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third time of asking (for I've put 'em up a fortnight), is my reason for

naming Monday. She'll speak to you about it herself, and now she'll find

you prepared, Affery." That same day she spoke to me, and she said, "So,

Affery, I understand that you and Jeremiah are going to be married. I

am glad of it, and so are you, with reason. It is a very good thing for

you, and very welcome under the circumstances to me. He is a sensible

man, and a trustworthy man, and a persevering man, and a pious man."

What could I say when it had come to that? Why, if it had been--a

smothering instead of a wedding,' Mrs Flintwinch cast about in her mind

with great pains for this form of expression, 'I couldn't have said a

word upon it, against them two clever ones.'

'In good faith, I believe so.' 'And so you may, Arthur.'

'Affery, what girl was that in my mother's room just now?'

'Girl?' said Mrs Flintwinch in a rather sharp key.

'It was a girl, surely, whom I saw near you--almost hidden in the dark

corner?'

'Oh! She? Little Dorrit? She's nothing; she's a whim of--hers.' It was a

peculiarity of Affery Flintwinch that she never spoke of Mrs Clennam

by name. 'But there's another sort of girls than that about. Have you

forgot your old sweetheart? Long and long ago, I'll be bound.'

'I suffered enough from my mother's separating us, to remember her.

I recollect her very well.'

'Have you got another?'

'No.'

'Here's news for you, then. She's well to do now, and a widow. And if

you like to have her, why you can.'

'And how do you know that, Affery?'

'Them two clever ones have been speaking about it.--There's Jeremiah on

the stairs!' She was gone in a moment.

Mrs Flintwinch had introduced into the web that his mind was busily

weaving, in that old workshop where the loom of his youth had stood, the

last thread wanting to the pattern. The airy folly of a boy's love had

found its way even into that house, and he had been as wretched under

its hopelessness as if the house had been a castle of romance. Little

more than a week ago at Marseilles, the face of the pretty girl from

whom he had parted with regret, had had an unusual interest for him, and

a tender hold upon him, because of some resemblance, real or imagined,

to this first face that had soared out of his gloomy life into the

bright glories of fancy. He leaned upon the sill of the long low window,

and looking out upon the blackened forest of chimneys again, began to

dream; for it had been the uniform tendency of this man's life--so much

was wanting in it to think about, so much that might have been better

directed and happier to speculate upon--to make him a dreamer, after

all.

CHAPTER 4. Mrs Flintwinch has a Dream

When Mrs Flintwinch dreamed, she usually dreamed, unlike the son of her

old mistress, with her eyes shut. She had a curiously vivid dream that

night, and before she had left the son of her old mistress many hours.

In fact it was not at all like a dream; it was so very real in every

respect. It happened in this wise.

The bed-chamber occupied by Mr and Mrs Flintwinch was within a few paces

of that to which Mrs Clennam had been so long confined. It was not on

the same floor, for it was a room at the side of the house, which was

approached by a steep descent of a few odd steps, diverging from the

main staircase nearly opposite to Mrs Clennam's door. It could scarcely

be said to be within call, the walls, doors, and panelling of the old

place were so cumbrous; but it was within easy reach, in any undress,

at any hour of the night, in any temperature. At the head of the bed

and within a foot of Mrs Flintwinch's ear, was a bell, the line of which

hung ready to Mrs Clennam's hand. Whenever this bell rang, up started

Affery, and was in the sick room before she was awake.

Having got her mistress into bed, lighted her lamp, and given her good

night, Mrs Flintwinch went to roost as usual, saving that her lord had

not yet appeared. It was her lord himself who became--unlike the

last theme in the mind, according to the observation of most

philosophers--the subject of Mrs Flintwinch's dream. It seemed to her

that she awoke after sleeping some hours, and found Jeremiah not yet

abed. That she looked at the candle she had left burning, and, measuring

the time like King Alfred the Great, was confirmed by its wasted state

in her belief that she had been asleep for some considerable period.

