BOOK THE FIRST: POVERTY - CHAPTER 31 Spirit

Anybody may pass, any day, in the thronged thoroughfares of the

metropolis, some meagre, wrinkled, yellow old man (who might be

supposed to have dropped from the stars, if there were any star in

the Heavens dull enough to be suspected of casting off so feeble a

spark), creeping along with a scared air, as though bewildered and

a little frightened by the noise and bustle. This old man is

always a little old man. If he were ever a big old man, he has

shrunk into a little old man; if he were always a little old man,

he has dwindled into a less old man. His coat is a colour, and

cut, that never was the mode anywhere, at any period. Clearly, it

was not made for him, or for any individual mortal. Some wholesale

contractor measured Fate for five thousand coats of such quality,

and Fate has lent this old coat to this old man, as one of a long

unfinished line of many old men. It has always large dull metal

buttons, similar to no other buttons. This old man wears a hat, a

thumbed and napless and yet an obdurate hat, which has never

adapted itself to the shape of his poor head. His coarse shirt and

his coarse neckcloth have no more individuality than his coat and

hat; they have the same character of not being his--of not being

anybody's. Yet this old man wears these clothes with a certain

unaccustomed air of being dressed and elaborated for the public

ways; as though he passed the greater part of his time in a

nightcap and gown. And so, like the country mouse in the second

year of a famine, come to see the town mouse, and timidly threading

his way to the town-mouse's lodging through a city of cats, this

old man passes in the streets.

Sometimes, on holidays towards evening, he will be seen to walk

with a slightly increased infirmity, and his old eyes will glimmer

with a moist and marshy light. Then the little old man is drunk.

A very small measure will overset him; he may be bowled off his

unsteady legs with a half-pint pot. Some pitying acquaintance--

chance acquaintance very often--has warmed up his weakness with a

treat of beer, and the consequence will be the lapse of a longer

time than usual before he shall pass again. For the little old man

is going home to the Workhouse; and on his good behaviour they do

not let him out often (though methinks they might, considering the

few years he has before him to go out in, under the sun); and on

his bad behaviour they shut him up closer than ever in a grove of

two score and nineteen more old men, every one of whom smells of

all the others.

Mrs Plornish's father,--a poor little reedy piping old gentleman,

like a worn-out bird; who had been in what he called the music-

binding business, and met with great misfortunes, and who had

seldom been able to make his way, or to see it or to pay it, or to

do anything at all with it but find it no thoroughfare,--had

retired of his own accord to the Workhouse which was appointed by

law to be the Good Samaritan of his district (without the twopence,

which was bad political economy), on the settlement of that

execution which had carried Mr Plornish to the Marshalsea College.

Previous to his son-in-law's difficulties coming to that head, Old

Nandy (he was always so called in his legal Retreat, but he was Old

Mr Nandy among the Bleeding Hearts) had sat in a corner of the

Plornish fireside, and taken his bite and sup out of the Plornish

cupboard. He still hoped to resume that domestic position when

Fortune should smile upon his son-in-law; in the meantime, while

she preserved an immovable countenance, he was, and resolved to

remain, one of these little old men in a grove of little old men

with a community of flavour.

But no poverty in him, and no coat on him that never was the mode,

and no Old Men's Ward for his dwelling-place, could quench his

daughter's admiration. Mrs Plornish was as proud of her father's

talents as she could possibly have been if they had made him Lord

Chancellor. She had as firm a belief in the sweetness and

propriety of his manners as she could possibly have had if he had

been Lord Chamberlain. The poor little old man knew some pale and

vapid little songs, long out of date, about Chloe, and Phyllis, and

Strephon being wounded by the son of Venus; and for Mrs Plornish

there was no such music at the Opera as the small internal

flutterings and chirpings wherein he would discharge himself of

these ditties, like a weak, little, broken barrel-organ, ground by

a baby. On his 'days out,' those flecks of light in his flat vista

of pollard old men,' it was at once Mrs Plornish's delight and

sorrow, when he was strong with meat, and had taken his full

halfpenny-worth of porter, to say, 'Sing us a song, Father.' Then

he would give them Chloe, and if he were in pretty good spirits,

Phyllis also--Strephon he had hardly been up to since he went into

retirement--and then would Mrs Plornish declare she did believe

there never was such a singer as Father, and wipe her eyes.

