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gentleman unknown executing on some little puppy not mentioned. These

were not the only members of the Dorrit family who turned it to account.

No, no. The Father of the Marshalsea was supposed to know nothing about

the matter, of course: his poor dignity could not see so low.

But he took the cigars, on Sundays, and was glad to get them; and

sometimes even condescended to walk up and down the yard with the donor

(who was proud and hopeful then), and benignantly to smoke one in

his society. With no less readiness and condescension did he receive

attentions from Chivery Senior, who always relinquished his arm-chair

and newspaper to him, when he came into the Lodge during one of his

spells of duty; and who had even mentioned to him, that, if he would

like at any time after dusk quietly to step out into the fore-court and

take a look at the street, there was not much to prevent him. If he did

not avail himself of this latter civility, it was only because he had

lost the relish for it; inasmuch as he took everything else he could

get, and would say at times, 'Extremely civil person, Chivery; very

attentive man and very respectful. Young Chivery, too; really almost

with a delicate perception of one's position here. A very well conducted

family indeed, the Chiveries. Their behaviour gratifies me.'

The devoted Young John all this time regarded the family with reverence.

He never dreamed of disputing their pretensions, but did homage to the

miserable Mumbo jumbo they paraded. As to resenting any affront from her

brother, he would have felt, even if he had not naturally been of a most

pacific disposition, that to wag his tongue or lift his hand against

that sacred gentleman would be an unhallowed act. He was sorry that

his noble mind should take offence; still, he felt the fact to be not

incompatible with its nobility, and sought to propitiate and conciliate

that gallant soul. Her father, a gentleman in misfortune--a gentleman of

a fine spirit and courtly manners, who always bore with him--he deeply

honoured. Her sister he considered somewhat vain and proud, but a young

lady of infinite accomplishments, who could not forget the past. It was

an instinctive testimony to Little Dorrit's worth and difference from

all the rest, that the poor young fellow honoured and loved her for

being simply what she was.

The tobacco business round the corner of Horsemonger Lane was carried

out in a rural establishment one story high, which had the benefit of

the air from the yards of Horsemonger Lane jail, and the advantage of a

retired walk under the wall of that pleasant establishment. The business

was of too modest a character to support a life-size Highlander, but it

maintained a little one on a bracket on the door-post, who looked like

a fallen Cherub that had found it necessary to take to a kilt. From the

portal thus decorated, one Sunday after an early dinner of baked viands,

Young John issued forth on his usual Sunday errand; not empty-handed,

but with his offering of cigars. He was neatly attired in a

plum-coloured coat, with as large a collar of black velvet as his figure

could carry; a silken waistcoat, bedecked with golden sprigs; a chaste

neckerchief much in vogue at that day, representing a preserve of

lilac pheasants on a buff ground; pantaloons so highly decorated with

side-stripes that each leg was a three-stringed lute; and a hat of

state very high and hard. When the prudent Mrs Chivery perceived that

in addition to these adornments her John carried a pair of white kid

gloves, and a cane like a little finger-post, surmounted by an ivory

hand marshalling him the way that he should go; and when she saw him, in

this heavy marching order, turn the corner to the right; she remarked to

Mr Chivery, who was at home at the time, that she thought she knew which

way the wind blew.

The Collegians were entertaining a considerable number of visitors that

Sunday afternoon, and their Father kept his room for the purpose of

receiving presentations. After making the tour of the yard, Little

Dorrit's lover with a hurried heart went up-stairs, and knocked with his

knuckles at the Father's door.

'Come in, come in!' said a gracious voice. The Father's voice, her

father's, the Marshalsea's father's. He was seated in his black velvet

cap, with his newspaper, three-and-sixpence accidentally left on the

table, and two chairs arranged. Everything prepared for holding his

Court.

'Ah, Young John! How do you do, how do you do!'

'Pretty well, I thank you, sir. I hope you are the same.'

'Yes, John Chivery; yes. Nothing to complain of.'

