Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens (suggested reading .TXT) 📕

necessary one. The time when you and this prison had anything in common has long gone by. Do you understand?”

“O! you will never say to me,” she cried, weeping bitterly, and holding up her clasped hands in entreaty, “that I am not to come back any more! You will surely not desert me so!”

“I would say it, if I could; but I have not the courage quite to shut out this dear face, and abandon all hope of its return. But do not come soon, do not come often! This is now a tainted place, and I well know the taint of it clings to me. You belong to much brighter and better scenes. You are not to look back here, my Little Dorrit; you are to look away to very different and much happier paths. Again, God bless you in them! God reward you!”

Maggy, who had fallen into very low spirits, here cried, “Oh get him into a hospital; do get him into a hospital, Mother! He’ll never look like hisself again, if he an’t got into a hospital. And then the little woman as was always a spinning at her wheel, she can go to the cupboard with the Princess, and say, what do you keep the Chicking there for? and then they can take it out and give it to him, and then all be happy!”

The interruption was seasonable, for the bell had nearly rung itself out. Again tenderly wrapping her mantle about her, and taking her on his arm (though, but for her visit, he was almost too weak to walk), Arthur led Little Dorrit downstairs. She was the last visitor to pass out at the Lodge, and the gate jarred heavily and hopelessly upon her.

With the funeral clang that it sounded into Arthur’s heart, his sense of weakness returned. It was a toilsome journey upstairs to his room, and he re-entered its dark solitary precincts in unutterable misery.

When it was almost midnight, and the prison had long been quiet, a cautious creak came up the stairs, and a cautious tap of a key was given at his door. It was Young John. He glided in, in his stockings, and held the door closed, while he spoke in a whisper.

“It’s against all rules, but I don’t mind. I was determined to come through, and come to you.”

“What is the matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter, sir. I was waiting in the courtyard for Miss Dorrit when she came out. I thought you’d like someone to see that she was safe.”

“Thank you, thank you! You took her home, John?”

“I saw her to her hotel. The same that Mr. Dorrit was at. Miss Dorrit walked all the way, and talked to me so kind, it quite knocked me over. Why do you think she walked instead of riding?”

“I don’t know, John.”

“To talk about you. She said to me, ‘John, you was always honourable, and if you’ll promise me that you will take care of him, and never let him want for help and comfort when I am not there, my mind will be at rest so far.’ I promised her. And I’ll stand by you,” said John Chivery, “forever!”

Clennam, much affected, stretched out his hand to this honest spirit.

“Before I take it,” said John, looking at it, without coming from the door, “guess what message Miss Dorrit gave me.”

Clennam shook his head.

“ ‘Tell him,’ ” repeated John, in a distinct, though quavering voice, “ ‘that his Little Dorrit sent him her undying love.’ Now it’s delivered. Have I been honourable, sir?”

“Very, very!”

“Will you tell Miss Dorrit I’ve been honourable, sir?”

“I will indeed.”

“There’s my hand, sir,” said John, “and I’ll stand by you forever!”

After a hearty squeeze, he disappeared with the same cautious creak upon the stair, crept shoeless over the pavement of the yard, and, locking the gates behind him, passed out into the front where he had left his shoes. If the same way had been paved with burning ploughshares, it is not at all improbable that John would have traversed it with the same devotion, for the same purpose.

XXX Closing In

The last day of the appointed week touched the bars of the Marshalsea gate. Black, all night, since the gate had clashed upon Little Dorrit, its iron stripes were turned by the early-glowing sun into stripes of gold. Far aslant across the city, over its jumbled roofs, and through the open tracery of its church towers, struck the long bright rays, bars of the prison of this lower world.

Throughout the day the old house within the gateway remained untroubled by any visitors. But, when the sun was low, three men turned in at the gateway and made for the dilapidated house.

Rigaud was the first, and walked by himself smoking. Mr. Baptist was the second, and jogged close after him, looking at no other object. Mr. Pancks was the third, and carried his hat under his arm for the liberation of his restive hair; the weather being extremely hot. They all came together at the doorsteps.

“You pair of madmen!” said Rigaud, facing about. “Don’t go yet!”

“We don’t mean to,” said Mr. Pancks.

Giving him a dark glance in acknowledgment of his answer, Rigaud knocked loudly. He had charged himself with drink, for the playing out of his game, and was impatient to begin. He had hardly finished one long resounding knock, when he turned to the knocker again and began another. That was not yet finished when Jeremiah Flintwinch opened the door, and they all clanked into the stone hall. Rigaud, thrusting Mr. Flintwinch aside, proceeded straight upstairs. His two attendants followed him, Mr. Flintwinch followed them, and they all came trooping into Mrs. Clennam’s quiet room. It was in its usual state; except that one of the windows was wide open, and Affery sat on its old-fashioned window-seat, mending a stocking. The usual articles were on the little table; the usual deadened fire was in the grate; the bed had its usual pall upon it; and the mistress of all sat on her black bier-like sofa,