If he had come from Court on these occasions, nay, if he had been

the noble Refrigerator come home triumphantly from a foreign court

to be presented and promoted on his last tremendous failure, Mrs

Plornish could not have handed him with greater elevation about

Bleeding Heart Yard. 'Here's Father,' she would say, presenting

him to a neighbour. 'Father will soon be home with us for good,

now. Ain't Father looking well? Father's a sweeter singer than

ever; you'd never have forgotten it, if you'd aheard him just now.'

As to Mr Plornish, he had married these articles of belief in

marrying Mr Nandy's daughter, and only wondered how it was that so

gifted an old gentleman had not made a fortune. This he

attributed, after much reflection, to his musical genius not having

been scientifically developed in his youth. 'For why,' argued Mr

Plornish, 'why go a-binding music when you've got it in yourself?

That's where it is, I consider.'

Old Nandy had a patron: one patron. He had a patron who in a

certain sumptuous way--an apologetic way, as if he constantly took

an admiring audience to witness that he really could not help being

more free with this old fellow than they might have expected, on

account of his simplicity and poverty--was mightily good to him.

Old Nandy had been several times to the Marshalsea College,

communicating with his son-in-law during his short durance there;

and had happily acquired to himself, and had by degrees and in

course of time much improved, the patronage of the Father of that

national institution.

Mr Dorrit was in the habit of receiving this old man as if the old

man held of him in vassalage under some feudal tenure. He made

little treats and teas for him, as if he came in with his homage

from some outlying district where the tenantry were in a primitive

state.

It seemed as if there were moments when he could by no means have

sworn but that the old man was an ancient retainer of his, who had

been meritoriously faithful. When he mentioned him, he spoke of

him casually as his old pensioner. He had a wonderful satisfaction

in seeing him, and in commenting on his decayed condition after he

was gone. It appeared to him amazing that he could hold up his

head at all, poor creature. 'In the Workhouse, sir, the Union; no

privacy, no visitors, no station, no respect, no speciality. Most

deplorable!'

It was Old Nandy's birthday, and they let him out. He said nothing

about its being his birthday, or they might have kept him in; for

such old men should not be born. He passed along the streets as

usual to Bleeding Heart Yard, and had his dinner with his daughter

and son-in-law, and gave them Phyllis. He had hardly concluded,

when Little Dorrit looked in to see how they all were.

'Miss Dorrit,' said Mrs Plornish, 'here's Father! Ain't he looking

nice? And such voice he's in!'

Little Dorrit gave him her hand, and smilingly said she had not

seen him this long time.

'No, they're rather hard on poor Father,' said Mrs Plornish with a

lengthening face, 'and don't let him have half as much change and

fresh air as would benefit him. But he'll soon be home for good,

now. Won't you, Father?'

'Yes, my dear, I hope so. In good time, please God.'

Here Mr Plornish delivered himself of an oration which he

invariably made, word for word the same, on all such opportunities.

It was couched in the following terms:

'John Edward Nandy. Sir. While there's a ounce of wittles or

drink of any sort in this present roof, you're fully welcome to

your share on it. While there's a handful of fire or a mouthful of

bed in this present roof, you're fully welcome to your share on it.

If so be as there should be nothing in this present roof, you

should be as welcome to your share on it as if it was something,

much or little. And this is what I mean and so I don't deceive

you, and consequently which is to stand out is to entreat of you,

and therefore why not do it?'

To this lucid address, which Mr Plornish always delivered as if he

had composed it (as no doubt he had) with enormous labour, Mrs

Plornish's father pipingly replied:

'I thank you kindly, Thomas, and I know your intentions well, which

is the same I thank you kindly for. But no, Thomas. Until such

times as it's not to take it out of your children's mouths, which

take it is, and call it by what name you will it do remain and

equally deprive, though may they come, and too soon they can not

come, no Thomas, no!'

