*II. HOW THE PRISON GATES WERE OPENED*
Among the ladies for whom Little Dorrit sewed by the day was a Mrs.Clennam, a cold, stern person who lived in a cold, stern house. Yet shegave the child plenty of work and paid her fairly well. So LittleDorrit was often to be found in some gloomy corner there, sewing awaybusily and adding nothing at all to the few far-away sounds of the quietold rooms.
Mrs. Clennam lived alone, except for a dried-up servant or two, and sheherself had lost the use of her limbs. So it is no wonder that thehouse was gloomy, and that Mrs. Clennam's son Arthur found it so, whenhe returned from a long visit in India. Arthur Clennam was a young manwho had ideas of his own, and who had disappointed his mother byrefusing to continue his father's business. They were not insympathy--which made the house seem all the colder. But he was kind,open-hearted, and impulsive.
Though timid Little Dorrit kept as much in the dark corners as possible,Arthur soon noticed her, and asked one of the old servants who she was.He could learn nothing except that she was a seamstress who came by theday to sew, and who went away every night, no one knew where. The childinterested him, and he resolved to follow her one evening and learnwhere she lived. He did so, and was amazed to see her enter the gate ofa large forbidding building,--he did not know what building, as he hadbeen long abroad.
Just then he saw an old man, in a threadbare coat, once blue, cometottering along, carrying a clarinet in a limp, worn-out case. As thisold man was about to enter the same gate, Arthur stopped him with aquestion.
"Pray, sir," said he, "what is this place?"
"Ay! This place?" returned the old man, staying a pinch of snuff on itsroad, and pointing at the place without looking at it. "This is theMarshalsea, sir."
"The debtors' prison?"
"Sir," said the old man, with the air of deeming it not quite necessaryto insist upon that name, "the debtors' prison."
He turned himself about, and went on.
"I beg your pardon," said Arthur, stopping him once more, "but will youallow me to ask you another question? Can any one go in here?"
"Any one can _go in_," replied the old man; "but it is not every one whocan go out."
"Pardon me once more. Are you familiar with the place?"
"Sir," returned the old man, squeezing his little packet of snuff in hishand, and turning upon his interrogator as if such questions hurt him,"I am."
"I beg you to excuse me. I am not impertinently curious, but have agood object. Do you know the name of Dorrit here?"
"My name, sir," replied the old man most unexpectedly, "is Dorrit."
Arthur pulled off his hat to him. "Grant me the favor of half a dozenwords. I have recently come home to England after a long absence. Ihave seen at my mother's--Mrs. Clennam in the city--a young womanworking at her needle, whom I have only heard addressed or spoken of asLittle Dorrit. I have felt sincerely interested in her, and have had agreat desire to know something more about her. I saw her, not a minutebefore you came up, pass in at that door."
The old man looked at him attentively. "Are you in earnest, sir?"
"I do assure you that I am."
"I know very little of the world, sir," returned the other, who had aweak and quavering voice. "I am merely passing on, like the shadow overthe sun-dial. It would be worth no man's while to mislead me; it wouldreally be too easy--too poor a success, to yield any satisfaction. Theyoung woman whom you saw go in here is my brother's child. My brotheris William Dorrit; I am Frederick. You say you have seen her at yourmother's (I know your mother befriends her), you have felt an interestin her, and you wish to know what she does here. Come and see."
He went on again, and Arthur accompanied him.
"My brother," said the old man, pausing on the step, and slowly facinground again, "has been here many years; and much that happens even amongourselves, out of doors, is kept from him for reasons that I needn'tenter upon now. Be so good as to say nothing of my niece's working ather needle. If you keep within our bounds, you cannot well be wrong.Now! Come and see."
Arthur followed him down a narrow entry, at the end of which a key wasturned, and a strong door was opened from within. It admitted them intoa lodge, or lobby, across which they passed, and so through another doorand a grating into the prison. The old man always plodding on before,turned round, in his slow, stiff, stooping manner, when they came to theturnkey on duty, as if to present his companion. The turnkey nodded; andthe companion passed in without being asked whom he wanted.
The night was dark; and the prison lamps in the yard, and the candles inthe prison windows faintly shining behind many sorts of wry old curtainand blind, had not the air of making it lighter. A few people loiteredabout, but the greater part of the population was within doors. The oldman taking the right-hand side of the yard, turned in at the third orfourth doorway, and began to ascend the stairs.
