The gate was so familiar, and so like a companion, that they put down
Maggy's basket in a corner to serve for a seat, and keeping close
together, rested there for some time. While the street was empty and
silent, Little Dorrit was not afraid; but when she heard a footstep at
a distance, or saw a moving shadow among the street lamps, she was
startled, and whispered, 'Maggy, I see some one. Come away!' Maggy
would then wake up more or less fretfully, and they would wander about a
little, and come back again.
As long as eating was a novelty and an amusement, Maggy kept up pretty
well. But that period going by, she became querulous about the cold, and
shivered and whimpered. 'It will soon be over, dear,' said Little Dorrit
patiently. 'Oh it's all very fine for you, little mother,' returned
Maggy, 'but I'm a poor thing, only ten years old.' At last, in the dead
of the night, when the street was very still indeed, Little Dorrit laid
the heavy head upon her bosom, and soothed her to sleep. And thus she
sat at the gate, as it were alone; looking up at the stars, and seeing
the clouds pass over them in their wild flight--which was the dance at
Little Dorrit's party. 'If it really was a party!' she thought once, as she sat there. 'If it
was light and warm and beautiful, and it was our house, and my poor dear
was its master, and had never been inside these walls.
And if Mr Clennam was one of our visitors, and we were dancing to
delightful music, and were all as gay and light-hearted as ever we could
be! I wonder--' Such a vista of wonder opened out before her, that
she sat looking up at the stars, quite lost, until Maggy was querulous
again, and wanted to get up and walk.
Three o'clock, and half-past three, and they had passed over London
Bridge. They had heard the rush of the tide against obstacles; and
looked down, awed, through the dark vapour on the river; had seen little
spots of lighted water where the bridge lamps were reflected, shining
like demon eyes, with a terrible fascination in them for guilt and
misery. They had shrunk past homeless people, lying coiled up in
nooks. They had run from drunkards. They had started from slinking men,
whistling and signing to one another at bye corners, or running away at
full speed. Though everywhere the leader and the guide, Little Dorrit,
happy for once in her youthful appearance, feigned to cling to and rely
upon Maggy. And more than once some voice, from among a knot of brawling
or prowling figures in their path, had called out to the rest to 'let
the woman and the child go by!'