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feigned to be occupied with the perusal of letters from his pocket.

They did not so engross his attention, but that he saw, with gratitude,

how the elder Mr Chivery kept the Lodge clear of prisoners; how he

signed to some, with his keys, not to come in, how he nudged others with

his elbows to go out, and how he made his misery as easy to him as he

could.

Arthur was sitting with his eyes fixed on the floor, recalling the past,

brooding over the present, and not attending to either, when he felt

himself touched upon the shoulder. It was by Young John; and he said,

'You can come now.'

He got up and followed Young John. When they had gone a step or two

within the inner iron-gate, Young John turned and said to him:

'You want a room. I have got you one.'

'I thank you heartily.'

Young John turned again, and took him in at the old doorway, up the old

staircase, into the old room. Arthur stretched out his hand. Young John

looked at it, looked at him--sternly--swelled, choked, and said:

'I don't know as I can. No, I find I can't. But I thought you'd like the

room, and here it is for you.'

Surprise at this inconsistent behaviour yielded when he was gone (he

went away directly) to the feelings which the empty room awakened in

Clennam's wounded breast, and to the crowding associations with the

one good and gentle creature who had sanctified it. Her absence in his

altered fortunes made it, and him in it, so very desolate and so much in

need of such a face of love and truth, that he turned against the

wall to weep, sobbing out, as his heart relieved itself, 'O my Little

Dorrit!'

CHAPTER 27. The Pupil of the Marshalsea

The day was sunny, and the Marshalsea, with the hot noon striking

upon it, was unwontedly quiet. Arthur Clennam dropped into a solitary

arm-chair, itself as faded as any debtor in the jail, and yielded

himself to his thoughts.

In the unnatural peace of having gone through the dreaded arrest, and

got there,--the first change of feeling which the prison most commonly

induced, and from which dangerous resting-place so many men had slipped

down to the depths of degradation and disgrace by so many ways,--he

could think of some passages in his life, almost as if he were removed

from them into another state of existence. Taking into account where he

was, the interest that had first brought him there when he had been free

to keep away, and the gentle presence that was equally inseparable from

the walls and bars about him and from the impalpable remembrances of his

later life which no walls or bars could imprison, it was not remarkable

that everything his memory turned upon should bring him round again to

Little Dorrit. Yet it was remarkable to him; not because of the fact

itself, but because of the reminder it brought with it, how much the

dear little creature had influenced his better resolutions.

None of us clearly know to whom or to what we are indebted in this wise,

until some marked stop in the whirling wheel of life brings the right

perception with it. It comes with sickness, it comes with sorrow, it

comes with the loss of the dearly loved, it is one of the most frequent

uses of adversity. It came to Clennam in his adversity, strongly and

tenderly. 'When I first gathered myself together,' he thought, 'and

set something like purpose before my jaded eyes, whom had I before me,

toiling on, for a good object's sake, without encouragement, without

notice, against ignoble obstacles that would have turned an army of

received heroes and heroines? One weak girl! When I tried to conquer

my misplaced love, and to be generous to the man who was more fortunate

than I, though he should never know it or repay me with a gracious word,

in whom had I watched patience, self-denial, self-subdual, charitable

construction, the noblest generosity of the affections? In the same poor

girl! If I, a man, with a man's advantages and means and energies, had

slighted the whisper in my heart, that if my father had erred, it was my

first duty to conceal the fault and to repair it, what youthful figure

with tender feet going almost bare on the damp ground, with spare hands

ever working, with its slight shape but half protected from the

sharp weather, would have stood before me to put me to shame? Little

Dorrit's.' So always as he sat alone in the faded chair, thinking.

Always, Little Dorrit. Until it seemed to him as if he met the reward of

having wandered away from her, and suffered anything to pass between him

and his remembrance of her virtues.

His door was opened, and the head of the elder Chivery was put in a very

little way, without being turned towards him.

'I am off the Lock, Mr Clennam, and going out. Can I do anything for

you?'

'Many thanks. Nothing.'

'You'll excuse me opening the door,' said Mr Chivery; 'but I couldn't

make you hear.'

'Did you knock?' 'Half-a-dozen times.'

Rousing himself, Clennam observed that the prison had awakened from its

noontide doze, that the inmates were loitering about the shady yard, and

that it was late in the afternoon. He had been thinking for hours. 'Your

things is come,' said Mr Chivery, 'and my son is going to carry 'em

up. I should have sent 'em up but for his wishing to carry 'em himself.

Indeed he would have 'em himself, and so I couldn't send 'em up. Mr

Clennam, could I say a word to you?'

'Pray come in,' said Arthur; for Mr Chivery's head was still put in at

the door a very little way, and Mr Chivery had but one ear upon him,

instead of both eyes. This was native delicacy in Mr Chivery--true

politeness; though his exterior had very much of a turnkey about it, and

not the least of a gentleman.

'Thank you, sir,' said Mr Chivery, without advancing; 'it's no odds me

coming in. Mr Clennam, don't you take no notice of my son (if you'll

be so good) in case you find him cut up anyways difficult. My son has a

'art, and my son's 'art is in the right place. Me and his mother knows

where to find it, and we find it sitiwated correct.'

With this mysterious speech, Mr Chivery took his ear away and shut the

door. He might have been gone ten minutes, when his son succeeded him.

'Here's your portmanteau,' he said to Arthur, putting it carefully down.

'It's very kind of you. I am ashamed that you should have the trouble.'

He was gone before it came to that; but soon returned, saying exactly as

before, 'Here's your black box:' which he also put down with care.

'I am very sensible of this attention. I hope we may shake hands now, Mr

John.'

Young John, however, drew back, turning his right wrist in a socket made

of his left thumb and middle-finger and said as he had said at first,

'I don't know as I can. No; I find I can't!' He then stood regarding the

prisoner sternly, though with a swelling humour in his eyes that looked

like pity.

