"Are they very pretty, Bob?" She called him Bob, by his own particular
request and instruction.
"Lovely. Full of flowers. There's buttercups, and there's daisies, and
there's"--the turnkey hesitated, being short of names--"there's
dandelions, and all manner of games."
"Is it very pleasant to be there, Bob?"
"Prime," said the turnkey.
"Was father ever there?"
"Hem!" coughed the turnkey. "Oh, yes, he was there, sometimes."
"Is he sorry not to be there now?"
"N--not particular," said the turnkey.
"Nor any of the people?" she asked, glancing at the listless crowd
within. "Oh, are you quite sure and certain, Bob?"
At this difficult point of the conversation Bob gave in, and changed the
subject; always his last resource when he found his little friend
getting him into a political, social, or theological corner. But this
was the origin of a series of Sunday excursions that these two curious
companions made together. They used to issue from the lodge on
alternate Sunday afternoons with great gravity, bound for some meadows
or green lanes that had been elaborately appointed by the turnkey in the
course of the week; and there she picked grass and flowers to bring
home, while he smoked his pipe. Afterwards they would come back hand in
hand, unless she was more than usually tired, and had fallen asleep on
his shoulder.
In those early days the turnkey first began profoundly to consider a
question which cost him so much mental labor, that it remained
undetermined on the day of his death. He decided to will and bequeath
his little property of savings to his godchild, and the point arose how
could it be so "tied up" that she alone should benefit by it. He asked
the knotty question of every lawyer who came through the lodge gate on
business.
"Settle it strictly on herself," the gentleman would answer.
"But look here," quoth the turnkey. "Supposing she had, say a brother,
say a father, say a husband, who would be likely to make a grab at that
property when she came into it--how about that?"
"It would be settled on herself, and they would have no more legal claim
on it than you," would be the professional answer.
"Stop a bit," said the turnkey. "Supposing she was tender-hearted, and
they came over her. Where's your law for tying it up then?"
The deepest character whom the turnkey sounded was unable to produce his
law for tying such a knot as that. So, the turnkey thought about it all
his life, and died without a will after all.
But that was long afterwards, when his god-daughter was past sixteen.
She was only eight when her mother died, and from that time the
protection that her wondering eyes had expressed towards her father
became embodied in action, and the Child of the Marshalsea took upon
herself a new relation.
At first, such a baby could do little more than sit with him, deserting
her livelier place by the high fender, and quietly watching him. But
this made her so far necessary to him that he became accustomed to her,
and began to be sensible of missing her when she was not there. Through
this little gate she passed out of childhood into the care-laden world.
What her pitiful look saw, at that early time, in her father, in her
sister, in her brother, in the jail; how much, or how little of the
wretched truth it pleased God to make visible to her, lies hidden with
many mysteries. It is enough that she was inspired to be something
which was not what the rest were, and for the sake of the rest.
And while the mark of the prison was seen only too clearly in her vain,
selfish sister, and weak, wayward brother, Little Dorrit's life was
singularly free from taint; her heart was full of service and love.
And so, in spite of her small stature and want of strength, she toiled
and planned, and soon became the real head of this poor, fallen house.
At thirteen, she could read and keep accounts--that is, could put down
in words and figures how much the bare necessaries that they wanted
would cost, and how much less they had to buy them with. She had been,
by snatches of a few weeks at a time, to an evening school outside, and
got her sister and brother sent to day schools during three or four
years. There was no instruction for any of them at home; but she knew
well--no one better--that her broken-spirited father could no longer
help them.
To these scanty means of improvement, she added another of her own
contriving. Once, among the curious crowd of inmates, there appeared a
dancing-master. Her sister Fanny had a great desire to learn to dance,
and seemed to have a taste that way. At thirteen years old, the Child
of the Marshalsea presented herself to the dancing-master, with a little
bag in her hand, and said timidly, "If you please, I was born here,
sir."
"Oh! You are the young lady, are you?" said the man, surveying the
small figure and uplifted face.
"Yes, sir."