"They are rather dark, sir, but you will not find anything in the way,"he said.
He paused for a moment before opening the door on the second story. Hehad no sooner turned the handle, than the visitor saw Little Dorrit, andunderstood the reason of her dining alone, as she always preferred todo.
She had brought the meat home that she should have eaten herself, andwas already warming it on a gridiron over the fire, for her father, who,clad in an old gray gown and a black cap, was awaiting his supper at thetable. A clean cloth was spread before him, with knife, fork, and spoon,salt-cellar, pepper-box, glass, and pewter ale-pot. Such zests as hiscayenne pepper and pickles in a saucer were not wanting.
She started, colored deeply, and turned white. The visitor, more withhis eyes than by the slight impulsive motion of his hand, entreated herto be reassured and to trust him.
"I found this gentleman," said the uncle--"Mr. Clennam, William, son ofAmy's friend--at the outer gate, wishful, as he was going by, of payinghis respects, but hesitating whether to come in or not. This is mybrother William, sir."
"I hope," said Arthur, very doubtful what to say, "that my respect foryour daughter may explain and justify my desire to be presented to you,sir."
"Mr. Clennam," returned the other, rising, taking his cap off in theflat of his hand, and so holding it, ready to put on again, "you do mehonor. You are welcome, sir." With a low bow. "Frederick, a chair.Pray sit down, Mr. Clennam."
He put his black cap on again as he had taken it off, and resumed hisown seat. There was a wonderful air of benignity and patronage in hismanner.
These were the ceremonies with which he received all visitors.
"You are welcome to the Marshalsea, sir. I have welcomed many gentlemento these walls. Perhaps you are aware--my daughter Amy may havementioned--that I am the Father of this place."
"I--so I have understood," said Arthur, dashing at the assertion.
"You know, I dare say, that my daughter Amy was born here. A good girl,sir, a dear girl, and long a comfort and support to me. Amy, my dear,put the dish on; Mr. Clennam will excuse the primitive customs to whichwe are reduced here. Is it a compliment to ask you if you would do methe honor, sir, to--"
"Thank you," returned Arthur. "I have dined."
She filled her father's glass, put all the little matters on the tableready to his hand, and then sat beside him while he ate his supper. Sheput some bread before herself, and touched his glass with her lips; butArthur saw she was troubled and took nothing. Her look at her father,half admiring him and proud of him, half-ashamed for him, all devotedand loving, went to his inmost heart.
The Father of the Marshalsea condescended towards his brother as anamiable, well-meaning man; a private character, who had not arrived atdistinction.
"Frederick," said he, "you and Fanny sup at your lodgings to-night, Iknow. What have you done with Fanny, Frederick?"
"She is walking with Tip."
"Tip--as you may know--is my son, Mr. Clennam. He has been a littlewild, and difficult to settle, but his introduction to the world wasrather"--he sh
rugged his shoulders with a faint sigh, and looked roundthe room--"a little adverse. Your first visit here, sir?"
"My first."
"You could hardly have been here since your boyhood without myknowledge. It very seldom happens that anybody--of any pretensions--anypretensions--comes here without being presented to me."
"As many as forty or fifty in a day have been introduced to my brother,"said Frederick, faintly lighting up with a ray of pride.
"Yes!" the Father of the Marshalsea assented. "We have even exceededthat number. On a fine Sunday in term time, it is quite a reception!"
Thus the old man prattled on, proud of his queer distinction, and yetshowing traces of the fine gentleman he once was. And while helistened, Arthur felt his heart throb with sympathy for the brave girl,sitting silent across the table, who had so long borne the burdens ofthis ruined family upon her frail shoulders.
He could not say anything to her, here, but when he rose to take hisleave, he asked her by a look to come with him to the gate. He felt hemust make some explanation for thus intruding and learning her secret.
"Pray forgive me," he said, when they paused alone at the gate. "Ifollowed you to-night from my mother's. I should not have done so, but,believe me, it was only in the hope of doing you some service. What Ihave seen here, in this short time, has increased ten-fold my heartfeltwish to be a friend to you."
She seemed to take courage while he spoke to her.
"You are very good, sir. You speak very earnestly to me. But I--but Iwish you had not watched me."
