Chapter: And now the day arrived when Mr Dorrit and his family were to leave the
prison for ever, and the stones of its much-trodden pavement were to
know them no more.

The interval had been short, but he had greatly complained of its
length, and had been imperious with Mr Rugg touching the delay. He had
been high with Mr Rugg, and had threatened to employ some one else. He
had requested Mr Rugg not to presume upon the place in which he found
him, but to do his duty, sir, and to do it with promptitude. He had told
Mr Rugg that he knew what lawyers and agents were, and that he would not
submit to imposition. On that gentleman's humbly representing that
he exerted himself to the utmost, Miss Fanny was very short with him;
desiring to know what less he could do, when he had been told a dozen
times that money was no object, and expressing her suspicion that he
forgot whom he talked to.

Towards the Marshal, who was a Marshal of many years' standing, and
with whom he had never had any previous difference, Mr Dorrit comported
himself with severity. That officer, on personally tendering his
congratulations, offered the free use of two rooms in his house for Mr
Dorrit's occupation until his departure. Mr Dorrit thanked him at the
moment, and replied that he would think of it; but the Marshal was no
sooner gone than he sat down and wrote him a cutting note, in which
he remarked that he had never on any former occasion had the honour of
receiving his congratulations (which was true, though indeed there had
        not been anything particular to congratulate him upon), and that he
begged, on behalf of himself and family, to repudiate the Marshal's
offer, with all those thanks which its disinterested character and its
perfect independence of all worldly considerations demanded.

Although his brother showed so dim a glimmering of interest in their
altered fortunes that it was very doubtful whether he understood them,
        Mr Dorrit caused him to be measured for new raiment by the hosiers,
        tailors, hatters, and bootmakers whom he called in for himself; and
        ordered that his old clothes should be taken from him and burned. Miss
        Fanny and Mr Tip required no direction in making an appearance of great
        fashion and elegance; and the three passed this interval together at the
        best hotel in the neighbourhood--though truly, as Miss Fanny said, the
        best was very indifferent. In connection with that establishment, Mr
        Tip hired a cabriolet, horse, and groom, a very neat turn out, which
        was usually to be observed for two or three hours at a time gracing the
        Borough High Street, outside the Marshalsea court-yard. A modest
        little hired chariot and pair was also frequently to be seen there;
        in alighting from and entering which vehicle, Miss Fanny fluttered the
        Marshal's daughters by the display of inaccessible bonnets.

        A great deal of business was transacted in this short period. Among
        other items, Messrs Peddle and Pool, solicitors, of Monument Yard, were
        instructed by their client Edward Dorrit, Esquire, to address a letter
        to Mr Arthur Clennam, enclosing the sum of twenty-four pounds nine
        shillings and eightpence, being the amount of principal and interest
        computed at the rate of five per cent. per annum, in which their
        client believed himself to be indebted to Mr Clennam. In making this
        communication and remittance, Messrs Peddle and Pool were further
        instructed by their client to remind Mr Clennam that the favour of the
        advance now repaid (including gate-fees) had not been asked of him, and
        to inform him that it would not have been accepted if it had been openly
        proffered in his name. With which they requested a stamped receipt, and
        remained his obedient servants. A great deal of business had likewise to
        be done, within the so-soon-to-be-orphaned Marshalsea, by Mr Dorrit
        so long its Father, chiefly arising out of applications made to him
        by Collegians for small sums of money. To these he responded with the
        greatest liberality, and with no lack of formality; always first writing
        to appoint a time at which the applicant might wait upon him in his
        room, and then receiving him in the midst of a vast accumulation of
        documents, and accompanying his donation (for he said in every such
                case, 'it is a donation, not a loan') with a great deal of good counsel:
        to the effect that he, the expiring Father of the Marshalsea, hoped to
        be long remembered, as an example that a man might preserve his own and
        the general respect even there.

