Little Dorrit received a call that same evening from Mr
Plornish, who, having intimated that he wished to speak to her privately, in a
series of coughs so very noticeable as to favour the idea that her father, as
regarded her seamstress occupation, was an illustration of the axiom that there
are no such stone-blind men as those who will not see, obtained an audience with
her on the common staircase outside the door.
'There's been a lady at our place to-day, Miss Dorrit,' Plornish growled,
'and another one along with her as is a old wixen if ever I met with such. The
way she snapped a person's head off, dear me!'
The mild Plornish was at first quite unable to get his mind away from Mr F.'s
Aunt. 'For,' said he, to excuse himself, 'she is, I do assure you, the
winegariest party.'
At length, by a great effort, he detached himself from the subject
sufficiently to observe:
'But she's neither here nor there just at present. The other lady, she's Mr
Casby's daughter; and if Mr Casby an't well off, none better, it an't through
any fault of Pancks. For, as to Pancks, he does, he really does, he does
indeed!'
Mr Plornish, after his usual manner, was a little obscure, but
conscientiously emphatic.
'And what she come to our place for,' he pursued, 'was to leave word that if
Miss Dorrit would step up to that card--which it's Mr Casby's house that is, and
Pancks he has a office at the back, where he really does, beyond belief--she
would be glad for to engage her. She was a old and a dear friend, she said
particular, of Mr Clennam, and hoped for to prove herself a useful friend to his
friend. Them was her words. Wishing to know whether Miss Dorrit could come
to-morrow morning, I said I would see you, Miss, and inquire, and look round
there to-night, to say yes, or, if you was engaged to-morrow, when.'
'I can go to-morrow, thank you,' said Little Dorrit. 'This is very kind of
you, but you are always kind.'
Mr Plornish, with a modest disavowal of his merits, opened the room door for
her readmission, and followed her in with such an exceedingly bald pretence of
not having been out at all, that her father might have observed it without being
very suspicious. In his affable unconsciousness, however, he took no heed.
Plornish, after a little conversation, in which he blended his former duty as a
Collegian with his present privilege as a humble outside friend, qualified again
by his low estate as a plasterer, took his leave; making the tour of the prison
before he left, and looking on at a game of skittles with the mixed feelings of
an old inhabitant who had his private reasons for believing that it might be his
destiny to come back again.
Early in the morning, Little Dorrit, leaving Maggy in high domestic trust,
set off for the Patriarchal tent. She went by the Iron Bridge, though it cost
her a penny, and walked more slowly in that part of her journey than in any
other. At five minutes before eight her hand was on the Patriarchal knocker,
which was quite as high as she could reach.
She gave Mrs Finching's card to the young woman who opened the door, and the
young woman told her that 'Miss Flora'--Flora having, on her return to the
parental roof, reinvested herself with the title under which she had lived
there--was not yet out of her bedroom, but she was to please to walk up into
Miss Flora's sitting-room. She walked up into Miss Flora's sitting-room, as in
duty bound, and there found a breakfast-table comfortably laid for two, with a
supplementary tray upon it laid for one. The young woman, disappearing for a few
moments, returned to say that she was to please to take a chair by the fire, and
to take off her bonnet and make herself at home. But Little Dorrit, being
bashful, and not used to make herself at home on such occasions, felt at a loss
how to do it; so she was still sitting near the door with her bonnet on, when
Flora came in in a hurry half an hour afterwards.
Flora was so sorry to have kept her waiting, and good gracious why did she
sit out there in the cold when she had expected to find her by the fire reading
the paper, and hadn't that heedless girl given her the message then, and had she
really been in her bonnet all this time, and pray for goodness sake let Flora
take it off! Flora taking it off in the best-natured manner in the world, was so
struck with the face disclosed, that she said, 'Why, what a good little thing
you are, my dear!' and pressed her face between her hands like the gentlest of
women.
It was the word and the action of a moment. Little Dorrit had hardly time to
think how kind it was, when Flora dashed at the breakfast-table full of
business, and plunged over head and ears into loquacity.
