Chapter: Before breakfast in the morning, Arthur walked out to look about him.
As the morning was fine and he had an hour on his hands, he crossed the
river by the ferry, and strolled along a footpath through some meadows.
When he came back to the towing-path, he found the ferry-boat on the
opposite side, and a gentleman hailing it and waiting to be taken over.

This gentleman looked barely thirty. He was well dressed, of a sprightly
and gay appearance, a well-knit figure, and a rich dark complexion. As
Arthur came over the stile and down to the water's edge, the lounger
glanced at him for a moment, and then resumed his occupation of idly
tossing stones into the water with his foot. There was something in his
way of spurning them out of their places with his heel, and getting them
into the required position, that Clennam thought had an air of cruelty
in it. Most of us have more or less frequently derived a similar
impression from a man's manner of doing some very little thing: plucking
a flower, clearing away an obstacle, or even destroying an insentient
object.

The gentleman's thoughts were preoccupied, as his face showed, and he
took no notice of a fine Newfoundland dog, who watched him attentively,
     and watched every stone too, in its turn, eager to spring into the
     river on receiving his master's sign. The ferry-boat came over, however,
     without his receiving any sign, and when it grounded his master took him
     by the collar and walked him into it.

     'Not this morning,' he said to the dog. 'You won't do for ladies'
     company, dripping wet. Lie down.'

     Clennam followed the man and the dog into the boat, and took his seat.
     The dog did as he was ordered. The man remained standing, with his hands
     in his pockets, and towered between Clennam and the prospect. Man and
     dog both jumped lightly out as soon as they touched the other side, and
     went away. Clennam was glad to be rid of them.

     The church clock struck the breakfast hour as he walked up the little
     lane by which the garden-gate was approached. The moment he pulled the
     bell a deep loud barking assailed him from within the wall.

     'I heard no dog last night,' thought Clennam. The gate was opened by
     one of the rosy maids, and on the lawn were the Newfoundland dog and the
     man.

     'Miss Minnie is not down yet, gentlemen,' said the blushing portress, as
     they all came together in the garden. Then she said to the master of the
     dog, 'Mr Clennam, sir,' and tripped away.

     'Odd enough, Mr Clennam, that we should have met just now,' said
     the man. Upon which the dog became mute. 'Allow me to introduce
     myself--Henry Gowan. A pretty place this, and looks wonderfully well
     this morning!'

     The manner was easy, and the voice agreeable; but still Clennam thought,
     that if he had not made that decided resolution to avoid falling in love
     with Pet, he would have taken a dislike to this Henry Gowan.

     'It's new to you, I believe?' said this Gowan, when Arthur had extolled
     the place.

     'Quite new. I made acquaintance with it only yesterday afternoon.'

     'Ah! Of course this is not its best aspect. It used to look charming in
     the spring, before they went away last time. I should like you to have
     seen it then.'

     But for that resolution so often recalled, Clennam might have wished him
     in the crater of Mount Etna, in return for this civility.

     'I have had the pleasure of seeing it under many circumstances during
     the last three years, and it's--a Paradise.'

     It was (at least it might have been, always excepting for that wise
             resolution) like his dexterous impudence to call it a Paradise. He only
     called it a Paradise because he first saw her coming, and so made her
     out within her hearing to be an angel, Confusion to him!

     And ah! how beaming she looked, and how glad! How she caressed the dog,
     and how the dog knew her! How expressive that heightened colour in her
     face, that fluttered manner, her downcast eyes, her irresolute
     happiness! When had Clennam seen her look like this? Not that there was
     any reason why he might, could, would, or should have ever seen her look
     like this, or that he had ever hoped for himself to see her look like
     this; but still--when had he ever known her do it!

     He stood at a little distance from them. This Gowan when he had talked
     about a Paradise, had gone up to her and taken her hand. The dog had put
     his great paws on her arm and laid his head against her dear bosom. She
     had laughed and welcomed them, and made far too much of the dog, far,
     far, too much--that is to say, supposing there had been any third person
     looking on who loved her.

     She disengaged herself now, and came to Clennam, and put her hand in his
     and wished him good morning, and gracefully made as if she would take
     his arm and be escorted into the house. To this Gowan had no objection.
     No, he knew he was too safe.

