第 44 页

accidentally locked in on the night of his first appearance, of the

gentleman from outside who had inquired into the affairs of the Father

of the Marshalsea with the stupendous idea of getting him out, and of

the gentleman from outside who took an interest in the child of the

Marshalsea, Clennam soon became a visitor of mark.

He was not surprised by the attentions he received from Mr Chivery when

that officer was on the lock, for he made little distinction between

Mr Chivery's politeness and that of the other turnkeys. It was on one

particular afternoon that Mr Chivery surprised him all at once, and

stood forth from his companions in bold relief.

Mr Chivery, by some artful exercise of his power of clearing the Lodge,

had contrived to rid it of all sauntering Collegians; so that Clennam,

coming out of the prison, should find him on duty alone.

'(Private) I ask your pardon, sir,' said Mr Chivery in a secret manner;

'but which way might you be going?'

'I am going over the Bridge.' He saw in Mr Chivery, with some

astonishment, quite an Allegory of Silence, as he stood with his key on

his lips.

'(Private) I ask your pardon again,' said Mr Chivery, 'but could you go

round by Horsemonger Lane? Could you by any means find time to look in

at that address?' handing him a little card, printed for circulation

among the connection of Chivery and Co., Tobacconists, Importers of pure

Havannah Cigars, Bengal Cheroots, and fine-flavoured Cubas, Dealers in

Fancy Snuffs, &C. &C.

'(Private) It an't tobacco business,' said Mr Chivery. 'The truth is,

it's my wife. She's wishful to say a word to you, sir, upon a point

respecting--yes,' said Mr Chivery, answering Clennam's look of

apprehension with a nod, 'respecting her.'

'I will make a point of seeing your wife directly.'

'Thank you, sir. Much obliged. It an't above ten minutes out of your

way. Please to ask for Mrs Chivery!' These instructions, Mr Chivery, who

had already let him out, cautiously called through a little slide in the

outer door, which he could draw back from within for the inspection of

visitors when it pleased him.

Arthur Clennam, with the card in his hand, betook himself to the address

set forth upon it, and speedily arrived there. It was a very small

establishment, wherein a decent woman sat behind the counter working

at her needle. Little jars of tobacco, little boxes of cigars, a

little assortment of pipes, a little jar or two of snuff, and a little

instrument like a shoeing horn for serving it out, composed the retail

stock in trade.

Arthur mentioned his name, and his having promised to call, on the

solicitation of Mr Chivery. About something relating to Miss Dorrit, he

believed. Mrs Chivery at once laid aside her work, rose up from her seat

behind the counter, and deploringly shook her head.

'You may see him now,' said she, 'if you'll condescend to take a peep.'

With these mysterious words, she preceded the visitor into a little

parlour behind the shop, with a little window in it commanding a very

little dull back-yard. In this yard a wash of sheets and table-cloths

tried (in vain, for want of air) to get itself dried on a line or two;

and among those flapping articles was sitting in a chair, like the

last mariner left alive on the deck of a damp ship without the power of

furling the sails, a little woe-begone young man.

'Our John,' said Mrs Chivery.

Not to be deficient in interest, Clennam asked what he might be doing

there?

'It's the only change he takes,' said Mrs Chivery, shaking her head

afresh. 'He won't go out, even in the back-yard, when there's no linen;

but when there's linen to keep the neighbours' eyes off, he'll sit

there, hours. Hours he will. Says he feels as if it was groves!' Mrs

Chivery shook her head again, put her apron in a motherly way to her

eyes, and reconducted her visitor into the regions of the business.

'Please to take a seat, sir,' said Mrs Chivery. 'Miss Dorrit is the

matter with Our John, sir; he's a breaking his heart for her, and I

would wish to take the liberty to ask how it's to be made good to his

parents when bust?'

Mrs Chivery, who was a comfortable-looking woman much respected about

Horsemonger Lane for her feelings and her conversation, uttered this

speech with fell composure, and immediately afterwards began again to

shake her head and dry her eyes.