Mrs Plornish, who had been turning her face a little away with a

corner of her apron in her hand, brought herself back to the

conversation again by telling Miss Dorrit that Father was going

over the water to pay his respects, unless she knew of any reason

why it might not be agreeable.

Her answer was, 'I am going straight home, and if he will come with

me I shall be so glad to take care of him--so glad,' said Little

Dorrit, always thoughtful of the feelings of the weak, 'of his

company.'

'There, Father!' cried Mrs Plornish. 'Ain't you a gay young man to

be going for a walk along with Miss Dorrit! Let me tie your neck-

handkerchief into a regular good bow, for you're a regular beau

yourself, Father, if ever there was one.'

With this filial joke his daughter smartened him up, and gave him

a loving hug, and stood at the door with her weak child in her

arms, and her strong child tumbling down the steps, looking after

her little old father as he toddled away with his arm under Little

Dorrit's.

They walked at a slow pace, and Little Dorrit took him by the Iron

Bridge and sat him down there for a rest, and they looked over at

the water and talked about the shipping, and the old man mentioned

what he would do if he had a ship full of gold coming home to him

(his plan was to take a noble lodging for the Plornishes and

himself at a Tea Gardens, and live there all the rest of their

lives, attended on by the waiter), and it was a special birthday of

the old man. They were within five minutes of their destination,

when, at the corner of her own street, they came upon Fanny in her

new bonnet bound for the same port.

'Why, good gracious me, Amy!' cried that young lady starting. 'You

never mean it!'

'Mean what, Fanny dear?'

'Well! I could have believed a great deal of you,' returned the

young lady with burning indignation, 'but I don't think even I

could have believed this, of even you!'

'Fanny!' cried Little Dorrit, wounded and astonished.

'Oh! Don't Fanny me, you mean little thing, don't! The idea of

coming along the open streets, in the broad light of day, with a

Pauper!' (firing off the last word as if it were a ball from an

air-gun).

'O Fanny!'

'I tell you not to Fanny me, for I'll not submit to it! I never

knew such a thing. The way in which you are resolved and

determined to disgrace us on all occasions, is really infamous.

You bad little thing!'

'Does it disgrace anybody,' said Little Dorrit, very gently, 'to

take care of this poor old man?'

'Yes, miss,' returned her sister, 'and you ought to know it does.

And you do know it does, and you do it because you know it does.

The principal pleasure of your life is to remind your family of

their misfortunes. And the next great pleasure of your existence

is to keep low company. But, however, if you have no sense of

decency, I have. You'll please to allow me to go on the other side

of the way, unmolested.'

With this, she bounced across to the opposite pavement. The old

disgrace, who had been deferentially bowing a pace or two off (for

Little Dorrit had let his arm go in her wonder, when Fanny began),

and who had been hustled and cursed by impatient passengers for

stopping the way, rejoined his companion, rather giddy, and said,

'I hope nothing's wrong with your honoured father, Miss? I hope

there's nothing the matter in the honoured family?'

'No, no,' returned Little Dorrit. 'No, thank you. Give me your

arm again, Mr Nandy. We shall soon be there now.'

So she talked to him as she had talked before, and they came to the

Lodge and found Mr Chivery on the lock, and went in. Now, it

happened that the Father of the Marshalsea was sauntering towards

the Lodge at the moment when they were coming out of it, entering

the prison arm in arm. As the spectacle of their approach met his

view, he displayed the utmost agitation and despondency of mind;

and--altogether regardless of Old Nandy, who, making his reverence,

stood with his hat in his hand, as he always did in that gracious

presence--turned about, and hurried in at his own doorway and up

the staircase.

Leaving the old unfortunate, whom in an evil hour she had taken

under her protection, with a hurried promise to return to him

directly, Little Dorrit hastened after her father, and, on the

staircase, found Fanny following her, and flouncing up with

offended dignity. The three came into the room almost together;

and the Father sat down in his chair, buried his face in his hands,

and uttered a groan.

