Little Dorrit
‘It’s a very different person indeed,’ replied Flora, ‘with no limbs and
wheels instead and the grimmest of women though his mother.’
‘Clennam and Co. a--hum--a mother!’ exclaimed Mr Dorrit.
‘And an old man besides,’ said Flora.
Mr Dorrit looked as if he must immediately be driven out of his mind
by this account. Neither was it rendered more favourable to sanity by
Flora’s dashing into a rapid analysis of Mr Flintwinch’s cravat, and
describing him, without the lightest boundary line of separation between
his identity and Mrs Clennam’s, as a rusty screw in gaiters. Which
compound of man and woman, no limbs, wheels, rusty screw, grimness, and
gaiters, so completely stupefied Mr Dorrit, that he was a spectacle to
be pitied.
‘But I would not detain you one moment longer,’ said Flora, upon whom
his condition wrought its effect, though she was quite unconscious of
having produced it, ‘if you would have the goodness to give your promise
as a gentleman that both in going back to Italy and in Italy too you
would look for this Mr Blandois high and low and if you found or heard
of him make him come forward for the clearing of all parties.’
By that time Mr Dorrit had so far recovered from his bewilderment, as to
be able to say, in a tolerably connected manner, that he should consider
that his duty. Flora was delighted with her success, and rose to take
her leave.
‘With a million thanks,’ said she, ‘and my address upon my card in case
of anything to be communicated personally, I will not send my love to
the dear little thing for it might not be acceptable, and indeed there
is no dear little thing left in the transformation so why do it but
both myself and Mr F.’s Aunt ever wish her well and lay no claim to any
favour on our side you may be sure of that but quite the other way for
what she undertook to do she did and that is more than a great many of
us do, not to say anything of her doing it as well as it could be
done and I myself am one of them for I have said ever since I began to
recover the blow of Mr F’s death that I would learn the Organ of which
I am extremely fond but of which I am ashamed to say I do not yet know a
note, good evening!’
When Mr Dorrit, who attended her to the room-door, had had a little time
to collect his senses, he found that the interview had summoned back
discarded reminiscences which jarred with the Merdle dinner-table.
He wrote and sent off a brief note excusing himself for that day, and
ordered dinner presently in his own rooms at the hotel. He had another
reason for this. His time in London was very nearly out, and was
anticipated by engagements; his plans were made for returning; and he
thought it behoved his importance to pursue some direct inquiry into the
Blandois disappearance, and be in a condition to carry back to Mr
Henry Gowan the result of his own personal investigation. He therefore
resolved that he would take advantage of that evening’s freedom to go
down to Clennam and Co.’s, easily to be found by the direction set forth
in the handbill; and see the place, and ask a question or two there
himself.
Having dined as plainly as the establishment and the Courier would let
him, and having taken a short sleep by the fire for his better recovery
from Mrs Finching, he set out in a hackney-cabriolet alone. The deep
bell of St Paul’s was striking nine as he passed under the shadow of
Temple Bar, headless and forlorn in these degenerate days.
As he approached his destination through the by-streets and water-side
ways, that part of London seemed to him an uglier spot at such an hour
than he had ever supposed it to be. Many long years had passed since he
had seen it; he had never known much of it; and it wore a mysterious and
dismal aspect in his eyes. So powerfully was his imagination impressed
by it, that when his driver stopped, after having asked the way more
than once, and said to the best of his belief this was the gateway they
wanted, Mr Dorrit stood hesitating, with the coach-door in his hand,
half afraid of the dark look of the place.
Truly, it looked as gloomy that night as even it had ever looked. Two of
the handbills were posted on the entrance wall, one on either side, and
as the lamp flickered in the night air, shadows passed over them, not
unlike the shadows of fingers following the lines. A watch was evidently
kept upon the place. As Mr Dorrit paused, a man passed in from over the
way, and another man passed out from some dark corner within; and both
looked at him in passing, and both remained standing about.
As there was only one house in the enclosure, there was no room for
uncertainty, so he went up the steps of that house and knocked. There
was a dim light in two windows on the first-floor. The door gave back
a dreary, vacant sound, as though the house were empty; but it was not,
for a light was visible, and a step was audible, almost directly. They
both came to the door, and a chain grated, and a woman with her apron
thrown over her face and head stood in the aperture.
‘Who is it?’ said the woman.
Mr Dorrit, much amazed by this appearance, replied that he was from
Italy, and that he wished to ask a question relative to the missing
person, whom he knew.
‘Hi!’ cried the woman, raising a cracked voice. ‘Jeremiah!’
Upon this, a dry old man appeared, whom Mr Dorrit thought he identified
by his gaiters, as the rusty screw. The woman was under apprehensions
of the dry old man, for she whisked her apron away as he approached, and
disclosed a pale affrighted face. ‘Open the door, you fool,’ said the
old man; ‘and let the gentleman in.’
Mr Dorrit, not without a glance over his shoulder towards his driver and
the cabriolet, walked into the dim hall. ‘Now, sir,’ said Mr Flintwinch,
‘you can ask anything here you think proper; there are no secrets here,
sir.’
Before a reply could be made, a strong stern voice, though a woman’s,
called from above, ‘Who is it?’
‘Who is it?’ returned Jeremiah. ‘More inquiries. A gentleman from
Italy.’
‘Bring him up here!’
