little dorrit-信丽(英文版)-第12部分

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o'clock　on　a　certain　fine　morning；　a　minuet　de　la　cour　came　off　in
the　yard……the　college…rooms　being　of　too　confined　proportions　for　the
purpose……in　which　so　much　ground　was　covered；　and　the　steps　were　so
conscientiously　executed；　that　the　dancing…master；　having　to　play　the
kit　besides；　was　thoroughly　blown。

The　success　of　this　beginning；　which　led　to　the　dancing…master's
continuing　his　instruction　after　his　release；　emboldened　the　poor　child
to　try　again。　She　watched　and　waited　months　for　a　seamstress。　In　the
fulness　of　time　a　milliner　came　in；　and　to　her　she　repaired　on　her　own
behalf。

'I　beg　your　pardon；　ma'am；'　she　said；　looking　timidly　round　the　door　of
the　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　the
milliner　sat　up　in　bed；　drying　her　eyes；　and　said；　just　as　the
dancing…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；　shaking
her　head。

'It's　not　that；　ma'am。　If　you　please　I　want　to　learn　needle…work。'

'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　es
here；'　she　returned　in　all　simplicity；　'but　I　want　to　learn　just　the
same。'

'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；'　the　milliner　objected。

'Yes；　I　am　afraid　I　am　very　little　indeed；'　returned　the　Child　of　the
Marshalsea；　and　so　began　to　sob　over　that　unfortunate　defect　of　hers；
which　came　so　often　in　her　way。　The　milliner……who　was　not　morose　or
hard…hearted；　only　newly　insolvent……was　touched；　took　her　in　hand　with
goodwill；　found　her　the　most　patient　and　earnest　of　pupils；　and　made　her
a　cunning　work…woman　in　course　of　time。

In　course　of　time；　and　in　the　very　self…same　course　of　time；　the　Father
of　the　Marshalsea　gradually　developed　a　new　flower　of　character。　The
more　Fatherly　he　grew　as　to　the　Marshalsea；　and　the　more　dependent　he
became　on　the　contributions　of　his　changing　family；　the　greater　stand
he　made　by　his　forlorn　gentility。　With　the　same　hand　that　he　pocketed
a　collegian's　half…crown　half　an　hour　ago；　he　would　wipe　away　the
tears　that　streamed　over　his　cheeks　if　any　reference　were　made　to　his
daughters'　earning　their　bread。　So；　over　and　above　other　daily　cares；
the　Child　of　the　Marshalsea　had　always　upon　her　the　care　of　preserving
the　genteel　fiction　that　they　were　all　idle　beggars　together。

The　sister　became　a　dancer。　There　was　a　ruined　uncle　in　the　family
group……ruined　by　his　brother；　the　Father　of　the　Marshalsea；　and　knowing
no　more　how　than　his　ruiner　did；　but　accepting　the　fact　as　an　inevitable
certainty……on　whom　her　protection　devolved。　Naturally　a　retired　and
simple　man；　he　had　shown　no　particular　sense　of　being　ruined　at　the　time
when　that　calamity　fell　upon　him；　further　than　that　he　left　off　washing
himself　when　the　shock　was　announced；　and　never　took　to　that　luxury　any
more。　He　had　been　a　very　indifferent　musical　amateur　in　his　better　days；
and　when　he　fell　with　his　brother；　resorted　for　support　to　playing　a
clario　as　dirty　as　himself　in　a　small　Theatre　Orchestra。　It　was　the
theatre　in　which　his　niece　became　a　dancer；　he　had　been　a　fixture　there
a　long　time　when　she　took　her　poor　station　in　it；　and　he　accepted
the　task　of　serving　as　her　escort　and　guardian；　just　as　he　would　have
accepted　an　illness；　a　legacy；　a　feast；　starvation……anything　but　soap。

To　enable　this　girl　to　earn　her　few　weekly　shillings；　it　was　necessary
for　the　Child　of　the　Marshalsea　to　go　through　an　elaborate　form　with　the
Father。

'Fanny　is　not　going　to　live　with　us　just　now；　father。　She　will　be　here　a
good　deal　in　the　day；　but　she　is　going　to　live　outside　with　uncle。'

'You　surprise　me。　Why？'

'I　think　uncle　wants　a　panion；　father。　He　should　be　attended　to；　and
looked　after。'

'A　panion？　He　passes　much　of　his　time　here。　And　you　attend　to　him　and
look　after　him；　Amy；　a　great　deal　more　than　ever　your　sister　will。　You
all　go　out　so　much；　you　all　go　out　so　much。'