'Really so sorry that I should happen to be late on this morning of all
mornings because my intention and my wish was to be ready to meet you when you
came in and to say that any one that interested Arthur Clennam half so much must
interest me and that I gave you the heartiest welcome and was so glad, instead
of which they never called me and there I still am snoring I dare say if the
truth was known and if you don't like either cold fowl or hot boiled ham which
many people don't I dare say besides Jews and theirs are scruples of conscience
which we must all respect though I must say I wish they had them equally strong
when they sell us false articles for real that certainly ain't worth the money I
shall be quite vexed,' said Flora.
Little Dorrit thanked her, and said, shyly, bread-and-butter and tea was all
she usually--
'Oh nonsense my dear child I can never hear of that,' said Flora, turning on
the urn in the most reckless manner, and making herself wink by splashing hot
water into her eyes as she bent down to look into the teapot. 'You are coming
here on the footing of a friend and companion you know if you will let me take
that liberty and I should be ashamed of myself indeed if you could come here
upon any other, besides which Arthur Clennam spoke in such terms--you are tired
my dear.'
'No, ma'am.'
'You turn so pale you have walked too far before breakfast and I dare say
live a great way off and ought to have had a ride,' said Flora, 'dear dear is
there anything that would do you good?'
'Indeed I am quite well, ma'am. I thank you again and again, but I am quite
well.'
'Then take your tea at once I beg,' said Flora, 'and this wing of fowl and
bit of ham, don't mind me or wait for me, because I always carry in this tray
myself to Mr F.'s Aunt who breakfasts in bed and a charming old lady too and
very clever, Portrait of Mr F. behind the door and very like though too much
forehead and as to a pillar with a marble pavement and balustrades and a
mountain, I never saw him near it nor not likely in the wine trade, excellent
man but not at all in that way.'
Little Dorrit glanced at the portrait, very imperfectly following the
references to that work of art.
'Mr F. was so devoted to me that he never could bear me out of his sight,'
said Flora, 'though of course I am unable to say how long that might have lasted
if he hadn't been cut short while I was a new broom, worthy man but not poetical
manly prose but not romance.'
Little Dorrit glanced at the portrait again. The artist had given it a head
that would have been, in an intellectual point of view, top-heavy for
Shakespeare. 'Romance, however,' Flora went on, busily arranging Mr F.'s Aunt's
toast, 'as I openly said to Mr F. when he proposed to me and you will be
surprised to hear that he proposed seven times once in a hackney-coach once in a
boat once in a pew once on a donkey at Tunbridge Wells and the rest on his
knees, Romance was fled with the early days of Arthur Clennam, our parents tore
us asunder we became marble and stern reality usurped the throne, Mr F. said
very much to his credit that he was perfectly aware of it and even preferred
that state of things accordingly the word was spoken the fiat went forth and
such is life you see my dear and yet we do not break but bend, pray make a good
breakfast while I go in with the tray.'
She disappeared, leaving Little Dorrit to ponder over the meaning of her
scattered words. She soon came back again; and at last began to take her own
breakfast, talking all the while.
'You see, my dear,' said Flora, measuring out a spoonful or two of some brown
liquid that smelt like brandy, and putting it into her tea, 'I am obliged to be
careful to follow the directions of my medical man though the flavour is
anything but agreeable being a poor creature and it may be have never recovered
the shock received in youth from too much giving way to crying in the next room
when separated from Arthur, have you known him long?'
As soon as Little Dorrit comprehended that she had been asked this
question--for which time was necessary, the galloping pace of her new patroness
having left her far behind--she answered that she had known Mr Clennam ever
since his return.
'To be sure you couldn't have known him before unless you had been in China
or had corresponded neither of which is likely,' returned Flora, 'for
travelling-people usually get more or less mahogany and you are not at all so
and as to corresponding what about? that's very true unless tea, so it was at
his mother's was it really that you knew him first, highly sensible and firm but
dreadfully severe--ought to be the mother of the man in the iron mask."
'Mrs Clennam has been kind to me,' said Little Dorrit.