'Of course,' said Fanny. 'Very proper. Poor, afflicted Pa! Now,

I hope you believe me, Miss?'

'What is it, father?' cried Little Dorrit, bending over him. 'Have

I made you unhappy, father? Not I, I hope!'

'You hope, indeed! I dare say! Oh, you'--Fanny paused for a

sufficiently strong expression--'you Common-minded little Amy! You

complete prison-child!'

He stopped these angry reproaches with a wave of his hand, and

sobbed out, raising his face and shaking his melancholy head at his

younger daughter, 'Amy, I know that you are innocent in intention.

But you have cut me to the soul.'

'Innocent in intention!' the implacable Fanny struck in. 'Stuff in

intention! Low in intention! Lowering of the family in

intention!'

'Father!' cried Little Dorrit, pale and trembling. 'I am very

sorry. Pray forgive me. Tell me how it is, that I may not do it

again!'

'How it is, you prevaricating little piece of goods!' cried Fanny.

'You know how it is. I have told you already, so don't fly in the

face of Providence by attempting to deny it!'

'Hush! Amy,' said the father, passing his pocket-handkerchief

several times across his face, and then grasping it convulsively in

the hand that dropped across his knee, 'I have done what I could to

keep you select here; I have done what I could to retain you a

position here. I may have succeeded; I may not. You may know it;

you may not. I give no opinion. I have endured everything here

but humiliation. That I have happily been spared--until this day.'

Here his convulsive grasp unclosed itself, and he put his pocket-

handkerchief to his eyes again. Little Dorrit, on the ground

beside him, with her imploring hand upon his arm, watched him

remorsefully. Coming out of his fit of grief, he clenched his

pocket-handkerchief once more.

'Humiliation I have happily been spared until this day. Through

all my troubles there has been that--Spirit in myself, and that--

that submission to it, if I may use the term, in those about me,

which has spared me--ha--humiliation. But this day, this minute,

I have keenly felt it.'

'Of course! How could it be otherwise?' exclaimed the

irrepressible Fanny. 'Careering and prancing about with a Pauper!'

(air-gun again).

'But, dear father,' cried Little Dorrit, 'I don't justify myself

for having wounded your dear heart--no! Heaven knows I don't!'

She clasped her hands in quite an agony of distress. 'I do nothing

but beg and pray you to be comforted and overlook it. But if I had

not known that you were kind to the old man yourself, and took much

notice of him, and were always glad to see him, I would not have

come here with him, father, I would not, indeed. What I have been

so unhappy as to do, I have done in mistake. I would not wilfully

bring a tear to your eyes, dear love!' said Little Dorrit, her

heart well-nigh broken, 'for anything the world could give me, or

anything it could take away.'

Fanny, with a partly angry and partly repentant sob, began to cry

herself, and to say--as this young lady always said when she was

half in passion and half out of it, half spiteful with herself and

half spiteful with everybody else--that she wished she were dead.

The Father of the Marshalsea in the meantime took his younger

daughter to his breast, and patted her head.

'There, there! Say no more, Amy, say no more, my child. I will

forget it as soon as I can. I,' with hysterical cheerfulness, 'I--

shall soon be able to dismiss it. It is perfectly true, my dear,

that I am always glad to see my old pensioner--as such, as such--

and that I do--ha--extend as much protection and kindness to the--

hum--the bruised reed--I trust I may so call him without

impropriety--as in my circumstances, I can. It is quite true that

this is the case, my dear child. At the same time, I preserve in

doing this, if I may--ha--if I may use the expression--Spirit.

Becoming Spirit. And there are some things which are,' he stopped

to sob, 'irreconcilable with that, and wound that--wound it deeply.

It is not that I have seen my good Amy attentive, and--ha--

condescending to my old pensioner--it is not that that hurts me.

It is, if I am to close the painful subject by being explicit, that

I have seen my child, my own child, my own daughter, coming into

this College out of the public streets--smiling! smiling!--arm in

arm with--O my God, a livery!'