'Why are you angry with me,' said Clennam, 'and yet so ready to do me

these kind services? There must be some mistake between us. If I have

done anything to occasion it I am sorry.'

'No mistake, sir,' returned John, turning the wrist backwards and

forwards in the socket, for which it was rather tight. 'No mistake, sir,

in the feelings with which my eyes behold you at the present moment! If

I was at all fairly equal to your weight, Mr Clennam--which I am not;

and if you weren't under a cloud--which you are; and if it wasn't

against all rules of the Marshalsea--which it is; those feelings are

such, that they would stimulate me, more to having it out with you in

a Round on the present spot than to anything else I could name.' Arthur

looked at him for a moment in some wonder, and some little anger. 'Well,

well!' he said. 'A mistake, a mistake!' Turning away, he sat down with a

heavy sigh in the faded chair again.

Young John followed him with his eyes, and, after a short pause, cried

out, 'I beg your pardon!'

'Freely granted,' said Clennam, waving his hand without raising his

sunken head. 'Say no more. I am not worth it.'

'This furniture, sir,' said Young John in a voice of mild and soft

explanation, 'belongs to me. I am in the habit of letting it out to

parties without furniture, that have the room. It an't much, but it's at

your service. Free, I mean. I could not think of letting you have it on

any other terms. You're welcome to it for nothing.'

Arthur raised his head again to thank him, and to say he could

not accept the favour. John was still turning his wrist, and still

contending with himself in his former divided manner.

'What is the matter between us?' said Arthur.

'I decline to name it, sir,' returned Young John, suddenly turning loud

and sharp. 'Nothing's the matter.'

Arthur looked at him again, in vain, for an explanation of his

behaviour. After a while, Arthur turned away his head again. Young John

said, presently afterwards, with the utmost mildness:

'The little round table, sir, that's nigh your elbow, was--you know

whose--I needn't mention him--he died a great gentleman. I bought it of

an individual that he gave it to, and that lived here after him. But the

individual wasn't any ways equal to him. Most individuals would find it

hard to come up to his level.'

Arthur drew the little table nearer, rested his arm upon it, and kept it

there.

'Perhaps you may not be aware, sir,' said Young John, 'that I intruded

upon him when he was over here in London. On the whole he was of opinion

that it WAS an intrusion, though he was so good as to ask me to sit

down and to inquire after father and all other old friends. Leastways

humblest acquaintances. He looked, to me, a good deal changed, and I

said so when I came back. I asked him if Miss Amy was well--'

'And she was?'

'I should have thought you would have known without putting the question

to such as me,' returned Young John, after appearing to take a large

invisible pill. 'Since you do put me the question, I am sorry I can't

answer it. But the truth is, he looked upon the inquiry as a liberty,

and said, "What was that to me?" It was then I became quite aware I was

intruding: of which I had been fearful before. However, he spoke very

handsome afterwards; very handsome.'

They were both silent for several minutes: except that Young John

remarked, at about the middle of the pause, 'He both spoke and acted

very handsome.'

It was again Young John who broke the silence by inquiring:

'If it's not a liberty, how long may it be your intentions, sir, to go

without eating and drinking?'

'I have not felt the want of anything yet,' returned Clennam. 'I have no

appetite just now.'

'The more reason why you should take some support, sir,' urged Young

John. 'If you find yourself going on sitting here for hours and hours

partaking of no refreshment because you have no appetite, why then you

should and must partake of refreshment without an appetite. I'm going to

have tea in my own apartment. If it's not a liberty, please to come and

take a cup. Or I can bring a tray here in two minutes.'

Feeling that Young John would impose that trouble on himself if he

refused, and also feeling anxious to show that he bore in mind both

the elder Mr Chivery's entreaty, and the younger Mr Chivery's apology,

Arthur rose and expressed his willingness to take a cup of tea in Mr

john's apartment. Young John locked his door for him as they went out,

slided the key into his pocket with great dexterity, and led the way to

his own residence.

It was at the top of the house nearest to the gateway. It was the room

to which Clennam had hurried on the day when the enriched family had

left the prison for ever, and where he had lifted her insensible from

the floor. He foresaw where they were going as soon as their feet

touched the staircase. The room was so far changed that it was papered

now, and had been repainted, and was far more comfortably furnished; but

he could recall it just as he had seen it in that single glance, when he

raised her from the ground and carried her down to the carriage.

Young John looked hard at him, biting his fingers.

'I see you recollect the room, Mr Clennam?' 'I recollect it well, Heaven

bless her!'

Oblivious of the tea, Young John continued to bite his fingers and to

look at his visitor, as long as his visitor continued to glance about

the room. Finally, he made a start at the teapot, gustily rattled a

quantity of tea into it from a canister, and set off for the common

kitchen to fill it with hot water.

The room was so eloquent to Clennam in the changed circumstances of his

return to the miserable Marshalsea; it spoke to him so mournfully of

her, and of his loss of her; that it would have gone hard with him to

resist it, even though he had not been alone. Alone, he did not try.

He had his hand on the insensible wall as tenderly as if it had been

herself that he touched, and pronounced her name in a low voice. He

stood at the window, looking over the prison-parapet with its grim

spiked border, and breathed a benediction through the summer haze

towards the distant land where she was rich and prosperous.

Young John was some time absent, and, when he came back, showed that he

had been outside by bringing with him fresh butter in a cabbage leaf,

some thin slices of boiled ham in another cabbage leaf, and a little

basket of water-cresses and salad herbs. When these were arranged upon

the table to his satisfaction, they sat down to tea.

Clennam tried to do honour to the meal, but unavailingly. The ham

sickened him, the bread seemed to turn to sand in his mouth. He could