LITTLE DORRIT.]
*I. THE CHILD OF THE MARSHALSEA*
Some years ago when the laws of England were harsher than they are now,there were debtors' prisons, or big, gloomy jails into which men wereput, if they couldn't pay what they owed. This was cruel and unjust,for the prisoner was of course cut off from the chance to earn any moremoney; and so he might linger there for years or even his whole lifelong, if some friend did not come to his relief. But otherwise theprisoner was given many liberties not found in ordinary jails. Hisfamily might live with him, if they chose, and come and go as theypleased.
One of the largest of these debtors' prisons was called the"Marshalsea." One day a gentleman was brought there who had lost hismoney in business; but so confident was he of speedily regaining hisliberty, that he would not unpack his valise, at first. His name wasWilliam Dorrit, an easy-going man who had spent his money freely andpaid little attention to his tradesmen's bills. Now that he had fallenupon evil days, he thought that his friends would be glad to help him.But as the days and weeks passed with no prospect of aid, he waspersuaded not only to unpack his belongings but also to have his wifeand two children brought to live with him.
The two children, Fanny and Edward--commonly called "Tip"--were so youngwhen they were brought to the Marshalsea, that they soon forgot anyearlier life, and played very happily with other children in the prisonyard. Not long after, a little sister was added to their family. Shewas christened Amy, but was so tiny that everybody called her "LittleDorrit."
Being born in the prison, Little Dorrit was petted and made much of.Every one there seemed to claim her, and visitors were proudly shown"the Child of the Marshalsea."
The turnkey, who was a kind-hearted man, took an especial interest inher.
"By rights," he remarked, when she was first shown to him, "I ought tobe her godfather."
Mr. Dorrit looked at the honest fellow for a moment, and thought that hewould suit better than some of their false friends.
"Perhaps you wouldn't object to really being her godfather?" he said.
"Oh, I don't object, if you don't," replied the turnkey.
Thus it came to pass that she was christened one Sunday afternoon, whenthe turnkey, being relieved, went up to the font of Saint George'schurch, and promised and vowed on her behalf, as he himself related whenhe came back, "like a good 'un."
This invested the turnkey with a new proprietary share in the child,over and above his former official one. When she began to walk andtalk, he became fond of her; bought a little arm-chair and stood it bythe high fender of the lodge fireplace; liked to have her company whenhe was on the lock; and used to bribe her with cheap toys to come andtalk to him. The child, for her part, soon grew so fond of the turnkey,that she would come climbing up the lodge steps of her own accord at allhours of the day. When she fell asleep in the little arm-chair by thehigh fender, the turnkey would cover her with his pocket handkerchief;and when she sat in it dressing and undressing a doll--which soon cameto be unlike dolls on the other side of the lock--he would contemplateher from the top of his stool, with exceeding gentleness. Witnessingthese things, the inmates would express an opinion that the turnkey, whowas a bachelor, had been cut out by nature for a family man. But theturnkey thanked them, and said, "No, on the whole it was enough for himto see other people's children there."
At what period of her early life the little creature began to perceivethat it was not the habit of all the world to live locked up in narrowyards, surrounded by high walls with spikes at the top, would be adifficult question to settle. But she was a very, very little creatureindeed, when she had somehow gained the knowledge, that her clasp of herfather's hand was to be always loosened at the door which the great keyopened; and that while her own light steps were free to pass beyond it,his feet must never cross that line. A pitiful and plaintive look, withwhich she had begun to regard him when she was still extremely young,was perhaps a part of this discovery.
Wistful and wondering, she would sit in summer weather by the highfender in the lodge, looking up at the sky through the barred window,until bars of light would arise, when she would turn her eyes away.
"Thinking of the fields," the turnkey said once, after watching her,"ain't you?"
"Where are they?" she inquired.
"Why, they're--over there, my dear," said the turnkey, with a vagueflourish of his key. "Just about there."
"Does anybody open them, and shut them? Are they locked?"
The turnkey was at a loss. "Well!" he said, "not in general."
"Are they very pretty, Bob?" She called him Bob, by his own particularrequest and instruction.
"Lovely. Full of flowers. There's buttercups, and there's daisies, andthere's"--the turnkey hesitated, being short of names--"there'sdandelions, and all manner of games."
"Is it very pleasant to be there, Bob?"
"Prime," said the turnkey.
"Was father ever there?"
"Hem!" coughed the turnkey. "Oh, yes, he was there, sometimes."