He understood the emotion with which she said it to arise in herfather's behalf; and he respected it, and was silent.
"Mrs. Clennam has been of great service to me. I don't know what weshould have done without the employment she has given me. I am afraidit may not be a good return to become secret with her. I can say nomore to-night, sir. I am sure you mean to be kind to us. Thank you,thank you."
She was so agitated, and he was so moved by compassion for her, and bydeep interest in her story as it dawned upon him, that he could scarcelytear himself away. But the stoppage of the bell, and the quiet in theprison, were a warning to depart; and with a few hurried words ofkindness he left her gliding back to her father.
The next day, Arthur missed Little Dorrit at his home, and wondered ifshe might be ill. The weather was stormy, but she was not usuallyhindered by that. So he walked out toward the prison to look for her;and was presently rewarded by seeing her hurrying along in the face ofthe gale.
She had just reached the iron bridge, some distance from the gates, whenhis voice caused her to stop short. The wind blew roughly, the wetsqualls came rattling past them, skimming the pools on the road andpavement, and raining them down into the river. The clouds raced onfuriously in the lead-colored sky, the smoke and mist raced after them,the dark tide ran fierce and strong in the same direction. LittleDorrit seemed the least, the quietest, and weakest of Heaven'screatures.
"Let me put you in a coach," said Arthur Clennam, very nearly adding,"my poor child."
She hurriedly declined, thanking him, and saying that wet or dry madelittle difference to her; she was used to go about in all weathers. Heknew it to be so, and was touched with more pity, thinking of the slightfigure at his side, making its nightly way through the damp, dark,boisterous streets, to such a place of rest.
"But I am glad to have seen you, sir," she added shyly. "I did not wantyou to think that we were ungrateful for your interest and kindness,last night. And, besides, I had something else to say--"
She paused as if unable to go on.
"To say to me--" he prompted.
"That I hope you will not misunderstand my father. Don't judge him,sir, as you would judge others outside the gates. He has been there solong! I never saw him outside, but I can understand that he must havegrown different in some things since."
"My thoughts will never be unjust or harsh towards him, believe me."
"Not," she said, with a prouder air, as the misgiving evidently creptupon her that she might seem to be abandoning him, "not that he hasanything to be ashamed of for himself, or that I have anything to beashamed of for him. He only requires to be understood. I only ask forhim that his life may be fairly remembered. All that he said was quitetrue. He is very much respected. Everybody who comes in is glad to knowhim. He is more courted than any one else. He is far more thought ofthan the Marshal is." If ever pride were innocent, it was innocent inLittle Dorrit when she grew boastful of her father.
"It is often said that his manners are a true gentleman's, and quite astudy. He is not to be blamed for being in need, poor love. Who couldbe in prison a quarter of a century, and be prosperous!"
What affection in her words, what compassion in her repressed tears,what a great soul of fidelity within her, how true the light that shedfalse brightness round him!
"If I have found it best to conceal where my home is, it is not becauseI am ashamed of him. God forbid! Nor am I so much ashamed of the placeitself as might be supposed. People are not bad because they comethere. I have known many good friends there, and have spent many happyhours."
She had relieved the faithful fulness of her heart, and modestly said,raising her eyes appealingly to her new friend's, "I did not mean to sayso much, nor have I ever but once spoken about this before. But itseems to set it more right than it was last night. I said I wished youhad not followed me, sir. I don't wish it so much now, unless youshould think--indeed I don't wish it at all, unless I should have spokenso confusedly, that--that you can scarcely understand me, which I amafraid may be the case."
He told her with perfect truth that it was not the case; and puttinghimself between her and the sharp wind and rain, sheltered her as wellas he could.
"I feel permitted now," he said, "to ask you a little more concerningyour father. Has he many creditors?"
"Oh! a great number."
"I mean detaining creditors who keep him where he is?"
"Oh, yes! a great number."
"Can you tell me--I can get the information, no doubt, elsewhere, if youcannot--who is the most influential of them?"
Little Dorrit was not sure of any names, but she had heard her fathermention several people with whom he said he once had dealings. She toldhim these names, and Clennam made a careful note of them.
"It can do no harm," he thought, "to see some of these people."
The thought did not come so quietly but that she quickly guessed it.