'Really? I am sure I am glad to hear it because as Arthur's mother it's
naturally pleasant to my feelings to have a better opinion of her than I had
before, though what she thinks of me when I run on as I am certain to do and she
sits glowering at me like Fate in a go-cart--shocking comparison really--invalid
and not her fault--I never know or can imagine.'
'Shall I find my work anywhere, ma'am?' asked Little Dorrit, looking timidly
about; 'can I get it?'
'You industrious little fairy,' returned Flora, taking, in another cup of
tea, another of the doses prescribed by her medical man, 'there's not the
slightest hurry and it's better that we should begin by being confidential about
our mutual friend--too cold a word for me at least I don't mean that, very
proper expression mutual friend--than become through mere formalities not you
but me like the Spartan boy with the fox biting him, which I hope you'll excuse
my bringing up for of all the tiresome boys that will go tumbling into every
sort of company that boy's the tiresomest.'
Little Dorrit, her face very pale, sat down again to listen. 'Hadn't I better
work the while?' she asked. 'I can work and attend too. I would rather, if I
may.'
Her earnestness was so expressive of her being uneasy without her work, that
Flora answered, 'Well my dear whatever you like best,' and produced a basket of
white handkerchiefs. Little Dorrit gladly put it by her side, took out her
little pocket-housewife, threaded the needle, and began to hem.
'What nimble fingers you have,' said Flora, 'but are you sure you are well?'
'Oh yes, indeed!'
Flora put her feet upon the fender, and settled herself for a thorough good
romantic disclosure. She started off at score, tossing her head, sighing in the
most demonstrative manner, making a great deal of use of her eyebrows, and
occasionally, but not often, glancing at the quiet face that bent over the work.
'You must know my dear,' said Flora, 'but that I have no doubt you know
already not only because I have already thrown it out in a general way but
because I feel I carry it stamped in burning what's his names upon my brow that
before I was introduced to the late Mr F. I had been engaged to Arthur
Clennam--Mr Clennam in public where reserve is necessary Arthur here--we were
all in all to one another it was the morning of life it was bliss it was frenzy
it was everything else of that sort in the highest degree, when rent asunder we
turned to stone in which capacity Arthur went to China and I became the statue
bride of the late Mr F.'
Flora, uttering these words in a deep voice, enjoyed herself immensely.
'To paint,' said she, 'the emotions of that morning when all was marble
within and Mr F.'s Aunt followed in a glass-coach which it stands to reason must
have been in shameful repair or it never could have broken down two streets from
the house and Mr F.'s Aunt brought home like the fifth of November in a
rush-bottomed chair I will not attempt, suffice it to say that the hollow form
of breakfast took place in the dining-room downstairs that papa partaking too
freely of pickled salmon was ill for weeks and that Mr F. and myself went upon a
continental tour to Calais where the people fought for us on the pier until they
separated us though not for ever that was not yet to be.'
The statue bride, hardly pausing for breath, went on, with the greatest
complacency, in a rambling manner sometimes incidental to flesh and blood.
'I will draw a veil over that dreamy life, Mr F. was in good spirits his
appetite was good he liked the cookery he considered the wine weak but palatable
and all was well, we returned to the immediate neighbourhood of Number Thirty
Little Gosling Street London Docks and settled down, ere we had yet fully
detected the housemaid in selling the feathers out of the spare bed Gout flying
upwards soared with Mr F. to another sphere.'
His relict, with a glance at his portrait, shook her head and wiped her eyes.
'I revere the memory of Mr F. as an estimable man and most indulgent husband,
only necessary to mention Asparagus and it appeared or to hint at any little
delicate thing to drink and it came like magic in a pint bottle it was not
ecstasy but it was comfort, I returned to papa's roof and lived secluded if not
happy during some years until one day papa came smoothly blundering in and said
that Arthur Clennam awaited me below, I went below and found him ask me not what
I found him except that he was still unmarried still unchanged!'
The dark mystery with which Flora now enshrouded herself might have stopped
other fingers than the nimble fingers that worked near her.
