Little Dorrit
been elaborating some grievous scheme of injury in her mind since her
first assumption of that public position on the Marshal’s steps, took
the present opportunity of addressing the following Sibyllic apostrophe
to the relict of her late nephew.
‘Bring him for’ard, and I’ll chuck him out o’ winder!’
Flora tried in vain to soothe the excellent woman by explaining that
they were going home to dinner. Mr F.’s Aunt persisted in replying,
‘Bring him for’ard and I’ll chuck him out o’ winder!’ Having reiterated
this demand an immense number of times, with a sustained glare of
defiance at Little Dorrit, Mr F.’s Aunt folded her arms, and sat down in
the corner of the pie-shop parlour; steadfastly refusing to budge until
such time as ‘he’ should have been ‘brought for’ard,’ and the chucking
portion of his destiny accomplished.
In this condition of things, Flora confided to Little Dorrit that she
had not seen Mr F.’s Aunt so full of life and character for weeks; that
she would find it necessary to remain there ‘hours perhaps,’ until the
inexorable old lady could be softened; and that she could manage her
best alone. They parted, therefore, in the friendliest manner, and with
the kindest feeling on both sides.
Mr F.’s Aunt holding out like a grim fortress, and Flora becoming in
need of refreshment, a messenger was despatched to the hotel for the
tumbler already glanced at, which was afterwards replenished. With the
aid of its content, a newspaper, and some skimming of the cream of the
pie-stock, Flora got through the remainder of the day in perfect good
humour; though occasionally embarrassed by the consequences of an
idle rumour which circulated among the credulous infants of the
neighbourhood, to the effect that an old lady had sold herself to the
pie-shop to be made up, and was then sitting in the pie-shop parlour,
declining to complete her contract. This attracted so many young persons
of both sexes, and, when the shades of evening began to fall, occasioned
so much interruption to the business, that the merchant became very
pressing in his proposals that Mr F.’s Aunt should be removed. A
conveyance was accordingly brought to the door, which, by the joint
efforts of the merchant and Flora, this remarkable woman was at last
induced to enter; though not without even then putting her head out of
the window, and demanding to have him ‘brought for’ard’ for the purpose
originally mentioned. As she was observed at this time to direct baleful
glances towards the Marshalsea, it has been supposed that this admirably
consistent female intended by ‘him,’ Arthur Clennam. This, however, is
mere speculation; who the person was, who, for the satisfaction of Mr
F.’s Aunt’s mind, ought to have been brought forward and never was
brought forward, will never be positively known.
The autumn days went on, and Little Dorrit never came to the Marshalsea
now and went away without seeing him. No, no, no.
One morning, as Arthur listened for the light feet that every morning
ascended winged to his heart, bringing the heavenly brightness of a new
love into the room where the old love had wrought so hard and been so
true; one morning, as he listened, he heard her coming, not alone.
‘Dear Arthur,’ said her delighted voice outside the door, ‘I have some
one here. May I bring some one in?’
He had thought from the tread there were two with her. He answered
‘Yes,’ and she came in with Mr Meagles. Sun-browned and jolly Mr
Meagles looked, and he opened his arms and folded Arthur in them, like a
sun-browned and jolly father.
‘Now I am all right,’ said Mr Meagles, after a minute or so. ‘Now it’s
over. Arthur, my dear fellow, confess at once that you expected me
before.’
‘I did,’ said Arthur; ‘but Amy told me--’
‘Little Dorrit. Never any other name.’ (It was she who whispered it.)
‘--But my Little Dorrit told me that, without asking for any further
explanation, I was not to expect you until I saw you.’
‘And now you see me, my boy,’ said Mr Meagles, shaking him by the hand
stoutly; ‘and now you shall have any explanation and every explanation.
The fact is, I _was_ here--came straight to you from the Allongers
and Marshongers, or I should be ashamed to look you in the face this
day,--but you were not in company trim at the moment, and I had to start
off again to catch Doyce.’
‘Poor Doyce!’ sighed Arthur.
‘Don’t call him names that he don’t deserve,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘_He’s_
not poor; _he’s_ doing well enough. Doyce is a wonderful fellow over
there. I assure you he is making out his case like a house a-fire. He
has fallen on his legs, has Dan. Where they don’t want things done and
find a man to do ‘em, that man’s off his legs; but where they do want
things done and find a man to do ‘em, that man’s on his legs. You won’t
have occasion to trouble the Circumlocution Office any more. Let me tell
you, Dan has done without ‘em!’
‘What a load you take from my mind!’ cried Arthur. ‘What happiness you
give me!’
‘Happiness?’ retorted Mr Meagles. ‘Don’t talk about happiness till you
see Dan. I assure you Dan is directing works and executing labours over
yonder, that it would make your hair stand on end to look at. He’s no
public offender, bless you, now! He’s medalled and ribboned, and starred
and crossed, and I don’t-know-what all’d, like a born nobleman. But we
mustn’t talk about that over here.’
‘Why not?’
‘Oh, egad!’ said Mr Meagles, shaking his head very seriously, ‘he must
hide all those things under lock and key when he comes over here. They
won’t do over here. In that particular, Britannia is a Britannia in the
Manger--won’t give her children such distinctions herself, and won’t
allow them to be seen when they are given by other countries. No, no,
Dan!’ said Mr Meagles, shaking his head again. ‘That won’t do here!’
