On a healthy autumn day, the Marshalsea prisoner, weak but otherwise
restored, sat listening to a voice that read to him. On a healthy autumn
day; when the golden fields had been reaped and ploughed again, when the
summer fruits had ripened and waned, when the green perspectives of hops
had been laid low by the busy pickers, when the apples clustering in the
orchards were russet, and the berries of the mountain ash were crimson
among the yellowing foliage.
Already in the woods, glimpses of the hardy
winter that was coming were to be caught through unaccustomed openings
among the boughs where the prospect shone defined and clear, free from
the bloom of the drowsy summer weather, which had rested on it as the
bloom lies on the plum.
So, from the seashore the ocean was no longer to
be seen lying asleep in the heat, but its thousand sparkling eyes were
open, and its whole breadth was in joyful animation, from the cool sand
on the beach to the little sails on the horizon, drifting away like
autumn-tinted leaves that had drifted from the trees. Changeless and
barren, looking ignorantly at all the seasons with its fixed, pinched
face of poverty and care, the prison had not a touch of any of these
beauties on it. Blossom what would, its bricks and bars bore uniformly
the same dead crop.
Yet Clennam, listening to the voice as it read to
him, heard in it all that great Nature was doing, heard in it all the
soothing songs she sings to man. At no Mother's knee but hers had he
ever dwelt in his youth on hopeful promises, on playful fancies, on
the harvests of tenderness and humility that lie hidden in the
early-fostered seeds of the imagination; on the oaks of retreat from
blighting winds, that have the germs of their strong roots in nursery
acorns.
But, in the tones of the voice that read to him, there were memories of
an old feeling of such things, and echoes of every merciful and loving
whisper that had ever stolen to him in his life.
When the voice stopped, he put his hand over his eyes, murmuring that
the light was strong upon them.
Little Dorrit put the book by, and presently arose quietly to shade
the window. Maggy sat at her needlework in her old place. The light
softened, Little Dorrit brought her chair closer to his side.
'This will soon be over now, dear Mr Clennam. Not only are Mr Doyce's
letters to you so full of friendship and encouragement, but Mr Rugg says
his letters to him are so full of help, and that everybody (now a little
anger is past) is so considerate, and speaks so well of you, that it
will soon be over now.'
'Dear girl. Dear heart. Good angel!'
'You praise me far too much. And yet it is such an exquisite pleasure
to me to hear you speak so feelingly, and to--and to see,' said Little
Dorrit, raising her eyes to his, 'how deeply you mean it, that I cannot
say Don't.'
He lifted her hand to his lips.
'You have been here many, many times, when I have not seen you, Little
Dorrit?'
'Yes, I have been here sometimes when I have not come into the room.'
'Very often?'
'Rather often,' said Little Dorrit, timidly.
'Every day?'
'I think,' said Little Dorrit, after hesitating, 'that I have been here
at least twice every day.' He might have released the little light hand
after fervently kissing it again; but that, with a very gentle lingering
where it was, it seemed to court being retained. He took it in both of
his, and it lay softly on his breast.
'Dear Little Dorrit, it is not my imprisonment only that will soon be
over. This sacrifice of you must be ended. We must learn to part again,
and to take our different ways so wide asunder. You have not forgotten
what we said together, when you came back?'
'O no, I have not forgotten it. But something has been--You feel quite
strong to-day, don't you?'
'Quite strong.'
The hand he held crept up a little nearer his face.
'Do you feel quite strong enough to know what a great fortune I have
got?'
'I shall be very glad to be told. No fortune can be too great or good
for Little Dorrit.'
'I have been anxiously waiting to tell you. I have been longing and
longing to tell you. You are sure you will not take it?'
'Never!'
'You are quite sure you will not take half of it?'
'Never, dear Little Dorrit!'
As she looked at him silently, there was something in her affectionate
face that he did not quite comprehend: something that could have broken
into tears in a moment, and yet that was happy and proud.
'You will be sorry to hear what I have to tell you about Fanny. Poor
Fanny has lost everything. She has nothing left but her husband's
income. All that papa gave her when she married was lost as your money
was lost. It was in the same hands, and it is all gone.'
Arthur was more shocked than surprised to hear it. 'I had hoped it might
not be so bad,' he said: 'but I had feared a heavy loss there, knowing
the connection between her husband and the defaulter.'
