Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens (best books to read for students TXT) đ
- Author: Charles Dickens
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âVery much,â said Arthur, withdrawing his eyes from the delicate head beginning to droop and the pale face with a new solicitude stealing over it.
âIt is so generous, and shows so much fine feeling, that it is almost a duty to mention it. I said at the time that I always would mention it on every suitable occasion, without regard to personal sensitiveness. Aâwellâaâitâs of no use to disguise the factâyou must know, Mr Clennam, that it does sometimes occur that people who come here desire to offer some littleâTestimonialâto the Father of the place.â
To see her hand upon his arm in mute entreaty half-repressed, and her timid little shrinking figure turning away, was to see a sad, sad sight.
âSometimes,â he went on in a low, soft voice, agitated, and clearing his throat every now and then; âsometimesâhemâit takes one shape and sometimes another; but it is generallyâhaâMoney. And it is, I cannot but confess it, it is too oftenâhemâ acceptable. This gentleman that I refer to, was presented to me, Mr Clennam, in a manner highly gratifying to my feelings, and conversed not only with great politeness, but with greatâahemâ information.â All this time, though he had finished his supper, he was nervously going about his plate with his knife and fork, as if some of it were still before him. âIt appeared from his conversation that he had a garden, though he was delicate of mentioning it at first, as gardens areâhemâare not accessible to me. But it came out, through my admiring a very fine cluster of geraniumâbeautiful cluster of geranium to be sureâwhich he had brought from his conservatory. On my taking notice of its rich colour, he showed me a piece of paper round it, on which was written, âFor the Father of the Marshalsea,â and presented it to me. But this wasâhemânot all. He made a particular request, on taking leave, that I would remove the paper in half an hour. Iâ haâI did so; and I found that it containedâahemâtwo guineas. I assure you, Mr Clennam, I have receivedâhemâTestimonials in many ways, and of many degrees of value, and they have always beenâhaâ unfortunately acceptable; but I never was more pleased than with thisâahemâthis particular Testimonial.â Arthur was in the act of saying the little he could say on such a theme, when a bell began to ring, and footsteps approached the door. A pretty girl of a far better figure and much more developed than Little Dorrit, though looking much younger in the face when the two were observed together, stopped in the doorway on seeing a stranger; and a young man who was with her, stopped too.
âMr Clennam, Fanny. My eldest daughter and my son, Mr Clennam. The bell is a signal for visitors to retire, and so they have come to say good night; but there is plenty of time, plenty of time. Girls, Mr Clennam will excuse any household business you may have together. He knows, I dare say, that I have but one room here.â
âI only want my clean dress from Amy, father,â said the second girl.
âAnd I my clothes,â said Tip.
Amy opened a drawer in an old piece of furniture that was a chest of drawers above and a bedstead below, and produced two little bundles, which she handed to her brother and sister. âMended and made up?â Clennam heard the sister ask in a whisper. To which Amy answered âYes.â He had risen now, and took the opportunity of glancing round the room. The bare walls had been coloured green, evidently by an unskilled hand, and were poorly decorated with a few prints. The window was curtained, and the floor carpeted; and there were shelves and pegs, and other such conveniences, that had accumulated in the course of years. It was a close, confined room, poorly furnished; and the chimney smoked to boot, or the tin screen at the top of the fireplace was superfluous; but constant pains and care had made it neat, and even, after its kind, comfortable. All the while the bell was ringing, and the uncle was anxious to go. âCome, Fanny, come, Fanny,â he said, with his ragged clarionet case under his arm; âthe lock, child, the lock!â
Fanny bade her father good night, and whisked off airily. Tip had already clattered downstairs. âNow, Mr Clennam,â said the uncle, looking back as he shuffled out after them, âthe lock, sir, the lock.â
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.
âAllow me,â said the Father, âto see you downstairs.â
She had slipped out after the rest, and they were alone. âNot on any account,â said the visitor, hurriedly. âPray allow me toââ chink, chink, chink.
âMr Clennam,â said the Father, âI am deeply, deeplyââ 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.
âPray forgive me,â he said, âfor 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.â
She was scared at first, but seemed to take courage while he spoke to her.
âYou are very good, sir. You speak very earnestly to me. But Iâ but I wish you had not watched me.â
He understood the emotion with which she said it, to arise in her fatherâs behalf; and he respected it, and was silent.
âMrs Clennam has been of great service to me; I donât 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.â âLet me ask you one question before I leave. Have you known my mother long?â
âI think two years, sir,âThe bell has stopped.â
âHow did you know her first? Did she send here for you?â
âNo. She does not even know that I live here. We have a friend, father and Iâa poor labouring man, but the best of friendsâand 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!â
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.
âCaught, eh?â said the voice. âYou wonât go home till morning. Oh! Itâs you, is it, Mr Clennam?â
The voice was Tipâs; and they stood looking at one another in the prison-yard, as it began to rain.
âYouâve done it,â observed Tip; âyou must be sharper than that next time.â
âBut you are locked in too,â said Arthur.
âI believe I am!â said Tip, sarcastically. âAbout! But not in your way. I belong to the shop, only my sister has a theory that our governor must never know it. I donât see why, myself.â
âCan I get any shelter?â asked Arthur. âWhat had I better do?â
âWe had better get hold of Amy first of all,â said Tip, referring any difficulty to her as a matter of course.
âI would rather walk about all nightâitâs not much to doâthan give that trouble.â
âYou neednât do that, if you donât mind paying for a bed. If you donât mind paying, theyâll make you up one on the Snuggery table, under the circumstances. If youâll come along, Iâll introduce you there.â
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. âYes, sir,â said Tip, following his glance. âThatâs the governorâs. Sheâll sit with him for another hour reading yesterdayâs paper to him, or something of that sort; and then sheâll come out like a little ghost, and vanish away without a sound.â
âI donât understand you.â
âThe governor sleeps up in the room, and she has a lodging at the turnkeyâs. First house there,â said Tip, pointing out the doorway into which she had retired. âFirst 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.â
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 point of analogy, requiring plenty of it, the Snuggery was defective; being but a cooped-up apartment.
The unaccustomed visitor from outside, naturally assumed everybody here to be prisonersâlandlord, waiter, barmaid, potboy, and all. Whether they were or not, did not appear; but they all had a weedy look. The keeper of a chandlerâs shop in a front parlour, who took in gentlemen boarders, lent his assistance in making the bed. He had been a tailor in his time, and had kept a phaeton, he said. He boasted that he stood up litigiously for the interests of the college; and he had undefined and undefinable ideas that the marshal intercepted a âFund,â which ought to come to the collegians. He liked to believe this, and always impressed the shadowy grievance on newcomers and strangers; though he could not, for his life, have explained what Fund he meant, or how the notion had got rooted in his soul. He had fully convinced himself, notwithstanding, that his own proper share of the Fund was three and ninepence a week; and that in this amount he, as an individual collegian, was swindled by the marshal, regularly every Monday. Apparently, he helped to make the bed,
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