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always occupying her; as a weak, retired, contented, unprotected girl. I

particularly want you to remember, that when I come outside the gate, I

am unprotected and solitary.'

He would try to do anything she wished. But why did Miss Amy so much

want him to remember that?

'Because,' returned Little Dorrit, 'I know I can then quite trust you

not to forget to-day, and not to say any more to me. You are so generous

that I know I can trust to you for that; and I do and I always will. I

am going to show you, at once, that I fully trust you. I like this place

where we are speaking better than any place I know;' her slight colour

had faded, but her lover thought he saw it coming back just then; 'and I

may be often here. I know it is only necessary for me to tell you so, to

be quite sure that you will never come here again in search of me. And I

am--quite sure!'

She might rely upon it, said Young John. He was a miserable wretch, but

her word was more than a law for him.

'And good-bye, John,' said Little Dorrit. 'And I hope you will have a

good wife one day, and be a happy man. I am sure you will deserve to be

happy, and you will be, John.'

As she held out her hand to him with these words, the heart that was

under the waistcoat of sprigs--mere slop-work, if the truth must be

known--swelled to the size of the heart of a gentleman; and the poor

common little fellow, having no room to hold it, burst into tears.

'Oh, don't cry,' said Little Dorrit piteously. 'Don't, don't! Good-bye,

John. God bless you!'

'Good-bye, Miss Amy. Good-bye!'

And so he left her: first observing that she sat down on the corner of a

seat, and not only rested her little hand upon the rough wall, but laid

her face against it too, as if her head were heavy, and her mind were

sad. It was an affecting illustration of the fallacy of human projects,

to behold her lover, with the great hat pulled over his eyes, the velvet

collar turned up as if it rained, the plum-coloured coat buttoned

to conceal the silken waistcoat of golden sprigs, and the little

direction-post pointing inexorably home, creeping along by the worst

back-streets, and composing, as he went, the following new inscription

for a tombstone in St George's Churchyard:

'Here lie the mortal remains Of JOHN CHIVERY, Never anything worth

mentioning, Who died about the end of the year one thousand eight

hundred and twenty-six, Of a broken heart, Requesting with his last

breath that the word AMY might be inscribed over his ashes, which was

accordingly directed to be done, By his afflicted Parents.'

CHAPTER 19. The Father of the Marshalsea in two or three Relations

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?'

'The matter?' He stared for a moment, and then dropped his head and eyes

again. 'No, William, no. Nothing is the matter.'

'If you could be persuaded to smarten yourself up a little, Frederick--'

'Aye, aye!' said the old man hurriedly. 'But I can't be. I can't be.

Don't talk so. That's all over.'

The Father of the Marshalsea glanced at a passing Collegian with whom he

was on friendly terms, as who should say, 'An enfeebled old man, this;

but he is my brother, sir, my brother, and the voice of Nature is

potent!' and steered his brother clear of the handle of the pump by the

threadbare sleeve. Nothing would have been wanting to the perfection of

his character as a fraternal guide, philosopher and friend, if he had

only steered his brother clear of ruin, instead of bringing it upon him.

'I think, William,' said the object of his affectionate consideration,

'that I am tired, and will go home to bed.'

'My dear Frederick,' returned the other, 'don't let me detain you; don't

sacrifice your inclination to me.'

'Late hours, and a heated atmosphere, and years, I suppose,' said

Frederick, 'weaken me.'

'My dear Frederick,' returned the Father of the Marshalsea, 'do you

think you are sufficiently careful of yourself? Do you think your habits

are as precise and methodical as--shall I say as mine are? Not to revert

again to that little eccentricity which I mentioned just now, I doubt if

you take air and exercise enough, Frederick. Here is the parade, always

at your service. Why not use it more regularly than you do?'

'Hah!' sighed the other. 'Yes, yes, yes, yes.'

'But it is of no use saying yes, yes, my dear Frederick,' the Father

of the Marshalsea in his mild wisdom persisted, 'unless you act on that

assent. Consider my case, Frederick. I am a kind of example. Necessity

and time have taught me what to do. At certain stated hours of the day,

you will find me on the parade, in my room, in the Lodge, reading the

paper, receiving company, eating and drinking. I have impressed upon Amy

during many years, that I must have my meals (for instance) punctually.

Amy has grown up in a sense of the importance of these arrangements, and

you know what a good girl she is.'

The brother only sighed again, as he plodded dreamily along, 'Hah! Yes,

yes, yes, yes.'

'My dear fellow,' said the Father of the Marshalsea, laying his hand

upon his shoulder, and mildly rallying him--mildly, because of his

weakness, poor dear soul; 'you said that before, and it does not express

much, Frederick, even if it means much. I wish I could rouse you, my

good Frederick; you want to be roused.'