"Is he sorry not to be there now?"
"N--not particular," said the turnkey.
"Nor any of the people?" she asked, glancing at the listless crowdwithin. "Oh, are you quite sure and certain, Bob?"
At this difficult point of the conversation Bob gave in, and changed thesubject; always his last resource when he found his little friendgetting him into a political, social, or theological corner. But thiswas the origin of a series of Sunday excursions that these two curiouscompanions made together. They used to issue from the lodge onalternate Sunday afternoons with great gravity, bound for some meadowsor green lanes that had been elaborately appointed by the turnkey in thecourse of the week; and there she picked grass and flowers to bringhome, while he smoked his pipe. Afterwards they would come back hand inhand, unless she was more than usually tired, and had fallen asleep onhis shoulder.
In those early days the turnkey first began profoundly to consider aquestion which cost him so much mental labor, that it remainedundetermined on the day of his death. He decided to will and bequeathhis little property of savings to his godchild, and the point arose howcould it be so "tied up" that she alone should benefit by it. He askedthe knotty question of every lawyer who came through the lodge gate onbusiness.
"Settle it strictly on herself," the gentleman would answer.
"But look here," quoth the turnkey. "Supposing she had, say a brother,say a father, say a husband, who would be likely to make a grab at thatproperty when she came into it--how about that?"
"It would be settled on herself, and they would have no more legal claimon it than you," would be the professional answer.
"Stop a bit," said the turnkey. "Supposing she was tender-hearted, andthey came over her. Where's your law for tying it up then?"
The deepest character whom the turnkey sounded was unable to produce hislaw for tying such a knot as that. So, the turnkey thought about it allhis life, and died without a will after all.
But that was long afterwards, when his god-daughter was past sixteen.She was only eight when her mother died, and from that time theprotection that her wondering eyes had expressed towards her fatherbecame embodied in action, and the Child of the Marshalsea took uponherself a new relation.
At first, such a baby could do little more than sit with him, desertingher livelier place by the high fender, and quietly watching him. Butthis made her so far necessary to him that he became accustomed to her,and began to be sensible of missing her when she was not there. Throughthis little gate she passed out of childhood into the care-laden world.
What her pitiful look saw, at that early time, in her father, in hersister, in her brother, in the jail; how much, or how little of thewretched truth it pleased God to make visible to her, lies hidden withmany mysteries. It is enough that she was inspired to be somethingwhich was not what the rest were, and for the sake of the rest.
And while the mark of the prison was seen only too clearly
in her vain,selfish sister, and weak, wayward brother, Little Dorrit's life wassingularly free from taint; her heart was full of service and love.
And so, in spite of her small stature and want of strength, she toiledand planned, and soon became the real head of this poor, fallen house.
At thirteen, she could read and keep accounts--that is, could put downin words and figures how much the bare necessaries that they wantedwould cost, and how much less they had to buy them with. She had been,by snatches of a few weeks at a time, to an evening school outside, andgot her sister and brother sent to day schools during three or fouryears. There was no instruction for any of them at home; but she knewwell--no one better--that her broken-spirited father could no longerhelp them.
To these scanty means of improvement, she added another of her owncontriving. Once, among the curious crowd of inmates, there appeared adancing-master. Her sister Fanny had a great desire to learn to dance,and seemed to have a taste that way. At thirteen years old, the Childof the Marshalsea presented herself to the dancing-master, with a littlebag in her hand, and said timidly, "If you please, I was born here,sir."
"Oh! You are the young lady, are you?" said the man, surveying thesmall figure and uplifted face.
"Yes, sir."
"And what can I do for you?"
"Nothing for me, sir, thank you," anxiously undrawing the strings of thelittle bag; "but if, while you stay here, you could be so kind as toteach my sister cheap--"
"My child, I'll teach her for nothing," said the dancing-master,shutting up the bag.
He was as good-natured a master as ever danced to the Insolvent Court,and he kept his word. Fanny was so apt a pupil, and made such wonderfulprogress that he continued to teach her after he was released fromprison. In time, he obtained a place for her at a small theatre. It wasat the same theatre where her uncle--who was also now a poor man--playeda clarinet for a living; and Fanny left the Marshalsea and went to livewith him.
The success of this beginning gave Little Dorrit courage to try again,this time on her own behalf. She had long wanted to learn how to sew,and watched and waited for a seamstress to come to the prison. At lastone came, and Little Dorrit went to call upon her.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am," she said, looking timidly round the door ofthe milliner, whom she found in tears and in bed; "but I was born here."
