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Little Dorrit: Clennam

For twenty years young Clennam had lived in China with his father, only to return now, puzzled over a mysterious watch which that father, in the very last moments of his life, had given to his son, murmuring faintly and indistinctly at the time, "Your mother." Naturally Arthur had assumed that it was intended for Mrs. Clennam, whom he and the world supposed to be his mother.

Inside the watch-casing was an old silk paper with the initials D N F worked into it in beads. It was a message--but the young man could not fathom it and the old woman would not enlighten him. Was Little Dorrit, to whom the stony Mrs. Clennam paid such strange, unusual kindness, connected with the mystery? They grew to see more of each other--the girl and the young man--and Arthur learned that the generous little Amy Dorrit was supporting not only her poor old father, who had been condemned to a debtors' prison, but also her pretty, frivolous sister Fanny, and her wild, lazy brother Tip. Under the then existing English laws they were all allowed to live with their father in that dreary prison.

Little wonder that Clennam often spoke kindly to her and that he helped the family. But love had not yet come to him--though it had to Little Dorrit. He heard the thrill in her voice, he saw the quickened bosom, and yet the remotest suspicion of the truth never dawned upon his mind. It must be added here that Little Dorrit had innocently won the love of another man, the sentimental son of the prison turnkey, small of stature, with rather weak legs and very weak eyes, gentle, but great of soul, poetical, faithful. If one were to doubt his devotion he need only read the inscription for his own tombstone, which the romantic youth had composed when Little Dorrit said "No" to him. It ran thus:

Here Lie the Mortal Remains of JOHN CHIVERY Never Anything Worth Mentioning Who Died of a Broken Heart Requesting With His Last Breath That the Word AMY Might Be Inscribed Over His Ashes Which Was Done by His Afflicted Parents But at last the tables turned for our little heroine. A queer, kind-hearted rent-collector, Pancks--a panting little steam-tug of a man, with his puffing and his pauses--had learned to value the friendship of the motherless girl, and so, having accidentally discovered that her father was the probable heir to an enormous estate, had run down the clues until finally the great wealth was turned over to old Mr. Dorrit.

Then away from the dreary prison hurried the entire family. Yet riches brought slight pleasure to Little Dorrit. The much-changed father became ashamed of his debtor life, and, with the now richly dressed sister and the gambling brother, put on many airs. The father even employed a chaperon named Mrs. General to teach Little Dorrit society manners. "Don't say 'Father,'" declared this lady. "'Papa' is a preferable word; it gives a pretty form to the lips. 'Father' is rather vulgar, my dear. You will find it serviceable in the formation of a demeanor if you say to yourself, on entering a room filled with company, 'Papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes, and prism.'" At this juncture the wealthy Mr. Merdle took an active part in the Dorrits' lives. The chuckle-headed son of the Merdles fell in love with Fanny, and after their marriage Mr. Dorrit put all his wealth into Mr. Merdle's schemes--for had not this wonderful Merdle, through various mysterious investments, made tremendous fortunes for himself and others? By a strange fatality Arthur, too, was led to invest his firm's money in the famous Mr. Merdle's schemes.

And then the bubble broke. Merdle committed suicide. Investigations showed that he had fleeced everybody. The Dorrits' money was gone. Arthur's firm was ruined and Arthur himself was thrown into prison--the same poor debtors' prison that had, for so long, been the home of Little Dorrit. The days dragged wearily on.

At last Arthur, despondent and crushed, haggard from brooding and stricken with fever, one day saw, as in a vision, kneeling before him the figure of dear Little Dorrit. She had hastened to make happier the lot of the man who had helped her family in the same gloomy surroundings and whom she loved. She nursed him in his sickness. She offered him all her money to help him overcome his distress. And then, as he refused the money, he realized, for the first time, that she loved him--and that he, too, loved her. A feeling of peace comes over his mind.

The clouds begin to break.