‘If you had brought me (except for Doyce’s sake) twice what I have
lost,’ cried Arthur, ‘you would not have given me the pleasure that you
give me in this news.’
‘Why, of course, of course,’ assented Mr Meagles. ‘Of course I know
that, my good fellow, and therefore I come out with it in the first
burst. Now, to go back, about catching Doyce. I caught Doyce. Ran
against him among a lot of those dirty brown dogs in women’s nightcaps a
great deal too big for ‘em, calling themselves Arabs and all sorts of
incoherent races. _You_ know ‘em! Well! He was coming straight to me,
and I was going to him, and so we came back together.’
‘Doyce in England!’ exclaimed Arthur.
‘There!’ said Mr Meagles, throwing open his arms. ‘I am the worst man
in the world to manage a thing of this sort. I don’t know what I should
have done if I had been in the diplomatic line--right, perhaps! The long
and short of it is, Arthur, we have both been in England this fortnight.
And if you go on to ask where Doyce is at the present moment, why, my
plain answer is--here he is! And now I can breathe again at last!’
Doyce darted in from behind the door, caught Arthur by both hands, and
said the rest for himself.
‘There are only three branches of my subject, my dear Clennam,’ said
Doyce, proceeding to mould them severally, with his plastic thumb, on
the palm of his hand, ‘and they’re soon disposed of. First, not a word
more from you about the past. There was an error in your calculations.
I know what that is. It affects the whole machine, and failure is the
consequence. You will profit by the failure, and will avoid it another
time. I have done a similar thing myself, in construction, often. Every
failure teaches a man something, if he will learn; and you are too
sensible a man not to learn from this failure. So much for firstly.
Secondly. I was sorry you should have taken it so heavily to heart, and
reproached yourself so severely; I was travelling home night and day
to put matters right, with the assistance of our friend, when I fell in
with our friend as he has informed you. Thirdly. We two agreed, that,
after what you had undergone, after your distress of mind, and after
your illness, it would be a pleasant surprise if we could so far keep
quiet as to get things perfectly arranged without your knowledge, and
then come and say that all the affairs were smooth, that everything was
right, that the business stood in greater want of you than ever it did,
and that a new and prosperous career was opened before you and me as
partners. That’s thirdly. But you know we always make an allowance for
friction, and so I have reserved space to close in. My dear Clennam,
I thoroughly confide in you; you have it in your power to be quite as
useful to me as I have, or have had, it in my power to be useful to you;
your old place awaits you, and wants you very much; there is nothing to
detain you here one half-hour longer.’
There was silence, which was not broken until Arthur had stood for some
time at the window with his back towards them, and until his little wife
that was to be had gone to him and stayed by him.
‘I made a remark a little while ago,’ said Daniel Doyce then, ‘which I
am inclined to think was an incorrect one. I said there was nothing
to detain you here, Clennam, half an hour longer. Am I mistaken in
supposing that you would rather not leave here till to-morrow morning?
Do I know, without being very wise, where you would like to go, direct
from these walls and from this room?’
‘You do,’ returned Arthur. ‘It has been our cherished purpose.’
‘Very well!’ said Doyce. ‘Then, if this young lady will do me the honour
of regarding me for four-and-twenty hours in the light of a father, and
will take a ride with me now towards Saint Paul’s Churchyard, I dare say
I know what we want to get there.’
Little Dorrit and he went out together soon afterwards, and Mr Meagles
lingered behind to say a word to his friend.
‘I think, Arthur, you will not want Mother and me in the morning and
we will keep away. It might set Mother thinking about Pet; she’s a
soft-hearted woman. She’s best at the Cottage, and I’ll stay there and
keep her company.’
With that they parted for the time. And the day ended, and the night
ended, and the morning came, and Little Dorrit, simply dressed as usual
and having no one with her but Maggy, came into the prison with the
sunshine. The poor room was a happy room that morning. Where in the
world was there a room so full of quiet joy!
‘My dear love,’ said Arthur. ‘Why does Maggy light the fire? We shall be
gone directly.’
‘I asked her to do it. I have taken such an odd fancy. I want you to
burn something for me.’
‘What?’
‘Only this folded paper. If you will put it in the fire with your own
hand, just as it is, my fancy will be gratified.’
‘Superstitious, darling Little Dorrit? Is it a charm?’
‘It is anything you like best, my own,’ she answered, laughing with
glistening eyes and standing on tiptoe to kiss him, ‘if you will only
humour me when the fire burns up.’
So they stood before the fire, waiting: Clennam with his arm about her
waist, and the fire shining, as fire in that same place had often shone,
in Little Dorrit’s eyes. ‘Is it bright enough now?’ said Arthur. ‘Quite
bright enough now,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘Does the charm want any words
to be said?’ asked Arthur, as he held the paper over the flame. ‘You can
say (if you don’t mind) “I love you!”’ answered Little Dorrit. So he said
it, and the paper burned away.
They passed very quietly along the yard; for no one was there, though
many heads were stealthily peeping from the windows. Only one face,
familiar of old, was in the Lodge. When they had both accosted it, and
spoken many kind words, Little Dorrit turned back one last time with her
hand stretched out, saying, ‘Good-bye, good John! I hope you will live
very happy, dear!’
Then they went up the steps of the neighbouring Saint George’s Church,