'Yes, William, yes. No doubt,' returned the other, lifting his dim eyes

to his face. 'But I am not like you.'

The Father of the Marshalsea said, with a shrug of modest

self-depreciation, 'Oh! You might be like me, my dear Frederick;

you might be, if you chose!' and forbore, in the magnanimity of his

strength, to press his fallen brother further.

There was a great deal of leave-taking going on in corners, as was usual

on Sunday nights; and here and there in the dark, some poor woman, wife

or mother, was weeping with a new Collegian. The time had been when the

Father himself had wept, in the shades of that yard, as his own

poor wife had wept. But it was many years ago; and now he was like

a passenger aboard ship in a long voyage, who has recovered from

sea-sickness, and is impatient of that weakness in the fresher

passengers taken aboard at the last port. He was inclined to

remonstrate, and to express his opinion that people who couldn't get on

without crying, had no business there. In manner, if not in words, he

always testified his displeasure at these interruptions of the general

harmony; and it was so well understood, that delinquents usually

withdrew if they were aware of him.

On this Sunday evening, he accompanied his brother to the gate with an

air of endurance and clemency; being in a bland temper and graciously

disposed to overlook the tears. In the flaring gaslight of the Lodge,

several Collegians were basking; some taking leave of visitors, and

some who had no visitors, watching the frequent turning of the key, and

conversing with one another and with Mr Chivery. The paternal entrance

made a sensation of course; and Mr Chivery, touching his hat (in a short

manner though) with his key, hoped he found himself tolerable.

'Thank you, Chivery, quite well. And you?'

Mr Chivery said in a low growl, 'Oh! he was all right.' Which was his

general way of acknowledging inquiries after his health when a little

sullen.

'I had a visit from Young John to-day, Chivery. And very smart he

looked, I assure you.'

So Mr Chivery had heard. Mr Chivery must confess, however, that his wish

was that the boy didn't lay out so much money upon it. For what did it

bring him in? It only brought him in wexation. And he could get that

anywhere for nothing.

'How vexation, Chivery?' asked the benignant father.

'No odds,' returned Mr Chivery. 'Never mind. Mr Frederick going out?'

'Yes, Chivery, my brother is going home to bed. He is tired, and

not quite well. Take care, Frederick, take care. Good night, my dear

Frederick!'

Shaking hands with his brother, and touching his greasy hat to the

company in the Lodge, Frederick slowly shuffled out of the door which

Mr Chivery unlocked for him. The Father of the Marshalsea showed the

amiable solicitude of a superior being that he should come to no harm.

'Be so kind as to keep the door open a moment, Chivery, that I may see

him go along the passage and down the steps. Take care, Frederick! (He

is very infirm.) Mind the steps! (He is so very absent.) Be careful

how you cross, Frederick. (I really don't like the notion of his going

wandering at large, he is so extremely liable to be run over.)'

With these words, and with a face expressive of many uneasy doubts and

much anxious guardianship, he turned his regards upon the assembled

company in the Lodge: so plainly indicating that his brother was to be

pitied for not being under lock and key, that an opinion to that effect

went round among the Collegians assembled.

But he did not receive it with unqualified assent; on the contrary, he

said, No, gentlemen, no; let them not misunderstand him. His brother

Frederick was much broken, no doubt, and it might be more comfortable to

himself (the Father of the Marshalsea) to know that he was safe within

the walls. Still, it must be remembered that to support an existence

there during many years, required a certain combination of qualities--he

did not say high qualities, but qualities--moral qualities. Now, had his

brother Frederick that peculiar union of qualities? Gentlemen, he was a

most excellent man, a most gentle, tender, and estimable man, with the

simplicity of a child; but would he, though unsuited for most other

places, do for that place? No; he said confidently, no! And, he said,

Heaven forbid that Frederick should be there in any other character

than in his present voluntary character! Gentlemen, whoever came to

that College, to remain there a length of time, must have strength of

character to go through a good deal and to come out of a good deal. Was

his beloved brother Frederick that man? No. They saw him, even as it

was, crushed. Misfortune crushed him. He had not power of recoil enough,

not elasticity enough, to be a long time in such a place, and yet

preserve his self-respect and feel conscious that he was a gentleman.

Frederick had not (if he might use the expression) Power enough to see

in any delicate little attentions and--and--Testimonials that he might

under such circumstances receive, the goodness of human nature, the fine

spirit animating the Collegians as a community, and at the same time

no degradation to himself, and no depreciation of his claims as a

gentleman. Gentlemen, God bless you!

Such was the homily with which he improved and pointed the occasion to

the company in the Lodge before turning into the sallow yard again,

and going with his own poor shabby dignity past the Collegian in the

dressing-gown who had no coat, and past the Collegian in the sea-side

slippers who had no shoes, and past the stout greengrocer Collegian in