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.
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