        The Collegians were not envious. Besides that they had a personal and
        traditional regard for a Collegian of so many years' standing, the event
        was creditable to the College, and made it famous in the newspapers.
        Perhaps more of them thought, too, than were quite aware of it, that the
        thing might in the lottery of chances have happened to themselves, or
        that something of the sort might yet happen to themselves some day or
        other. They took it very well. A few were low at the thought of being
        left behind, and being left poor; but even these did not grudge the
        family their brilliant reverse. There might have been much more envy in
        politer places. It seems probable that mediocrity of fortune would have
        been disposed to be less magnanimous than the Collegians, who lived from
        hand to mouth--from the pawnbroker's hand to the day's dinner.

        They got up an address to him, which they presented in a neat frame and
        glass (though it was not afterwards displayed in the family mansion or
                preserved among the family papers); and to which he returned a gracious
        answer. In that document he assured them, in a Royal manner, that he
        received the profession of their attachment with a full conviction
        of its sincerity; and again generally exhorted them to follow his
        example--which, at least in so far as coming into a great property was
        concerned, there is no doubt they would have gladly imitated. He took
        the same occasion of inviting them to a comprehensive entertainment, to
        be given to the whole College in the yard, and at which he signified
        he would have the honour of taking a parting glass to the health and
        happiness of all those whom he was about to leave behind.

        He did not in person dine at this public repast (it took place at two in
                the afternoon, and his dinners now came in from the hotel at six), but
        his son was so good as to take the head of the principal table, and to
        be very free and engaging. He himself went about among the company, and
        took notice of individuals, and saw that the viands were of the quality
        he had ordered, and that all were served. On the whole, he was like a
        baron of the olden time in a rare good humour. At the conclusion of the
        repast, he pledged his guests in a bumper of old Madeira; and told them
        that he hoped they had enjoyed themselves, and what was more, that they
        would enjoy themselves for the rest of the evening; that he wished them
        well; and that he bade them welcome. His health being drunk with
        acclamations, he was not so baronial after all but that in trying to
        return thanks he broke down, in the manner of a mere serf with a heart
        in his breast, and wept before them all. After this great success, which
        he supposed to be a failure, he gave them 'Mr Chivery and his brother
        officers;' whom he had beforehand presented with ten pounds each, and
        who were all in attendance. Mr Chivery spoke to the toast, saying, What
        you undertake to lock up, lock up; but remember that you are, in the
        words of the fettered African, a man and a brother ever. The list of
        toasts disposed of, Mr Dorrit urbanely went through the motions of
        playing a game of skittles with the Collegian who was the next oldest
        inhabitant to himself; and left the tenantry to their diversions.

        But all these occurrences preceded the final day. And now the day
        arrived when he and his family were to leave the prison for ever, and
        when the stones of its much-trodden pavement were to know them no more.

        Noon was the hour appointed for the departure. As it approached, there
        was not a Collegian within doors, nor a turnkey absent. The latter class
        of gentlemen appeared in their Sunday clothes, and the greater part of
        the Collegians were brightened up as much as circumstances allowed. Two
        or three flags were even displayed, and the children put on odds and
        ends of ribbon. Mr Dorrit himself, at this trying time, preserved a
        serious but graceful dignity. Much of his great attention was given to
        his brother, as to whose bearing on the great occasion he felt anxious.

        'My dear Frederick,' said he, 'if you will give me your arm we will pass
        among our friends together. I think it is right that we should go out
        arm in arm, my dear Frederick.'

        'Hah!' said Frederick. 'Yes, yes, yes, yes.'

        'And if, my dear Frederick--if you could, without putting any great
        constraint upon yourself, throw a little (pray excuse me, Frederick), a
        little polish into your usual demeanour--'

        'William, William,' said the other, shaking his head, 'it's for you to
        do all that. I don't know how. All forgotten, forgotten!'

        'But, my dear fellow,' returned William, 'for that very reason, if
        for no other, you must positively try to rouse yourself. What you
        have forgotten you must now begin to recall, my dear Frederick. Your
        position--'

        'Eh?' said Frederick.

        'Your position, my dear Frederick.'