'Yes. It is all gone. I am very sorry for Fanny; very, very, very sorry
for poor Fanny. My poor brother too!' 'Had he property in the same
hands?'
'Yes! And it's all gone.--How much do you think my own great fortune
is?'
As Arthur looked at her inquiringly, with a new apprehension on him,
she withdrew her hand, and laid her face down on the spot where it had
rested.
'I have nothing in the world. I am as poor as when I lived here. When
papa came over to England, he confided everything he had to the same
hands, and it is all swept away. O my dearest and best, are you quite
sure you will not share my fortune with me now?'
Locked in his arms, held to his heart, with his manly tears upon her own
cheek, she drew the slight hand round his neck, and clasped it in its
fellow-hand.
'Never to part, my dearest Arthur; never any more, until the last!
I never was rich before, I never was proud before, I never was happy
before, I am rich in being taken by you, I am proud in having been
resigned by you, I am happy in being with you in this prison, as I
should be happy in coming back to it with you, if it should be the will
of GOD, and comforting and serving you with all my love and truth. I am
yours anywhere, everywhere! I love you dearly! I would rather pass my
life here with you, and go out daily, working for our bread, than I
would have the greatest fortune that ever was told, and be the greatest
lady that ever was honoured. O, if poor papa may only know how blest at
last my heart is, in this room where he suffered for so many years!'
Maggy had of course been staring from the first, and had of course been
crying her eyes out long before this. Maggy was now so overjoyed that,
after hugging her little mother with all her might, she went down-stairs
like a clog-hornpipe to find somebody or other to whom to impart her
gladness. Whom should Maggy meet but Flora and Mr F.'s Aunt opportunely
coming in? And whom else, as a consequence of that meeting, should
Little Dorrit find waiting for herself, when, a good two or three hours
afterwards, she went out?
Flora's eyes were a little red, and she seemed rather out of spirits.
Mr F.'s Aunt was so stiffened that she had the appearance of being past
bending by any means short of powerful mechanical pressure. Her bonnet
was cocked up behind in a terrific manner; and her stony reticule was as
rigid as if it had been petrified by the Gorgon's head, and had got it
at that moment inside. With these imposing attributes, Mr F.'s Aunt,
publicly seated on the steps of the Marshal's official residence, had
been for the two or three hours in question a great boon to the younger
inhabitants of the Borough, whose sallies of humour she had considerably
flushed herself by resenting at the point of her umbrella, from time to
time.
'Painfully aware, Miss Dorrit, I am sure,' said Flora, 'that to propose
an adjournment to any place to one so far removed by fortune and so
courted and caressed by the best society must ever appear intruding
even if not a pie-shop far below your present sphere and a back-parlour
though a civil man but if for the sake of Arthur--cannot overcome it
more improper now than ever late Doyce and Clennam--one last remark I
might wish to make one last explanation I might wish to offer perhaps
your good nature might excuse under pretence of three kidney ones the
humble place of conversation.'
Rightly interpreting this rather obscure speech, Little Dorrit returned
that she was quite at Flora's disposition. Flora accordingly led the
way across the road to the pie-shop in question: Mr F.'s Aunt stalking
across in the rear, and putting herself in the way of being run over,
with a perseverance worthy of a better cause.
When the 'three kidney ones,' which were to be a blind to the
conversation, were set before them on three little tin platters, each
kidney one ornamented with a hole at the top, into which the civil man
poured hot gravy out of a spouted can as if he were feeding three lamps,
Flora took out her pocket-handkerchief.
'If Fancy's fair dreams,' she began, 'have ever pictured that when
Arthur--cannot overcome it pray excuse me--was restored to freedom even
a pie as far from flaky as the present and so deficient in kidney as to
be in that respect like a minced nutmeg might not prove unacceptable if
offered by the hand of true regard such visions have for ever fled
and all is cancelled but being aware that tender relations are in
contemplation beg to state that I heartily wish well to both and find
no fault with either not the least, it may be withering to know that ere
the hand of Time had made me much less slim than formerly and dreadfully
red on the slightest exertion particularly after eating I well know when
it takes the form of a rash, it might have been and was not through the
interruption of parents and mental torpor succeeded until the mysterious
clue was held by Mr F. still I would not be ungenerous to either and I
heartily wish well to both.'
