Chapter: On a healthy autumn day, the Marshalsea prisoner, weak but otherwise
restored, sat listening to a voice that read to him. On a healthy autumn
day; when the golden fields had been reaped and ploughed again, when the
summer fruits had ripened and waned, when the green perspectives of hops
had been laid low by the busy pickers, when the apples clustering in the
orchards were russet, and the berries of the mountain ash were crimson
among the yellowing foliage. Already in the woods, glimpses of the hardy
winter that was coming were to be caught through unaccustomed openings
among the boughs where the prospect shone defined and clear, free from
the bloom of the drowsy summer weather, which had rested on it as the
bloom lies on the plum. So, from the seashore the ocean was no longer to
be seen lying asleep in the heat, but its thousand sparkling eyes were
open, and its whole breadth was in joyful animation, from the cool sand
on the beach to the little sails on the horizon, drifting away like
autumn-tinted leaves that had drifted from the trees.

Changeless and barren, looking ignorantly at all the seasons with its
fixed, pinched face of poverty and care, the prison had not a touch of
any of these beauties on it. Blossom what would, its bricks and bars
bore uniformly the same dead crop. Yet Clennam, listening to the voice
as it read to him, heard in it all that great Nature was doing, heard in
it all the soothing songs she sings to man. At no Mother's knee but hers
had he ever dwelt in his youth on hopeful promises, on playful fancies,
    on the harvests of tenderness and humility that lie hidden in the
    early-fostered seeds of the imagination; on the oaks of retreat from
    blighting winds, that have the germs of their strong roots in nursery
    acorns. But, in the tones of the voice that read to him, there were
    memories of an old feeling of such things, and echoes of every merciful
    and loving whisper that had ever stolen to him in his life.

    When the voice stopped, he put his hand over his eyes, murmuring that
    the light was strong upon them.

    Little Dorrit put the book by, and presently arose quietly to shade
    the window. Maggy sat at her needlework in her old place. The light
    softened, Little Dorrit brought her chair closer to his side.

    'This will soon be over now, dear Mr Clennam. Not only are Mr Doyce's
    letters to you so full of friendship and encouragement, but Mr Rugg says
    his letters to him are so full of help, and that everybody (now a little
            anger is past) is so considerate, and speaks so well of you, that it
    will soon be over now.'

    'Dear girl. Dear heart. Good angel!'

    'You praise me far too much. And yet it is such an exquisite pleasure
    to me to hear you speak so feelingly, and to--and to see,' said Little
    Dorrit, raising her eyes to his, 'how deeply you mean it, that I cannot
    say Don't.'

    He lifted her hand to his lips.

    'You have been here many, many times, when I have not seen you, Little
    Dorrit?'

    'Yes, I have been here sometimes when I have not come into the room.'

    'Very often?'

    'Rather often,' said Little Dorrit, timidly.

    'Every day?'

    'I think,' said Little Dorrit, after hesitating, 'that I have been here
    at least twice every day.'

    He might have released the little light hand after fervently kissing it
    again; but that, with a very gentle lingering where it was, it seemed to
    court being retained. He took it in both of his, and it lay softly on his
    breast.

    'Dear Little Dorrit, it is not my imprisonment only that will soon be
    over. This sacrifice of you must be ended. We must learn to part again,
    and to take our different ways so wide asunder. You have not forgotten
    what we said together, when you came back?'

    'O no, I have not forgotten it. But something has been--You feel quite
    strong to-day, don't you?'

    'Quite strong.'

    The hand he held crept up a little nearer his face.

    'Do you feel quite strong enough to know what a great fortune I have
    got?'

    'I shall be very glad to be told. No fortune can be too great or good
    for Little Dorrit.'

    'I have been anxiously waiting to tell you. I have been longing and
    longing to tell you. You are sure you will not take it?'

    'Never!'

    'You are quite sure you will not take half of it?'

    'Never, dear Little Dorrit!'