This　was　to　keep　up　the　ceremony　and　pretence　of　his　having　no　idea　that
Amy　herself　went　out　by　the　day　to　work。

'But　we　are　always　glad　to　e　home；　father；　now；　are　we　not？　And　as　to
Fanny；　perhaps　besides　keeping　uncle　pany　and　taking　care　of　him；　it
may　be　as　well　for　her　not　quite　to　live　here；　always。　She　was　not　born
here　as　I　was；　you　know；　father。'

'Well；　Amy；　well。　I　don't　quite　follow　you；　but　it's　natural　I　suppose
that　Fanny　should　prefer　to　be　outside；　and　even　that　you　often　should；
too。　So；　you　and　Fanny　and　your　uncle；　my　dear；　shall　have　your　own　way。
Good；　good。　I'll　not　meddle；　don't　mind　me。'

To　get　her　brother　out　of　the　prison；　out　of　the　succession　to　Mrs
Bangham　in　executing　missions；　and　out　of　the　slang　interchange　with
very　doubtful　panions　consequent　upon　both；　was　her　hardest　task。　At
eighteen　he　would　have　dragged　on　from　hand　to　mouth；　from　hour　to　hour；
from　penny　to　penny；　until　eighty。　Nobody　got　into　the　prison　from　whom
he　derived　anything　useful　or　good；　and　she　could　find　no　patron　for　him
but　her　old　friend　and　godfather。

'Dear　Bob；'　said　she；　'what　is　to　bee　of　poor　Tip？'　His　name　was
Edward；　and　Ted　had　been　transformed　into　Tip；　within　the　walls。

The　turnkey　had　strong　private　opinions　as　to　what　would　bee　of
poor　Tip；　and　had　even　gone　so　far　with　the　view　of　averting　their
fulfilment；　as　to　sound　Tip　in　reference　to　the　expediency　of　running
away　and　going　to　serve　his　country。　But　Tip　had　thanked　him；　and　said
he　didn't　seem　to　care　for　his　country。

'Well；　my　dear；'　said　the　turnkey；　'something　ought　to　be　done　with　him。
Suppose　I　try　and　get　him　into　the　law？'

'That　would　be　so　good　of　you；　Bob！'

The　turnkey　had　now　two　points　to　put　to　the　professional　gentlemen　as
they　passed　in　and　out。　He　put　this　second　one　so　perseveringly　that
a　stool　and　twelve　shillings　a　week　were　at　last　found　for　Tip　in　the
office　of　an　attorney　in　a　great　National　Palladium　called　the　Palace
Court；　at　that　time　one　of　a　considerable　list　of　everlasting　bulwarks
to　the　dignity　and　safety　of　Albion；　whose　places　know　them　no　more。

Tip　languished　in　Clifford's　Inns　for　six　months；　and　at　the　expiration
of　that　term　sauntered　back　one　evening　with　his　hands　in　his　pockets；
and　incidentally　observed　to　his　sister　that　he　was　not　going　back
again。

'Not　going　back　again？'　said　the　poor　little　anxious　Child　of　the
Marshalsea；　always　calculating　and　planning　for　Tip；　in　the　front　rank
of　her　charges。

'I　am　so　tired　of　it；'　said　Tip；　'that　I　have　cut　it。'

Tip　tired　of　everything。　With　intervals　of　Marshalsea　lounging；　and　Mrs
Bangham　succession；　his　small　second　mother；　aided　by　her　trusty　friend；
got　him　into　a　warehouse；　into　a　market　garden；　into　the　hop　trade；
into　the　law　again；　into　an　auctioneers；　into　a　brewery；　into　a
stockbroker's；　into　the　law　again；　into　a　coach　office；　into　a　waggon
office；　into　the　law　again；　into　a　general　dealer's；　into　a　distillery；
into　the　law　again；　into　a　wool　house；　into　a　dry　goods　house；　into　the
Billingsgate　trade；　into　the　foreign　fruit　trade；　and　into　the　docks。
But　whatever　Tip　went　into；　he　came　out　of　tired；　announcing　that　he
had　cut　it。　Wherever　he　went；　this　foredoomed　Tip　appeared　to　take　the
prison　walls　with　him；　and　to　set　them　up　in　such　trade　or　calling；
and　to　prowl　about　within　their　narrow　limits　in　the　old　slip…shod；
purposeless；　down…at…heel　way；　until　the　real　immovable　Marshalsea　walls
asserted　their　fascination　over　him；　and　brought　him　back。