They worked on without pause, and the busy head bent over them watching the
stitches.
'Ask me not,' said Flora, 'if I love him still or if he still loves me or
what the end is to be or when, we are surrounded by watchful eyes and it may be
that we are destined to pine asunder it may be never more to be reunited not a
word not a breath not a look to betray us all must be secret as the tomb wonder
not therefore that even if I should seem comparatively cold to Arthur or Arthur
should seem comparatively cold to me we have fatal reasons it is enough if we
understand them hush!'
All of which Flora said with so much headlong vehemence as if she really
believed it. There is not much doubt that when she worked herself into full
mermaid condition, she did actually believe whatever she said in it.
'Hush!' repeated Flora, 'I have now told you all, confidence is established
between us hush, for Arthur's sake I will always be a friend to you my dear girl
and in Arthur's name you may always rely upon me.'
The nimble fingers laid aside the work, and the little figure rose and kissed
her hand. 'You are very cold,' said Flora, changing to her own natural
kind-hearted manner, and gaining greatly by the change. 'Don't work to-day. I am
sure you are not well I am sure you are not strong.'
'It is only that I feel a little overcome by your kindness, and by Mr
Clennam's kindness in confiding me to one he has known and loved so long.'
'Well really my dear,' said Flora, who had a decided tendency to be always
honest when she gave herself time to think about it, 'it's as well to leave that
alone now, for I couldn't undertake to say after all, but it doesn't signify lie
down a little!'
'I have always been strong enough to do what I want to do, and I shall be
quite well directly,' returned Little Dorrit, with a faint smile. 'You have
overpowered me with gratitude, that's all. If I keep near the window for a
moment I shall be quite myself.'
Flora opened a window, sat her in a chair by it, and considerately retired to
her former place. It was a windy day, and the air stirring on Little Dorrit's
face soon brightened it. In a very few minutes she returned to her basket of
work, and her nimble fingers were as nimble as ever.
Quietly pursuing her task, she asked Flora if Mr Clennam had told her where
she lived? When Flora replied in the negative, Little Dorrit said that she
understood why he had been so delicate, but that she felt sure he would approve
of her confiding her secret to Flora, and that she would therefore do so now
with Flora's permission. Receiving an encouraging answer, she condensed the
narrative of her life into a few scanty words about herself and a glowing eulogy
upon her father; and Flora took it all in with a natural tenderness that quite
understood it, and in which there was no incoherence.
When dinner-time came, Flora drew the arm of her new charge through hers, and
led her down-stairs, and presented her to the Patriarch and Mr Pancks, who were
already in the dining-room waiting to begin. (Mr F.'s Aunt was, for the time,
laid up in ordinary in her chamber.) By those gentlemen she was received
according to their characters; the Patriarch appearing to do her some
inestimable service in saying that he was glad to see her, glad to see her; and
Mr Pancks blowing off his favourite sound as a salute.
In that new presence she would have been bashful enough under any
circumstances, and particularly under Flora's insisting on her drinking a glass
of wine and eating of the best that was there; but her constraint was greatly
increased by Mr Pancks. The demeanour of that gentleman at first suggested to
her mind that he might be a taker of likenesses, so intently did he look at her,
and so frequently did he glance at the little note-book by his side. Observing
that he made no sketch, however, and that he talked about business only, she
began to have suspicions that he represented some creditor of her father's, the
balance due to whom was noted in that pocket volume. Regarded from this point of
view Mr Pancks's puffings expressed injury and impatience, and each of his
louder snorts became a demand for payment.
But here again she was undeceived by anomalous and incongruous conduct on the
part of Mr Pancks himself. She had left the table half an hour, and was at work
alone. Flora had 'gone to lie down' in the next room, concurrently with which
retirement a smell of something to drink had broken out in the house. The
Patriarch was fast asleep, with his philanthropic mouth open under a yellow
pocket-handkerchief in the dining-room. At this quiet time, Mr Pancks softly
appeared before her, urbanely nodding.
'Find it a little dull, Miss Dorrit?' inquired Pancks in a low voice.