    As she looked at him silently, there was something in her affectionate
    face that he did not quite comprehend: something that could have broken
    into tears in a moment, and yet that was happy and proud.

    'You will be sorry to hear what I have to tell you about Fanny. Poor
    Fanny has lost everything. She has nothing left but her husband's
    income. All that papa gave her when she married was lost as your money
    was lost. It was in the same hands, and it is all gone.'

    Arthur was more shocked than surprised to hear it. 'I had hoped it might
    not be so bad,' he said: 'but I had feared a heavy loss there, knowing
    the connection between her husband and the defaulter.'

    'Yes. It is all gone. I am very sorry for Fanny; very, very, very sorry
    for poor Fanny. My poor brother too!'

    'Had _he_ property in the same hands?'

    'Yes! And it's all gone.--How much do you think my own great fortune
    is?'

    As Arthur looked at her inquiringly, with a new apprehension on him,
    she withdrew her hand, and laid her face down on the spot where it had
    rested.

    'I have nothing in the world. I am as poor as when I lived here. When
    papa came over to England, he confided everything he had to the same
    hands, and it is all swept away. O my dearest and best, are you quite
    sure you will not share my fortune with me now?'

    Locked in his arms, held to his heart, with his manly tears upon her own
    cheek, she drew the slight hand round his neck, and clasped it in its
    fellow-hand.

    'Never to part, my dearest Arthur; never any more, until the last!
    I never was rich before, I never was proud before, I never was happy
    before, I am rich in being taken by you, I am proud in having been
    resigned by you, I am happy in being with you in this prison, as I
    should be happy in coming back to it with you, if it should be the will
    of GOD, and comforting and serving you with all my love and truth. I am
    yours anywhere, everywhere! I love you dearly! I would rather pass my
    life here with you, and go out daily, working for our bread, than I
    would have the greatest fortune that ever was told, and be the greatest
    lady that ever was honoured. O, if poor papa may only know how blest at
    last my heart is, in this room where he suffered for so many years!'


    Maggy had of course been staring from the first, and had of course been
    crying her eyes out long before this. Maggy was now so overjoyed that,
    after hugging her little mother with all her might, she went down-stairs
    like a clog-hornpipe to find somebody or other to whom to impart her
    gladness. Whom should Maggy meet but Flora and Mr F.'s Aunt opportunely
    coming in? And whom else, as a consequence of that meeting, should
    Little Dorrit find waiting for herself, when, a good two or three hours
    afterwards, she went out?

    Flora's eyes were a little red, and she seemed rather out of spirits.
    Mr F.'s Aunt was so stiffened that she had the appearance of being past
    bending by any means short of powerful mechanical pressure. Her bonnet
    was cocked up behind in a terrific manner; and her stony reticule was as
    rigid as if it had been petrified by the Gorgon's head, and had got it
    at that moment inside. With these imposing attributes, Mr F.'s Aunt,
    publicly seated on the steps of the Marshal's official residence, had
    been for the two or three hours in question a great boon to the younger
    inhabitants of the Borough, whose sallies of humour she had considerably
    flushed herself by resenting at the point of her umbrella, from time to
    time.

    'Painfully aware, Miss Dorrit, I am sure,' said Flora, 'that to propose
    an adjournment to any place to one so far removed by fortune and so
    courted and caressed by the best society must ever appear intruding
    even if not a pie-shop far below your present sphere and a back-parlour
    though a civil man but if for the sake of Arthur--cannot overcome it
    more improper now than ever late Doyce and Clennam--one last remark I
    might wish to make one last explanation I might wish to offer perhaps
    your good nature might excuse under pretence of three kidney ones the
    humble place of conversation.'

    Rightly interpreting this rather obscure speech, Little Dorrit returned
    that she was quite at Flora's disposition. Flora accordingly led the
    way across the road to the pie-shop in question: Mr F.'s Aunt stalking
    across in the rear, and putting herself in the way of being run over,
    with a perseverance worthy of a better cause.

