第 77 页

Fanny, and at his father too.

'I have only been in to ask her if I could do anything for her, Tip,'

said Little Dorrit.

'You needn't call me Tip, Amy child,' returned that young gentleman

with a frown; 'because that's an old habit, and one you may as well lay

aside.'

'I didn't mean to say so, Edward dear. I forgot. It was so natural once,

that it seemed at the moment the right word.'

'Oh yes!' Miss Fanny struck in. 'Natural, and right word, and once, and

all the rest of it! Nonsense, you little thing! I know perfectly well

why you have been taking such an interest in this Mrs Gowan. You can't

blind me.'

'I will not try to, Fanny. Don't be angry.'

'Oh! angry!' returned that young lady with a flounce. 'I have no

patience' (which indeed was the truth). 'Pray, Fanny,' said Mr Dorrit,

raising his eyebrows, 'what do you mean? Explain yourself.'

'Oh! Never mind, Pa,' replied Miss Fanny, 'it's no great matter.

Amy will understand me. She knew, or knew of, this Mrs Gowan before

yesterday, and she may as well admit that she did.'

'My child,' said Mr Dorrit, turning to his younger daughter, 'has your

sister--any--ha--authority for this curious statement?'

'However meek we are,' Miss Fanny struck in before she could answer, 'we

don't go creeping into people's rooms on the tops of cold mountains,

and sitting perishing in the frost with people, unless we know something

about them beforehand. It's not very hard to divine whose friend Mrs

Gowan is.'

'Whose friend?' inquired her father.

'Pa, I am sorry to say,' returned Miss Fanny, who had by this time

succeeded in goading herself into a state of much ill-usage and

grievance, which she was often at great pains to do: 'that I believe her

to be a friend of that very objectionable and unpleasant person, who,

with a total absence of all delicacy, which our experience might have

led us to expect from him, insulted us and outraged our feelings in

so public and wilful a manner on an occasion to which it is understood

among us that we will not more pointedly allude.'

'Amy, my child,' said Mr Dorrit, tempering a bland severity with a

dignified affection, 'is this the case?'

Little Dorrit mildly answered, yes it was.

'Yes it is!' cried Miss Fanny. 'Of course! I said so! And now, Pa, I do

declare once for all'--this young lady was in the habit of declaring the

same thing once for all every day of her life, and even several times in

a day--'that this is shameful! I do declare once for all that it ought

to be put a stop to. Is it not enough that we have gone through what

is only known to ourselves, but are we to have it thrown in our faces,

perseveringly and systematically, by the very person who should spare

our feelings most? Are we to be exposed to this unnatural conduct every

moment of our lives? Are we never to be permitted to forget? I say

again, it is absolutely infamous!'

'Well, Amy,' observed her brother, shaking his head, 'you know I stand

by you whenever I can, and on most occasions. But I must say, that, upon

my soul, I do consider it rather an unaccountable mode of showing your

sisterly affection, that you should back up a man who treated me in the

most ungentlemanly way in which one man can treat another. And who,' he

added convincingly, must be a low-minded thief, you know, or he never

could have conducted himself as he did.'

'And see,' said Miss Fanny, 'see what is involved in this! Can we ever

hope to be respected by our servants? Never. Here are our two women, and

Pa's valet, and a footman, and a courier, and all sorts of dependents,

and yet in the midst of these, we are to have one of ourselves rushing

about with tumblers of cold water, like a menial! Why, a policeman,'

said Miss Fanny, 'if a beggar had a fit in the street, could but go

plunging about with tumblers, as this very Amy did in this very room

before our very eyes last night!'

'I don't so much mind that, once in a way,' remarked Mr Edward; 'but

your Clennam, as he thinks proper to call himself, is another thing.'

'He is part of the same thing,' returned Miss Fanny, 'and of a piece

with all the rest. He obtruded himself upon us in the first instance.

We never wanted him. I always showed him, for one, that I could have

dispensed with his company with the greatest pleasure.