Little Dorrit took her hand, and thanked her for all her old kindness.
'Call it not kindness,' returned Flora, giving her an honest kiss, 'for
you always were the best and dearest little thing that ever was if I
may take the liberty and even in a money point of view a saving being
Conscience itself though I must add much more agreeable than mine ever
was to me for though not I hope more burdened than other people's yet
I have always found it far readier to make one uncomfortable than
comfortable and evidently taking a greater pleasure in doing it but I am
wandering, one hope I wish to express ere yet the closing scene draws
in and it is that I do trust for the sake of old times and old sincerity
that Arthur will know that I didn't desert him in his misfortunes but
that I came backwards and forwards constantly to ask if I could do
anything for him and that I sat in the pie-shop where they very civilly
fetched something warm in a tumbler from the hotel and really very nice
hours after hours to keep him company over the way without his knowing
it.'
Flora really had tears in her eyes now, and they showed her to great
advantage.
'Over and above which,' said Flora, 'I earnestly beg you as the dearest
thing that ever was if you'll still excuse the familiarity from one who
moves in very different circles to let Arthur understand that I don't
know after all whether it wasn't all nonsense between us though pleasant
at the time and trying too and certainly Mr F. did work a change and
the spell being broken nothing could be expected to take place without
weaving it afresh which various circumstances have combined to prevent
of which perhaps not the least powerful was that it was not to be, I
am not prepared to say that if it had been agreeable to Arthur and had
brought itself about naturally in the first instance I should not have
been very glad being of a lively disposition and moped at home where
papa undoubtedly is the most aggravating of his sex and not improved
since having been cut down by the hand of the Incendiary into something
of which I never saw the counterpart in all my life but jealousy is not
my character nor ill-will though many faults.'
Without having been able closely to follow Mrs Finching through this
labyrinth, Little Dorrit understood its purpose, and cordially accepted
the trust.
'The withered chaplet my dear,' said Flora, with great enjoyment, 'is
then perished the column is crumbled and the pyramid is standing upside
down upon its what's-his-name call it not giddiness call it not weakness
call it not folly I must now retire into privacy and look upon the ashes
of departed joys no more but taking a further liberty of paying for the
pastry which has formed the humble pretext of our interview will for
ever say Adieu!'
Mr F.'s Aunt, who had eaten her pie with great solemnity, and who had
been elaborating some grievous scheme of injury in her mind since her
first assumption of that public position on the Marshal's steps, took
the present opportunity of addressing the following Sibyllic apostrophe
to the relict of her late nephew.
'Bring him for'ard, and I'll chuck him out o' winder!'
Flora tried in vain to soothe the excellent woman by explaining that
they were going home to dinner. Mr F.'s Aunt persisted in replying,
'Bring him for'ard and I'll chuck him out o' winder!' Having reiterated
this demand an immense number of times, with a sustained glare of
defiance at Little Dorrit, Mr F.'s Aunt folded her arms, and sat down in
the corner of the pie-shop parlour; steadfastly refusing to budge until
such time as 'he' should have been 'brought for'ard,' and the chucking
portion of his destiny accomplished.
In this condition of things, Flora confided to Little Dorrit that she
had not seen Mr F.'s Aunt so full of life and character for weeks; that
she would find it necessary to remain there 'hours perhaps,' until the
inexorable old lady could be softened; and that she could manage her
best alone. They parted, therefore, in the friendliest manner, and with
the kindest feeling on both sides.
Mr F.'s Aunt holding out like a grim fortress, and Flora becoming in
need of refreshment, a messenger was despatched to the hotel for the
tumbler already glanced at, which was afterwards replenished. With the
aid of its content, a newspaper, and some skimming of the cream of the
pie-stock, Flora got through the remainder of the day in perfect good
humour; though occasionally embarrassed by the consequences of an
idle rumour which circulated among the credulous infants of the
neighbourhood, to the effect that an old lady had sold herself to the
pie-shop to be made up, and was then sitting in the pie-shop parlour,
declining to complete her contract. This attracted so many young persons
of both sexes, and, when the shades of evening began to fall, occasioned
so much interruption to the business, that the merchant became very
pressing in his proposals that Mr F.'s Aunt should be removed. A
conveyance was accordingly brought to the door, which, by the joint
efforts of the merchant and Flora, this remarkable woman was at last
induced to enter; though not without even then putting her head out of
the window, and demanding to have him 'brought for'ard' for the purpose
originally mentioned. As she was observed at this time to direct baleful
glances towards the Marshalsea, it has been supposed that this admirably
consistent female intended by 'him,' Arthur Clennam.