        'Mine?' He looked first at his own figure, and then at his brother's,
        and then, drawing a long breath, cried, 'Hah, to be sure! Yes, yes,
        yes.'

        'Your position, my dear Frederick, is now a fine one. Your position, as
        my brother, is a very fine one. And I know that it belongs to your
        conscientious nature to try to become worthy of it, my dear Frederick,
        and to try to adorn it. To be no discredit to it, but to adorn it.'

        'William,' said the other weakly, and with a sigh, 'I will do anything
        you wish, my brother, provided it lies in my power. Pray be so kind as
        to recollect what a limited power mine is. What would you wish me to do
        to-day, brother? Say what it is, only say what it is.'

        'My dearest Frederick, nothing. It is not worth troubling so good a
        heart as yours with.'

        'Pray trouble it,' returned the other. 'It finds it no trouble, William,
        to do anything it can for you.'

        William passed his hand across his eyes, and murmured with august
        satisfaction, 'Blessings on your attachment, my poor dear fellow!' Then
        he said aloud, 'Well, my dear Frederick, if you will only try, as we
        walk out, to show that you are alive to the occasion--that you think
        about it--'

        'What would you advise me to think about it?' returned his submissive
        brother.

        'Oh! my dear Frederick, how can I answer you? I can only say what, in
        leaving these good people, I think myself.'

        'That's it!' cried his brother. 'That will help me.'

        'I find that I think, my dear Frederick, and with mixed emotions in
        which a softened compassion predominates, What will they do without me!'

        'True,' returned his brother. 'Yes, yes, yes, yes. I'll think that as we
        go, What will they do without my brother! Poor things! What will they do
        without him!'

        Twelve o'clock having just struck, and the carriage being reported ready
        in the outer court-yard, the brothers proceeded down-stairs arm-in-arm.
        Edward Dorrit, Esquire (once Tip), and his sister Fanny followed,
        also arm-in-arm; Mr Plornish and Maggy, to whom had been entrusted the
        removal of such of the family effects as were considered worth removing,
        followed, bearing bundles and burdens to be packed in a cart.

        In the yard, were the Collegians and turnkeys. In the yard, were Mr
        Pancks and Mr Rugg, come to see the last touch given to their work.
        In the yard, was Young John making a new epitaph for himself, on
        the occasion of his dying of a broken heart. In the yard, was the
        Patriarchal Casby, looking so tremendously benevolent that many
        enthusiastic Collegians grasped him fervently by the hand, and the wives
        and female relatives of many more Collegians kissed his hand, nothing
        doubting that he had done it all. In the yard, was the man with the
        shadowy grievance respecting the Fund which the Marshal embezzled, who
        had got up at five in the morning to complete the copying of a perfectly
        unintelligible history of that transaction, which he had committed to Mr
        Dorrit's care, as a document of the last importance, calculated to stun
        the Government and effect the Marshal's downfall. In the yard, was the
        insolvent whose utmost energies were always set on getting into debt,
        who broke into prison with as much pains as other men have broken out
        of it, and who was always being cleared and complimented; while the
        insolvent at his elbow--a mere little, snivelling, striving tradesman,
        half dead of anxious efforts to keep out of debt--found it a hard
        matter, indeed, to get a Commissioner to release him with much reproof
        and reproach. In the yard, was the man of many children and many
        burdens, whose failure astonished everybody; in the yard, was the man of
        no children and large resources, whose failure astonished nobody. There,
        were the people who were always going out to-morrow, and always putting
        it off; there, were the people who had come in yesterday, and who
        were much more jealous and resentful of this freak of fortune than
        the seasoned birds. There, were some who, in pure meanness of spirit,
        cringed and bowed before the enriched Collegian and his family; there,
        were others who did so really because their eyes, accustomed to the
        gloom of their imprisonment and poverty, could not support the light of
        such bright sunshine. There, were many whose shillings had gone into his
        pocket to buy him meat and drink; but none who were now obtrusively Hail
        fellow well met! with him, on the strength of that assistance. It was
        rather to be remarked of the caged birds, that they were a little shy
        of the bird about to be so grandly free, and that they had a tendency to
        withdraw themselves towards the bars, and seem a little fluttered as he
        passed.