He then commits that gross outrage upon our feelings, which he never

could or would have committed but for the delight he took in exposing

us; and then we are to be demeaned for the service of his friends! Why,

I don't wonder at this Mr Gowan's conduct towards you. What else was

to be expected when he was enjoying our past misfortunes--gloating over

them at the moment!' 'Father--Edward--no indeed!' pleaded Little Dorrit.

'Neither Mr nor Mrs Gowan had ever heard our name. They were, and they

are, quite ignorant of our history.'

'So much the worse,' retorted Fanny, determined not to admit anything in

extenuation, 'for then you have no excuse. If they had known about us,

you might have felt yourself called upon to conciliate them. That would

have been a weak and ridiculous mistake, but I can respect a mistake,

whereas I can't respect a wilful and deliberate abasing of those who

should be nearest and dearest to us. No. I can't respect that. I can do

nothing but denounce that.'

'I never offend you wilfully, Fanny,' said Little Dorrit, 'though you

are so hard with me.'

'Then you should be more careful, Amy,' returned her sister. 'If you do

such things by accident, you should be more careful. If I happened to

have been born in a peculiar place, and under peculiar circumstances

that blunted my knowledge of propriety, I fancy I should think myself

bound to consider at every step, "Am I going, ignorantly, to compromise

any near and dear relations?" That is what I fancy I should do, if it

was my case.'

Mr Dorrit now interposed, at once to stop these painful subjects by his

authority, and to point their moral by his wisdom.

'My dear,' said he to his younger daughter, 'I beg you to--ha--to say

no more. Your sister Fanny expresses herself strongly, but not without

considerable reason. You have now a--hum--a great position to support.

That great position is not occupied by yourself alone, but by--ha--by

me, and--ha hum--by us. Us. Now, it is incumbent upon all people in an

exalted position, but it is particularly so on this family, for reasons

which I--ha--will not dwell upon, to make themselves respected. To be

vigilant in making themselves respected. Dependants, to respect us, must

be--ha--kept at a distance and--hum--kept down. Down. Therefore, your

not exposing yourself to the remarks of our attendants by appearing to

have at any time dispensed with their services and performed them for

yourself, is--ha--highly important.'

'Why, who can doubt it?' cried Miss Fanny. 'It's the essence of

everything.' 'Fanny,' returned her father, grandiloquently, 'give me

leave, my dear. We then come to--ha--to Mr Clennam. I am free to say

that I do not, Amy, share your sister's sentiments--that is to say

altogether--hum--altogether--in reference to Mr Clennam. I am content

to regard that individual in the light of--ha--generally--a well-behaved

person. Hum. A well-behaved person. Nor will I inquire whether Mr

Clennam did, at any time, obtrude himself on--ha--my society. He knew my

society to be--hum--sought, and his plea might be that he regarded me in

the light of a public character. But there were circumstances attending

my--ha--slight knowledge of Mr Clennam (it was very slight), which,'

here Mr Dorrit became extremely grave and impressive, 'would render it

highly indelicate in Mr Clennam to--ha--to seek to renew communication

with me or with any member of my family under existing circumstances.

If Mr Clennam has sufficient delicacy to perceive the impropriety of

any such attempt, I am bound as a responsible gentleman to--ha--defer

to that delicacy on his part. If, on the other hand, Mr Clennam has not

that delicacy, I cannot for a moment--ha--hold any correspondence with

so--hum--coarse a mind. In either case, it would appear that Mr Clennam

is put altogether out of the question, and that we have nothing to do

with him or he with us. Ha--Mrs General!'

The entrance of the lady whom he announced, to take her place at the

breakfast-table, terminated the discussion. Shortly afterwards, the

courier announced that the valet, and the footman, and the two maids,

and the four guides, and the fourteen mules, were in readiness; so the

breakfast party went out to the convent door to join the cavalcade.

Mr Gowan stood aloof with his cigar and pencil, but Mr Blandois was on

the spot to pay his respects to the ladies. When he gallantly pulled

off his slouched hat to Little Dorrit, she thought he had even a more

sinister look, standing swart and cloaked in the snow, than he had

in the fire-light over-night. But, as both her father and her sister

received his homage with some favour, she refrained from expressing any

distrust of him, lest it should prove to be a new blemish derived from

her prison birth.