This, however, is mere speculation; who the person was, who, for the
satisfaction of Mr F.'s Aunt's mind, ought to have been brought forward
and never was brought forward, will never be positively known.
The autumn days went on, and Little Dorrit never came to the Marshalsea
now and went away without seeing him. No, no, no.
One morning, as Arthur listened for the light feet that every morning
ascended winged to his heart, bringing the heavenly brightness of a new
love into the room where the old love had wrought so hard and been so
true; one morning, as he listened, he heard her coming, not alone.
'Dear Arthur,' said her delighted voice outside the door, 'I have some
one here. May I bring some one in?'
He had thought from the tread there were two with her. He answered
'Yes,' and she came in with Mr Meagles. Sun-browned and jolly Mr
Meagles looked, and he opened his arms and folded Arthur in them, like a
sun-browned and jolly father.
'Now I am all right,' said Mr Meagles, after a minute or so. 'Now it's
over. Arthur, my dear fellow, confess at once that you expected me
before.' 'I did,' said Arthur; 'but Amy told me--' 'Little Dorrit. Never
any other name.' (It was she who whispered it.)
'--But my Little Dorrit told me that, without asking for any further
explanation, I was not to expect you until I saw you.'
'And now you see me, my boy,' said Mr Meagles, shaking him by the hand
stoutly; 'and now you shall have any explanation and every explanation.
The fact is, I was here--came straight to you from the Allongers
and Marshongers, or I should be ashamed to look you in the face this
day,--but you were not in company trim at the moment, and I had to start
off again to catch Doyce.'
'Poor Doyce!' sighed Arthur.
'Don't call him names that he don't deserve,' said Mr Meagles.
'He's not poor; he's doing well enough. Doyce is a wonderful fellow over
there. I assure you he is making out his case like a house a-fire. He
has fallen on his legs, has Dan. Where they don't want things done and
find a man to do 'em, that man's off his legs; but where they do want
things done and find a man to do 'em, that man's on his legs. You won't
have occasion to trouble the Circumlocution Office any more. Let me tell
you, Dan has done without 'em!'
'What a load you take from my mind!' cried Arthur. 'What happiness you
give me!'
'Happiness?' retorted Mr Meagles. 'Don't talk about happiness till you
see Dan. I assure you Dan is directing works and executing labours over
yonder, that it would make your hair stand on end to look at. He's no
public offender, bless you, now! He's medalled and ribboned, and starred
and crossed, and I don't-know-what all'd, like a born nobleman. But we
mustn't talk about that over here.'
'Why not?'
'Oh, egad!' said Mr Meagles, shaking his head very seriously, 'he must
hide all those things under lock and key when he comes over here. They
won't do over here. In that particular, Britannia is a Britannia in the
Manger--won't give her children such distinctions herself, and won't
allow them to be seen when they are given by other countries. No, no,
Dan!' said Mr Meagles, shaking his head again. 'That won't do here!'
'If you had brought me (except for Doyce's sake) twice what I have
lost,' cried Arthur, 'you would not have given me the pleasure that you
give me in this news.' 'Why, of course, of course,' assented Mr Meagles.
'Of course I know that, my good fellow, and therefore I come out with
it in the first burst. Now, to go back, about catching Doyce. I caught
Doyce. Ran against him among a lot of those dirty brown dogs in women's
nightcaps a great deal too big for 'em, calling themselves Arabs and all
sorts of incoherent races. YOU know 'em! Well! He was coming straight to
me, and I was going to him, and so we came back together.'
'Doyce in England!' exclaimed Arthur.
'There!' said Mr Meagles, throwing open his arms. 'I am the worst man
in the world to manage a thing of this sort. I don't know what I should
have done if I had been in the diplomatic line--right, perhaps! The long
and short of it is, Arthur, we have both been in England this fortnight.
And if you go on to ask where Doyce is at the present moment, why, my
plain answer is--here he is! And now I can breathe again at last!'
Doyce darted in from behind the door, caught Arthur by both hands, and
said the rest for himself.