Everybody seemed to hear of her as soon as they arrived; for themilliner sat up in bed, drying her eyes, and said, just as thedancing-master had said,
"Oh! _You_ are the child, are you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I am sorry I haven't got anything for you," said the milliner, shakingher head.
"It's not that, ma'am. If you please I want to learn needlework."
"Why should you do that," returned the milliner, "with me before you?It has not done me much good."
"Nothing--whatever it is--seems to have done anybody much good who comeshere," she returned in all simplicity; "but I want to learn, just thesame."
"I am afraid you are so weak, you see," the milliner objected.
"I don't think I am weak, ma'am."
"And you are so very, very little, you see," continued the milliner.
"Yes, I am afraid I am very little indeed," returned the Child of theMarshalsea; and so began to sob over that unfortunate defect of hers,which came so often in her way. The milliner--who was not morose orhard-hearted, only newly insolvent--was touched, took her in hand withgood-will, found her the most patient and earnest of pupils, and madeher a cunning workwoman in course of time.
And so, presently, Little Dorrit had the immense satisfaction of goingout to work by the day, and of supplying her father with many littlecomforts which otherwise he would not have enjoyed.
But her hardest task was in getting her brother out of prison and intosome useful employment. The life there had been anything but good forhim; and at eighteen he was idle and shiftless, not caring to lift afinger for himself. In her dilemma, Little Dorrit went to her oldfriend, the turnkey.
"Dear Bob," said she, "what is to become of poor Tip?"
The turnkey scratched his head. Privately he had a poor opinion of theyoung man.
"Well, my dear," he answered, "something ought to be done with him.Suppose I try to get him into the law?"
"That would be so good of you, Bob!"
The turnkey was as good as his word, and by dint of buttonholing everylawyer who came through the gate on business, he found Tip a place asclerk, where the pay was not large, but the prospects good.
Tip idled away in the law office for six months, then came back to theprison one evening with his hands in his pockets and told his sister hewas not going back again.
"Not going back!" she exclaimed.
"I am so tired of it," said Tip, "that I have cut it."
Tip tired of everything. With intervals of Marshalsea lounging, hissmall second mother, aided by her trusty friend, got him into a varietyof situations. But whatever Tip went into, he came out of tired,announcing that he had cut it.
Nevertheless, the brave little creature did so fix her heart on herbrother's rescue, that while he was ringing out these doleful changes,she pinched and scraped enough together to ship him for Canada. When hewas tired of nothing to do, and disposed in its turn to cut even that,he graciously consented to go to Canada. And there was grief in herbosom over parting with him, and joy in the hope of his being put in astraight course at last.
"God bless you, dear Tip. Don't be too proud to come and see us, whenyou have made your fortune."
"All right!" said Tip, and went.
But not all the way to Canada; in fact, not farther than Liverpool.After making the voyage to that port from London, he found himself sostrongly impelled to cut the vessel, that he resolved to walk backagain. Carrying out which intention, he presented himself before her atthe expiration of a month, in rags, without shoes, and much more tiredthan ever.
At length he found a situation for himself, and disappeared for months.She never heard from him but once in that time, though it was as wellfor her peace of mind that she did not. He was making trades for atricky horse dealer.
One evening she was alone at work--standing up at the window, to savethe twilight lingering above the wall--when he opened the door andwalked in.
She kissed and welcomed him; but was afraid to ask him any question. Hesaw how anxious and timid she was, and appeared sorry.
"I am afraid, Amy, you'll be vexed this time. Upon my life I am!"
"I am very sorry to hear you say so, Tip. Have you come back?"
"Why--yes. But that's not the worst of it."
"Not the worst of it?"
"Don't look so startled, Amy. I've come back in a new way. I'm one ofthe prisoners now. I owe forty pounds."
For the first time in all those years, she sank under her cares. Shecried, with her clasped hands lifted above her head, that it would killtheir father if he ever knew it; and fell down at Tip's graceless feet.
It was easier for Tip to bring her to her senses, than for her to bring_him_ to understand what a pitiable thing he had done. But he agreed tohelp keep it a secret from their father; and Little Dorrit toiled harderthan ever, in the hope of one day getting him out again.
Thus passed the life of the Child of the Marshalsea until she became ayoung woman.
Stories from Dickens Page 17