'No, thank you, sir,' said Little Dorrit.
'Busy, I see,' observed Mr Pancks, stealing into the room by inches. 'What
are those now, Miss Dorrit?'
'Handkerchiefs.'
'Are they, though!' said Pancks. 'I shouldn't have thought it.' Not in the
least looking at them, but looking at Little Dorrit. 'Perhaps you wonder who I
am. Shall I tell you? I am a fortune- teller.'
Little Dorrit now began to think he was mad.
'I belong body and soul to my proprietor,' said Pancks; 'you saw my
proprietor having his dinner below. But I do a little in the other way,
sometimes; privately, very privately, Miss Dorrit.'
Little Dorrit looked at him doubtfully, and not without alarm.
'I wish you'd show me the palm of your hand,' said Pancks. 'I should like to
have a look at it. Don't let me be troublesome.' He was so far troublesome that
he was not at all wanted there, but she laid her work in her lap for a moment,
and held out her left hand with her thimble on it.
'Years of toil, eh?' said Pancks, softly, touching it with his blunt
forefinger. 'But what else are we made for? Nothing. Hallo!' looking into the
lines. 'What's this with bars? It's a College! And what's this with a grey gown
and a black velvet cap? it's a father! And what's this with a clarionet? It's an
uncle! And what's this in dancing-shoes? It's a sister! And what's this
straggling about in an idle sort of a way? It's a brother! And what's this
thinking for 'em all? Why, this is you, Miss Dorrit!' Her eyes met his as she
looked up wonderingly into his face, and she thought that although his were
sharp eyes, he was a brighter and gentler-looking man than she had supposed at
dinner. His eyes were on her hand again directly, and her opportunity of
confirming or correcting the impression was gone.
'Now, the deuce is in it,' muttered Pancks, tracing out a line in her hand
with his clumsy finger, 'if this isn't me in the corner here! What do I want
here? What's behind me?'
He carried his finger slowly down to the wrist, and round the wrist, and
affected to look at the back of the hand for what was behind him.
'Is it any harm?' asked Little Dorrit, smiling.
'Deuce a bit!' said Pancks. 'What do you think it's worth?'
'I ought to ask you that. I am not the fortune-teller.'
'True,' said Pancks. 'What's it worth? You shall live to see, Miss Dorrit.'
Releasing the hand by slow degrees, he drew all his fingers through his
prongs of hair, so that they stood up in their most portentous manner; and
repeated slowly, 'Remember what I say, Miss Dorrit. You shall live to see.'
She could not help showing that she was much surprised, if it were only by
his knowing so much about her.
'Ah! That's it!' said Pancks, pointing at her. 'Miss Dorrit, not that, ever!'
More surprised than before, and a little more frightened, she looked to him
for an explanation of his last words.
'Not that,' said Pancks, making, with great seriousness, an imitation of a
surprised look and manner that appeared to be unintentionally grotesque. 'Don't
do that. Never on seeing me, no matter when, no matter where. I am nobody. Don't
take on to mind me. Don't mention me. Take no notice. Will you agree, Miss
Dorrit?'
'I hardly know what to say,' returned Little Dorrit, quite astounded. 'Why?'
'Because I am a fortune-teller. Pancks the gipsy. I haven't told you so much
of your fortune yet, Miss Dorrit, as to tell you what's behind me on that little
hand. I have told you you shall live to see. Is it agreed, Miss Dorrit?'
'Agreed that I--am--to--'
'To take no notice of me away from here, unless I take on first. Not to mind
me when I come and go. It's very easy. I am no loss, I am not handsome, I am not
good company, I am only my proprietors grubber. You need do no more than think,
"Ah! Pancks the gipsy at his fortune-telling--he'll tell the rest of my fortune
one day--I shall live to know it." Is it agreed, Miss Dorrit?'
'Ye-es,' faltered Little Dorrit, whom he greatly confused, 'I suppose so,
while you do no harm.'