This reference to the coat of no cut and no time, the unfortunate

gentleman gasped forth, in a scarcely audible voice, and with his

clenched pocket-handkerchief raised in the air. His excited

feelings might have found some further painful utterance, but for

a knock at the door, which had been already twice repeated, and to

which Fanny (still wishing herself dead, and indeed now going so

far as to add, buried) cried 'Come in!'

'Ah, Young John!' said the Father, in an altered and calmed voice.

'What is it, Young John?'

'A letter for you, sir, being left in the Lodge just this minute,

and a message with it, I thought, happening to be there myself,

sir, I would bring it to your room.' The speaker's attention was

much distracted by the piteous spectacle of Little Dorrit at her

father's feet, with her head turned away.

'Indeed, John? Thank you.'

'The letter is from Mr Clennam, sir--it's the answer--and the

message was, sir, that Mr Clennam also sent his compliments, and

word that he would do himself the pleasure of calling this

afternoon, hoping to see you, and likewise,' attention more

distracted than before, 'Miss Amy.'

'Oh!' As the Father glanced into the letter (there was a bank-note

in it), he reddened a little, and patted Amy on the head afresh.

'Thank you, Young John. Quite right. Much obliged to you for your

attention. No one waiting?'

'No, sir, no one waiting.'

'Thank you, John. How is your mother, Young John?'

'Thank you, sir, she's not quite as well as we could wish--in fact,

we none of us are, except father--but she's pretty well, sir.'

'Say we sent our remembrances, will you? Say kind remembrances, if

you please, Young John.'

'Thank you, sir, I will.' And Mr Chivery junior went his way,

having spontaneously composed on the spot an entirely new epitaph

for himself, to the effect that Here lay the body of John Chivery,

Who, Having at such a date, Beheld the idol of his life, In grief

and tears, And feeling unable to bear the harrowing spectacle,

Immediately repaired to the abode of his inconsolable parents, And

terminated his existence by his own rash act.

'There, there, Amy!' said the Father, when Young John had closed

the door, 'let us say no more about it.' The last few minutes had

improved his spirits remarkably, and he was quite lightsome.

'Where is my old pensioner all this while? We must not leave him

by himself any longer, or he will begin to suppose he is not

welcome, and that would pain me. Will you fetch him, my child, or

shall I?'

'If you wouldn't mind, father,' said Little Dorrit, trying to bring

her sobbing to a close.

'Certainly I will go, my dear. I forgot; your eyes are rather red.

There! Cheer up, Amy. Don't be uneasy about me. I am quite

myself again, my love, quite myself. Go to your room, Amy, and

make yourself look comfortable and pleasant to receive Mr Clennam.'

'I would rather stay in my own room, Father,' returned Little

Dorrit, finding it more difficult than before to regain her

composure. 'I would far rather not see Mr Clennam.'

'Oh, fie, fie, my dear, that's folly. Mr Clennam is a very

gentlemanly man--very gentlemanly. A little reserved at times; but

I will say extremely gentlemanly. I couldn't think of your not

being here to receive Mr Clennam, my dear, especially this

afternoon. So go and freshen yourself up, Amy; go and freshen

yourself up, like a good girl.'

Thus directed, Little Dorrit dutifully rose and obeyed: only

pausing for a moment as she went out of the room, to give her

sister a kiss of reconciliation. Upon which, that young lady,

feeling much harassed in her mind, and having for the time worn out

the wish with which she generally relieved it, conceived and

executed the brilliant idea of wishing Old Nandy dead, rather than

that he should come bothering there like a disgusting, tiresome,

wicked wretch, and making mischief between two sisters.

The Father of the Marshalsea, even humming a tune, and wearing his

black velvet cap a little on one side, so much improved were his

spirits, went down into the yard, and found his old pensioner

standing there hat in hand just within the gate, as he had stood

all this time. 'Come, Nandy!' said he, with great suavity. 'Come

up-stairs, Nandy; you know the way; why don't you come up-stairs?'

