Chapter: Manifold are the cares of wealth and state. Mr Dorrit's satisfaction in
remembering that it had not been necessary for him to announce himself
to Clennam and Co., or to make an allusion to his having had any
knowledge of the intrusive person of that name, had been damped
over-night, while it was still fresh, by a debate that arose within him
whether or no he should take the Marshalsea in his way back, and look
at the old gate. He had decided not to do so; and had astonished the
coachman by being very fierce with him for proposing to go over London
Bridge and recross the river by Waterloo Bridge--a course which would
have taken him almost within sight of his old quarters. Still, for all
that, the question had raised a conflict in his breast; and, for some
odd reason or no reason, he was vaguely dissatisfied. Even at the Merdle
dinner-table next day, he was so out of sorts about it that he
continued at intervals to turn it over and over, in a manner frightfully
inconsistent with the good society surrounding him. It made him hot to
think what the Chief Butler's opinion of him would have been, if that
illustrious personage could have plumbed with that heavy eye of his the
stream of his meditations.

The farewell banquet was of a gorgeous nature, and wound up his visit
in a most brilliant manner. Fanny combined with the attractions of her
youth and beauty, a certain weight of self-sustainment as if she had
been married twenty years. He felt that he could leave her with a
quiet mind to tread the paths of distinction, and wished--but without
abatement of patronage, and without prejudice to the retiring virtues of
his favourite child--that he had such another daughter.

'My dear,' he told her at parting, 'our family looks to you
to--ha--assert its dignity and--hum--maintain its importance. I know you
will never disappoint it.'

'No, papa,' said Fanny, 'you may rely upon that, I think. My best love
to dearest Amy, and I will write to her very soon.'

'Shall I convey any message to--ha--anybody else?' asked Mr Dorrit, in
an insinuating manner.

'Papa,' said Fanny, before whom Mrs General instantly loomed, 'no, I
thank you. You are very kind, Pa, but I must beg to be excused. There
is no other message to send, I thank you, dear papa, that it would be at
all agreeable to you to take.'

They parted in an outer drawing-room, where only Mr Sparkler waited
on his lady, and dutifully bided his time for shaking hands. When Mr
Sparkler was admitted to this closing audience, Mr Merdle came creeping
in with not much more appearance of arms in his sleeves than if he
had been the twin brother of Miss Biffin, and insisted on escorting
Mr Dorrit down-stairs. All Mr Dorrit's protestations being in vain,
   he enjoyed the honour of being accompanied to the hall-door by this
   distinguished man, who (as Mr Dorrit told him in shaking hands on the
           step) had really overwhelmed him with attentions and services during
   this memorable visit. Thus they parted; Mr Dorrit entering his carriage
   with a swelling breast, not at all sorry that his Courier, who had
   come to take leave in the lower regions, should have an opportunity of
   beholding the grandeur of his departure.

   The aforesaid grandeur was yet full upon Mr Dorrit when he alighted at
   his hotel. Helped out by the Courier and some half-dozen of the hotel
   servants, he was passing through the hall with a serene magnificence,
   when lo! a sight presented itself that struck him dumb and motionless.
   John Chivery, in his best clothes, with his tall hat under his arm, his
   ivory-handled cane genteelly embarrassing his deportment, and a bundle
   of cigars in his hand!

   'Now, young man,' said the porter. 'This is the gentleman. This young
   man has persisted in waiting, sir, saying you would be glad to see him.'

   Mr Dorrit glared on the young man, choked, and said, in the mildest of
   tones, 'Ah! Young John! It is Young John, I think; is it not?'

   'Yes, sir,' returned Young John.

   'I--ha--thought it was Young John!' said Mr Dorrit. 'The young man may
   come up,' turning to the attendants, as he passed on: 'oh yes, he may
   come up. Let Young John follow. I will speak to him above.'

   Young John followed, smiling and much gratified. Mr Dorrit's rooms were
   reached. Candles were lighted. The attendants withdrew.

   'Now, sir,' said Mr Dorrit, turning round upon him and seizing him by
   the collar when they were safely alone. 'What do you mean by this?'

