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

good father he would be. How, with some such look, he would counsel and cherish his daughter.

“What I was going to tell you, sir,” said Little Dorrit, “is, that my brother is at large.”

Arthur was rejoiced to hear it, and hoped he would do well.

“And what I was going to tell you, sir,” said Little Dorrit, trembling in all her little figure and in her voice, “is, that I am not to know whose generosity released him⁠—am never to ask, and am never to be told, and am never to thank that gentleman with all my grateful heart!”

He would probably need no thanks, Clennam said. Very likely he would be thankful himself (and with reason), that he had had the means and chance of doing a little service to her, who well deserved a great one.

“And what I was going to say, sir, is,” said Little Dorrit, trembling more and more, “that if I knew him, and I might, I would tell him that he can never, never know how I feel his goodness, and how my good father would feel it. And what I was going to say, sir, is, that if I knew him, and I might⁠—but I don’t know him and I must not⁠—I know that!⁠—I would tell him that I shall never any more lie down to sleep without having prayed to Heaven to bless him and reward him. And if I knew him, and I might, I would go down on my knees to him, and take his hand and kiss it and ask him not to draw it away, but to leave it⁠—O to leave it for a moment⁠—and let my thankful tears fall on it; for I have no other thanks to give him!”

Little Dorrit had put his hand to her lips, and would have kneeled to him, but he gently prevented her, and replaced her in her chair. Her eyes, and the tones of her voice, had thanked him far better than she thought. He was not able to say, quite as composedly as usual, “There, Little Dorrit, there, there, there! We will suppose that you did know this person, and that you might do all this, and that it was all done. And now tell me, who am quite another person⁠—who am nothing more than the friend who begged you to trust him⁠—why you are out at midnight, and what it is that brings you so far through the streets at this late hour, my slight, delicate,” child was on his lips again, “Little Dorrit!”

“Maggy and I have been tonight,” she answered, subduing herself with the quiet effort that had long been natural to her, “to the theatre where my sister is engaged.”

“And oh ain’t it a Ev’nly place,” suddenly interrupted Maggy, who seemed to have the power of going to sleep and waking up whenever she chose. “Almost as good as a hospital. Only there ain’t no Chicking in it.”

Here she shook herself, and fell asleep again.

“We went there,” said Little Dorrit, glancing at her charge, “because I like sometimes to know, of my own knowledge, that my sister is doing well; and like to see her there, with my own eyes, when neither she nor Uncle is aware. It is very seldom indeed that I can do that, because when I am not out at work, I am with my father, and even when I am out at work, I hurry home to him. But I pretend tonight that I am at a party.”

As she made the confession, timidly hesitating, she raised her eyes to the face, and read its expression so plainly that she answered it.

“Oh no, certainly! I never was at a party in my life.”

She paused a little under his attentive look, and then said, “I hope there is no harm in it. I could never have been of any use, if I had not pretended a little.”

She feared that he was blaming her in his mind for so devising to contrive for them, think for them, and watch over them, without their knowledge or gratitude; perhaps even with their reproaches for supposed neglect. But what was really in his mind, was the weak figure with its strong purpose, the thin worn shoes, the insufficient dress, and the pretence of recreation and enjoyment. He asked where the suppositious party was? At a place where she worked, answered Little Dorrit, blushing. She had said very little about it; only a few words to make her father easy. Her father did not believe it to be a grand party⁠—indeed he might suppose that. And she glanced for an instant at the shawl she wore.

“It is the first night,” said Little Dorrit, “that I have ever been away from home. And London looks so large, so barren, and so wild.” In Little Dorrit’s eyes, its vastness under the black sky was awful; a tremor passed over her as she said the words.

“But this is not,” she added, with the quiet effort again, “what I have come to trouble you with, sir. My sister’s having found a friend, a lady she has told me of and made me rather anxious about, was the first cause of my coming away from home. And being away, and coming (on purpose) round by where you lived and seeing a light in the window⁠—”

Not for the first time. No, not for the first time. In Little Dorrit’s eyes, the outside of that window had been a distant star on other nights than this. She had toiled out of her way, tired and troubled, to look up at it, and wonder about the grave, brown gentleman from so far off, who had spoken to her as a friend and protector.

“There were three things,” said Little Dorrit, “that I thought I would like to say, if you were alone and I might come upstairs. First, what I have tried to say, but never can⁠—never shall⁠—”

“Hush, hush! That is done with, and disposed of. Let us pass