'Sir,' said she in continuation, 'you are acquainted with the family,

and have interested yourself with the family, and are influential with

the family. If you can promote views calculated to make two young people

happy, let me, for Our john's sake, and for both their sakes, implore

you so to do!'

'I have been so habituated,' returned Arthur, at a loss, 'during

the short time I have known her, to consider Little--I have been so

habituated to consider Miss Dorrit in a light altogether removed from

that in which you present her to me, that you quite take me by surprise.

Does she know your son?'

'Brought up together, sir,' said Mrs Chivery. 'Played together.'

'Does she know your son as her admirer?'

'Oh! bless you, sir,' said Mrs Chivery, with a sort of triumphant

shiver, 'she never could have seen him on a Sunday without knowing he

was that. His cane alone would have told it long ago, if nothing else

had. Young men like John don't take to ivory hands a pinting, for

nothing. How did I first know it myself? Similarly.'

'Perhaps Miss Dorrit may not be so ready as you, you see.'

'Then she knows it, sir,' said Mrs Chivery, 'by word of mouth.'

'Are you sure?'

'Sir,' said Mrs Chivery, 'sure and certain as in this house I am. I see

my son go out with my own eyes when in this house I was, and I see my

son come in with my own eyes when in this house I was, and I know he

done it!' Mrs Chivery derived a surprising force of emphasis from the

foregoing circumstantiality and repetition.

'May I ask you how he came to fall into the desponding state which

causes you so much uneasiness?'

'That,' said Mrs Chivery, 'took place on that same day when to this

house I see that John with these eyes return. Never been himself in this

house since. Never was like what he has been since, not from the hour

when to this house seven year ago me and his father, as tenants by the

quarter, came!' An effect in the nature of an affidavit was gained from

this speech by Mrs Chivery's peculiar power of construction. 'May I

venture to inquire what is your version of the matter?'

'You may,' said Mrs Chivery, 'and I will give it to you in honour and in

word as true as in this shop I stand. Our John has every one's good word

and every one's good wish. He played with her as a child when in that

yard a child she played. He has known her ever since. He went out upon

the Sunday afternoon when in this very parlour he had dined, and met

her, with appointment or without appointment; which, I do not pretend to

say. He made his offer to her. Her brother and sister is high in their

views, and against Our John. Her father is all for himself in his views

and against sharing her with any one. Under which circumstances she

has answered Our John, "No, John, I cannot have you, I cannot have

any husband, it is not my intentions ever to become a wife, it is my

intentions to be always a sacrifice, farewell, find another worthy of

you, and forget me!" This is the way in which she is doomed to be a

constant slave to them that are not worthy that a constant slave she

unto them should be. This is the way in which Our John has come to find

no pleasure but in taking cold among the linen, and in showing in that

yard, as in that yard I have myself shown you, a broken-down ruin that

goes home to his mother's heart!' Here the good woman pointed to the

little window, whence her son might be seen sitting disconsolate in

the tuneless groves; and again shook her head and wiped her eyes, and

besought him, for the united sakes of both the young people, to exercise

his influence towards the bright reversal of these dismal events.

She was so confident in her exposition of the case, and it was so

undeniably founded on correct premises in so far as the relative

positions of Little Dorrit and her family were concerned, that Clennam

could not feel positive on the other side. He had come to attach to

Little Dorrit an interest so peculiar--an interest that removed her

from, while it grew out of, the common and coarse things surrounding

her--that he found it disappointing, disagreeable, almost painful, to

suppose her in love with young Mr Chivery in the back-yard, or any such

person. On the other hand, he reasoned with himself that she was just

as good and just as true in love with him, as not in love with him;

and that to make a kind of domesticated fairy of her, on the penalty

of isolation at heart from the only people she knew, would be but a

weakness of his own fancy, and not a kind one. Still, her youthful and

ethereal appearance, her timid manner, the charm of her sensitive voice

and eyes, the very many respects in which she had interested him out

of her own individuality, and the strong difference between herself and

those about her, were not in unison, and were determined not to be in

unison, with this newly presented idea.