He went the length, on this occasion, of giving him his hand and

saying, 'How are you, Nandy? Are you pretty well?' To which that

vocalist returned, 'I thank you, honoured sir, I am all the better

for seeing your honour.' As they went along the yard, the Father

of the Marshalsea presented him to a Collegian of recent date. 'An

old acquaintance of mine, sir, an old pensioner.' And then said,

'Be covered, my good Nandy; put your hat on,' with great

consideration.

His patronage did not stop here; for he charged Maggy to get the

tea ready, and instructed her to buy certain tea-cakes, fresh

butter, eggs, cold ham, and shrimps: to purchase which collation he

gave her a bank-note for ten pounds, laying strict injunctions on

her to be careful of the change. These preparations were in an

advanced stage of progress, and his daughter Amy had come back with

her work, when Clennam presented himself; whom he most graciously

received, and besought to join their meal.

'Amy, my love, you know Mr Clennam even better than I have the

happiness of doing. Fanny, my dear, you are acquainted with Mr

Clennam.' Fanny acknowledged him haughtily; the position she

tacitly took up in all such cases being that there was a vast

conspiracy to insult the family by not understanding it, or

sufficiently deferring to it, and here was one of the conspirators.

'This, Mr Clennam, you must know, is an old pensioner of mine, Old

Nandy, a very faithful old man.' (He always spoke of him as an

object of great antiquity, but he was two or three years younger

than himself.) 'Let me see. You know Plornish, I think? I think

my daughter Amy has mentioned to me that you know poor Plornish?'

'O yes!' said Arthur Clennam.

'Well, sir, this is Mrs Plornish's father.'

'Indeed? I am glad to see him.'

'You would be more glad if you knew his many good qualities,

Mr Clennam.'

'I hope I shall come to know them through knowing him,' said

Arthur, secretly pitying the bowed and submissive figure.

'It is a holiday with him, and he comes to see his old friends, who

are always glad to see him,' observed the Father of the Marshalsea.

Then he added behind his hand, ('Union, poor old fellow. Out for

the day.')

By this time Maggy, quietly assisted by her Little Mother, had

spread the board, and the repast was ready. It being hot weather

and the prison very close, the window was as wide open as it could

be pushed. 'If Maggy will spread that newspaper on the window-

sill, my dear,' remarked the Father complacently and in a half

whisper to Little Dorrit, 'my old pensioner can have his tea there,

while we are having ours.'

So, with a gulf between him and the good company of about a foot in

width, standard measure, Mrs Plornish's father was handsomely

regaled. Clennam had never seen anything like his magnanimous

protection by that other Father, he of the Marshalsea; and was lost

in the contemplation of its many wonders.

The most striking of these was perhaps the relishing manner in

which he remarked on the pensioner's infirmities and failings, as

if he were a gracious Keeper making a running commentary on the

decline of the harmless animal he exhibited.

'Not ready for more ham yet, Nandy? Why, how slow you are! (His

last teeth,' he explained to the company, 'are going, poor old

boy.')

At another time, he said, 'No shrimps, Nandy?' and on his not

instantly replying, observed, ('His hearing is becoming very

defective. He'll be deaf directly.')

At another time he asked him, 'Do you walk much, Nandy, about the

yard within the walls of that place of yours?'

'No, sir; no. I haven't any great liking for that.'

'No, to be sure,' he assented. 'Very natural.' Then he privately

informed the circle ('Legs going.')

Once he asked the pensioner, in that general clemency which asked

him anything to keep him afloat, how old his younger grandchild

was?

'John Edward,' said the pensioner, slowly laying down his knife and

fork to consider. 'How old, sir? Let me think now.'

The Father of the Marshalsea tapped his forehead ('Memory weak.')

'John Edward, sir? Well, I really forget. I couldn't say at this

minute, sir, whether it's two and two months, or whether it's two

and five months. It's one or the other.'

'Don't distress yourself by worrying your mind about it,' he

returned, with infinite forbearance. ('Faculties evidently

decaying--old man rusts in the life he leads!')