Mr Flintwinch muttered, as if he deemed that unnecessary; but, turning
to Mr Dorrit, said, ‘Mrs Clennam. She _will_ do as she likes. I’ll show
you the way.’ He then preceded Mr Dorrit up the blackened staircase;
that gentleman, not unnaturally looking behind him on the road, saw the
woman following, with her apron thrown over her head again in her former
ghastly manner.
Mrs Clennam had her books open on her little table. ‘Oh!’ said she
abruptly, as she eyed her visitor with a steady look. ‘You are from
Italy, sir, are you. Well?’
Mr Dorrit was at a loss for any more distinct rejoinder at the moment
than ‘Ha--well?’
‘Where is this missing man? Have you come to give us information where
he is? I hope you have?’
‘So far from it, I--hum--have come to seek information.’
‘Unfortunately for us, there is none to be got here. Flintwinch, show
the gentleman the handbill. Give him several to take away. Hold the
light for him to read it.’
Mr Flintwinch did as he was directed, and Mr Dorrit read it through,
as if he had not previously seen it; glad enough of the opportunity of
collecting his presence of mind, which the air of the house and of the
people in it had a little disturbed. While his eyes were on the paper,
he felt that the eyes of Mr Flintwinch and of Mrs Clennam were on him.
He found, when he looked up, that this sensation was not a fanciful one.
‘Now you know as much,’ said Mrs Clennam, ‘as we know, sir. Is Mr
Blandois a friend of yours?’
‘No--a--hum--an acquaintance,’ answered Mr Dorrit.
‘You have no commission from him, perhaps?’
‘I? Ha. Certainly not.’
The searching look turned gradually to the floor, after taking Mr
Flintwinch’s face in its way. Mr Dorrit, discomfited by finding that
he was the questioned instead of the questioner, applied himself to the
reversal of that unexpected order of things.
‘I am--ha--a gentleman of property, at present residing in Italy with my
family, my servants, and--hum--my rather large establishment. Being in
London for a short time on affairs connected with--ha--my estate,
and hearing of this strange disappearance, I wished to make myself
acquainted with the circumstances at first-hand, because there is--ha
hum--an English gentleman in Italy whom I shall no doubt see on my
return, who has been in habits of close and daily intimacy with Monsieur
Blandois. Mr Henry Gowan. You may know the name.’
‘Never heard of it.’
Mrs Clennam said it, and Mr Flintwinch echoed it.
‘Wishing to--ha--make the narrative coherent and consecutive to him,’
said Mr Dorrit, ‘may I ask--say, three questions?’
‘Thirty, if you choose.’
‘Have you known Monsieur Blandois long?’
‘Not a twelvemonth. Mr Flintwinch here, will refer to the books and tell
you when, and by whom at Paris he was introduced to us. If that,’
Mrs Clennam added, ‘should be any satisfaction to you. It is poor
satisfaction to us.’
‘Have you seen him often?’
‘No. Twice. Once before, and--’
‘That once,’ suggested Mr Flintwinch.
‘And that once.’
‘Pray, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, with a growing fancy upon him as he
recovered his importance, that he was in some superior way in the
Commission of the Peace; ‘pray, madam, may I inquire, for the greater
satisfaction of the gentleman whom I have the honour to--ha--retain, or
protect or let me say to--hum--know--to know--Was Monsieur Blandois here
on business on the night indicated in this present sheet?’
‘On what he called business,’ returned Mrs Clennam.
‘Is--ha--excuse me--is its nature to be communicated?’
‘No.’
It was evidently impracticable to pass the barrier of that reply.
‘The question has been asked before,’ said Mrs Clennam, ‘and the answer
has been, No. We don’t choose to publish our transactions, however
unimportant, to all the town. We say, No.’
‘I mean, he took away no money with him, for example,’ said Mr Dorrit.
‘He took away none of ours, sir, and got none here.’
‘I suppose,’ observed Mr Dorrit, glancing from Mrs Clennam to Mr
Flintwinch, and from Mr Flintwinch to Mrs Clennam, ‘you have no way of
accounting to yourself for this mystery?’
‘Why do you suppose so?’ rejoined Mrs Clennam.
Disconcerted by the cold and hard inquiry, Mr Dorrit was unable to
assign any reason for his supposing so.
‘I account for it, sir,’ she pursued after an awkward silence on Mr
Dorrit’s part, ‘by having no doubt that he is travelling somewhere, or
hiding somewhere.’
‘Do you know--ha--why he should hide anywhere?’
‘No.’
It was exactly the same No as before, and put another barrier up.
‘You asked me if I accounted for the disappearance to myself,’ Mrs
Clennam sternly reminded him, ‘not if I accounted for it to you. I do
not pretend to account for it to you, sir. I understand it to be no more
my business to do that, than it is yours to require that.’
Mr Dorrit answered with an apologetic bend of his head. As he stepped
back, preparatory to saying he had no more to ask, he could not but
observe how gloomily and fixedly she sat with her eyes fastened on
the ground, and a certain air upon her of resolute waiting; also,
how exactly the self-same expression was reflected in Mr Flintwinch,
standing at a little distance from her chair, with his eyes also on the
ground, and his right hand softly rubbing his chin.
At that moment, Mistress Affery (of course, the woman with the apron)
dropped the candlestick she held, and cried out, ‘There! O good Lord!
there it is again. Hark, Jeremiah! Now!’
If there were any sound at all, it was so slight that she must have
fallen into a confirmed habit of listening for sounds; but Mr Dorrit
believed he did hear a something, like the falling of dry leaves. The
woman’s terror, for a very short space, seemed to touch the three; and
they all listened.