Little Dorrit
sinking, as his spirits had already sunk and that the weight under which
he bent was bearing him down.
Night after night he had risen from his bed of wretchedness at twelve or
one o’clock, and had sat at his window watching the sickly lamps in the
yard, and looking upward for the first wan trace of day, hours before it
was possible that the sky could show it to him. Now when the night came,
he could not even persuade himself to undress.
For a burning restlessness set in, an agonised impatience of the prison,
and a conviction that he was going to break his heart and die there,
which caused him indescribable suffering. His dread and hatred of the
place became so intense that he felt it a labour to draw his breath in
it. The sensation of being stifled sometimes so overpowered him, that
he would stand at the window holding his throat and gasping. At the
same time a longing for other air, and a yearning to be beyond the blind
blank wall, made him feel as if he must go mad with the ardour of the
desire.
Many other prisoners had had experience of this condition before him,
and its violence and continuity had worn themselves out in their cases,
as they did in his. Two nights and a day exhausted it. It came back by
fits, but those grew fainter and returned at lengthening intervals. A
desolate calm succeeded; and the middle of the week found him settled
down in the despondency of low, slow fever.
With Cavalletto and Pancks away, he had no visitors to fear but Mr and
Mrs Plornish. His anxiety, in reference to that worthy pair, was that
they should not come near him; for, in the morbid state of his nerves,
he sought to be left alone, and spared the being seen so subdued and
weak. He wrote a note to Mrs Plornish representing himself as occupied
with his affairs, and bound by the necessity of devoting himself to
them, to remain for a time even without the pleasant interruption of
a sight of her kind face. As to Young John, who looked in daily at a
certain hour, when the turnkeys were relieved, to ask if he could do
anything for him; he always made a pretence of being engaged in writing,
and to answer cheerfully in the negative. The subject of their only
long conversation had never been revived between them. Through all these
changes of unhappiness, however, it had never lost its hold on Clennam’s
mind.
The sixth day of the appointed week was a moist, hot, misty day. It
seemed as though the prison’s poverty, and shabbiness, and dirt, were
growing in the sultry atmosphere. With an aching head and a weary heart,
Clennam had watched the miserable night out, listening to the fall of
rain on the yard pavement, thinking of its softer fall upon the country
earth. A blurred circle of yellow haze had risen up in the sky in lieu
of sun, and he had watched the patch it put upon his wall, like a bit of
the prison’s raggedness. He had heard the gates open; and the badly shod
feet that waited outside shuffle in; and the sweeping, and pumping,
and moving about, begin, which commenced the prison morning. So ill and
faint that he was obliged to rest many times in the process of getting
himself washed, he had at length crept to his chair by the open window.
In it he sat dozing, while the old woman who arranged his room went
through her morning’s work.
Light of head with want of sleep and want of food (his appetite, and
even his sense of taste, having forsaken him), he had been two or three
times conscious, in the night, of going astray. He had heard fragments
of tunes and songs in the warm wind, which he knew had no existence.
Now that he began to doze in exhaustion, he heard them again; and voices
seemed to address him, and he answered, and started.
Dozing and dreaming, without the power of reckoning time, so that
a minute might have been an hour and an hour a minute, some abiding
impression of a garden stole over him--a garden of flowers, with a
damp warm wind gently stirring their scents. It required such a painful
effort to lift his head for the purpose of inquiring into this, or
inquiring into anything, that the impression appeared to have become
quite an old and importunate one when he looked round. Beside the
tea-cup on his table he saw, then, a blooming nosegay: a wonderful
handful of the choicest and most lovely flowers.
Nothing had ever appeared so beautiful in his sight. He took them up and
inhaled their fragrance, and he lifted them to his hot head, and he put
them down and opened his parched hands to them, as cold hands are opened
to receive the cheering of a fire. It was not until he had delighted in
them for some time, that he wondered who had sent them; and opened his
door to ask the woman who must have put them there, how they had come
into her hands. But she was gone, and seemed to have been long gone; for
the tea she had left for him on the table was cold. He tried to drink
some, but could not bear the odour of it: so he crept back to his chair
by the open window, and put the flowers on the little round table of
old.
When the first faintness consequent on having moved about had left him,
he subsided into his former state. One of the night-tunes was playing
in the wind, when the door of his room seemed to open to a light touch,
and, after a moment’s pause, a quiet figure seemed to stand there, with
a black mantle on it. It seemed to draw the mantle off and drop it on
the ground, and then it seemed to be his Little Dorrit in her old, worn
dress. It seemed to tremble, and to clasp its hands, and to smile, and
to burst into tears.
He roused himself, and cried out. And then he saw, in the loving,
pitying, sorrowing, dear face, as in a mirror, how changed he was; and
she came towards him; and with her hands laid on his breast to keep him
in his chair, and with her knees upon the floor at his feet, and with
her lips raised up to kiss him, and with her tears dropping on him as
the rain from Heaven had dropped upon the flowers, Little Dorrit, a
living presence, called him by his name.