The more of these discoveries that he persuaded himself he made in

the pensioner, the better he appeared to like him; and when he got

out of his chair after tea to bid the pensioner good-bye, on his

intimating that he feared, honoured sir, his time was running out,

he made himself look as erect and strong as possible.

'We don't call this a shilling, Nandy, you know,' he said, putting

one in his hand. 'We call it tobacco.'

'Honoured sir, I thank you. It shall buy tobacco. My thanks and

duty to Miss Amy and Miss Fanny. I wish you good night, Mr

Clennam.'

'And mind you don't forget us, you know, Nandy,' said the Father.

'You must come again, mind, whenever you have an afternoon. You

must not come out without seeing us, or we shall be jealous. Good

night, Nandy. Be very careful how you descend the stairs, Nandy;

they are rather uneven and worn.' With that he stood on the

landing, watching the old man down: and when he came into the room

again, said, with a solemn satisfaction on him, 'A melancholy sight

that, Mr Clennam, though one has the consolation of knowing that he

doesn't feel it himself. The poor old fellow is a dismal wreck.

Spirit broken and gone--pulverised--crushed out of him, sir,

completely!'

As Clennam had a purpose in remaining, he said what he could

responsive to these sentiments, and stood at the window with their

enunciator, while Maggy and her Little Mother washed the tea-

service and cleared it away. He noticed that his companion stood

at the window with the air of an affable and accessible Sovereign,

and that, when any of his people in the yard below looked up, his

recognition of their salutes just stopped short of a blessing.

When Little Dorrit had her work on the table, and Maggy hers on the

bedstead, Fanny fell to tying her bonnet as a preliminary to her

departure. Arthur, still having his purpose, still remained. At

this time the door opened, without any notice, and Mr Tip came in.

He kissed Amy as she started up to meet him, nodded to Fanny,

nodded to his father, gloomed on the visitor without further

recognition, and sat down.

'Tip, dear,' said Little Dorrit, mildly, shocked by this, 'don't

you see--'

'Yes, I see, Amy. If you refer to the presence of any visitor you

have here--I say, if you refer to that,' answered Tip, jerking his

head with emphasis towards his shoulder nearest Clennam, 'I see!'

'Is that all you say?'

'That's all I say. And I suppose,' added the lofty young man,

after a moment's pause, 'that visitor will understand me, when I

say that's all I say. In short, I suppose the visitor will

understand that he hasn't used me like a gentleman.'

'I do not understand that,' observed the obnoxious personage

referred to with tranquillity.

'No? Why, then, to make it clearer to you, sir, I beg to let you

know that when I address what I call a properly-worded appeal, and

an urgent appeal, and a delicate appeal, to an individual, for a

small temporary accommodation, easily within his power--easily

within his power, mind!--and when that individual writes back word

to me that he begs to be excused, I consider that he doesn't treat

me like a gentleman.'

The Father of the Marshalsea, who had surveyed his son in silence,

no sooner heard this sentiment, than he began in angry voice:--

'How dare you--' But his son stopped him.

'Now, don't ask me how I dare, father, because that's bosh. As to

the fact of the line of conduct I choose to adopt towards the

individual present, you ought to be proud of my showing a proper

spirit.'

'I should think so!' cried Fanny.

'A proper spirit?' said the Father. 'Yes, a proper spirit; a

becoming spirit. Is it come to this that my son teaches me--ME--

spirit!'

'Now, don't let us bother about it, father, or have any row on the

subject. I have fully made up my mind that the individual present

has not treated me like a gentleman. And there's an end of it.'

'But there is not an end of it, sir,' returned the Father. 'But

there shall not be an end of it. You have made up your mind? You

have made up your mind?'

'Yes, I have. What's the good of keeping on like that?'

'Because,' returned the Father, in a great heat, 'you had no right

to make up your mind to what is monstrous, to what is--ha--immoral,

to what is--hum--parricidal. No, Mr Clennam, I beg, sir. Don't

ask me to desist; there is a--hum--a general principle involved

here, which rises even above considerations of--ha--hospitality.

I object to the assertion made by my son. I--ha--I personally

repel it.'