"Ah," said Little Dorrit, shaking her head with the mild despair of alifetime. "Many people used to think once of getting my poor fatherout, but you don't know how hopeless it is."
She forgot to be shy at the moment, in honestly warning him away fromthe sunken wreck he had a dream of raising; and looked at him with eyeswhich assuredly, in association with her patient face, her fragilefigure, her spare dress, and the wind and rain, did not turn him fromhis purpose of helping her.
But presently an incident happened which showed him a new side to herlife--still of helpfulness and service.
They were come into the High Street, where the prison stood, when avoice cried, "Little mother, little mother!"
Little Dorrit stopped, looking back, when an excited figure of a strangekind bounced against them, fell down, and scattered the contents of alarge basket, filled with potatoes, in the mud.
"Oh, Maggy," said Little Dorrit, "what a clumsy child you are!"
Maggy was not hurt, but picked herself up immediately, and began to pickup the potatoes, in which both the others helped. Maggy picked up veryfew potatoes, and a great quantity of mud. She was a curious, overgrowncreature of about eight-and-twenty, with a vacant smiling face and atattered shawl. She seemed twice as large as the child to whom sheevidently looked for protection and called "little mother."
Arthur Clennam looked with the expression of one saying, "May I ask whothis is?" Little Dorrit, whose hand Maggy had begun to fondle, answeredin words. They were under a
gateway into which the majority of thepotatoes had rolled.
"This is Maggy, sir."
"Maggy, sir," echoed the personage presented. "Little mother!"
"She is the granddaughter--"
"Granddaughter," echoed Maggy.
"Of my old nurse, who has been dead a long time. Maggy, how old areyou?"
"Ten, mother," said Maggy.
"You can't think how good she is, sir," said Little Dorrit, withinfinite tenderness.
"Good _she_ is," echoed Maggy, transferring the pronoun in a mostexpressive way from herself to her little mother.
"Or how clever," said Little Dorrit. "She goes on errands as well asany one." Maggy laughed. "And is as trustworthy as the Bank ofEngland." Maggy laughed. "She earns her own living entirely.Entirely, sir!" in a lower and triumphant tone. "Really does!"
"What is her history!" asked Clennam.
"Think of that, Maggy!" said Little Dorrit, taking Maggy's two largehands and clapping them together. "A gentleman from thousands of milesaway, wanting to know your history!"
"_My_ history?" cried Maggy. "Little mother."
"She means me," said Little Dorrit, rather confused; "she is very muchattached to me. Her old grandmother was not so kind to her as she shouldhave been; was she, Maggy? When Maggy was ten years old," shecontinued, "she had a bad fever, sir, and has never grown any oldersince."
"Ten years old," said Maggy, nodding her head. "But what a nicehospital! So comfortable, wasn't it? Oh, so nice it was. Such a Ev'nlyplace!"
"She had never been at peace before, sir," continued the young girl,turning towards Arthur for an instant and speaking low, "and she alwaysruns off upon that."
"Such beds there is there!" cried Maggy. "Such lemonades! Such oranges!Such d'licious broth and wine! Such Chicking! Oh, _ain't_ it adelightful place to go and stop at!"
"So Maggy stopped there as long as she could," said Little Dorrit, inher former tone of telling a child's story, the tone designed forMaggy's ear; "and at last, when she could stop there no longer, she cameout. Then, because she was never to be more than ten years old, howeverlong she lived--"
"However long she lived," echoed Maggy.
"And because she was very weak--indeed, was so weak that when she beganto laugh she couldn't stop herself--which was a great pity--"
Maggy grew mighty grave of a sudden.
"Her grandmother did not know what to do with her, and for some yearswas very unkind to her indeed. At length, in course of time, Maggybegan to take pains to improve herself, and to be very attentive andvery industrious; and by degrees was allowed to come in and out as oftenas she liked, and got enough to do to support herself, and does supportherself. And that," said Little Dorrit, clapping the two great handstogether again, "is Maggy's history, as Maggy knows!"
Ah! that was all the history, as Little Dorrit told it. But Arthur,reading between the lines, saw in Maggy's absolute love and devotion theweeks and months of toil and care on the part of a pitying faithfulchild whose own burden seemed great enough without carrying others. Thedirty gateway with the wind and rain whistling through it, and thebasket of muddy potatoes waiting to be spilt again or taken up, neverseemed the common hole it really was, when he looked back to it by theselights. Never, never!