        Through these spectators the little procession, headed by the two
        brothers, moved slowly to the gate. Mr Dorrit, 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, he spoke to people in the
        background by their Christian names, he condescended to all present, and
        seemed for their consolation to walk encircled by the legend in golden
        characters, 'Be comforted, my people! Bear it!'

        At last three honest cheers announced that he had passed the gate, and
        that the Marshalsea was an orphan. Before they had ceased to ring in the
        echoes of the prison walls, the family had got into their carriage, and
        the attendant had the steps in his hand.

        Then, and not before, 'Good Gracious!' cried Miss Fanny all at once,
        '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 finding 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.

        A minute might have been consumed in the ascertaining of these points,
        when Miss Fanny, who, from her seat in the carriage, commanded the long
        narrow passage leading to the Lodge, flushed indignantly.

        'Now I do say, Pa,' cried she, 'that this is disgraceful!'

        'What is disgraceful, Fanny?'

        'I do say,' she repeated, 'this is perfectly infamous! Really almost
        enough, even at such a time as this, to make one wish one was dead!
        Here is that child Amy, in her ugly old shabby dress, which she was so
        obstinate about, Pa, which I over and over again begged and prayed her
        to change, and which she over and over again objected to, and promised
        to change to-day, saying she wished to wear it as long as ever she
        remained in there with you--which was absolutely romantic nonsense of
        the lowest kind--here is that child Amy disgracing us to the last moment
        and at the last moment, by being carried out in that dress after all.
        And by that Mr Clennam too!'

        The offence was proved, as she delivered the indictment. Clennam
        appeared at the carriage-door, bearing the little insensible figure in
        his arms.

        'She has been forgotten,' he said, in a tone of pity not free from
        reproach. 'I ran up to her room (which Mr Chivery showed me) and found
        the door open, and that she had fainted on the floor, dear child.
        She appeared to have gone to change her dress, and to have sunk down
        overpowered. It may have been the cheering, or it may have happened
        sooner. Take care of this poor cold hand, Miss Dorrit. Don't let it
        fall.'

        'Thank you, sir,' returned Miss Dorrit, bursting into tears. 'I believe
        I know what to do, if you will give me leave. Dear Amy, open your eyes,
        that's a love! Oh, Amy, Amy, I really am so vexed and ashamed! Do rouse
        yourself, darling! Oh, why are they not driving on! Pray, Pa, do drive
        on!'

        The attendant, getting between Clennam and the carriage-door, with a
        sharp 'By your leave, sir!' bundled up the steps, and they drove away.

 So what's old Dorrit like with money? Well, pretty much the same as without money: egotistical, conceited, snobby, and generally thoughtless. He spends his last few days in prison putting on airs in front of as many people as he can. He orders fancy clothes for himself, Fanny, Tip, and even his brother Frederick. He pays everyone back in the most obnoxious and self-important way possible. He gives out charity to the other prisoners, then lectures them at length. He starts acting like some kind of Lord of the Manor, with all the other prisoners his tenant farmers. He orders them a feast and watches them from on high. It's sad and funny and mostly pathetic. Finally, the day to leave arrives. Dorrit and Frederick take one last stroll through the prison yard, and Dorrit tells his brother that he is preoccupied with worry: "I find that I think, my dear Frederick, and with mixed emotions in which a softened compassion predominates, What will they do without me!" . The other prisoners wish them well and seem to be doing just fine without Dorrit. The Dorrits pile into their carriage and drive out. Suddenly Fanny realizes that they're missing Little Dorrit. They see her being carried to the carriage by Arthur, still wearing her raggedy prison dress. Well, that's some passive aggression right there. Why wouldn't she change her gross old clothes? Fanny is furious at this insult to the family honor, but when Arthur walks up he says he found Little Dorrit passed out while in the process of changing into her new clothes. Fanny immediately feels bad and starts to take care of her sister as the carriage drives away.