'Good!' Mr Pancks glanced at the wall of the adjoining room, and stooped
forward. 'Honest creature, woman of capital points, but heedless and a loose
talker, Miss Dorrit.' With that he rubbed his hands as if the interview had been
very satisfactory to him, panted away to the door, and urbanely nodded himself
out again.
If Little Dorrit were beyond measure perplexed by this curious conduct on the
part of her new acquaintance, and by finding herself involved in this singular
treaty, her perplexity was not diminished by ensuing circumstances. Besides that
Mr Pancks took every opportunity afforded him in Mr Casby's house of
significantly glancing at her and snorting at her--which was not much, after
what he had done already--he began to pervade her daily life. She saw him in the
street, constantly. When she went to Mr Casby's, he was always there. When she
went to Mrs Clennam's, he came there on any pretence, as if to keep her in his
sight. A week had not gone by, when she found him to her astonishment in the
Lodge one night, conversing with the turnkey on duty, and to all appearance one
of his familiar companions. Her next surprise was to find him equally at his
ease within the prison; to hear of his presenting himself among the visitors at
her father's Sunday levee; to see him arm in arm with a Collegiate friend about
the yard; to learn, from Fame, that he had greatly distinguished himself one
evening at the social club that held its meetings in the Snuggery, by addressing
a speech to the members of the institution, singing a song, and treating the
company to five gallons of ale--report madly added a bushel of shrimps. The
effect on Mr Plornish of such of these phenomena as he became an eye-witness of
in his faithful visits, made an impression on Little Dorrit only second to that
produced by the phenomena themselves. They seemed to gag and bind him. He could
only stare, and sometimes weakly mutter that it wouldn't be believed down
Bleeding Heart Yard that this was Pancks; but he never said a word more, or made
a sign more, even to Little Dorrit.
Mr Pancks crowned his mysteries by making himself acquainted with Tip in some
unknown manner, and taking a Sunday saunter into the College on that gentleman's
arm. Throughout he never took any notice of Little Dorrit, save once or twice
when he happened to come close to her and there was no one very near; on which
occasions, he said in passing, with a friendly look and a puff of encouragement,
'Pancks the gipsy--fortune-telling.'
Little Dorrit worked and strove as usual, wondering at all this, but keeping
her wonder, as she had from her earliest years kept many heavier loads, in her
own breast. A change had stolen, and was stealing yet, over the patient heart.
Every day found her something more retiring than the day before. To pass in and
out of the prison unnoticed, and elsewhere to be overlooked and forgotten, were,
for herself, her chief desires.
To her own room too, strangely assorted room for her delicate youth and
character, she was glad to retreat as often as she could without desertion of
any duty. There were afternoon times when she was unemployed, when visitors
dropped in to play a hand at cards with her father, when she could be spared and
was better away. Then she would flit along the yard, climb the scores of stairs
that led to her room, and take her seat at the window. Many combinations did
those spikes upon the wall assume, many light shapes did the strong iron weave
itself into, many golden touches fell upon the rust, while Little Dorrit sat
there musing. New zig- zags sprung into the cruel pattern sometimes, when she
saw it through a burst of tears; but beautified or hardened still, always over
it and under it and through it, she was fain to look in her solitude, seeing
everything with that ineffaceable brand.
A garret, and a Marshalsea garret without compromise, was Little Dorrit's
room. Beautifully kept, it was ugly in itself, and had little but cleanliness
and air to set it off; for what embellishment she had ever been able to buy, had
gone to her father's room. Howbeit, for this poor place she showed an increasing
love; and to sit in it alone became her favourite rest.
Insomuch, that on a certain afternoon during the Pancks mysteries, when she
was seated at her window, and heard Maggy's well-known step coming up the
stairs, she was very much disturbed by the apprehension of being summoned away.
As Maggy's step came higher up and nearer, she trembled and faltered; and it was
as much as she could do to speak, when Maggy at length appeared.
'Please, Little Mother,' said Maggy, panting for breath, 'you must come down
and see him. He's here.'
'Who, Maggy?'