Nevertheless；　the　brave　little　creature　did　so　fix　her　heart　on　her
brother's　rescue；　that　while　he　was　ringing　out　these　doleful　changes；
she　pinched　and　scraped　enough　together　to　ship　him　for　Canada。　When　he
was　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　her
bosom　over　parting　with　him；　and　joy　in　the　hope　of　his　being　put　in　a
straight　course　at　last。

'God　bless　you；　dear　Tip。　Don't　be　too　proud　to　e　and　see　us；　when
you　have　made　your　fortune。'

'All　right！'　said　Tip；　and　went。

But　not　all　the　way　to　Canada；　in　fact；　not　further　than　Liverpool。

After　making　the　voyage　to　that　port　from　London；　he　found　himself
so　strongly　impelled　to　cut　the　vessel；　that　he　resolved　to　walk　back
again。　Carrying　out　which　intention；　he　presented　himself　before　her　at
the　expiration　of　a　month；　in　rags；　without　shoes；　and　much　more　tired
than　ever。　At　length；　after　another　interval　of　successorship　to　Mrs
Bangham；　he　found　a　pursuit　for　himself；　and　announced　it。

'Amy；　I　have　got　a　situation。'

'Have　you　really　and　truly；　Tip？'

'All　right。　I　shall　do　now。　You　needn't　look　anxious　about　me　any　more；
old　girl。'

'What　is　it；　Tip？'

'Why；　you　know　Slingo　by　sight？'

'Not　the　man　they　call　the　dealer？'

'That's　the　chap。　He'll　be　out　on　Monday；　and　he's　going　to　give　me　a
berth。'

'What　is　he　a　dealer　in；　Tip？'

'Horses。　All　right！　I　shall　do　now；　Amy。'

She　lost　sight　of　him　for　months　afterwards；　and　only　heard　from　him
once。　A　whisper　passed　among　the　elder　collegians　that　he　had　been　seen
at　a　mock　auction　in　Moorfields；　pretending　to　buy　plated　articles　for
massive　silver；　and　paying　for　them　with　the　greatest　liberality　in
bank　notes；　but　it　never　reached　her　ears。　One　evening　she　was　alone　at
work……standing　up　at　the　window；　to　save　the　twilight　lingering　above
the　wall……when　he　opened　the　door　and　walked　in。

She　kissed　and　weled　him；　but　was　afraid　to　ask　him　any　questions。　He
saw　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　e　back？'

'Why……yes。'

'Not　expecting　this　time　that　what　you　had　found　would　answer　very　well；
I　am　less　surprised　and　sorry　than　I　might　have　been；　Tip。'

'Ah！　But　that's　not　the　worst　of　it。'

'Not　the　worst　of　it？'

'Don't　look　so　startled。　No；　Amy；　not　the　worst　of　it。　I　have　e　back；
you　see；　but……DON'T　look　so　startled……I　have　e　back　in　what　I　may
call　a　new　way。　I　am　off　the　volunteer　list　altogether。　I　am　in　now；　as
one　of　the　regulars。'

'Oh！　Don't　say　you　are　a　prisoner；　Tip！　Don't；　don't！'

'Well；　I　don't　want　to　say　it；'　he　returned　in　a　reluctant　tone；　'but　if
you　can't　understand　me　without　my　saying　it；　what　am　I　to　do？　I　am　in
for　forty　pound　odd。'

For　the　first　time　in　all　those　years；　she　sunk　under　her　cares。　She
cried；　with　her　clasped　hands　lifted　above　her　head；　that　it　would　kill
their　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　that　the　Father　of　the　Marshalsea　would　be　beside
himself　if　he　knew　the　truth。　The　thing　was　inprehensible　to　Tip；　and
altogether　a　fanciful　notion。　He　yielded　to　it　in　that　light　only；　when
he　submitted　to　her　entreaties；　backed　by　those　of　his　uncle　and　sister。
There　was　no　want　of　precedent　for　his　return；　it　was　accounted　for
to　the　father　in　the　usual　way；　and　the　collegians；　with　a　better
prehension　of　the　pious　fraud　than　Tip；　supported　it　loyally。