That she arose thereupon, muffled herself up in a wrapper, put on

her shoes, and went out on the staircase, much surprised, to look for

Jeremiah.

The staircase was as wooden and solid as need be, and Affery went

straight down it without any of those deviations peculiar to dreams.

She did not skim over it, but walked down it, and guided herself by the

banisters on account of her candle having died out. In one corner of

the hall, behind the house-door, there was a little waiting-room, like a

well-shaft, with a long narrow window in it as if it had been ripped up.

In this room, which was never used, a light was burning.

Mrs Flintwinch crossed the hall, feeling its pavement cold to her

stockingless feet, and peeped in between the rusty hinges on the door,

which stood a little open. She expected to see Jeremiah fast asleep or

in a fit, but he was calmly seated in a chair, awake, and in his usual

health. But what--hey?--Lord forgive us!--Mrs Flintwinch muttered some

ejaculation to this effect, and turned giddy.

For, Mr Flintwinch awake, was watching Mr Flintwinch asleep. He sat on

one side of the small table, looking keenly at himself on the other side

with his chin sunk on his breast, snoring. The waking Flintwinch had his

full front face presented to his wife; the sleeping Flintwinch was

in profile. The waking Flintwinch was the old original; the sleeping

Flintwinch was the double, just as she might have distinguished between

a tangible object and its reflection in a glass, Affery made out this

difference with her head going round and round.

If she had had any doubt which was her own Jeremiah, it would have been

resolved by his impatience. He looked about him for an offensive weapon,

caught up the snuffers, and, before applying them to the cabbage-headed

candle, lunged at the sleeper as though he would have run him through

the body.

'Who's that? What's the matter?' cried the sleeper, starting.

Mr Flintwinch made a movement with the snuffers, as if he would have

enforced silence on his companion by putting them down his throat; the

companion, coming to himself, said, rubbing his eyes, 'I forgot where I

was.'

'You have been asleep,' snarled Jeremiah, referring to his watch, 'two

hours. You said you would be rested enough if you had a short nap.'

'I have had a short nap,' said Double.

'Half-past two o'clock in the morning,' muttered Jeremiah. 'Where's your

hat? Where's your coat? Where's the box?'

'All here,' said Double, tying up his throat with sleepy carefulness in

a shawl. 'Stop a minute. Now give me the sleeve--not that sleeve, the

other one. Ha! I'm not as young as I was.' Mr Flintwinch had pulled

him into his coat with vehement energy. 'You promised me a second glass

after I was rested.'

'Drink it!' returned Jeremiah, 'and--choke yourself, I was going

to say--but go, I mean.'At the same time he produced the identical

port-wine bottle, and filled a wine-glass.

'Her port-wine, I believe?' said Double, tasting it as if he were in the

Docks, with hours to spare. 'Her health.'

He took a sip.

'Your health!'

He took another sip.

'His health!'

He took another sip.

'And all friends round St Paul's.' He emptied and put down the

wine-glass half-way through this ancient civic toast, and took up the

box. It was an iron box some two feet square, which he carried under his

arms pretty easily. Jeremiah watched his manner of adjusting it, with

jealous eyes; tried it with his hands, to be sure that he had a firm

hold of it; bade him for his life be careful what he was about; and then

stole out on tiptoe to open the door for him. Affery, anticipating

the last movement, was on the staircase. The sequence of things was

so ordinary and natural, that, standing there, she could hear the door

open, feel the night air, and see the stars outside.

But now came the most remarkable part of the dream. She felt so afraid

of her husband, that being on the staircase, she had not the power to

retreat to her room (which she might easily have done before he had

fastened the door), but stood there staring. Consequently when he came

up the staircase to bed, candle in hand, he came full upon her. He

looked astonished, but said not a word. He kept his eyes upon her, and

kept advancing; and she, completely under his influence, kept retiring

before him. Thus, she walking backward and he walking forward, they

came into their own room. They were no sooner shut in there, than Mr

Flintwinch took her by the throat, and shook her until she was black in

the face.