     There was a passing cloud on Mr Meagles's good-humoured face when they
     all three (four, counting the dog, and he was the most objectionable
             but one of the party) came in to breakfast. Neither it, nor the touch
     of uneasiness on Mrs Meagles as she directed her eyes towards it, was
     unobserved by Clennam.

     'Well, Gowan,' said Mr Meagles, even suppressing a sigh; 'how goes the
     world with you this morning?'

     'Much as usual, sir. Lion and I being determined not to waste anything
     of our weekly visit, turned out early, and came over from Kingston, my
     present headquarters, where I am making a sketch or two.' Then he told
     how he had met Mr Clennam at the ferry, and they had come over together.

     'Mrs Gowan is well, Henry?' said Mrs Meagles. (Clennam became
             attentive.)

     'My mother is quite well, thank you.' (Clennam became inattentive.) 'I
     have taken the liberty of making an addition to your family dinner-party
     to-day, which I hope will not be inconvenient to you or to Mr Meagles. I
     couldn't very well get out of it,' he explained, turning to the latter.
     'The young fellow wrote to propose himself to me; and as he is well
     connected, I thought you would not object to my transferring him here.'

     'Who _is_ the young fellow?' asked Mr Meagles with peculiar complacency.

     'He is one of the Barnacles. Tite Barnacle's son, Clarence Barnacle, who
     is in his father's Department. I can at least guarantee that the river
     shall not suffer from his visit. He won't set it on fire.'

     'Aye, aye?' said Meagles. 'A Barnacle is he? _We_ know something of that
     family, eh, Dan? By George, they are at the top of the tree, though! Let
     me see. What relation will this young fellow be to Lord Decimus now? His
     Lordship married, in seventeen ninety-seven, Lady Jemima Bilberry, who
     was the second daughter by the third marriage--no! There I am wrong!
     That was Lady Seraphina--Lady Jemima was the first daughter by the
     second marriage of the fifteenth Earl of Stiltstalking with the
     Honourable Clementina Toozellem. Very well. Now this young fellow's
     father married a Stiltstalking and _his_ father married his cousin who
     was a Barnacle. The father of that father who married a Barnacle,
     married a Joddleby.--I am getting a little too far back, Gowan; I want
     to make out what relation this young fellow is to Lord Decimus.'

     'That's easily stated. His father is nephew to Lord Decimus.'

     'Nephew--to--Lord--Decimus,' Mr Meagles luxuriously repeated with his
     eyes shut, that he might have nothing to distract him from the full
     flavour of the genealogical tree. 'By George, you are right, Gowan. So
     he is.'

     'Consequently, Lord Decimus is his great uncle.'

     'But stop a bit!' said Mr Meagles, opening his eyes with a fresh
     discovery. 'Then on the mother's side, Lady Stiltstalking is his great
     aunt.'

     'Of course she is.'

     'Aye, aye, aye?' said Mr Meagles with much interest. 'Indeed, indeed? We
     shall be glad to see him. We'll entertain him as well as we can, in our
     humble way; and we shall not starve him, I hope, at all events.'

     In the beginning of this dialogue, Clennam had expected some great
     harmless outburst from Mr Meagles, like that which had made him burst
     out of the Circumlocution Office, holding Doyce by the collar. But his
     good friend had a weakness which none of us need go into the next street
     to find, and which no amount of Circumlocution experience could long
     subdue in him. Clennam looked at Doyce; but Doyce knew all about it
     beforehand, and looked at his plate, and made no sign, and said no word.

     'I am much obliged to you,' said Gowan, to conclude the subject.
     'Clarence is a great ass, but he is one of the dearest and best fellows
     that ever lived!'

     It appeared, before the breakfast was over, that everybody whom this
     Gowan knew was either more or less of an ass, or more or less of a
     knave; but was, notwithstanding, the most lovable, the most engaging,
     the simplest, truest, kindest, dearest, best fellow that ever lived.
     The process by which this unvarying result was attained, whatever the
     premises, might have been stated by Mr Henry Gowan thus: 'I claim to be
     always book-keeping, with a peculiar nicety, in every man's case, and
     posting up a careful little account of Good and Evil with him. I do
     this so conscientiously, that I am happy to tell you I find the most
     worthless of men to be the dearest old fellow too: and am in a condition
     to make the gratifying report, that there is much less difference than
     you are inclined to suppose between an honest man and a scoundrel.' The
     effect of this cheering discovery happened to be, that while he seemed
     to be scrupulously finding good in most men, he did in reality lower
     it where it was, and set it up where it was not; but that was its only
     disagreeable or dangerous feature.

