The brothers William and Frederick Dorrit, walking up and down the
College-yard--of course on the aristocratic or Pump side, for the Father
made it a point of his state to be chary of going among his children
on the Poor side, except on Sunday mornings, Christmas Days, and other
occasions of ceremony, in the observance whereof he was very punctual,
and at which times he laid his hand upon the heads of their infants,
and blessed those young insolvents with a benignity that was highly
edifying--the brothers, walking up and down the College-yard together,
were a memorable sight. Frederick the free, was so humbled, bowed,
withered, and faded; William the bond, was so courtly, condescending,
and benevolently conscious of a position; that in this regard only, if
in no other, the brothers were a spectacle to wonder at.
They walked up and down the yard on the evening of Little Dorrit's
Sunday interview with her lover on the Iron Bridge. The cares of state
were over for that day, the Drawing Room had been well attended, several
new presentations had taken place, the three-and-sixpence accidentally
left on the table had accidentally increased to twelve shillings, and
the Father of the Marshalsea refreshed himself with a whiff of cigar. As
he walked up and down, affably accommodating his step to the shuffle of
his brother, not proud in his superiority, but considerate of that poor
creature, bearing with him, and breathing toleration of his infirmities
in every little puff of smoke that issued from his lips and aspired to
get over the spiked wall, he was a sight to wonder at.
His brother Frederick of the dim eye, palsied hand, bent form, and
groping mind, submissively shuffled at his side, accepting his patronage
as he accepted every incident of the labyrinthian world in which he had
got lost. He held the usual screwed bit of whitey-brown paper in his
hand, from which he ever and again unscrewed a spare pinch of snuff.
That falteringly taken, he would glance at his brother not unadmiringly,
put his hands behind him, and shuffle on so at his side until he took
another pinch, or stood still to look about him--perchance suddenly
missing his clarionet.
The College visitors were melting away as
the shades of night drew on, but the yard was still pretty full, the
Collegians being mostly out, seeing their friends to the Lodge. As the
brothers paced the yard, William the bond looked about him to receive
salutes, returned them by graciously lifting off his hat, and, with
an engaging air, prevented Frederick the free from running against the
company, or being jostled against the wall. The Collegians as a body
were not easily impressible, but even they, according to their various
ways of wondering, appeared to find in the two brothers a sight to
wonder at. 'You are a little low this evening, Frederick,' said the Father of the
Marshalsea. 'Anything the matter?'