    When the 'three kidney ones,' which were to be a blind to the
    conversation, were set before them on three little tin platters, each
    kidney one ornamented with a hole at the top, into which the civil man
    poured hot gravy out of a spouted can as if he were feeding three lamps,
    Flora took out her pocket-handkerchief.

    'If Fancy's fair dreams,' she began, 'have ever pictured that when
    Arthur--cannot overcome it pray excuse me--was restored to freedom even
    a pie as far from flaky as the present and so deficient in kidney as to
    be in that respect like a minced nutmeg might not prove unacceptable if
    offered by the hand of true regard such visions have for ever fled
    and all is cancelled but being aware that tender relations are in
    contemplation beg to state that I heartily wish well to both and find
    no fault with either not the least, it may be withering to know that ere
    the hand of Time had made me much less slim than formerly and dreadfully
    red on the slightest exertion particularly after eating I well know when
    it takes the form of a rash, it might have been and was not through the
    interruption of parents and mental torpor succeeded until the mysterious
    clue was held by Mr F. still I would not be ungenerous to either and I
    heartily wish well to both.'

    Little Dorrit took her hand, and thanked her for all her old kindness.

    'Call it not kindness,' returned Flora, giving her an honest kiss, 'for
    you always were the best and dearest little thing that ever was if I
    may take the liberty and even in a money point of view a saving being
    Conscience itself though I must add much more agreeable than mine ever
    was to me for though not I hope more burdened than other people's yet
    I have always found it far readier to make one uncomfortable than
    comfortable and evidently taking a greater pleasure in doing it but I am
    wandering, one hope I wish to express ere yet the closing scene draws
    in and it is that I do trust for the sake of old times and old sincerity
    that Arthur will know that I didn't desert him in his misfortunes but
    that I came backwards and forwards constantly to ask if I could do
    anything for him and that I sat in the pie-shop where they very civilly
    fetched something warm in a tumbler from the hotel and really very nice
    hours after hours to keep him company over the way without his knowing
    it.'

    Flora really had tears in her eyes now, and they showed her to great
    advantage.

    'Over and above which,' said Flora, 'I earnestly beg you as the dearest
    thing that ever was if you'll still excuse the familiarity from one who
    moves in very different circles to let Arthur understand that I don't
    know after all whether it wasn't all nonsense between us though pleasant
    at the time and trying too and certainly Mr F. did work a change and
    the spell being broken nothing could be expected to take place without
    weaving it afresh which various circumstances have combined to prevent
    of which perhaps not the least powerful was that it was not to be, I
    am not prepared to say that if it had been agreeable to Arthur and had
    brought itself about naturally in the first instance I should not have
    been very glad being of a lively disposition and moped at home where
    papa undoubtedly is the most aggravating of his sex and not improved
    since having been cut down by the hand of the Incendiary into something
    of which I never saw the counterpart in all my life but jealousy is not
    my character nor ill-will though many faults.'

    Without having been able closely to follow Mrs Finching through this
    labyrinth, Little Dorrit understood its purpose, and cordially accepted
    the trust.

    'The withered chaplet my dear,' said Flora, with great enjoyment, 'is
    then perished the column is crumbled and the pyramid is standing upside
    down upon its what's-his-name call it not giddiness call it not weakness
    call it not folly I must now retire into privacy and look upon the ashes
    of departed joys no more but taking a further liberty of paying for the
    pastry which has formed the humble pretext of our interview will for
    ever say Adieu!'

    Mr F.'s Aunt, who had eaten her pie with great solemnity, and who had
    been elaborating some grievous scheme of injury in her mind since her
    first assumption of that public position on the Marshal's steps, took
    the present opportunity of addressing the following Sibyllic apostrophe
    to the relict of her late nephew.

    'Bring him for'ard, and I'll chuck him out o' winder!'