     It scarcely seemed, however, to afford Mr Meagles as much satisfaction
     as the Barnacle genealogy had done. The cloud that Clennam had never
     seen upon his face before that morning, frequently overcast it again;
     and there was the same shadow of uneasy observation of him on the comely
     face of his wife. More than once or twice when Pet caressed the dog,
     it appeared to Clennam that her father was unhappy in seeing her do it;
and, in one particular instance when Gowan stood on the other side of
the dog, and bent his head at the same time, Arthur fancied that he saw
tears rise to Mr Meagles's eyes as he hurried out of the room. It was
either the fact too, or he fancied further, that Pet herself was not
insensible to these little incidents; that she tried, with a more
delicate affection than usual, to express to her good father how much
she loved him; that it was on this account that she fell behind the
rest, both as they went to church and as they returned from it, and
took his arm. He could not have sworn but that as he walked alone in
the garden afterwards, he had an instantaneous glimpse of her in
her father's room, clinging to both her parents with the greatest
tenderness, and weeping on her father's shoulder.

The latter part of the day turning out wet, they were fain to keep the
house, look over Mr Meagles's collection, and beguile the time with
conversation. This Gowan had plenty to say for himself, and said it
in an off-hand and amusing manner. He appeared to be an artist by
profession, and to have been at Rome some time; yet he had a slight,
    careless, amateur way with him--a perceptible limp, both in his devotion
    to art and his attainments--which Clennam could scarcely understand.

    He applied to Daniel Doyce for help, as they stood together, looking out
    of window.

    'You know Mr Gowan?' he said in a low voice.

    'I have seen him here. Comes here every Sunday when they are at home.'

    'An artist, I infer from what he says?'

    'A sort of a one,' said Daniel Doyce, in a surly tone.

    'What sort of a one?' asked Clennam, with a smile.

    'Why, he has sauntered into the Arts at a leisurely Pall-Mall pace,'
    said Doyce, 'and I doubt if they care to be taken quite so coolly.'

    Pursuing his inquiries, Clennam found that the Gowan family were a very
    distant ramification of the Barnacles; and that the paternal Gowan,
    originally attached to a legation abroad, had been pensioned off as a
    Commissioner of nothing particular somewhere or other, and had died at
    his post with his drawn salary in his hand, nobly defending it to the
    last extremity. In consideration of this eminent public service, the
    Barnacle then in power had recommended the Crown to bestow a pension of
    two or three hundred a-year on his widow; to which the next Barnacle in
    power had added certain shady and sedate apartments in the Palaces at
    Hampton Court, where the old lady still lived, deploring the degeneracy
    of the times in company with several other old ladies of both sexes. Her
    son, Mr Henry Gowan, inheriting from his father, the Commissioner, that
    very questionable help in life, a very small independence, had been
    difficult to settle; the rather, as public appointments chanced to
    be scarce, and his genius, during his earlier manhood, was of that
    exclusively agricultural character which applies itself to the
    cultivation of wild oats. At last he had declared that he would become
    a Painter; partly because he had always had an idle knack that way,
    and partly to grieve the souls of the Barnacles-in-chief who had not
    provided for him. So it had come to pass successively, first, that
    several distinguished ladies had been frightfully shocked; then, that
    portfolios of his performances had been handed about o' nights, and
    declared with ecstasy to be perfect Claudes, perfect Cuyps, perfect
    phaenomena; then, that Lord Decimus had bought his picture, and had
    asked the President and Council to dinner at a blow, and had said, with
    his own magnificent gravity, 'Do you know, there appears to me to
    be really immense merit in that work?' and, in short, that people of
    condition had absolutely taken pains to bring him into fashion. But,
    somehow, it had all failed. The prejudiced public had stood out against
    it obstinately. They had determined not to admire Lord Decimus's
    picture. They had determined to believe that in every service, except
    their own, a man must qualify himself, by striving early and late, and
    by working heart and soul, might and main. So now Mr Gowan, like that
    worn-out old coffin which never was Mahomet's nor anybody else's, hung
    midway between two points: jaundiced and jealous as to the one he had
    left: jaundiced and jealous as to the other that he couldn't reach.

