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'It is but a few hours, sir,' Clennam cheerfully urged upon him.

'A few hours, sir,' he returned in a sudden passion. 'You talk very

easily of hours, sir! How long do you suppose, sir, that an hour is to a

man who is choking for want of air?'

It was his last demonstration for that time; as, after shedding some

more tears and querulously complaining that he couldn't breathe, he

slowly fell into a slumber. Clennam had abundant occupation for his

thoughts, as he sat in the quiet room watching the father on his bed,

and the daughter fanning his face. Little Dorrit had been thinking too.

After softly putting his grey hair aside, and touching his forehead with

her lips, she looked towards Arthur, who came nearer to her, and pursued

in a low whisper the subject of her thoughts.

'Mr Clennam, will he pay all his debts before he leaves here?'

'No doubt. All.'

'All the debts for which he had been imprisoned here, all my life and

longer?'

'No doubt.'

There was something of uncertainty and remonstrance in her look;

something that was not all satisfaction. He wondered to detect it, and

said:

'You are glad that he should do so?'

'Are you?' asked Little Dorrit, wistfully.

'Am I? Most heartily glad!'

'Then I know I ought to be.'

'And are you not?'

'It seems to me hard,' said Little Dorrit, 'that he should have lost so

many 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 of

me; it has grown up with me here.'

The prison, which could spoil so many things, had tainted Little

Dorrit's mind no more than this. Engendered as the confusion was, in

compassion for the poor prisoner, her father, it was the first speck

Clennam had ever seen, it was the last speck Clennam ever saw, of the

prison atmosphere 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. The little

spot made them the more beautiful.

Worn out with her own emotions, and yielding to the silence of the room,

her hand slowly slackened and failed in its fanning movement, and her

head dropped down on the pillow at her father's side. Clennam rose

softly, opened and closed the door without a sound, and passed from the

prison, carrying the quiet with him into the turbulent streets.

CHAPTER 36. The Marshalsea becomes an Orphan

And now the day arrived when Mr Dorrit and his family were to leave the

prison for ever, and the stones of its much-trodden pavement were to

know them no more.

The interval had been short, but he had greatly complained of its

length, and had been imperious with Mr Rugg touching the delay. He had

been high with Mr Rugg, and had threatened to employ some one else. He

had requested Mr Rugg not to presume upon the place in which he found

him, but to do his duty, sir, and to do it with promptitude. He had told

Mr Rugg that he knew what lawyers and agents were, and that he would not

submit to imposition. On that gentleman's humbly representing that

he exerted himself to the utmost, Miss Fanny was very short with him;

desiring to know what less he could do, when he had been told a dozen

times that money was no object, and expressing her suspicion that he

forgot whom he talked to.

Towards the Marshal, who was a Marshal of many years' standing, and

with whom he had never had any previous difference, Mr Dorrit comported

himself with severity. That officer, on personally tendering his

congratulations, offered the free use of two rooms in his house for Mr

Dorrit's occupation until his departure. Mr Dorrit thanked him at the

moment, and replied that he would think of it; but the Marshal was no

sooner gone than he sat down and wrote him a cutting note, in which

he remarked that he had never on any former occasion had the honour of

receiving his congratulations (which was true, though indeed there had

not been anything particular to congratulate him upon), and that he

begged, on behalf of himself and family, to repudiate the Marshal's

offer, with all those thanks which its disinterested character and its

perfect independence of all worldly considerations demanded.

Although his brother showed so dim a glimmering of interest in their

altered fortunes that it was very doubtful whether he understood them,

Mr Dorrit caused him to be measured for new raiment by the hosiers,

tailors, hatters, and bootmakers whom he called in for himself; and

ordered that his old clothes should be taken from him and burned. Miss

Fanny and Mr Tip required no direction in making an appearance of great

fashion and elegance; and the three passed this interval together at the

best hotel in the neighbourhood--though truly, as Miss Fanny said, the

best was very indifferent. In connection with that establishment, Mr

Tip hired a cabriolet, horse, and groom, a very neat turn out, which

was usually to be observed for two or three hours at a time gracing the

Borough High Street, outside the Marshalsea court-yard. A modest

little hired chariot and pair was also frequently to be seen there;

in alighting from and entering which vehicle, Miss Fanny fluttered the

Marshal's daughters by the display of inaccessible bonnets.

A great deal of business was transacted in this short period. Among

other items, Messrs Peddle and Pool, solicitors, of Monument Yard, were

instructed by their client Edward Dorrit, Esquire, to address a letter

to Mr Arthur Clennam, enclosing the sum of twenty-four pounds nine

shillings and eightpence, being the amount of principal and interest

computed at the rate of five per cent. per annum, in which their

client believed himself to be indebted to Mr Clennam. In making this

communication and remittance, Messrs Peddle and Pool were further

instructed by their client to remind Mr Clennam that the favour of the

advance now repaid (including gate-fees) had not been asked of him, and

to inform him that it would not have been accepted if it had been openly

proffered in his name. With which they requested a stamped receipt, and

remained his obedient servants. A great deal of business had likewise to

be done, within the so-soon-to-be-orphaned Marshalsea, by Mr Dorrit

so long its Father, chiefly arising out of applications made to him

by Collegians for small sums of money. To these he responded with the

greatest liberality, and with no lack of formality; always first writing

to appoint a time at which the applicant might wait upon him in his

room, and then receiving him in the midst of a vast accumulation of

documents, and accompanying his donation (for he said in every such

case, 'it is a donation, not a loan') with a great deal of good counsel:

to the effect that he, the expiring Father of the Marshalsea, hoped to

be long remembered, as an example that a man might preserve his own and

the general respect even there.