'I have taken the liberty, sir, of--'

'Eh?' The Father of the Marshalsea always lifted up his eyebrows at this

point, and became amiably distraught and smilingly absent in mind.

'--A few cigars, sir.'

'Oh!' (For the moment, excessively surprised.) 'Thank you, Young John,

thank you. But really, I am afraid I am too--No? Well then, I will say

no more about it. Put them on the mantelshelf, if you please, Young

John. And sit down, sit down. You are not a stranger, John.'

'Thank you, sir, I am sure--Miss;' here Young John turned the great hat

round and round upon his left-hand, like a slowly twirling mouse-cage;

'Miss Amy quite well, sir?' 'Yes, John, yes; very well. She is out.'

'Indeed, sir?'

'Yes, John. Miss Amy is gone for an airing. My young people all go out a

good deal. But at their time of life, it's natural, John.'

'Very much so, I am sure, sir.'

'An airing. An airing. Yes.' He was blandly tapping his fingers on

the table, and casting his eyes up at the window. 'Amy has gone for

an airing on the Iron Bridge. She has become quite partial to the Iron

Bridge of late, and seems to like to walk there better than anywhere.'

He returned to conversation. 'Your father is not on duty at present, I

think, John?'

'No, sir, he comes on later in the afternoon.' Another twirl of the

great hat, and then Young John said, rising, 'I am afraid I must wish

you good day, sir.'

'So soon? Good day, Young John. Nay, nay,' with the utmost

condescension, 'never mind your glove, John. Shake hands with it on. You

are no stranger here, you know.'

Highly gratified by the kindness of his reception, Young John descended

the staircase. On his way down he met some Collegians bringing up

visitors to be presented, and at that moment Mr Dorrit happened to call

over the banisters with particular distinctness, 'Much obliged to you

for your little testimonial, John!'

Little Dorrit's lover very soon laid down his penny on the tollplate of

the Iron Bridge, and came upon it looking about him for the well-known

and well-beloved figure. At first he feared she was not there; but as he

walked on towards the Middlesex side, he saw her standing still, looking

at the water. She was absorbed in thought, and he wondered what

she might be thinking about. There were the piles of city roofs and

chimneys, more free from smoke than on week-days; and there were the

distant masts and steeples. Perhaps she was thinking about them.

Little Dorrit mused so long, and was so entirely preoccupied, that

although her lover stood quiet for what he thought was a long time, and

twice or thrice retired and came back again to the former spot, still

she did not move. So, in the end, he made up his mind to go on, and seem

to come upon her casually in passing, and speak to her. The place was

quiet, and now or never was the time to speak to her.

He walked on, and she did not appear to hear his steps until he was

close upon her. When he said 'Miss Dorrit!' she started and fell back

from him, with an expression in her face of fright and something like

dislike that caused him unutterable dismay. She had often avoided him

before--always, indeed, for a long, long while. She had turned away and

glided off so often when she had seen him coming toward her, that the

unfortunate Young John could not think it accidental. But he had hoped

that it might be shyness, her retiring character, her foreknowledge of

the state of his heart, anything short of aversion. Now, that momentary

look had said, 'You, of all people! I would rather have seen any one on

earth than you!'

It was but a momentary look, inasmuch as she checked it, and said in her

soft little voice, 'Oh, Mr John! Is it you?' But she felt what it had

been, as he felt what it had been; and they stood looking at one another

equally confused.

'Miss Amy, I am afraid I disturbed you by speaking to you.'

'Yes, rather. I--I came here to be alone, and I thought I was.'

'Miss Amy, I took the liberty of walking this way, because Mr Dorrit

chanced to mention, when I called upon him just now, that you--'

She caused him more dismay than before by suddenly murmuring, 'O father,

father!' in a heartrending tone, and turning her face away.

'Miss Amy, I hope I don't give you any uneasiness by naming Mr Dorrit.