Thereafter, Arthur Clennam, who was a man of some means, devoted a greatpart of his time to tracing out the Dorrit records. He went from onegovernment office to another--a long, weary round of them--before hecould get any light on the matter. He employed an agent whose specialtywas to search out lost estates. And at last, after several months, theircombined efforts were rewarded.
Mr. Dorrit was found to be heir-at-law to a large estate that had longlain unknown, unclaimed, and growing greater. His right to it wascleared up by this skilful agent; so that all Mr. Dorrit had to do, now,would be to discharge his debts, and he would be a free man.
When Arthur was convinced of this surprising fortune, he hastened firstto Little Dorrit, whom he wished to see alone. But before he could saya word, his face told her that something unusual was afoot.
Hastily dropping her sewing, she cried, "Mr. Clennam! What's thematter?"
"Nothing, nothing! That is--nothing bad. I have come to tell you goodnews."
"Good fortune?"
"Wonderful fortune!"
Her lips seemed to repeat the words, but no sound came.
"Dear Little Dorrit," he said, "your father--"
The ice of the pale face broke at the word, and little lights ofexpression passed all over it. They were all expressions of pain. Herbreath was faint and hurried. Her heart beat fast, but he saw that theeyes appealed to him to go on.
"Your father can be free within this week. He does not know it; we mustgo to him from here, to tell him of it. Your father will be free withina few days. Remember we must go to him, from here, to tell him of it!"
That brought her back. Her eyes were closing, but they opened again.
"This is not all the good fortune. This is not all the wonderful goodfortune, Little Dorrit. Shall I tell you more?"
Her lips shaped "Yes."
"He will be a rich man: A great sum of money is waiting to be paid overto him as his inheritance; you are all henceforth very wealthy. Bravestand best of children, I thank Heaven that you are rewarded!"
She turned her head towards his shoulder, and raised her arm towards hisneck; then cried out, "Father! Father! Father!" and swooned away.
The housekeeper came running in at this, and Little Dorrit was soonrevived, smiling bravely at her own weakness. But the news had been toomuch for her. It was the dream of her lifetime--come true!
"Come!" she exclaimed, "we must not lose a moment, but must hasten to myfather!"
When the turnkey, who was on duty, admitted them into the lodge, he sawsomething in their faces which filled him with astonishment. He stoodlooking after them, when they hurried into the prison, as though heperceived that they had come back accompanied by a ghost apiece. Two orthree debtors whom they passed, looked after them too, and presentlyjoining the turnkey, formed a little group on the lodge steps, in themidst of which there originated a whisper that the Father was going toget his discharge. Within a few minutes it was heard in the remotestroom in the prison.
Little Dorrit opened the door from without, and they both entered. Herfather was sitting in his old gray gown, and his old black cap, in thesunlight by the window, reading his newspaper. His glasses were in hishand, and he had just looked round; surprised at first, no doubt, by herstep upon the stairs, not expecting her until night; surprised again, byseeing Arthur Clennam in her company. As they came in, the sameunwonted look in both of them, which had already caught attention in theyard below, struck him. He did not rise or speak, but laid down hisglasses and his newspaper on the table beside him, and looked at themwith his mouth a little open, and his lips trembling. When Arthur putout his hand, he touched it, but not with his usual state; and then heturned to his daughter, who had sat down close beside him with her handsupon his shoulder, and looked attentively in her face.
"Father! I have been made so happy this morning!"
"You have been made so happy, my dear?"
"By Mr. Clennam, father. He brought me such joyful and wonderfulintelligence about you!"
Her agitation was great, and the tears rolled down her face. He put hishand suddenly to his heart, and looked at Clennam.
"Compose yourself, sir," said Clennam, "and take a little time to think.To think of the brightest and most fortunate accidents of life. We haveall heard of great surprises of joy. They are not at an end."
"Mr. Clennam? Not at an end? Not at an end for--" He touched himselfupon the breast, instead of saying "me."
"No," returned Clennam.
He looked at Clennam, and, so looking at him, seemed to change into avery old haggard man. The sun was bright upon the wall beyond thewindow, and on the spikes at the top. He slowly stretched out the handthat had been upon his heart
, and pointed at the wall.
"It is down," said Clennam. "Gone!"
He remained in the same attitude, looking steadfastly at him.