   The amazement and horror depicted in the unfortunate John's face--for
   he had rather expected to be embraced next--were of that powerfully
   expressive nature that Mr Dorrit withdrew his hand and merely glared at
   him.

   'How dare you do this?' said Mr Dorrit. 'How do you presume to come
   here? How dare you insult me?'

   'I insult you, sir?' cried Young John. 'Oh!'

   'Yes, sir,' returned Mr Dorrit. 'Insult me. Your coming here is an
   affront, an impertinence, an audacity. You are not wanted here.
   Who sent you here? What--ha--the Devil do you do here?'

   'I thought, sir,' said Young John, with as pale and shocked a face as
   ever had been turned to Mr Dorrit's in his life--even in his College
   life: 'I thought, sir, you mightn't object to have the goodness to
   accept a bundle--'

   'Damn your bundle, sir!' cried Mr Dorrit, in irrepressible rage.
   'I--hum--don't smoke.'

   'I humbly beg your pardon, sir. You used to.'

   'Tell me that again,' cried Mr Dorrit, quite beside himself, 'and I'll
   take the poker to you!'

   John Chivery backed to the door.

   'Stop, sir!' cried Mr Dorrit. 'Stop! Sit down. Confound you sit down!'

   John Chivery dropped into the chair nearest the door, and Mr Dorrit
   walked up and down the room; rapidly at first; then, more slowly. Once,
   he went to the window, and stood there with his forehead against the
   glass. All of a sudden, he turned and said:

   'What else did you come for, Sir?'

   'Nothing else in the world, sir. Oh dear me! Only to say, Sir, that I
   hoped you was well, and only to ask if Miss Amy was Well?'

   'What's that to you, sir?' retorted Mr Dorrit.

   'It's nothing to me, sir, by rights. I never thought of lessening the
   distance betwixt us, I am sure. I know it's a liberty, sir, but I never
   thought you'd have taken it ill. Upon my word and honour, sir,' said
   Young John, with emotion, 'in my poor way, I am too proud to have come,
   I assure you, if I had thought so.'

   Mr Dorrit was ashamed. He went back to the window, and leaned his
   forehead against the glass for some time. When he turned, he had his
   handkerchief in his hand, and he had been wiping his eyes with it, and
   he looked tired and ill.

   'Young John, I am very sorry to have been hasty with you, but--ha--some
   remembrances are not happy remembrances, and--hum--you shouldn't have
   come.'

   'I feel that now, sir,' returned John Chivery; 'but I didn't before, and
   Heaven knows I meant no harm, sir.'

   'No. No,' said Mr Dorrit. 'I am--hum--sure of that. Ha. Give me your
   hand, Young John, give me your hand.'

   Young John gave it; but Mr Dorrit had driven his heart out of it, and
   nothing could change his face now, from its white, shocked look.

   'There!' said Mr Dorrit, slowly shaking hands with him. 'Sit down again,
   Young John.'

   'Thank you, sir--but I'd rather stand.'

   Mr Dorrit sat down instead. After painfully holding his head a little
   while, he turned it to his visitor, and said, with an effort to be easy:

   'And how is your father, Young John? How--ha--how are they all, Young
   John?'

   'Thank you, sir, They're all pretty well, sir. They're not any ways
   complaining.'

   'Hum. You are in your--ha--old business I see, John?' said Mr Dorrit,
   with a glance at the offending bundle he had anathematised.

   'Partly, sir. I am in my'--John hesitated a little--'father's business
   likewise.'

   'Oh indeed!' said Mr Dorrit. 'Do you--ha hum--go upon the ha--'

   'Lock, sir? Yes, sir.'

   'Much to do, John?'

   'Yes, sir; we're pretty heavy at present. I don't know how it is, but we
   generally _are_ pretty heavy.'

   'At this time of the year, Young John?'

   'Mostly at all times of the year, sir. I don't know the time that makes
   much difference to us. I wish you good night, sir.'

   'Stay a moment, John--ha--stay a moment. Hum. Leave me the cigars, John,
   I--ha--beg.'

