man; also,

that for similar reasons he now got more money out of his own wretched

lettings, unquestioned, than anybody with a less nobby and less shining

crown could possibly have done. In a word, it was represented (Clennam

called to mind, alone in the ticking parlour) that many people select

their models, much as the painters, just now mentioned, select theirs;

and that, whereas in the Royal Academy some evil old ruffian of a

Dog-stealer will annually be found embodying all the cardinal virtues,

on account of his eyelashes, or his chin, or his legs (thereby planting

thorns of confusion in the breasts of the more observant students of

nature), so, in the great social Exhibition, accessories are often

accepted in lieu of the internal character.

Calling these things to mind, and ranging Mr Pancks in a row with them,

Arthur Clennam leaned this day to the opinion, without quite deciding

on it, that the last of the Patriarchs was the drifting Booby aforesaid,

with the one idea of keeping the bald part of his head highly polished:

and that, much as an unwieldy ship in the Thames river may sometimes be

seen heavily driving with the tide, broadside on, stern first, in its

own way and in the way of everything else, though making a great show

of navigation, when all of a sudden, a little coaly steam-tug will bear

down upon it, take it in tow, and bustle off with it; similarly the

cumbrous Patriarch had been taken in tow by the snorting Pancks, and was

now following in the wake of that dingy little craft.

The return of Mr Casby with his daughter Flora, put an end to these

meditations. Clennam's eyes no sooner fell upon the subject of his old

passion than it shivered and broke to pieces.

Most men will be found sufficiently true to themselves to be true to

an old idea. It is no proof of an inconstant mind, but exactly the

opposite, when the idea will not bear close comparison with the reality,

and the contrast is a fatal shock to it. Such was Clennam's case. In his

youth he had ardently loved this woman, and had heaped upon her all the

locked-up wealth of his affection and imagination. That wealth had been,

in his desert home, like Robinson Crusoe's money; exchangeable with no

one, lying idle in the dark to rust, until he poured it out for her.

Ever since that memorable time, though he had, until the night of his

arrival, as completely dismissed her from any association with his

Present or Future as if she had been dead (which she might easily

have been for anything he knew), he had kept the old fancy of the Past

unchanged, in its old sacred place. And now, after all, the last of the

Patriarchs coolly walked into the parlour, saying in effect, 'Be good

enough to throw it down and dance upon it. This is Flora.'

Flora, always tall, had grown to be very broad too, and short of breath;

but that was not much. Flora, whom he had left a lily, had become a

peony; but that was not much. Flora, who had seemed enchanting in all

she said and thought, was diffuse and silly. That was much. Flora, who

had been spoiled and artless long ago, was determined to be spoiled and

artless now. That was a fatal blow.

This is Flora!

'I am sure,' giggled Flora, tossing her head with a caricature of

her girlish manner, such as a mummer might have presented at her own

funeral, if she had lived and died in classical antiquity, 'I am ashamed

to see Mr Clennam, I am a mere fright, I know he'll find me fearfully

changed, I am actually an old woman, it's shocking to be found out, it's

really shocking!'

He assured her that she was just what he had expected and that time had

not stood still with himself.

'Oh! But with a gentleman it's so different and really you look so

amazingly well that you have no right to say anything of the kind,

while, as to me, you know--oh!' cried Flora with a little scream, 'I am

dreadful!'

The Patriarch, apparently not yet understanding his own part in the

drama under representation, glowed with vacant serenity.

'But if we talk of not having changed,' said Flora, who, whatever

she said, never once came to a full stop, 'look at Papa, is not Papa

precisely what he was when you went away, isn't it cruel and unnatural

of Papa to be such a reproach to his own child, if we go on in this way

much longer people who don't know us will begin to suppose that I am

Papa's Mama!'

That must be a long time hence, Arthur considered.

'Oh Mr Clennam you insincerest of creatures,' said Flora, 'I perceive

already you have not lost your old way of paying compliments, your old

way when you used to pretend to be so sentimentally struck you know--at

least I don't mean that, I--oh I don't know what I mean!' Here Flora

tittered confusedly, and gave him one of her old glances.

The Patriarch, as if he now began to perceive that his part in the piece

was to get off the stage as soon as might be, rose, and went to the door

by which Pancks had worked out, hailing that Tug by name. He received

an answer from some little Dock beyond, and was towed out of sight

directly.

'You mustn't think of going yet,' said Flora--Arthur had looked at his

hat, being in a ludicrous dismay, and not knowing what to do: 'you could

never be so unkind as to think of going, Arthur--I mean Mr Arthur--or I

suppose Mr Clennam would be far more proper--but I am sure I don't know

what I am saying--without a word about the dear old days gone for ever,

when I come to think of it I dare say it would be much better not to

speak of them and it's highly probable that you have some much more

agreeable engagement and pray let Me be the last person in the world

to interfere with it though there was a time, but I am running into

nonsense again.'

Was it possible that Flora could have been such a chatterer in the

days she referred to? Could there have been anything like her present

disjointed volubility in the fascinations that had captivated him?