‘O, my best friend! Dear Mr Clennam, don’t let me see you weep! Unless
you weep with pleasure to see me. I hope you do. Your own poor child
come back!’
So faithful, tender, and unspoiled by Fortune. In the sound of her
voice, in the light of her eyes, in the touch of her hands, so
Angelically comforting and true!
As he embraced her, she said to him, ‘They never told me you were ill,’
and drawing an arm softly round his neck, laid his head upon her bosom,
put a hand upon his head, and resting her cheek upon that hand, nursed
him as lovingly, and GOD knows as innocently, as she had nursed her
father in that room when she had been but a baby, needing all the care
from others that she took of them.
When he could speak, he said, ‘Is it possible that you have come to me?
And in this dress?’
‘I hoped you would like me better in this dress than any other. I have
always kept it by me, to remind me: though I wanted no reminding. I am
not alone, you see. I have brought an old friend with me.’
Looking round, he saw Maggy in her big cap which had been long
abandoned, with a basket on her arm as in the bygone days, chuckling
rapturously.
‘It was only yesterday evening that I came to London with my brother.
I sent round to Mrs Plornish almost as soon as we arrived, that I might
hear of you and let you know I had come. Then I heard that you were
here. Did you happen to think of me in the night? I almost believe you
must have thought of me a little. I thought of you so anxiously, and it
appeared so long to morning.’
‘I have thought of you--’ he hesitated what to call her. She perceived
it in an instant.
‘You have not spoken to me by my right name yet. You know what my right
name always is with you.’
‘I have thought of you, Little Dorrit, every day, every hour, every
minute, since I have been here.’
‘Have you? Have you?’
He saw the bright delight of her face, and the flush that kindled in
it, with a feeling of shame. He, a broken, bankrupt, sick, dishonoured
prisoner.
‘I was here before the gates were opened, but I was afraid to come
straight to you. I should have done you more harm than good, at first;
for the prison was so familiar and yet so strange, and it brought back
so many remembrances of my poor father, and of you too, that at first
it overpowered me. But we went to Mr Chivery before we came to the gate,
and he brought us in, and got John’s room for us--my poor old room, you
know--and we waited there a little. I brought the flowers to the door,
but you didn’t hear me.’
She looked something more womanly than when she had gone away, and the
ripening touch of the Italian sun was visible upon her face. But,
otherwise, she was quite unchanged. The same deep, timid earnestness
that he had always seen in her, and never without emotion, he saw still.
If it had a new meaning that smote him to the heart, the change was in
his perception, not in her.
She took off her old bonnet, hung it in the old place, and noiselessly
began, with Maggy’s help, to make his room as fresh and neat as it could
be made, and to sprinkle it with a pleasant-smelling water. When that
was done, the basket, which was filled with grapes and other fruit,
was unpacked, and all its contents were quietly put away. When that was
done, a moment’s whisper despatched Maggy to despatch somebody else to
fill the basket again; which soon came back replenished with new
stores, from which a present provision of cooling drink and jelly, and
a prospective supply of roast chicken and wine and water, were the first
extracts. These various arrangements completed, she took out her old
needle-case to make him a curtain for his window; and thus, with a quiet
reigning in the room, that seemed to diffuse itself through the else
noisy prison, he found himself composed in his chair, with Little Dorrit
working at his side.
To see the modest head again bent down over its task, and the nimble
fingers busy at their old work--though she was not so absorbed in it,
but that her compassionate eyes were often raised to his face, and, when
they drooped again had tears in them--to be so consoled and comforted,
and to believe that all the devotion of this great nature was turned to
him in his adversity to pour out its inexhaustible wealth of goodness
upon him, did not steady Clennam’s trembling voice or hand, or
strengthen him in his weakness. Yet it inspired him with an inward
fortitude, that rose with his love. And how dearly he loved her now,
what words can tell!
As they sat side by side in the shadow of the wall, the shadow fell like
light upon him. She would not let him speak much, and he lay back in
his chair, looking at her. Now and again she would rise and give him
the glass that he might drink, or would smooth the resting-place of his
head; then she would gently resume her seat by him, and bend over her
work again.
The shadow moved with the sun, but she never moved from his side, except
to wait upon him. The sun went down and she was still there. She had
done her work now, and her hand, faltering on the arm of his chair since
its last tending of him, was hesitating there yet. He laid his hand upon
it, and it clasped him with a trembling supplication.
‘Dear Mr Clennam, I must say something to you before I go. I have put it
off from hour to hour, but I must say it.’
‘I too, dear Little Dorrit. I have put off what I must say.’
She nervously moved her hand towards his lips as if to stop him; then it
dropped, trembling, into its former place.
‘I am not going abroad again. My brother is, but I am not. He was always
attached to me, and he is so grateful to me now--so much too grateful,
for it is only because I happened to be with him in his illness--that
he says I shall be free to stay where I like best, and to do what I like