I assure you I found him very well and in the best of Spirits, and he

showed me even more than his usual kindness; being so very kind as to

say that I was not a stranger there, and in all ways gratifying me very

much.'

To the inexpressible consternation of her lover, Little Dorrit, with her

hands to her averted face, and rocking herself where she stood as if she

were in pain, murmured, 'O father, how can you! O dear, dear father, how

can you, can you, do it!'

The poor fellow stood gazing at her, overflowing with sympathy, but not

knowing what to make of this, until, having taken out her handkerchief

and put it to her still averted face, she hurried away. At first he

remained stock still; then hurried after her.

'Miss Amy, pray! Will you have the goodness to stop a moment? Miss Amy,

if it comes to that, let ME go. I shall go out of my senses, if I have

to think that I have driven you away like this.'

His trembling voice and unfeigned earnestness brought Little Dorrit to

a stop. 'Oh, I don't know what to do,' she cried, 'I don't know what to

do!'

To Young John, who had never seen her bereft of her quiet self-command,

who had seen her from her infancy ever so reliable and self-suppressed,

there was a shock in her distress, and in having to associate himself

with it as its cause, that shook him from his great hat to the

pavement. He felt it necessary to explain himself. He might be

misunderstood--supposed to mean something, or to have done something,

that had never entered into his imagination. He begged her to hear him

explain himself, as the greatest favour she could show him.

'Miss Amy, I know very well that your family is far above mine. It were

vain to conceal it. There never was a Chivery a gentleman that ever

I heard of, and I will not commit the meanness of making a false

representation on a subject so momentous. Miss Amy, I know very well

that your high-souled brother, and likewise your spirited sister, spurn

me from a height. What I have to do is to respect them, to wish to be

admitted to their friendship, to look up at the eminence on which they

are placed from my lowlier station--for, whether viewed as tobacco or

viewed as the lock, I well know it is lowly--and ever wish them well and

happy.'

There really was a genuineness in the poor fellow, and a contrast

between the hardness of his hat and the softness of his heart (albeit,

perhaps, of his head, too), that was moving. Little Dorrit entreated him

to disparage neither himself nor his station, and, above all things, to

divest himself of any idea that she supposed hers to be superior. This

gave him a little comfort.

'Miss Amy,' he then stammered, 'I have had for a long time--ages they

seem to me--Revolving ages--a heart-cherished wish to say something to

you. May I say it?'

Little Dorrit involuntarily started from his side again, with the

faintest shadow of her former look; conquering that, she went on at

great speed half across the Bridge without replying!

'May I--Miss Amy, I but ask the question humbly--may I say it? I have

been so unlucky already in giving you pain without having any such

intentions, before the holy Heavens! that there is no fear of my saying

it unless I have your leave. I can be miserable alone, I can be cut up

by myself, why should I also make miserable and cut up one that I would

fling myself off that parapet to give half a moment's joy to! Not that

that's much to do, for I'd do it for twopence.'

The mournfulness of his spirits, and the gorgeousness of his appearance,

might have made him ridiculous, but that his delicacy made him

respectable. Little Dorrit learnt from it what to do.

'If you please, John Chivery,' she returned, trembling, but in a quiet

way, 'since you are so considerate as to ask me whether you shall say

any more--if you please, no.'

'Never, Miss Amy?'

'No, if you please. Never.'

'O Lord!' gasped Young John.

'But perhaps you will let me, instead, say something to you. I want

to say it earnestly, and with as plain a meaning as it is possible to

express. When you think of us, John--I mean my brother, and sister,

and me--don't think of us as being any different from the rest; for,

whatever we once were (which I hardly know) we ceased to be long ago,

and never can be any more. It will be much better for you, and much

better for others, if you will do that instead of what you are doing

now.'

Young John dolefully protested that he would try to bear it in mind, and

would be heartily glad to do anything she wished.

'As to me,' said Little Dorrit, 'think as little of me as you can; the

less, the better. When you think of me at all, John, let it only be as

the child you have seen grow up in the prison with one set of duties