'Who, o' course Mr Clennam. He's in your father's room, and he says to me,
Maggy, will you be so kind and go and say it's only me.'
'I am not very well, Maggy. I had better not go. I am going to lie down. See!
I lie down now, to ease my head. Say, with my grateful regard, that you left me
so, or I would have come.'
'Well, it an't very polite though, Little Mother,' said the staring Maggy,
'to turn your face away, neither!'
Maggy was very susceptible to personal slights, and very ingenious in
inventing them. 'Putting both your hands afore your face too!' she went on. 'If
you can't bear the looks of a poor thing, it would be better to tell her so at
once, and not go and shut her out like that, hurting her feelings and breaking
her heart at ten year old, poor thing!'
'It's to ease my head, Maggy.'
'Well, and if you cry to ease your head, Little Mother, let me cry too. Don't
go and have all the crying to yourself,' expostulated Maggy, 'that an't not
being greedy.' And immediately began to blubber.
It was with some difficulty that she could be induced to go back with the
excuse; but the promise of being told a story--of old her great delight--on
condition that she concentrated her faculties upon the errand and left her
little mistress to herself for an hour longer, combined with a misgiving on
Maggy's part that she had left her good temper at the bottom of the staircase,
prevailed. So away she went, muttering her message all the way to keep it in her
mind, and, at the appointed time, came back.
'He was very sorry, I can tell you,' she announced, 'and wanted to send a
doctor. And he's coming again to-morrow he is and I don't think he'll have a
good sleep to-night along o' hearing about your head, Little Mother. Oh my!
Ain't you been a-crying!'
'I think I have, a little, Maggy.'
'A little! Oh!'
'But it's all over now--all over for good, Maggy. And my head is much better
and cooler, and I am quite comfortable. I am very glad I did not go down.'
Her great staring child tenderly embraced her; and having smoothed her hair,
and bathed her forehead and eyes with cold water (offices in which her awkward
hands became skilful), hugged her again, exulted in her brighter looks, and
stationed her in her chair by the window. Over against this chair, Maggy, with
apoplectic exertions that were not at all required, dragged the box which was
her seat on story-telling occasions, sat down upon it, hugged her own knees, and
said, with a voracious appetite for stories, and with widely-opened eyes:
'Now, Little Mother, let's have a good 'un!'
'What shall it be about, Maggy?'
'Oh, let's have a princess,' said Maggy, 'and let her be a reg'lar one.
Beyond all belief, you know!'
Little Dorrit considered for a moment; and with a rather sad smile upon her
face, which was flushed by the sunset, began:
'Maggy, there was once upon a time a fine King, and he had everything he
could wish for, and a great deal more. He had gold and silver, diamonds and
rubies, riches of every kind. He had palaces, and he had--'
'Hospitals,' interposed Maggy, still nursing her knees. 'Let him have
hospitals, because they're so comfortable. Hospitals with lots of Chicking.'
'Yes, he had plenty of them, and he had plenty of everything.'
'Plenty of baked potatoes, for instance?' said Maggy.
'Plenty of everything.'
'Lor!' chuckled Maggy, giving her knees a hug. 'Wasn't it prime!'
'This King had a daughter, who was the wisest and most beautiful Princess
that ever was seen. When she was a child she understood all her lessons before
her masters taught them to her; and when she was grown up, she was the wonder of
the world. Now, near the Palace where this Princess lived, there was a cottage
in which there was a poor little tiny woman, who lived all alone by herself.'
'An old woman,' said Maggy, with an unctuous smack of her lips.
'No, not an old woman. Quite a young one.'
'I wonder she warn't afraid,' said Maggy. 'Go on, please.'
'The Princess passed the cottage nearly every day, and whenever she went by
in her beautiful carriage, she saw the poor tiny woman spinning at her wheel,
and she looked at the tiny woman, and the tiny woman looked at her. So, one day
she stopped the coachman a little way from the cottage, and got out and walked
on and peeped in at the door, and there, as usual, was the tiny woman spinning
at her wheel, and she looked at the Princess, and the Princess looked at her.'