The Collegians were not envious. Besides that they had a personal and

traditional regard for a Collegian of so many years' standing, the event

was creditable to the College, and made it famous in the newspapers.

Perhaps more of them thought, too, than were quite aware of it, that the

thing might in the lottery of chances have happened to themselves, or

that something of the sort might yet happen to themselves some day or

other. They took it very well. A few were low at the thought of being

left behind, and being left poor; but even these did not grudge the

family their brilliant reverse. There might have been much more envy in

politer places. It seems probable that mediocrity of fortune would have

been disposed to be less magnanimous than the Collegians, who lived from

hand to mouth--from the pawnbroker's hand to the day's dinner.

They got up an address to him, which they presented in a neat frame and

glass (though it was not afterwards displayed in the family mansion or

preserved among the family papers); and to which he returned a gracious

answer. In that document he assured them, in a Royal manner, that he

received the profession of their attachment with a full conviction

of its sincerity; and again generally exhorted them to follow his

example--which, at least in so far as coming into a great property was

concerned, there is no doubt they would have gladly imitated. He took

the same occasion of inviting them to a comprehensive entertainment, to

be given to the whole College in the yard, and at which he signified

he would have the honour of taking a parting glass to the health and

happiness of all those whom he was about to leave behind.

He did not in person dine at this public repast (it took place at two in

the afternoon, and his dinners now came in from the hotel at six), but

his son was so good as to take the head of the principal table, and to

be very free and engaging. He himself went about among the company, and

took notice of individuals, and saw that the viands were of the quality

he had ordered, and that all were served. On the whole, he was like a

baron of the olden time in a rare good humour. At the conclusion of the

repast, he pledged his guests in a bumper of old Madeira; and told them

that he hoped they had enjoyed themselves, and what was more, that they

would enjoy themselves for the rest of the evening; that he wished them

well; and that he bade them welcome.

His health being drunk with acclamations, he was not so baronial after

all but that in trying to return thanks he broke down, in the manner of

a mere serf with a heart in his breast, and wept before them all. After

this great success, which he supposed to be a failure, he gave them 'Mr

Chivery and his brother officers;' whom he had beforehand presented with

ten pounds each, and who were all in attendance. Mr Chivery spoke to the

toast, saying, What you undertake to lock up, lock up; but remember that

you are, in the words of the fettered African, a man and a brother ever.

The list of toasts disposed of, Mr Dorrit urbanely went through the

motions of playing a game of skittles with the Collegian who was the

next oldest inhabitant to himself; and left the tenantry to their

diversions.

But all these occurrences preceded the final day. And now the day

arrived when he and his family were to leave the prison for ever, and

when the stones of its much-trodden pavement were to know them no more.

Noon was the hour appointed for the departure. As it approached, there

was not a Collegian within doors, nor a turnkey absent. The latter class

of gentlemen appeared in their Sunday clothes, and the greater part of

the Collegians were brightened up as much as circumstances allowed. Two

or three flags were even displayed, and the children put on odds and

ends of ribbon. Mr Dorrit himself, at this trying time, preserved a

serious but graceful dignity. Much of his great attention was given to

his brother, as to whose bearing on the great occasion he felt anxious.

'My dear Frederick,' said he, 'if you will give me your arm we will pass

among our friends together. I think it is right that we should go out

arm in arm, my dear Frederick.'

'Hah!' said Frederick. 'Yes, yes, yes, yes.'

'And if, my dear Frederick--if you could, without putting any great

constraint upon yourself, throw a little (pray excuse me, Frederick), a

little Polish into your usual demeanour--'

'William, William,' said the other, shaking his head, 'it's for you to

do all that. I don't know how. All forgotten, forgotten!'

'But, my dear fellow,' returned William, 'for that very reason, if

for no other, you must positively try to rouse yourself. What you

have forgotten you must now begin to recall, my dear Frederick. Your

position--'

'Eh?' said Frederick.

'Your position, my dear Frederick.'

'Mine?' He looked first at his own figure, and then at his brother's,

and then, drawing a long breath, cried, 'Hah, to be sure! Yes, yes,

yes.' 'Your position, my dear Frederick, is now a fine one. Your

position, as my brother, is a very fine one. And I know that it belongs

to your conscientious nature to try to become worthy of it, my dear

Frederick, and to try to adorn it. To be no discredit to it, but to

adorn it.'

'William,' said the other weakly, and with a sigh, 'I will do anything

you wish, my brother, provided it lies in my power. Pray be so kind as

to recollect what a limited power mine is. What would you wish me to do

to-day, brother? Say what it is, only say what it is.'

'My dearest Frederick, nothing. It is not worth troubling so good a

heart as yours with.'

'Pray trouble it,' returned the other. 'It finds it no trouble, William,

to do anything it can for you.'

William passed his hand across his eyes, and murmured with august

satisfaction, 'Blessings on your attachment, my poor dear fellow!' Then

he said aloud, 'Well, my dear Frederick, if you will only try, as we

walk out, to show that you are alive to the occasion--that you think

about it--'

'What would you advise me to think about it?' returned his submissive

brother.

'Oh! my dear Frederick, how can I answer you? I can only say what, in

leaving these good people, I think myself.'

'That's it!' cried his brother. 'That will help me.'

'I find that I think, my dear Frederick, and with mixed emotions in

which a softened compassion predominates, What will they do without me!'

'True,' returned his brother. 'Yes, yes, yes, yes. I'll think that as we

go, What will they do without my brother! Poor things! What will they do

without him!'

Twelve o'clock having just struck, and the carriage being reported ready