Chapter 19 - Page 2

moving as they chaunted, seemed to
threaten that important traveller; likewise the action of his hand,
which was in fact his manner of returning the traveller's
salutation, seemed to come in aid of that menace. So thought Mr
Dorrit, made fanciful by the weariness of building and travelling,
as the priest drifted past him, and the procession straggled away,
taking its dead along with it. Upon their so-different way went Mr
Dorrit's company too; and soon, with their coach load of luxuries
from the two great capitals of Europe, they were (like the Goths
reversed) beating at the gates of Rome.

Mr Dorrit was not expected by his own people that night. He had
been; but they had given him up until to-morrow, not doubting that
it was later than he would care, in those parts, to be out. Thus,
when his equipage stopped at his own gate, no one but the porter
appeared to receive him. Was Miss Dorrit from home? he asked.
No. She was within. Good, said Mr Dorrit to the assembling
servants; let them keep where they were; let them help to unload
the carriage; he would find Miss Dorrit for himself.
So he went up his grand staircase, slowly, and tired, and looked
into various chambers which were empty, until he saw a light in a
small ante-room. It was a curtained nook, like a tent, within two
other rooms; and it looked warm and bright in colour, as he
approached it through the dark avenue they made.

There was a draped doorway, but no door; and as he stopped here,
looking in unseen, he felt a pang. Surely not like jealousy? For
why like jealousy? There was only his daughter and his brother
there: he, with his chair drawn to the hearth, enjoying the warmth
of the evening wood fire; she seated at a little table, busied with
some embroidery work. Allowing for the great difference in the
still-life of the picture, the figures were much the same as of
old; his brother being sufficiently like himself to represent
himself, for a moment, in the composition. So had he sat many a
night, over a coal fire far away; so had she sat, devoted to him.
Yet surely there was nothing to be jealous of in the old miserable
poverty. Whence, then, the pang in his heart?

'Do you know, uncle, I think you are growing young again?'

Her uncle shook his head and said, 'Since when, my dear; since
when?'

'I think,' returned Little Dorrit, plying her needle, 'that you
have been growing younger for weeks past. So cheerful, uncle, and
so ready, and so interested.'

'My dear child--all you.'

'All me, uncle!'

'Yes, yes. You have done me a world of good. You have been so
considerate of me, and so tender with me, and so delicate in trying
to hide your attentions from me, that I--well, well, well! It's