BOOK THE FIRST: POVERTY - CHAPTER 36 The Marshalsea becomes an Orphan

And now the day arrived when Mr Dorrit and his family were to leave

the prison for ever, and the stones of its much-trodden pavement

were to know them no more.

The interval had been short, but he had greatly complained of its

length, and had been imperious with Mr Rugg touching the delay. He

had been high with Mr Rugg, and had threatened to employ some one

else. He had requested Mr Rugg not to presume upon the place in

which he found him, but to do his duty, sir, and to do it with

promptitude. He had told Mr Rugg that he knew what lawyers and

agents were, and that he would not submit to imposition. On that

gentleman's humbly representing that he exerted himself to the

utmost, Miss Fanny was very short with him; desiring to know what

less he could do, when he had been told a dozen times that money

was no object, and expressing her suspicion that he forgot whom he

talked to.

Towards the Marshal, who was a Marshal of many years' standing, and

with whom he had never had any previous difference, Mr Dorrit

comported himself with severity. That officer, on personally

tendering his congratulations, offered the free use of two rooms in

his house for Mr Dorrit's occupation until his departure. Mr

Dorrit thanked him at the moment, and replied that he would think

of it; but the Marshal was no sooner gone than he sat down and

wrote him a cutting note, in which he remarked that he had never on

any former occasion had the honour of receiving his congratulations

(which was true, though indeed there had not been anything

particular to congratulate him upon), and that he begged, on behalf

of himself and family, to repudiate the Marshal's offer, with all

those thanks which its disinterested character and its perfect

independence of all worldly considerations demanded.

Although his brother showed so dim a glimmering of interest in

their altered fortunes that it was very doubtful whether he

understood them, Mr Dorrit caused him to be measured for new

raiment by the hosiers, tailors, hatters, and bootmakers whom he

called in for himself; and ordered that his old clothes should be

taken from him and burned. Miss Fanny and Mr Tip required no

direction in making an appearance of great fashion and elegance;

and the three passed this interval together at the best hotel in

the neighbourhood--though truly, as Miss Fanny said, the best was

very indifferent. In connection with that establishment, Mr Tip

hired a cabriolet, horse, and groom, a very neat turn out, which

was usually to be observed for two or three hours at a time gracing

the Borough High Street, outside the Marshalsea court-yard. A

modest little hired chariot and pair was also frequently to be seen

there; in alighting from and entering which vehicle, Miss Fanny

fluttered the Marshal's daughters by the display of inaccessible

bonnets.

A great deal of business was transacted in this short period.

Among other items, Messrs Peddle and Pool, solicitors, of Monument

Yard, were instructed by their client Edward Dorrit, Esquire, to

address a letter to Mr Arthur Clennam, enclosing the sum of twenty-

four pounds nine shillings and eightpence, being the amount of

principal and interest computed at the rate of five per cent. per

annum, in which their client believed himself to be indebted to Mr

Clennam. In making this communication and remittance, Messrs

Peddle and Pool were further instructed by their client to remind

Mr Clennam that the favour of the advance now repaid (including

gate-fees) had not been asked of him, and to inform him that it

would not have been accepted if it had been openly proffered in his

name. With which they requested a stamped receipt, and remained

his obedient servants. A great deal of business had likewise to be

done, within the so-soon-to-be-orphaned Marshalsea, by Mr Dorrit so

long its Father, chiefly arising out of applications made to him by

Collegians for small sums of money. To these he responded with the

greatest liberality, and with no lack of formality; always first

writing to appoint a time at which the applicant might wait upon

him in his room, and then receiving him in the midst of a vast

accumulation of documents, and accompanying his donation (for he

said in every such case, 'it is a donation, not a loan') with a

great deal of good counsel: to the effect that he, the expiring

Father of the Marshalsea, hoped to be long remembered, as an

example that a man might preserve his own and the general respect

even there.

The Collegians were not envious. Besides that they had a personal

and traditional regard for a Collegian of so many years' standing,

the event was creditable to the College, and made it famous in the

newspapers. Perhaps more of them thought, too, than were quite

aware of it, that the thing might in the lottery of chances have

happened to themselves, or that something of the sort might yet

happen to themselves some day or other. They took it very well.

A few were low at the thought of being left behind, and being left

poor; but even these did not grudge the family their brilliant

reverse. There might have been much more envy in politer places.

It seems probable that mediocrity of fortune would have been

disposed to be less magnanimous than the Collegians, who lived from

hand to mouth--from the pawnbroker's hand to the day's dinner.

They got up an address to him, which they presented in a neat frame

and glass (though it was not afterwards displayed in the family

mansion or preserved among the family papers); and to which he

returned a gracious answer. In that document he assured them, in

a Royal manner, that he received the profession of their attachment

with a full conviction of its sincerity; and again generally

exhorted them to follow his example--which, at least in so far as

coming into a great property was concerned, there is no doubt they

would have gladly imitated. He took the same occasion of inviting

them to a comprehensive entertainment, to be given to the whole

College in the yard, and at which he signified he would have the

honour of taking a parting glass to the health and happiness of all

those whom he was about to leave behind.

