"Almost none."

But if Arthur Clennam kept silent, Little Dorrit was not without a lover. Years ago young John Chivery, the sentimental son of the turnkey, had eyed her with admiring wonder. There seemed to young John a fitness in the attachment. She, the Child of the Marshalsea; he, the lock-keeper. Every Sunday young John presented cigars to the Father of the Marshalsea--who was glad to get them--and one particular Sunday afternoon he mustered up courage to urge his suit.

Little Dorrit was out, walking on the Iron Bridge, when young John found her.

"Miss Amy," he stammered, "I have had for a long time--ages they seem to me--a heart-cherished wish to say something to you. May I say it? May I, Miss Amy? I but ask the question humbly--may I say it? I know very well your family is far above mine. It were vain to conceal it. I know very well that your high-souled brother, and likewise your spirited sister, spurn me from a height."

"If you please, John Chivery," Little Dorrit answered, in a quiet way, "since you are so considerate as to ask me whether you shall say any more--if you please, no."

"Never, Miss Amy?"

"No, if you please. Never."

"Oh, Lord!" gasped young John.

"When you think of us, John--I mean, my brother and sister and me--don't think of us as being any different from the rest; for whatever we once were we ceased to be long ago, and never can be any more. And, good-bye, John. And I hope you will have a good wife one day, and be a happy man.

I am sure you will deserve to be happy, and you will be, John."

"Good-bye, Miss Amy. Good-bye!"

_III.--The Marshalsea Becomes an Orphan_

It turned out that Mr. Dorrit, being of the Dorrits of Dorsetshire, was heir-at-law to a great fortune. Inquiries and investigations confirmed it.

Arthur Clennam broke the news to Little Dorrit, and together they went to the, Marshalsea. William Dorrit was sitting in his old grey gown and his old black cap in the sunlight by the window when they entered.

"Father, Mr. Clennam has brought me such joyful and wonderful intelligence about you!"

Her agitation was great, and the old man put his hand suddenly to his heart, and looked at Clennam.

"Tell me, Mr. Dorrit, what surprise would be the most unlocked for and the most acceptable to you. Do not be afraid to imagine it, or to say what it would be."

He looked steadfastly at Clennam, and, so looking at him, seemed to change into a very old, haggard man. The sun was bright upon the wall beyond the window, and on the spikes at the top. He slowly stretched out the hand that had been upon his heart, and pointed at the wall.

"It is down," said Clennam. "Gone! And in its place are the means to possess and enjoy the utmost that they have so long shut out. Mr.

Dorrit, there is not the smallest doubt that within a few days you will be free and highly prosperous."

They had to fetch wine for the old man, and when he had swallowed a little he leaned back in his chair and cried. But he quickly recovered, and announced that everybody concerned should be n.o.bly rewarded.

"No one, my dear sir, shall say that he has an unsatisfied claim against me. Everybody shall be remembered. I will not go away from here in anybody's debt. I particularly wish to act munificently, Mr. Clennam."

Clennam's offer of money for present contingencies was at once accepted.

"I am obliged to you for the temporary accommodation, sir. Exceedingly temporary, but well timed--well timed. Be so kind, sir, as to add the amount to former advances."

He grew more composed presently, and then when he seemed to be falling asleep unexpectedly sat up and said, "Mr. Clennam, am I to understand, my dear sir, that I could pa.s.s through the lodge at this moment, and take a walk?"

"I think not, Mr. Dorrit," was the unwilling reply. "There are certain forms to be completed. It is but a few hours now."

"A few hours, sir!" he returned in a sudden pa.s.sion. "You talk very easily of hours, sir! How long do you suppose, sir, that an hour is to a man who is choking; for want of air?"

It was his last demonstration for that time, but in the interval before the day of his departure he was very imperious with the lawyers concerned in his release, and a good deal of business was transacted.

Mr. Arthur Clennam received a cheque for 24 93. 8d. from the solicitors of Edward Dorrit, Esq.--once "Tip"--with a note that the favour of the advance now repaid had not been asked of him.

To the applications made by collegians within the so-soon-to-be-orphaned Marshalsea for small sums of money, Mr. Dorrit responded with the greatest liberality. He also invited the whole College to a comprehensive entertainment in the yard, and went about among the company on that occasion, and took notice of individuals, like a baron of the olden time, in a rare good humour.

And now the final hour arrived when he and his family were to leave the prison for ever. The carriage was reported ready in the outer courtyard.

Mr. Dorrit and his brother proceeded arm in arm, Edward Dorrit, Esq., and his sister f.a.n.n.y followed, also arm in arm.

There was not a collegian within doors, nor a turnkey absent, as they crossed the yard. Mr. Dorrit--whose meat and drink had many a time been bought with money presented by some of those who stood to watch him go--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, spoke to people in the background by their Christian names, and condescended to all present.

At last three honest cheers announced that he had pa.s.sed the gate, and that the Marshalsea was an orphan.

Only when the family had got into their carriage, and not before, Miss f.a.n.n.y exclaimed, "Good gracious I 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 find 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.

"Now I do say, Pa," cried Miss f.a.n.n.y, flushed and indignant, "that this is disgraceful! Here is that child, Amy, in her ugly old shabby dress.

Disgracing us at the last moment by being carried out in that dress after all. And by that Mr. Clennam too!"

Clennam appeared at the carriage-door, bearing the little insensible figure in his arms.

"She has been forgotten," he said. "I ran up to her room, and found the door open, and that she had fainted on the floor."

They received her in the carriage, and the attendant, getting between Clennam and the carriage-door, with a sharp "By your leave, sir!"

bundled up the steps, and drove away.

_IV.--Another Prisoner in the Marshalsea_

The Dorrit family travelled abroad in handsome style, and in due time Miss f.a.n.n.y married.

A sudden seizure carried off old Mr. Dorrit, and he died thinking himself back in the Marshalsea. His brother Frederick, stricken with grief, did not long survive him.

Arthur Clennam, who had gone into partnership with a friend named Doyce, unfortunately invested his money in the financial schemes of Mr. Merdle, the greatest swindler of the day, and when the crash came and Merdle committed suicide, Clennam with hundreds of other innocent persons was involved in the general ruin.

Doyce was working at the time in Germany, and it was some weeks before he could be found; in the meantime, Clennam, being insolvent, was taken to the Marshalsea.

Mr. Chivery was on the lock and young John was in the lodge when the Marshalsea was reached. The elder Mr. Chivery shook hands with him in a shamefaced kind of way, and said, "I don't call to mind, sir, as I was ever less glad to see you."

The prisoner followed young John up the old staircase into the old room.

"I thought you'd like the room, and here it is for you," said young John.

Young John waited upon him; and it was young John who explained that he did this not on the ground of the prisoner's merits, but because of the merits of another, of one who loved the prisoner. Clennam tried to argue to himself the improbability of Little Dorrit loving him, but he wasn't altogether successful.

He fell ill, and it was Little Dorrit whose living presence first cheered him when he returned from the world of feverish dreams and shadows.