"And what can I do for you?"
"Nothing for me, sir, thank you," anxiously undrawing the strings of the
little bag; "but if, while you stay here, you could be so kind as to
teach my sister cheap--"
"My child, I'll teach her for nothing," said the dancing-master,
shutting up the bag.
He was as good-natured a master as ever danced to the Insolvent Court,
and he kept his word. Fanny was so apt a pupil, and made such wonderful
progress that he continued to teach her after he was released from
prison. In time, he obtained a place for her at a small theatre. It was
at the same theatre where her uncle--who was also now a poor man--played
a clarinet for a living; and Fanny left the Marshalsea and went to live
with him.
The success of this beginning gave Little Dorrit courage to try again,
this time on her own behalf. She had long wanted to learn how to sew,
and watched and waited for a seamstress to come to the prison. At last
one came, and Little Dorrit went to call upon her.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am," she said, looking timidly round the door of
the milliner, whom she found in tears and in bed; "but I was born here."
Everybody seemed to hear of her as soon as they arrived; for the
milliner sat up in bed, drying her eyes, and said, just as the
dancing-master had said,
"Oh! _You_ are the child, are you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I am sorry I haven't got anything for you," said the milliner, shaking
her head.
"It's not that, ma'am. If you please I want to learn needlework."
"Why should you do that," returned the milliner, "with me before you?
It has not done me much good."
"Nothing--whatever it is--seems to have done anybody much good who comes
here," she returned in all simplicity; "but I want to learn, just the
same."
"I am afraid you are so weak, you see," the milliner objected.
"I don't think I am weak, ma'am."
"And you are so very, very little, you see," continued the milliner.
"Yes, I am afraid I am very little indeed," returned the Child of the
Marshalsea; and so began to sob over that unfortunate defect of hers,
which came so often in her way. The milliner--who was not morose or
hard-hearted, only newly insolvent--was touched, took her in hand with
good-will, found her the most patient and earnest of pupils, and made
her a cunning workwoman in course of time.
And so, presently, Little Dorrit had the immense satisfaction of going
out to work by the day, and of supplying her father with many little
comforts which otherwise he would not have enjoyed.
But her hardest task was in getting her brother out of prison and into
some useful employment. The life there had been anything but good for
him; and at eighteen he was idle and shiftless, not caring to lift a
finger for himself. In her dilemma, Little Dorrit went to her old
friend, the turnkey.
"Dear Bob," said she, "what is to become of poor Tip?"
The turnkey scratched his head. Privately he had a poor opinion of the
young man.
"Well, my dear," he answered, "something ought to be done with him.
Suppose I try to get him into the law?"
"That would be so good of you, Bob!"
The turnkey was as good as his word, and by dint of buttonholing every
lawyer who came through the gate on business, he found Tip a place as
clerk, where the pay was not large, but the prospects good.
Tip idled away in the law office for six months, then came back to the
prison one evening with his hands in his pockets and told his sister he
was not going back again.
"Not going back!" she exclaimed.
"I am so tired of it," said Tip, "that I have cut it."
Tip tired of everything. With intervals of Marshalsea lounging, his
small second mother, aided by her trusty friend, got him into a variety
of situations. But whatever Tip went into, he came out of tired,
announcing that he had cut it.
Nevertheless, the brave little creature did so fix her heart on her
brother's rescue, that while he was ringing out these doleful changes,
she pinched and scraped enough together to ship him for Canada. When he
was tired of nothing to do, and disposed in its turn to cut even that,
he graciously consented to go to Canada. And there was grief in her
bosom over parting with him, and joy in the hope of his being put in a
straight course at last.
"God bless you, dear Tip. Don't be too proud to come and see us, when
you have made your fortune."
"All right!" said Tip, and went.
But not all the way to Canada; in fact, not farther than Liverpool.
After making the voyage to that port from London, he found himself so
strongly impelled to cut the vessel, that he resolved to walk back
again. Carrying out which intention, he presented himself before her at
the expiration of a month, in rags, without shoes, and much more tired
than ever.