'Indeed I have little doubt,' said Flora, running on with astonishing

speed, and pointing her conversation with nothing but commas, and very

few of them, 'that you are married to some Chinese lady, being in China

so long and being in business and naturally desirous to settle and

extend your connection nothing was more likely than that you should

propose to a Chinese lady and nothing was more natural I am sure than

that the Chinese lady should accept you and think herself very well off

too, I only hope she's not a Pagodian dissenter.'

'I am not,' returned Arthur, smiling in spite of himself, 'married to

any lady, Flora.'

'Oh good gracious me I hope you never kept yourself a bachelor so long

on my account!' tittered Flora; 'but of course you never did why should

you, pray don't answer, I don't know where I'm running to, oh do tell me

something about the Chinese ladies whether their eyes are really so long

and narrow always putting me in mind of mother-of-pearl fish at cards

and do they really wear tails down their back and plaited too or is

it only the men, and when they pull their hair so very tight off their

foreheads don't they hurt themselves, and why do they stick little bells

all over their bridges and temples and hats and things or don't they

really do it?' Flora gave him another of her old glances. Instantly she

went on again, as if he had spoken in reply for some time.

'Then it's all true and they really do! good gracious Arthur!--pray

excuse me--old habit--Mr Clennam far more proper--what a country to live

in for so long a time, and with so many lanterns and umbrellas too how

very dark and wet the climate ought to be and no doubt actually is, and

the sums of money that must be made by those two trades where everybody

carries them and hangs them everywhere, the little shoes too and the

feet screwed back in infancy is quite surprising, what a traveller you

are!'

In his ridiculous distress, Clennam received another of the old glances

without in the least knowing what to do with it.

'Dear dear,' said Flora, 'only to think of the changes at home

Arthur--cannot overcome it, and seems so natural, Mr Clennam far more

proper--since you became familiar with the Chinese customs and language

which I am persuaded you speak like a Native if not better for you were

always quick and clever though immensely difficult no doubt, I am sure

the tea chests alone would kill me if I tried, such changes Arthur--I

am doing it again, seems so natural, most improper--as no one could have

believed, who could have ever imagined Mrs Finching when I can't imagine

it myself!'

'Is that your married name?' asked Arthur, struck, in the midst of all

this, by a certain warmth of heart that expressed itself in her tone

when she referred, however oddly, to the youthful relation in which they

had stood to one another. 'Finching?'

'Finching oh yes isn't it a dreadful name, but as Mr F. said when he

proposed to me which he did seven times and handsomely consented I must

say to be what he used to call on liking twelve months, after all, he

wasn't answerable for it and couldn't help it could he, Excellent man,

not at all like you but excellent man!'

Flora had at last talked herself out of breath for one moment. One

moment; for she recovered breath in the act of raising a minute corner

of her pocket-handkerchief to her eye, as a tribute to the ghost of the

departed Mr F., and began again.

'No one could dispute, Arthur--Mr Clennam--that it's quite right you

should be formally friendly to me under the altered circumstances and

indeed you couldn't be anything else, at least I suppose not you ought

to know, but I can't help recalling that there was a time when things

were very different.'

'My dear Mrs Finching,' Arthur began, struck by the good tone again.

'Oh not that nasty ugly name, say Flora!'

'Flora. I assure you, Flora, I am happy in seeing you once more, and in

finding that, like me, you have not forgotten the old foolish dreams,

when we saw all before us in the light of our youth and hope.'

'You don't seem so,' pouted Flora, 'you take it very coolly, but

however I know you are disappointed in me, I suppose the Chinese

ladies--Mandarinesses if you call them so--are the cause or perhaps I am

the cause myself, it's just as likely.'

'No, no,' Clennam entreated, 'don't say that.'

'Oh I must you know,' said Flora, in a positive tone, 'what nonsense not

to, I know I am not what you expected, I know that very well.'

In the midst of her rapidity, she had found that out with the quick

perception of a cleverer woman. The inconsistent and profoundly

unreasonable way in which she instantly went on, nevertheless, to

interweave their long-abandoned boy and girl relations with their

present interview, made Clennam feel as if he were light-headed.

'One remark,' said Flora, giving their conversation, without the

slightest notice and to the great terror of Clennam, the tone of a

love-quarrel, 'I wish to make, one explanation I wish to offer, when

your Mama came and made a scene of it with my Papa and when I was called

down into the little breakfast-room where they were looking at one

another with your Mama's parasol between them seated on two chairs like

mad bulls what was I to do?'

'My dear Mrs Finching,' urged Clennam--'all so long ago and so long

concluded, is it worth while seriously to--'

'I can't Arthur,' returned Flora, 'be denounced as heartless by the

whole society of China without setting myself right when I have the

opportunity of doing so, and you must be very well aware that there

was Paul and Virginia which had to be returned and which was returned

without note or comment, not that I mean to say you could have written

to me watched as I was but if it had only come back with a red wafer on

the cover I should have known that it meant Come to Pekin Nankeen and

What's the third place, barefoot.'

'My dear Mrs Finching, you were not to blame, and I never blamed you.

We were both too young, too dependent and helpless, to do anything but

accept our separation.--Pray think how long ago,' gently remonstrated

Arthur. 'One more remark,' proceeded Flora with unslackened volubility,

'I wish to make, one more explanation I wish to offer, for five days I

had a cold in the head from crying which I passed entirely in the back