    Such was the substance of Clennam's discoveries concerning him, made
    that rainy Sunday afternoon and afterwards.

    About an hour or so after dinner time, Young Barnacle appeared, attended
    by his eye-glass; in honour of whose family connections, Mr Meagles had
    cashiered the pretty parlour-maids for the day, and had placed on duty
    in their stead two dingy men. Young Barnacle was in the last
    degree amazed and disconcerted at sight of Arthur, and had murmured
    involuntarily, 'Look here! upon my soul, you know!' before his presence
    of mind returned.

    Even then, he was obliged to embrace the earliest opportunity of taking
    his friend into a window, and saying, in a nasal way that was a part of
    his general debility:

    'I want to speak to you, Gowan. I say. Look here. Who is that fellow?'

    'A friend of our host's. None of mine.'

    'He's a most ferocious Radical, you know,' said Young Barnacle.

    'Is he? How do you know?'

    'Ecod, sir, he was Pitching into our people the other day in the most
    tremendous manner. Went up to our place and Pitched into my father to
    that extent that it was necessary to order him out. Came back to
    our Department, and Pitched into me. Look here. You never saw such a
    fellow.'

    'What did he want?'

    'Ecod, sir,' returned Young Barnacle, 'he said he wanted to know, you
    know! Pervaded our Department--without an appointment--and said he
    wanted to know!'

    The stare of indignant wonder with which Young Barnacle accompanied
    this disclosure, would have strained his eyes injuriously but for
    the opportune relief of dinner. Mr Meagles (who had been extremely
            solicitous to know how his uncle and aunt were) begged him to conduct
    Mrs Meagles to the dining-room. And when he sat on Mrs Meagles's right
    hand, Mr Meagles looked as gratified as if his whole family were there.

    All the natural charm of the previous day was gone. The eaters of the
    dinner, like the dinner itself, were lukewarm, insipid, overdone--and
    all owing to this poor little dull Young Barnacle. Conversationless at
    any time, he was now the victim of a weakness special to the occasion,
    and solely referable to Clennam. He was under a pressing and continual
    necessity of looking at that gentleman, which occasioned his eye-glass
    to get into his soup, into his wine-glass, into Mrs Meagles's plate, to
    hang down his back like a bell-rope, and be several times disgracefully
    restored to his bosom by one of the dingy men. Weakened in mind by his
    frequent losses of this instrument, and its determination not to stick
    in his eye, and more and more enfeebled in intellect every time he
    looked at the mysterious Clennam, he applied spoons to his eyes,
    forks, and other foreign matters connected with the furniture of the
    dinner-table. His discovery of these mistakes greatly increased his
    difficulties, but never released him from the necessity of looking at
    Clennam. And whenever Clennam spoke, this ill-starred young man was
    clearly seized with a dread that he was coming, by some artful device,
    round to that point of wanting to know, you know.

    It may be questioned, therefore, whether any one but Mr Meagles had much
    enjoyment of the time. Mr Meagles, however, thoroughly enjoyed Young
    Barnacle. As a mere flask of the golden water in the tale became a full
    fountain when it was poured out, so Mr Meagles seemed to feel that this
    small spice of Barnacle imparted to his table the flavour of the whole
    family-tree. In its presence, his frank, fine, genuine qualities
    paled; he was not so easy, he was not so natural, he was striving after
    something that did not belong to him, he was not himself. What a strange
    peculiarity on the part of Mr Meagles, and where should we find another
    such case!

    At last the wet Sunday wore itself out in a wet night; and Young
    Barnacle went home in a cab, feebly smoking; and the objectionable Gowan
    went away on foot, accompanied by the objectionable dog. Pet had taken
    the most amiable pains all day to be friendly with Clennam, but Clennam
    had been a little reserved since breakfast--that is to say, would have
    been, if he had loved her.