   'Certainly, sir.' John put them, with a trembling hand, on the table.

   'Stay a moment, Young John; stay another moment. It would be a--ha--a
   gratification to me to send a little--hum--Testimonial, by such a trusty
   messenger, to be divided among--ha hum--them--_them_--according to their
   wants. Would you object to take it, John?'

   'Not in any ways, sir. There's many of them, I'm sure, that would be the
   better for it.'

   'Thank you, John. I--ha--I'll write it, John.'

   His hand shook so that he was a long time writing it, and wrote it in
   a tremulous scrawl at last. It was a cheque for one hundred pounds. He
   folded it up, put it in Young John's hand, and pressed the hand in his.

   'I hope you'll--ha--overlook--hum--what has passed, John.'

   'Don't speak of it, sir, on any accounts. I don't in any ways bear
   malice, I'm sure.'

   But nothing while John was there could change John's face to its natural
   colour and expression, or restore John's natural manner.

   'And, John,' said Mr Dorrit, giving his hand a final pressure, and
   releasing it, 'I hope we--ha--agree that we have spoken together
   in confidence; and that you will abstain, in going out, from saying
   anything to any one that might--hum--suggest that--ha--once I--'

   'Oh! I assure you, sir,' returned John Chivery, 'in my poor humble way,
   sir, I'm too proud and honourable to do it, sir.'

   Mr Dorrit was not too proud and honourable to listen at the door that
   he might ascertain for himself whether John really went straight out, or
   lingered to have any talk with any one. There was no doubt that he went
   direct out at the door, and away down the street with a quick step.
   After remaining alone for an hour, Mr Dorrit rang for the Courier,
   who found him with his chair on the hearth-rug, sitting with his back
   towards him and his face to the fire. 'You can take that bundle of
   cigars to smoke on the journey, if you like,' said Mr Dorrit, with
   a careless wave of his hand. 'Ha--brought by--hum--little offering
   from--ha--son of old tenant of mine.'

   Next morning's sun saw Mr Dorrit's equipage upon the Dover road, where
   every red-jacketed postilion was the sign of a cruel house, established
   for the unmerciful plundering of travellers. The whole business of the
   human race, between London and Dover, being spoliation, Mr Dorrit was
   waylaid at Dartford, pillaged at Gravesend, rifled at Rochester, fleeced
   at Sittingbourne, and sacked at Canterbury. However, it being the
   Courier's business to get him out of the hands of the banditti, the
   Courier brought him off at every stage; and so the red-jackets went
   gleaming merrily along the spring landscape, rising and falling to
   a regular measure, between Mr Dorrit in his snug corner and the next
   chalky rise in the dusty highway.

   Another day's sun saw him at Calais. And having now got the Channel
   between himself and John Chivery, he began to feel safe, and to find
   that the foreign air was lighter to breathe than the air of England.

   On again by the heavy French roads for Paris. Having now quite recovered
   his equanimity, Mr Dorrit, in his snug corner, fell to castle-building
   as he rode along. It was evident that he had a very large castle in
   hand. All day long he was running towers up, taking towers down, adding
   a wing here, putting on a battlement there, looking to the walls,
   strengthening the defences, giving ornamental touches to the interior,
   making in all respects a superb castle of it. His preoccupied face so
   clearly denoted the pursuit in which he was engaged, that every cripple
   at the post-houses, not blind, who shoved his little battered tin-box in
   at the carriage window for Charity in the name of Heaven, Charity in the
   name of our Lady, Charity in the name of all the Saints, knew as well
   what work he was at, as their countryman Le Brun could have known it
   himself, though he had made that English traveller the subject of a
   special physiognomical treatise.

   Arrived at Paris, and resting there three days, Mr Dorrit strolled
   much about the streets alone, looking in at the shop-windows, and
   particularly the jewellers' windows. Ultimately, he went into the most
   famous jeweller's, and said he wanted to buy a little gift for a lady.