'Why, what is it to you, father?' returned the son, over his

shoulder.

'What is it to me, sir? I have a--hum--a spirit, sir, that will

not endure it. I,' he took out his pocket-handkerchief again and

dabbed his face. 'I am outraged and insulted by it. Let me

suppose the case that I myself may at a certain time--ha--or times,

have made a--hum--an appeal, and a properly-worded appeal, and a

delicate appeal, and an urgent appeal to some individual for a

small temporary accommodation. Let me suppose that that

accommodation could have been easily extended, and was not

extended, and that that individual informed me that he begged to be

excused. Am I to be told by my own son, that I therefore received

treatment not due to a gentleman, and that I--ha--I submitted to

it?'

His daughter Amy gently tried to calm him, but he would not on any

account be calmed. He said his spirit was up, and wouldn't endure

this.

Was he to be told that, he wished to know again, by his own son on

his own hearth, to his own face? Was that humiliation to be put

upon him by his own blood?

'You are putting it on yourself, father, and getting into all this

injury of your own accord!' said the young gentleman morosely.

'What I have made up my mind about has nothing to do with you.

What I said had nothing to do with you. Why need you go trying on

other people's hats?'

'I reply it has everything to do with me,' returned the Father. 'I

point out to you, sir, with indignation, that--hum--the--ha--

delicacy and peculiarity of your father's position should strike

you dumb, sir, if nothing else should, in laying down such--ha--

such unnatural principles. Besides; if you are not filial, sir, if

you discard that duty, you are at least--hum--not a Christian? Are

you--ha--an Atheist? And is it Christian, let me ask you, to

stigmatise and denounce an individual for begging to be excused

this time, when the same individual may--ha--respond with the

required accommodation next time? Is it the part of a Christian

not to--hum--not to try him again?' He had worked himself into

quite a religious glow and fervour.

'I see precious well,' said Mr Tip, rising, 'that I shall get no

sensible or fair argument here to-night, and so the best thing I

can do is to cut. Good night, Amy. Don't be vexed. I am very

sorry it happens here, and you here, upon my soul I am; but I can't

altogether part with my spirit, even for your sake, old girl.'

With those words he put on his hat and went out, accompanied by

Miss Fanny; who did not consider it spirited on her part to take

leave of Clennam with any less opposing demonstration than a stare,

importing that she had always known him for one of the large body

of conspirators.

When they were gone, the Father of the Marshalsea was at first

inclined to sink into despondency again, and would have done so,

but that a gentleman opportunely came up within a minute or two to

attend him to the Snuggery. It was the gentleman Clennam had seen

on the night of his own accidental detention there, who had that

impalpable grievance about the misappropriated Fund on which the

Marshal was supposed to batten. He presented himself as deputation

to escort the Father to the Chair, it being an occasion on which he

had promised to preside over the assembled Collegians in the

enjoyment of a little Harmony.

'Such, you see, Mr Clennam,' said the Father, 'are the

incongruities of my position here. But a public duty! No man, I

am sure, would more readily recognise a public duty than yourself.'

Clennam besought him not to delay a moment.

'Amy, my dear, if you can persuade Mr Clennam to stay longer, I can

leave the honours of our poor apology for an establishment with

confidence in your hands, and perhaps you may do something towards

erasing from Mr Clennam's mind the--ha--untoward and unpleasant

circumstance which has occurred since tea-time.'

Clennam assured him that it had made no impression on his mind, and

therefore required no erasure.

'My dear sir,' said the Father, with a removal of his black cap and

a grasp of Clennam's hand, combining to express the safe receipt of

his note and enclosure that afternoon, 'Heaven ever bless you!'

So, at last, Clennam's purpose in remaining was attained, and he

could speak to Little Dorrit with nobody by. Maggy counted as

nobody, and she was by.

Read next: BOOK THE FIRST: POVERTY#CHAPTER 32 More Fortune-Telling

Read previous: BOOK THE FIRST: POVERTY#CHAPTER 30 The Word of a Gentleman

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