|
||||||||
The old man looked at him attentively. Are you a sailor, sir? he asked. He seemed a little disappointed by the shake of the head that replied to him. Not a sailor? I judged from your sunburnt face that you might be. Are you in earnest, sir? I do assure you that I am, and do entreat you to believe that I am, in plain earnest. I know very little of the world, sir, returned the other, who had a weak and quavering voice. I am merely passing on, like the shadow over the sun-dial. It would be worth no mans while to mislead me; it would really be too easytoo poor a success, to yield any satisfaction. The young woman whom you saw go in here is my brothers child. My brother is William Dorrit; I am Frederick. You say you have seen her at your mothers (I know your mother befriends her), you have felt an interest in her, and you wish to know what she does here. Come and see. He went on again, and Arthur accompanied him. My brother, said the old man, pausing on the step and slowly facing round again, has been here many years; and much that happens even among ourselves, out of doors, is kept from him for reasons that I neednt enter upon now. Be so good as to say nothing of my nieces working at her needle. Be so good as to say nothing that goes beyond what is said among us. If you keep within our bounds, you cannot well be wrong. Now! Come and see. Arthur followed him down a narrow entry, at the end of which a key was turned, and a strong door was opened from within. It admitted them into a lodge or lobby, across which they passed, and so through another door and a grating into the prison. The old man always plodding on before, turned round, in his slow, stiff, stooping manner, when they came to the turnkey on duty, as if to present his companion. The turnkey nodded; and the companion passed in without being asked whom he wanted. The night was dark; and the prison lamps in the yard, and the candles in the prison windows faintly shining behind many sorts of wry old curtain and blind, had not the air of making it lighter. A few people loitered about, but the greater part of the population was within doors. The old man, taking the right-hand side of the yard, turned in at the third or fourth doorway, and began to ascend the stairs. They are rather dark, sir, but you will not find anything in the way. He paused for a moment before opening a door on the second story. He had no sooner turned the handle than the visitor saw Little Dorrit, and saw the reason of her setting so much store by dining alone. She had brought the meat home that she should have eaten herself, and was already warming it on a gridiron over the fire for her father, clad in an old grey gown and a black cap, awaiting his supper at the table. A clean cloth was spread before him, with knife, fork, and spoon, salt-cellar, pepper-box, glass, and pewter ale-pot. Such zests as his particular little phial of cayenne pepper and his pennyworth of pickles in a saucer, were not wanting. She started, coloured deeply, and turned white. The visitor, more with his eyes than by the slight impulsive motion of his hand, entreated her to be reassured and to trust him. I found this gentleman, said the uncleMr Clennam, William, son of Amys friendat the outer gate, wishful, as he was going by, of paying his respects, but hesitating whether to come in or not. This is my brother William, sir. I hope, said Arthur, very doubtful what to say, that my respect for your daughter may explain and justify my desire to be presented to you, sir. Mr Clennam, returned the other, rising, taking his cap off in the flat of his hand, and so holding it, ready to put on again, you do me honour. You are welcome, sir; with a low bow. Frederick, a chair. Pray sit down, Mr Clennam. |
||||||||
|
||||||||
|
||||||||
Copyright: All texts on Bibliomania are © Bibliomania.com Ltd, and may not be reproduced in any form without our written permission. See our FAQ for more details. | ||||||||