    When he had gone to his own room, and had again thrown himself into the
    chair by the fire, Mr Doyce knocked at the door, candle in hand, to
    ask him how and at what hour he proposed returning on the morrow? After
    settling this question, he said a word to Mr Doyce about this Gowan--who
    would have run in his head a good deal, if he had been his rival.

    'Those are not good prospects for a painter,' said Clennam.

    'No,' returned Doyce.

    Mr Doyce stood, chamber-candlestick in hand, the other hand in his
    pocket, looking hard at the flame of his candle, with a certain quiet
    perception in his face that they were going to say something more.

    'I thought our good friend a little changed, and out of spirits, after
    he came this morning?' said Clennam.

    'Yes,' returned Doyce.

    'But not his daughter?' said Clennam.

    'No,' said Doyce.

    There was a pause on both sides. Mr Doyce, still looking at the flame of
    his candle, slowly resumed:

    'The truth is, he has twice taken his daughter abroad in the hope of
    separating her from Mr Gowan. He rather thinks she is disposed to like
    him, and he has painful doubts (I quite agree with him, as I dare say
            you do) of the hopefulness of such a marriage.'

    'There--' Clennam choked, and coughed, and stopped.

    'Yes, you have taken cold,' said Daniel Doyce. But without looking at
    him.

    '--There is an engagement between them, of course?' said Clennam airily.

    'No. As I am told, certainly not. It has been solicited on the
    gentleman's part, but none has been made. Since their recent return,
    our friend has yielded to a weekly visit, but that is the utmost. Minnie
    would not deceive her father and mother. You have travelled with them,
    and I believe you know what a bond there is among them, extending even
    beyond this present life. All that there is between Miss Minnie and Mr
    Gowan, I have no doubt we see.'

    'Ah! We see enough!' cried Arthur.

    Mr Doyce wished him Good Night in the tone of a man who had heard a
    mournful, not to say despairing, exclamation, and who sought to infuse
    some encouragement and hope into the mind of the person by whom it had
    been uttered. Such tone was probably a part of his oddity, as one of
    a crotchety band; for how could he have heard anything of that kind,
    without Clennam's hearing it too?

    The rain fell heavily on the roof, and pattered on the ground, and
    dripped among the evergreens and the leafless branches of the trees. The
    rain fell heavily, drearily. It was a night of tears.

    If Clennam had not decided against falling in love with Pet; if he
    had had the weakness to do it; if he had, little by little, persuaded
    himself to set all the earnestness of his nature, all the might of his
    hope, and all the wealth of his matured character, on that cast; if
    he had done this and found that all was lost; he would have been,
    that night, unutterably miserable. As it was--

    As it was, the rain fell heavily, drearily.

 Arthur, Pet, Meagles, Henry Gowan, Doyce, Clarence Barnacle The next morning Henry Gowan comes down to the Meagleses. Arthur immediately hates him. Or he would, he tells himself, if he were in love with Pet. But since he's not, yay Gowan! To which we say, yeah right. Gowan is a lackadaisical cool guy who just coasts through life without seeming like he wants to achieve anything. He has an annoying habit of saying that good things are bad and bad things are good, making everything sound equal and valueless. This seems like a totally strange thing, but the narrator tells us it's very common. So Shmoop is going to go ahead and guess that Gowan is part of the political economy brigade that wants to equivocate and take moral value judgments out of everything. Of course, Pet is totally into Gowan. Arthur is jealous. Or would be, he tells himself, if he were in love. Good thing he's not. Oh, boy. Gowan invites Clarence Barnacle to dinner. Turns out the Gowans are distantly connected with the elite, super-fancy Barnacle family. And so we get to see Meagles's main failing: he's a butt-kissing suck-up snob. He is almost dancing with joy that this idiot Barnacle is having dinner with him. Clarence Barnacle, meanwhile, is freaking out to see Arthur there. He still remembers him from the Circumlocution Office as the guy who asked questions and actually wanted answers. After dinner Arthur and Doyce leave, and Doyce tells Arthur that the Meagleses aren't too psyched to have Gowan for a son-in-law, and that they keep taking Pet abroad to keep them apart. But every time they come back, Pet and Gowan get back together. Still, no formal engagement yet. Arthur tries to play it off, like why would he care. But clearly Doyce is onto him and his not-being-in-love-self-delusion.

