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

said the uncle, looking back as he shuffled out after them, “the lock, sir, the lock.”

Mr. Clennam had two things to do before he followed; one, to offer his testimonial to the Father of the Marshalsea, without giving pain to his child; the other to say something to that child, though it were but a word, in explanation of his having come there.

“Allow me,” said the Father, “to see you downstairs.”

She had slipped out after the rest, and they were alone. “Not on any account,” said the visitor, hurriedly. “Pray allow me to⁠—” chink, chink, chink.

“Mr. Clennam,” said the Father, “I am deeply, deeply⁠—” But his visitor had shut up his hand to stop the clinking, and had gone downstairs with great speed.

He saw no Little Dorrit on his way down, or in the yard. The last two or three stragglers were hurrying to the lodge, and he was following, when he caught sight of her in the doorway of the first house from the entrance. He turned back hastily.

“Pray forgive me,” he said, “for speaking to you here; pray forgive me for coming here at all! I followed you tonight. I did so, that I might endeavour to render you and your family some service. You know the terms on which I and my mother are, and may not be surprised that I have preserved our distant relations at her house, lest I should unintentionally make her jealous, or resentful, or do you any injury in her estimation. What I have seen here, in this short time, has greatly increased my heartfelt wish to be a friend to you. It would recompense me for much disappointment if I could hope to gain your confidence.”

She was scared at first, but seemed to take courage while he spoke to her.

“You are very good, sir. You speak very earnestly to me. But I⁠—but I wish you had not watched me.”

He understood the emotion with which she said it, to arise in her father’s behalf; and he respected it, and was silent.

“Mrs. Clennam has been of great service to me; I don’t know what we should have done without the employment she has given me; I am afraid it may not be a good return to become secret with her; I can say no more tonight, sir. I am sure you mean to be kind to us. Thank you, thank you.”

“Let me ask you one question before I leave. Have you known my mother long?”

“I think two years, sir⁠—The bell has stopped.”

“How did you know her first? Did she send here for you?”

“No. She does not even know that I live here. We have a friend, father and I⁠—a poor labouring man, but the best of friends⁠—and I wrote out that I wished to do needlework, and gave his address. And he got what I wrote out displayed at a few places where it cost nothing, and Mrs. Clennam found me that way, and sent for me. The gate will be locked, sir!”

She was so tremulous and agitated, and he was so moved by compassion for her, and by deep interest in her story as it dawned upon him, that he could scarcely tear himself away. But the stoppage of the bell, and the quiet in the prison, were a warning to depart; and with a few hurried words of kindness he left her gliding back to her father.

But he remained too late. The inner gate was locked, and the lodge closed. After a little fruitless knocking with his hand, he was standing there with the disagreeable conviction upon him that he had got to get through the night, when a voice accosted him from behind.

“Caught, eh?” said the voice. “You won’t go home till morning. Oh! It’s you, is it, Mr. Clennam?”

The voice was Tip’s; and they stood looking at one another in the prison-yard, as it began to rain.

“You’ve done it,” observed Tip; “you must be sharper than that next time.”

“But you are locked in too,” said Arthur.

“I believe I am!” said Tip, sarcastically. “About! But not in your way. I belong to the shop, only my sister has a theory that our governor must never know it. I don’t see why, myself.”

“Can I get any shelter?” asked Arthur. “What had I better do?”

“We had better get hold of Amy first of all,” said Tip, referring any difficulty to her as a matter of course.

“I would rather walk about all night⁠—it’s not much to do⁠—than give that trouble.”

“You needn’t do that, if you don’t mind paying for a bed. If you don’t mind paying, they’ll make you up one on the Snuggery table, under the circumstances. If you’ll come along, I’ll introduce you there.”

As they passed down the yard, Arthur looked up at the window of the room he had lately left, where the light was still burning. “Yes, sir,” said Tip, following his glance. “That’s the governor’s. She’ll sit with him for another hour reading yesterday’s paper to him, or something of that sort; and then she’ll come out like a little ghost, and vanish away without a sound.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“The governor sleeps up in the room, and she has a lodging at the turnkey’s. First house there,” said Tip, pointing out the doorway into which she had retired. “First house, sky parlour. She pays twice as much for it as she would for one twice as good outside. But she stands by the governor, poor dear girl, day and night.”

This brought them to the tavern-establishment at the upper end of the prison, where the collegians had just vacated their social evening club. The apartment on the ground-floor in which it was held, was the Snuggery in question; the presidential tribune of the chairman, the pewter-pots, glasses, pipes, tobacco-ashes, and general flavour of members, were still as that convivial institution had left them on its adjournment. The Snuggery had two of the qualities popularly held to be essential to grog for ladies, in respect that it was hot and strong; but in the third