"And in its place," said Clennam, slowly and distinctly, "are the meansto possess and enjoy the utmost that they have so long shut out. Mr.Dorrit, there is not the smallest doubt that within a few days you willbe free, and highly prosperous. I congratulate you with all my soul onthis change of fortune, and on the happy future into which you are soonto carry the treasure you have been blessed with here--the best of allthe riches you can have elsewhere--the treasure in the dear child atyour side."
With those words, he pressed Mr. Dorrit's hand and released it; and hisdaughter, laying her face against his, encircled him in the hour of hisprosperity with her arms, as she had in the long years of his adversityencircled him with her love and toil and truth; and poured out her fullheart in gratitude, hope, joy, blissful ecstasy, and all for him.
"I shall see him, as I never saw him yet. I shall see my dear father,with the dark cloud cleared away. I shall see him, as my poor mothersaw him long ago. Oh, my dear, my dear! Oh, father, father! Oh, thankGod, thank God!"
Mr. Dorrit came slowly out of the daze into which he had seemed to fall.To divert his mind, Arthur told him how the good fortune had been foundthrough the skill of an agent.
"He shall be rewarded!" he exclaimed, starting up. "Every one shallbe--ha!--handsomely rewarded! Every cent I owe shall be paid. Oh! canthis be true? A freeman, and all my debts paid! Give me my purse,Amy!"
He clutched it as if it were already overflowing with gold, and pacedrapidly up and down the room. Just then a great cheering arose in theprison yard.
"The news has spread already," said Clennam, looking down from thewindow. "Will you show yourself to them, Mr. Dorrit? They are veryearnest, and evidently wish it."
"I--hum--ha--I confess I could have desired, Amy, my dear," he said,jogging about in a more feverish flutter than before, "to have made somechange in my dress first, and to have bought a--hum--a watch and chain.But if it must be done as it is, it---ha--it must be done. Fasten thecollar of my shirt, my dear. Mr. Clennam, would you oblige me--hum--witha blue neckcloth you will find in that drawer at your elbow. Button mycoat across at the chest, my love. It looks--ha--it looks broader,buttoned."
With his trembling hand he pushed his gray hair up, and then, takingClennam and his daughter for supporters, appeared at the window leaningon an arm of each. The inmates cheered him very heartily, and he kissedhis hand to them with great urbanity and protection. When he withdrewinto the room again, he said "Poor creatures!" in a tone of much pityfor their miserable condition.
Presently he said, unexpectedly:
"Mr. Clennam, I beg your pardon. Am I to understand, my dear sir, thatI could--ha--could pass through the lodge at this moment, and--hum--takea walk?"
"I think not, Mr. Dorrit," was the unwilling reply. "There are certainforms to be completed; and although your detention here is now in itselfa form, I fear it has to be observed for a few hours longer."
"A few hours, sir," he returned in a sudden passion. "You talk veryeasily of hours, sir! How long do you suppose, sir, that an hour is toa man who is choking for want of air?"
It was the cry of a man who had been imprisoned for nearly a quarter ofa century.
Little Dorrit had been thinking too. After softly putting his gray hairaside, and touching his forehead with her lips, she looked towardsArthur, who came nearer to her, and pursued in a low whisper the subjectof her thoughts.
"Mr. Clennam, will he pay all his debts before he leaves here?"
"No doubt. All."
"All the debts for which he has been imprisoned here, all my life andlonger?"
"No doubt."
There was something of uncertainty and remonstrance in her look;something that was not all satisfaction. He wondered to detect it, andsaid:
"Are you not glad?"
"It seems to me hard," said Little Dorrit, "that he should have lost somany years and suffered so much, and at last pay all the debts as well.It seems to me hard that he should pay in life and money both."
"My dear child--" Clennam was beginning.
"Yes, I know I am wrong," she pleaded timidly, "don't think any worse ofme; it has grown up with me here."
The prison, which could spoil so many things, had tainted LittleDorrit's mind no more than this. It was the first speck Clennam hadever seen, it was the last speck Clennam ever saw, of the prisonatmosphere upon her.
He thought this, and forebore to say another word. With the thought,her purity and goodness came before him in their brightest light. Thelittle spot made them the more beautiful.
*THE PERSONAL HISTORY OF DAVID COPPERFIELD*