This　was　the　life；　and　this　the　history；　of　the　child　of　the　Marshalsea
at　twenty…two。　With　a　still　surviving　attachment　to　the　one　miserable
yard　and　block　of　houses　as　her　birthplace　and　home；　she　passed　to　and
fro　in　it　shrinkingly　now；　with　a　womanly　consciousness　that　she　was
pointed　out　to　every　one。　Since　she　had　begun　to　work　beyond　the　walls；
she　had　found　it　necessary　to　conceal　where　she　lived；　and　to　e　and
go　as　secretly　as　she　could；　between　the　free　city　and　the　iron　gates；
outside　of　which　she　had　never　slept　in　her　life。　Her　original　timidity
had　grown　with　this　concealment；　and　her　light　step　and　her　little
figure　shunned　the　thronged　streets　while　they　passed　along　them。

Worldly　wise　in　hard　and　poor　necessities；　she　was　innocent　in　all
things　else。　Innocent；　in　the　mist　through　which　she　saw　her　father；
and　the　prison；　and　the　turbid　living　river　that　flowed　through　it　and
flowed　on。


This　was　the　life；　and　this　the　history；　of　Little　Dorrit；　now　going
home　upon　a　dull　September　evening；　observed　at　a　distance　by　Arthur
Clennam。　This　was　the　life；　and　this　the　history；　of　Little　Dorrit；
turning　at　the　end　of　London　Bridge；　recrossing　it；　going　back　again；
passing　on　to　Saint　George's　Church；　turning　back　suddenly　once　more；
and　flitting　in　at　the　open　outer　gate　and　little　court…yard　of　the
Marshalsea。




CHAPTER　8。　The　Lock


Arthur　Clennam　stood　in　the　street；　waiting　to　ask　some　passer…by　what
place　that　was。　He　suffered　a　few　people　to　pass　him　in　whose　face　there
was　no　encouragement　to　make　the　inquiry；　and　still　stood　pausing　in　the
street；　when　an　old　man　came　up　and　turned　into　the　courtyard。

He　stooped　a　good　deal；　and　plodded　along　in　a　slow　pre…occupied　manner；
which　made　the　bustling　London　thoroughfares　no　very　safe　resort　for
him。　He　was　dirtily　and　meanly　dressed；　in　a　threadbare　coat；　once　blue；
reaching　to　his　ankles　and　buttoned　to　his　chin；　where　it　vanished　in
the　pale　ghost　of　a　velvet　collar。　A　piece　of　red　cloth　with　which　that
phantom　had　been　stiffened　in　its　lifetime　was　now　laid　bare；　and　poked
itself　up；　at　the　back　of　the　old　man's　neck；　into　a　confusion　of　grey
hair　and　rusty　stock　and　buckle　which　altogether　nearly　poked　his
hat　off。　A　greasy　hat　it　was；　and　a　napless；　impending　over　his　eyes；
cracked　and　crumpled　at　the　brim；　and　with　a　wisp　of　pocket…handkerchief
dangling　out　below　it。　His　trousers　were　so　long　and　loose；　and　his
shoes　so　clumsy　and　large；　that　he　shuffled　like　an　elephant；　though　how
much　of　this　was　gait；　and　how　much　trailing　cloth　and　leather；　no　one
could　have　told。　Under　one　arm　he　carried　a　limp　and　worn…out　case；
containing　some　wind　instrument；　in　the　same　hand　he　had　a　pennyworth
of　snuff　in　a　little　packet　of　whitey…brown　paper；　from　which　he　slowly
forted　his　poor　blue　old　nose　with　a　lengthened…out　pinch；　as　Arthur
Clennam　looked　at　him。　To　this　old　man　crossing　the　court…yard；　he
preferred　his　inquiry；　touching　him　on　the　shoulder。　The　old　man　stopped
and　looked　round；　with　the　expression　in　his　weak　grey　eyes　of　one　whose
thoughts　had　been　far　off；　and　who　was　a　little　dull　of　hearing　also。

'Pray；　sir；'　said　Arthur；　repeating　his　question；　'what　is　this　place？'

'Ay！　This　place？'　returned　the　old　man；　staying　his　pinch　of　snuff　on
its　road；　and　pointing　at　the　place　without　looking　at　it。　'This　is　the
Marshalsea；　sir。'

'The　debtors'　prison？'

'Sir；'　said　the　old　man；　with　the　air　of　deeming　it　not　quite　necessary
to　insist　upon　that　designation；　'the　debtors'　prison。'

He　turned　himself　about；　and　went　on。

'I　beg　your　pardon；'　said　Arthur；　stopping　him　once　more；　'but　will　you
allow　me　to　ask　you　another　question？　Can　any　one　go　in　here？'

'Any　one　can　go　IN；'　replied　the　old　man；　plainly　adding　by　the
significance　of　his　emphasis；　'but　it　is　not　every　one　who　can　go　out。'

'Pardon　me　once　mo