'Why, Affery, woman--Affery!' said Mr Flintwinch. 'What have you been

dreaming of? Wake up, wake up! What's the matter?'

'The--the matter, Jeremiah?' gasped Mrs Flintwinch, rolling her eyes.

'Why, Affery, woman--Affery! You have been getting out of bed in your

sleep, my dear! I come up, after having fallen asleep myself, below, and

find you in your wrapper here, with the nightmare. Affery, woman,' said

Mr Flintwinch, with a friendly grin on his expressive countenance, 'if

you ever have a dream of this sort again, it'll be a sign of your being

in want of physic. And I'll give you such a dose, old woman--such a

dose!'

Mrs Flintwinch thanked him and crept into bed.

CHAPTER 5. Family Affairs

As the city clocks struck nine on Monday morning, Mrs Clennam was

wheeled by Jeremiah Flintwinch of the cut-down aspect to her tall

cabinet. When she had unlocked and opened it, and had settled herself

at its desk, Jeremiah withdrew--as it might be, to hang himself more

effectually--and her son appeared.

'Are you any better this morning, mother?'

She shook her head, with the same austere air of luxuriousness that she

had shown over-night when speaking of the weather.

'I shall never be better any more. It is well for me, Arthur, that I

know it and can bear it.'

Sitting with her hands laid separately upon the desk, and the tall

cabinet towering before her, she looked as if she were performing on a

dumb church organ. Her son thought so (it was an old thought with him),

while he took his seat beside it.

She opened a drawer or two, looked over some business papers, and put

them back again. Her severe face had no thread of relaxation in it, by

which any explorer could have been guided to the gloomy labyrinth of her

thoughts.

'Shall I speak of our affairs, mother? Are you inclined to enter upon

business?'

'Am I inclined, Arthur? Rather, are you? Your father has been dead a

year and more. I have been at your disposal, and waiting your pleasure,

ever since.'

'There was much to arrange before I could leave; and when I did leave, I

travelled a little for rest and relief.'

She turned her face towards him, as not having heard or understood his

last words. 'For rest and relief.'

She glanced round the sombre room, and appeared from the motion of her

lips to repeat the words to herself, as calling it to witness how little

of either it afforded her.

'Besides, mother, you being sole executrix, and having the direction and

management of the estate, there remained little business, or I might say

none, that I could transact, until you had had time to arrange matters

to your satisfaction.'

'The accounts are made out,' she returned. 'I have them here. The

vouchers have all been examined and passed. You can inspect them when

you like, Arthur; now, if you please.'

'It is quite enough, mother, to know that the business is completed.

Shall I proceed then?'

'Why not?' she said, in her frozen way.

'Mother, our House has done less and less for some years past, and our

dealings have been progressively on the decline. We have never shown

much confidence, or invited much; we have attached no people to us; the

track we have kept is not the track of the time; and we have been

left far behind. I need not dwell on this to you, mother. You know it

necessarily.'

'I know what you mean,' she answered, in a qualified tone. 'Even this

old house in which we speak,' pursued her son, 'is an instance of what I

say. In my father's earlier time, and in his uncle's time before him,

it was a place of business--really a place of business, and business

resort. Now, it is a mere anomaly and incongruity here, out of date and

out of purpose. All our consignments have long been made to Rovinghams'

the commission-merchants; and although, as a check upon them, and in

the stewardship of my father's resources, your judgment and watchfulness

have been actively exerted, still those qualities would have influenced

my father's fortunes equally, if you had lived in any private dwelling:

would they not?'

'Do you consider,' she returned, without answering his question, 'that

a house serves no purpose, Arthur, in sheltering your infirm and

afflicted--justly infirm and righteously afflicted--mother?'

'I was speaking only of business purposes.'

'With what object?'

'I am coming to it.'

'I foresee,' she returned, fixing her eyes upon him, 'what it is.

But the Lord forbid that I should repine under any visitation. In my