Nevertheless, as they wound down the rugged way while the convent was

yet in sight, she more than once looked round, and descried Mr Blandois,

backed by the convent smoke which rose straight and high from the

chimneys in a golden film, always standing on one jutting point looking

down after them. Long after he was a mere black stick in the snow, she

felt as though she could yet see that smile of his, that high nose, and

those eyes that were too near it. And even after that, when the convent

was gone and some light morning clouds veiled the pass below it, the

ghastly skeleton arms by the wayside seemed to be all pointing up at

him.

More treacherous than snow, perhaps, colder at heart, and harder to

melt, Blandois of Paris by degrees passed out of her mind, as they came

down into the softer regions. Again the sun was warm, again the streams

descending from glaciers and snowy caverns were refreshing to drink at,

again they came among the pine-trees, the rocky rivulets, the verdant

heights and dales, the wooden chalets and rough zigzag fences of Swiss

country. Sometimes the way so widened that she and her father could

ride abreast. And then to look at him, handsomely clothed in his fur and

broadcloths, rich, free, numerously served and attended, his eyes roving

far away among the glories of the landscape, no miserable screen before

them to darken his sight and cast its shadow on him, was enough.

Her uncle was so far rescued from that shadow of old, that he wore the

clothes they gave him, and performed some ablutions as a sacrifice to

the family credit, and went where he was taken, with a certain patient

animal enjoyment, which seemed to express that the air and change did

him good. In all other respects, save one, he shone with no light but

such as was reflected from his brother. His brother's greatness, wealth,

freedom, and grandeur, pleased him without any reference to himself.

Silent and retiring, he had no use for speech when he could hear his

brother speak; no desire to be waited on, so that the servants devoted

themselves to his brother. The only noticeable change he originated in

himself, was an alteration in his manner to his younger niece. Every day

it refined more and more into a marked respect, very rarely shown by age

to youth, and still more rarely susceptible, one would have said, of the

fitness with which he invested it. On those occasions when Miss Fanny

did declare once for all, he would take the next opportunity of baring

his grey head before his younger niece, and of helping her to alight,

or handing her to the carriage, or showing her any other attention, with

the profoundest deference. Yet it never appeared misplaced or forced,

being always heartily simple, spontaneous, and genuine. Neither would he

ever consent, even at his brother's request, to be helped to any place

before her, or to take precedence of her in anything. So jealous was he

of her being respected, that, on this very journey down from the Great

Saint Bernard, he took sudden and violent umbrage at the footman's being

remiss to hold her stirrup, though standing near when she dismounted;

and unspeakably astonished the whole retinue by charging at him on a

hard-headed mule, riding him into a corner, and threatening to trample

him to death.

They were a goodly company, and the Innkeepers all but worshipped them.

Wherever they went, their importance preceded them in the person of the

courier riding before, to see that the rooms of state were ready. He was

the herald of the family procession. The great travelling-carriage came

next: containing, inside, Mr Dorrit, Miss Dorrit, Miss Amy Dorrit,

and Mrs General; outside, some of the retainers, and (in fine weather)

Edward Dorrit, Esquire, for whom the box was reserved. Then came

the chariot containing Frederick Dorrit, Esquire, and an empty place

occupied by Edward Dorrit, Esquire, in wet weather. Then came the

fourgon with the rest of the retainers, the heavy baggage, and as much

as it could carry of the mud and dust which the other vehicles left

behind.

These equipages adorned the yard of the hotel at Martigny, on the return

of the family from their mountain excursion. Other vehicles were there,

much company being on the road, from the patched Italian Vettura--like

the body of a swing from an English fair put upon a wooden tray on

wheels, and having another wooden tray without wheels put atop of it--to

the trim English carriage. But there was another adornment of the

hotel which Mr Dorrit had not bargained for. Two strange travellers