   It was a charming little woman to whom he said it--a sprightly little
   woman, dressed in perfect taste, who came out of a green velvet bower
   to attend upon him, from posting up some dainty little books of account
   which one could hardly suppose to be ruled for the entry of any articles
   more commercial than kisses, at a dainty little shining desk which
   looked in itself like a sweetmeat.

   For example, then, said the little woman, what species of gift did
   Monsieur desire? A love-gift?

   Mr Dorrit smiled, and said, Eh, well! Perhaps. What did he know? It was
   always possible; the sex being so charming. Would she show him some?

   Most willingly, said the little woman. Flattered and enchanted to show
   him many. But pardon! To begin with, he would have the great goodness
   to observe that there were love-gifts, and there were nuptial gifts.
   For example, these ravishing ear-rings and this necklace so superb to
   correspond, were what one called a love-gift. These brooches and these
   rings, of a beauty so gracious and celestial, were what one called, with
   the permission of Monsieur, nuptial gifts.

   Perhaps it would be a good arrangement, Mr Dorrit hinted, smiling, to
   purchase both, and to present the love-gift first, and to finish with
   the nuptial offering?

   Ah Heaven! said the little woman, laying the tips of the fingers of her
   two little hands against each other, that would be generous indeed, that
   would be a special gallantry! And without doubt the lady so crushed with
   gifts would find them irresistible.

   Mr Dorrit was not sure of that. But, for example, the sprightly little
   woman was very sure of it, she said. So Mr Dorrit bought a gift of
   each sort, and paid handsomely for it. As he strolled back to his hotel
   afterwards, he carried his head high: having plainly got up his castle
   now to a much loftier altitude than the two square towers of Notre Dame.

   Building away with all his might, but reserving the plans of his castle
   exclusively for his own eye, Mr Dorrit posted away for Marseilles.
   Building on, building on, busily, busily, from morning to night. Falling
   asleep, and leaving great blocks of building materials dangling in the
   air; waking again, to resume work and get them into their places. What
   time the Courier in the rumble, smoking Young John's best cigars, left
   a little thread of thin light smoke behind--perhaps as _he_ built a
   castle or two with stray pieces of Mr Dorrit's money.

   Not a fortified town that they passed in all their journey was as
   strong, not a Cathedral summit was as high, as Mr Dorrit's castle.
   Neither the Saone nor the Rhone sped with the swiftness of that peerless
   building; nor was the Mediterranean deeper than its foundations; nor
   were the distant landscapes on the Cornice road, nor the hills and bay
   of Genoa the Superb, more beautiful. Mr Dorrit and his matchless castle
   were disembarked among the dirty white houses and dirtier felons of
   Civita Vecchia, and thence scrambled on to Rome as they could, through
   the filth that festered on the way.

 Merdle has a farewell dinner for Dorrit, after which he walks him out to his carriage. This is high honor. Dorrit says good-bye to Fanny, praises her awesomeness, and wishes that Amy were more like her sister. As Dorrit goes back to his hotel, he sees Young John Chivery waiting for him. The servants say that Chivery claims to know Dorrit and that he wants to see him. Dorrit calmly asks him upstairs, closes the door, and then... scares the living daylights out of him by grabbing his lapel and demanding to know what he's doing there. Poor John holds out some cigars, like in the old days, and Dorrit loses it even more. Then, seeing John's horrified face, Dorrit calms down, cries a little bit, and tries to smooth things over. John really just wanted to say hello and ask how Amy is. Without any kind of ulterior motives or anything - as he says, "in my poor way, I am too proud to" have any kind of secret meaning . Now Dorrit feels terrible and apologizes, but John looks traumatized. Dorrit asks about the Chiverys and also about the prisoners. Then he writes a check for them. As John is leaving, Dorrit listens at the door to make sure he's not going to tell anyone anything. Wow, paranoid much? The next morning Dorrit starts off for Italy and the farther he gets from London the better he feels. He starts daydreaming and imagining things. In Paris he goes to a jeweler and asks to see something he could give a lady as a present. The saleswoman asks if he wants a love gift or an engagement gift. He thinks about it and decides to buy both. Then back to the carriage and more daydreaming.