He told the worthy Mrs Chivery, after turning these things over in his

mind--he did that, indeed, while she was yet speaking--that he might be

relied upon to do his utmost at all times to promote the happiness of

Miss Dorrit, and to further the wishes of her heart if it were in his

power to do so, and if he could discover what they were. At the same

time he cautioned her against assumptions and appearances; enjoined

strict silence and secrecy, lest Miss Dorrit should be made unhappy; and

particularly advised her to endeavour to win her son's confidence and so

to make quite sure of the state of the case. Mrs Chivery considered the

latter precaution superfluous, but said she would try. She shook her

head as if she had not derived all the comfort she had fondly expected

from this interview, but thanked him nevertheless for the trouble he had

kindly taken. They then parted good friends, and Arthur walked away.

The crowd in the street jostling the crowd in his mind, and the two

crowds making a confusion, he avoided London Bridge, and turned off in

the quieter direction of the Iron Bridge. He had scarcely set foot upon

it, when he saw Little Dorrit walking on before him. It was a pleasant

day, with a light breeze blowing, and she seemed to have that minute

come there for air. He had left her in her father's room within an hour.

It was a timely chance, favourable to his wish of observing her face

and manner when no one else was by. He quickened his pace; but before he

reached her, she turned her head.

'Have I startled you?' he asked.

'I thought I knew the step,' she answered, hesitating.

'And did you know it, Little Dorrit? You could hardly have expected

mine.'

'I did not expect any. But when I heard a step, I thought it--sounded

like yours.'

'Are you going further?'

'No, sir, I am only walking her for a little change.'

They walked together, and she recovered her confiding manner with him,

and looked up in his face as she said, after glancing around:

'It is so strange. Perhaps you can hardly understand it. I sometimes

have a sensation as if it was almost unfeeling to walk here.'

'Unfeeling?'

'To see the river, and so much sky, and so many objects, and such change

and motion. Then to go back, you know, and find him in the same cramped

place.'

'Ah yes! But going back, you must remember that you take with you the

spirit and influence of such things to cheer him.'

'Do I? I hope I may! I am afraid you fancy too much, sir, and make me

out too powerful. If you were in prison, could I bring such comfort to

you?' 'Yes, Little Dorrit, I am sure of it.'

He gathered from a tremor on her lip, and a passing shadow of great

agitation on her face, that her mind was with her father. He remained

silent for a few moments, that she might regain her composure. The

Little Dorrit, trembling on his arm, was less in unison than ever with

Mrs Chivery's theory, and yet was not irreconcilable with a new fancy

which sprung up within him, that there might be some one else in the

hopeless--newer fancy still--in the hopeless unattainable distance.

They turned, and Clennam said, Here was Maggy coming! Little Dorrit

looked up, surprised, and they confronted Maggy, who brought herself

at sight of them to a dead stop. She had been trotting along, so

preoccupied and busy that she had not recognised them until they turned

upon her. She was now in a moment so conscience-stricken that her very

basket partook of the change.

'Maggy, you promised me to stop near father.'

'So I would, Little Mother, only he wouldn't let me. If he takes and

sends me out I must go. If he takes and says, "Maggy, you hurry away and

back with that letter, and you shall have a sixpence if the answer's a

good 'un," I must take it. Lor, Little Mother, what's a poor thing of

ten year old to do? And if Mr Tip--if he happens to be a coming in as

I come out, and if he says "Where are you going, Maggy?" and if I says,

"I'm a going So and So," and if he says, "I'll have a Try too," and if

he goes into the George and writes a letter and if he gives it me and

says, "Take that one to the same place, and if the answer's a good 'un

I'll give you a shilling," it ain't my fault, mother!'

Arthur read, in Little Dorrit's downcast eyes, to whom she foresaw that