At length he found a situation for himself, and disappeared for months.
She never heard from him but once in that time, though it was as well
for her peace of mind that she did not. He was making trades for a
tricky horse dealer.
One evening she was alone at work--standing up at the window, to save
the twilight lingering above the wall--when he opened the door and
walked in.
She kissed and welcomed him; but was afraid to ask him any question. He
saw how anxious and timid she was, and appeared sorry.
"I am afraid, Amy, you'll be vexed this time. Upon my life I am!"
"I am very sorry to hear you say so, Tip. Have you come back?"
"Why--yes. But that's not the worst of it."
"Not the worst of it?"
"Don't look so startled, Amy. I've come back in a new way. I'm one of
the prisoners now. I owe forty pounds."
For the first time in all those years, she sank under her cares. She
cried, with her clasped hands lifted above her head, that it would kill
their father if he ever knew it; and fell down at Tip's graceless feet.
It was easier for Tip to bring her to her senses, than for her to bring
_him_ to understand what a pitiable thing he had done. But he agreed to
help keep it a secret from their father; and Little Dorrit toiled harder
than ever, in the hope of one day getting him out again.
Thus passed the life of the Child of the Marshalsea until she became a
young woman.
*II. HOW THE PRISON GATES WERE OPENED*
Among the ladies for whom Little Dorrit sewed by the day was a Mrs.
Clennam, a cold, stern person who lived in a cold, stern house. Yet she
gave the child plenty of work and paid her fairly well. So Little
Dorrit was often to be found in some gloomy corner there, sewing away
busily and adding nothing at all to the few far-away sounds of the quiet
old rooms.
Mrs. Clennam lived alone, except for a dried-up servant or two, and she
herself had lost the use of her limbs. So it is no wonder that the
house was gloomy, and that Mrs. Clennam's son Arthur found it so, when
he returned from a long visit in India. Arthur Clennam was a young man
who had ideas of his own, and who had disappointed his mother by
refusing to continue his father's business. They were not in
sympathy--which made the house seem all the colder. But he was kind,
open-hearted, and impulsive.
Though timid Little Dorrit kept as much in the dark corners as possible,
Arthur soon noticed her, and asked one of the old servants who she was.
He could learn nothing except that she was a seamstress who came by the
day to sew, and who went away every night, no one knew where. The child
interested him, and he resolved to follow her one evening and learn
where she lived. He did so, and was amazed to see her enter the gate of
a large forbidding building,--he did not know what building, as he had
been long abroad.
Just then he saw an old man, in a threadbare coat, once blue, come
tottering along, carrying a clarinet in a limp, worn-out case. As this
old man was about to enter the same gate, Arthur stopped him with a
question.
"Pray, sir," said he, "what is this place?"
"Ay! This place?" returned the old man, staying a pinch of snuff on its
road, and pointing at the place without looking at it. "This is the
Marshalsea, sir."
"The debtors' prison?"
"Sir," said the old man, with the air of deeming it not quite necessary
to insist upon that name, "the debtors' prison."
He turned himself about, and went on.
"I beg your pardon," said Arthur, stopping him once more, "but will you
allow me to ask you another question? Can any one go in here?"
"Any one can _go in_," replied the old man; "but it is not every one who
can go out."
"Pardon me once more. Are you familiar with the place?"
"Sir," returned the old man, squeezing his little packet of snuff in his
hand, and turning upon his interrogator as if such questions hurt him,
"I am."
"I beg you to excuse me. I am not impertinently curious, but have a
good object. Do you know the name of Dorrit here?"
"My name, sir," replied the old man most unexpectedly, "is Dorrit."
Arthur pulled off his hat to him. "Grant me the favor of half a dozen
words. I have recently come home to England after a long absence. I
have seen at my mother's--Mrs. Clennam in the city--a young woman
working at her needle, whom I have only heard addressed or spoken of as
Little Dorrit. I have felt sincerely interested in her, and have had a
great desire to know something more about her. I saw her, not a minute
before you came up, pass in at that door."