He did not in person dine at this public repast (it took place at

two in the afternoon, and his dinners now came in from the hotel at

six), but his son was so good as to take the head of the principal

table, and to be very free and engaging. He himself went about

among the company, and took notice of individuals, and saw that the

viands were of the quality he had ordered, and that all were

served. On the whole, he was like a baron of the olden time in a

rare good humour. At the conclusion of the repast, he pledged his

guests in a bumper of old Madeira; and told them that he hoped they

had enjoyed themselves, and what was more, that they would enjoy

themselves for the rest of the evening; that he wished them well;

and that he bade them welcome.

His health being drunk with acclamations, he was not so baronial

after all but that in trying to return thanks he broke down, in the

manner of a mere serf with a heart in his breast, and wept before

them all. After this great success, which he supposed to be a

failure, he gave them 'Mr Chivery and his brother officers;' whom

he had beforehand presented with ten pounds each, and who were all

in attendance. Mr Chivery spoke to the toast, saying, What you

undertake to lock up, lock up; but remember that you are, in the

words of the fettered African, a man and a brother ever. The list

of toasts disposed of, Mr Dorrit urbanely went through the motions

of playing a game of skittles with the Collegian who was the next

oldest inhabitant to himself; and left the tenantry to their

diversions.

But all these occurrences preceded the final day. And now the day

arrived when he and his family were to leave the prison for ever,

and when the stones of its much-trodden pavement were to know them

no more.

Noon was the hour appointed for the departure. As it approached,

there was not a Collegian within doors, nor a turnkey absent. The

latter class of gentlemen appeared in their Sunday clothes, and the

greater part of the Collegians were brightened up as much as

circumstances allowed. Two or three flags were even displayed, and

the children put on odds and ends of ribbon. Mr Dorrit himself, at

this trying time, preserved a serious but graceful dignity. Much

of his great attention was given to his brother, as to whose

bearing on the great occasion he felt anxious.

'My dear Frederick,' said he, 'if you will give me your arm we will

pass among our friends together. I think it is right that we

should go out arm in arm, my dear Frederick.'

'Hah!' said Frederick. 'Yes, yes, yes, yes.'

'And if, my dear Frederick--if you could, without putting any great

constraint upon yourself, throw a little (pray excuse me,

Frederick), a little Polish into your usual demeanour--'

'William, William,' said the other, shaking his head, 'it's for you

to do all that. I don't know how. All forgotten, forgotten!'

'But, my dear fellow,' returned William, 'for that very reason, if

for no other, you must positively try to rouse yourself. What you

have forgotten you must now begin to recall, my dear Frederick.

Your position--'

'Eh?' said Frederick.

'Your position, my dear Frederick.'

'Mine?' He looked first at his own figure, and then at his

brother's, and then, drawing a long breath, cried, 'Hah, to be

sure! Yes, yes, yes.'

'Your position, my dear Frederick, is now a fine one. Your

position, as my brother, is a very fine one. And I know that it

belongs to your conscientious nature to try to become worthy of it,

my dear Frederick, and to try to adorn it. To be no discredit to

it, but to adorn it.'

'William,' said the other weakly, and with a sigh, 'I will do

anything you wish, my brother, provided it lies in my power. Pray

be so kind as to recollect what a limited power mine is. What

would you wish me to do to-day, brother? Say what it is, only say

what it is.'

'My dearest Frederick, nothing. It is not worth troubling so good

a heart as yours with.'

'Pray trouble it,' returned the other. 'It finds it no trouble,

William, to do anything it can for you.'

William passed his hand across his eyes, and murmured with august

satisfaction, 'Blessings on your attachment, my poor dear fellow!'

Then he said aloud, 'Well, my dear Frederick, if you will only try,

as we walk out, to show that you are alive to the occasion --that

you think about it--'

'What would you advise me to think about it?' returned his

submissive brother.

'Oh! my dear Frederick, how can I answer you? I can only say

what, in leaving these good people, I think myself.'

'That's it!' cried his brother. 'That will help me.'

'I find that I think, my dear Frederick, and with mixed emotions in

which a softened compassion predominates, What will they do without

me!'

'True,' returned his brother. 'Yes, yes, yes, yes. I'll think

that as we go, What will they do without my brother! Poor things!

What will they do without him!'

Twelve o'clock having just struck, and the carriage being reported

ready in the outer court-yard, the brothers proceeded down-stairs

arm-in-arm. Edward Dorrit, Esquire (once Tip), and his sister

Fanny followed, also arm-in-arm; Mr Plornish and Maggy, to whom had

been entrusted the removal of such of the family effects as were

considered worth removing, followed, bearing bundles and burdens to

be packed in a cart.