'Like trying to stare one another out,' said Maggy. 'Please go on, Little
Mother.'
'The Princess was such a wonderful Princess that she had the power of knowing
secrets, and she said to the tiny woman, Why do you keep it there? This showed
her directly that the Princess knew why she lived all alone by herself spinning
at her wheel, and she kneeled down at the Princess's feet, and asked her never
to betray her. So the Princess said, I never will betray you. Let me see it. So
the tiny woman closed the shutter of the cottage window and fastened the door,
and trembling from head to foot for fear that any one should suspect her, opened
a very secret place and showed the Princess a shadow.'
'Lor!' said Maggy. 'It was the shadow of Some one who had gone by long
before: of Some one who had gone on far away quite out of reach, never, never to
come back. It was bright to look at; and when the tiny woman showed it to the
Princess, she was proud of it with all her heart, as a great, great treasure.
When the Princess had considered it a little while, she said to the tiny woman,
And you keep watch over this every day? And she cast down her eyes, and
whispered, Yes. Then the Princess said, Remind me why. To which the other
replied, that no one so good and kind had ever passed that way, and that was why
in the beginning. She said, too, that nobody missed it, that nobody was the
worse for it, that Some one had gone on, to those who were expecting him--'
'Some one was a man then?' interposed Maggy.
Little Dorrit timidly said Yes, she believed so; and resumed:
'--Had gone on to those who were expecting him, and that this remembrance was
stolen or kept back from nobody. The Princess made answer, Ah! But when the
cottager died it would be discovered there. The tiny woman told her No; when
that time came, it would sink quietly into her own grave, and would never be
found.'
'Well, to be sure!' said Maggy. 'Go on, please.'
'The Princess was very much astonished to hear this, as you may suppose,
Maggy.' ('And well she might be,' said Maggy.)
'So she resolved to watch the tiny woman, and see what came of it. Every day
she drove in her beautiful carriage by the cottage-door, and there she saw the
tiny woman always alone by herself spinning at her wheel, and she looked at the
tiny woman, and the tiny woman looked at her. At last one day the wheel was
still, and the tiny woman was not to be seen. When the Princess made inquiries
why the wheel had stopped, and where the tiny woman was, she was informed that
the wheel had stopped because there was nobody to turn it, the tiny woman being
dead.'
('They ought to have took her to the Hospital,' said Maggy, and then she'd
have got over it.')
'The Princess, after crying a very little for the loss of the tiny woman,
dried her eyes and got out of her carriage at the place where she had stopped it
before, and went to the cottage and peeped in at the door. There was nobody to
look at her now, and nobody for her to look at, so she went in at once to search
for the treasured shadow. But there was no sign of it to be found anywhere; and
then she knew that the tiny woman had told her the truth, and that it would
never give anybody any trouble, and that it had sunk quietly into her own grave,
and that she and it were at rest together.
'That's all, Maggy.'
The sunset flush was so bright on Little Dorrit's face when she came thus to
the end of her story, that she interposed her hand to shade it.
'Had she got to be old?' Maggy asked.
'The tiny woman?' 'Ah!'
'I don't know,' said Little Dorrit. 'But it would have been just the same if
she had been ever so old.'
'Would it raly!' said Maggy. 'Well, I suppose it would though.' And sat
staring and ruminating.
She sat so long with her eyes wide open, that at length Little Dorrit, to
entice her from her box, rose and looked out of window. As she glanced down into
the yard, she saw Pancks come in and leer up with the corner of his eye as he
went by.
'Who's he, Little Mother?' said Maggy. She had joined her at the window and
was leaning on her shoulder. 'I see him come in and out often.'
'I have heard him called a fortune-teller,' said Little Dorrit. 'But I doubt
if he could tell many people even their past or present fortunes.'
'Couldn't have told the Princess hers?' said Maggy.
Little Dorrit, looking musingly down into the dark valley of the prison,
shook her head.
'Nor the tiny woman hers?' said Maggy.
'No,' said Little Dorrit, with the sunset very bright upon her. 'But let us
come away from the window.'
|