In the yard, were the Collegians and turnkeys. In the yard, were

Mr Pancks and Mr Rugg, come to see the last touch given to their

work. In the yard, was Young John making a new epitaph for

himself, on the occasion of his dying of a broken heart. In the

yard, was the Patriarchal Casby, looking so tremendously benevolent

that many enthusiastic Collegians grasped him fervently by the

hand, and the wives and female relatives of many more Collegians

kissed his hand, nothing doubting that he had done it all. In the

yard, was the man with the shadowy grievance respecting the Fund

which the Marshal embezzled, who had got up at five in the morning

to complete the copying of a perfectly unintelligible history of

that transaction, which he had committed to Mr Dorrit's care, as a

document of the last importance, calculated to stun the Government

and effect the Marshal's downfall. In the yard, was the insolvent

whose utmost energies were always set on getting into debt, who

broke into prison with as much pains as other men have broken out

of it, and who was always being cleared and complimented; while the

insolvent at his elbow--a mere little, snivelling, striving

tradesman, half dead of anxious efforts to keep out of debt--found

it a hard matter, indeed, to get a Commissioner to release him with

much reproof and reproach. In the yard, was the man of many

children and many burdens, whose failure astonished everybody; in

the yard, was the man of no children and large resources, whose

failure astonished nobody. There, were the people who were always

going out to-morrow, and always putting it off; there, were the

people who had come in yesterday, and who were much more jealous

and resentful of this freak of fortune than the seasoned birds.

There, were some who, in pure meanness of spirit, cringed and bowed

before the enriched Collegian and his family; there, were others

who did so really because their eyes, accustomed to the gloom of

their imprisonment and poverty, could not support the light of such

bright sunshine. There, were many whose shillings had gone into

his pocket to buy him meat and drink; but none who were now

obtrusively Hail fellow well met! with him, on the strength of

that assistance. It was rather to be remarked of the caged birds,

that they were a little shy of the bird about to be so grandly

free, and that they had a tendency to withdraw themselves towards

the bars, and seem a little fluttered as he passed.

Through these spectators the little procession, headed by the two

brothers, moved slowly to the gate. Mr Dorrit, yielding to the

vast speculation how the poor creatures were to get on without him,

was great, and sad, but not absorbed. He patted children on the

head like Sir Roger de Coverley

going to church, he spoke to people in the background by their

Christian names, he condescended to all present, and seemed for

their consolation to walk encircled by the legend in golden

characters, 'Be comforted, my people! Bear it!'

At last three honest cheers announced that he had passed the gate,

and that the Marshalsea was an orphan. Before they had ceased to

ring in the echoes of the prison walls, the family had got into

their carriage, and the attendant had the steps in his hand.

Then, and not before, 'Good Gracious!' cried Miss Fanny all at

once, 'Where's Amy!'

Her father had thought she was with her sister. Her sister had

thought she was 'somewhere or other.' They had all trusted to

finding her, as they had always done, quietly in the right place at

the right moment. This going away was perhaps the very first

action of their joint lives that they had got through without her.

A minute might have been consumed in the ascertaining of these

points, when Miss Fanny, who, from her seat in the carriage,

commanded the long narrow passage leading to the Lodge, flushed

indignantly.

'Now I do say, Pa,' cried she, 'that this is disgraceful!'

'What is disgraceful, Fanny?'

'I do say,' she repeated, 'this is perfectly infamous! Really

almost enough, even at such a time as this, to make one wish one

was dead! Here is that child Amy, in her ugly old shabby dress,

which she was so obstinate about, Pa, which I over and over again

begged and prayed her to change, and which she over and over again

objected to, and promised to change to-day, saying she wished to

wear it as long as ever she remained in there with you--which was

absolutely romantic nonsense of the lowest kind--here is that child

Amy disgracing us to the last moment and at the last moment, by

being carried out in that dress after all. And by that Mr Clennam

too!'

The offence was proved, as she delivered the indictment. Clennam

appeared at the carriage-door, bearing the little insensible figure

in his arms.

'She has been forgotten,' he said, in a tone of pity not free from

reproach. 'I ran up to her room (which Mr Chivery showed me) and

found the door open, and that she had fainted on the floor, dear

child. She appeared to have gone to change her dress, and to have

sunk down overpowered. It may have been the cheering, or it may

have happened sooner. Take care of this poor cold hand, Miss

Dorrit. Don't let it fall.'

'Thank you, sir,' returned Miss Dorrit, bursting into tears. 'I

believe I know what to do, if you will give me leave. Dear Amy,

open your eyes, that's a love! Oh, Amy, Amy, I really am so vexed

and ashamed! Do rouse yourself, darling! Oh, why are they not

driving on! Pray, Pa, do drive on!'

The attendant, getting between Clennam and the carriage-door, with

a sharp 'By your leave, sir!' bundled up the steps, and they drove

away.

Read next: BOOK THE SECOND: RICHES#CHAPTER 1 Fellow Travellers

Read previous: BOOK THE FIRST: POVERTY#CHAPTER 35 What was behind Mr Pancks on Little Dorrit's Hand

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