    Flora tried in vain to soothe the excellent woman by explaining that
    they were going home to dinner. Mr F.'s Aunt persisted in replying,
    'Bring him for'ard and I'll chuck him out o' winder!' Having reiterated
    this demand an immense number of times, with a sustained glare of
    defiance at Little Dorrit, Mr F.'s Aunt folded her arms, and sat down in
    the corner of the pie-shop parlour; steadfastly refusing to budge until
    such time as 'he' should have been 'brought for'ard,' and the chucking
    portion of his destiny accomplished.

    In this condition of things, Flora confided to Little Dorrit that she
    had not seen Mr F.'s Aunt so full of life and character for weeks; that
    she would find it necessary to remain there 'hours perhaps,' until the
    inexorable old lady could be softened; and that she could manage her
    best alone. They parted, therefore, in the friendliest manner, and with
    the kindest feeling on both sides.

    Mr F.'s Aunt holding out like a grim fortress, and Flora becoming in
    need of refreshment, a messenger was despatched to the hotel for the
    tumbler already glanced at, which was afterwards replenished. With the
    aid of its content, a newspaper, and some skimming of the cream of the
    pie-stock, Flora got through the remainder of the day in perfect good
    humour; though occasionally embarrassed by the consequences of an
    idle rumour which circulated among the credulous infants of the
    neighbourhood, to the effect that an old lady had sold herself to the
    pie-shop to be made up, and was then sitting in the pie-shop parlour,
    declining to complete her contract. This attracted so many young persons
    of both sexes, and, when the shades of evening began to fall, occasioned
    so much interruption to the business, that the merchant became very
    pressing in his proposals that Mr F.'s Aunt should be removed. A
    conveyance was accordingly brought to the door, which, by the joint
    efforts of the merchant and Flora, this remarkable woman was at last
    induced to enter; though not without even then putting her head out of
    the window, and demanding to have him 'brought for'ard' for the purpose
    originally mentioned. As she was observed at this time to direct baleful
    glances towards the Marshalsea, it has been supposed that this admirably
    consistent female intended by 'him,' Arthur Clennam. This, however, is
    mere speculation; who the person was, who, for the satisfaction of Mr
    F.'s Aunt's mind, ought to have been brought forward and never was
    brought forward, will never be positively known.


    The autumn days went on, and Little Dorrit never came to the Marshalsea
    now and went away without seeing him. No, no, no.

    One morning, as Arthur listened for the light feet that every morning
    ascended winged to his heart, bringing the heavenly brightness of a new
    love into the room where the old love had wrought so hard and been so
    true; one morning, as he listened, he heard her coming, not alone.

    'Dear Arthur,' said her delighted voice outside the door, 'I have some
    one here. May I bring some one in?'

    He had thought from the tread there were two with her. He answered
    'Yes,' and she came in with Mr Meagles. Sun-browned and jolly Mr
    Meagles looked, and he opened his arms and folded Arthur in them, like a
    sun-browned and jolly father.

    'Now I am all right,' said Mr Meagles, after a minute or so. 'Now it's
    over. Arthur, my dear fellow, confess at once that you expected me
    before.'

    'I did,' said Arthur; 'but Amy told me--'

    'Little Dorrit. Never any other name.' (It was she who whispered it.)

    '--But my Little Dorrit told me that, without asking for any further
    explanation, I was not to expect you until I saw you.'

    'And now you see me, my boy,' said Mr Meagles, shaking him by the hand
    stoutly; 'and now you shall have any explanation and every explanation.
    The fact is, I _was_ here--came straight to you from the Allongers
    and Marshongers, or I should be ashamed to look you in the face this
    day,--but you were not in company trim at the moment, and I had to start
    off again to catch Doyce.'

    'Poor Doyce!' sighed Arthur.

    'Don't call him names that he don't deserve,' said Mr Meagles. '_He's_
    not poor; _he's_ doing well enough. Doyce is a wonderful fellow over
    there. I assure you he is making out his case like a house a-fire. He
    has fallen on his legs, has Dan. Where they don't want things done and
    find a man to do 'em, that man's off his legs; but where they do want
    things done and find a man to do 'em, that man's on his legs. You won't
    have occasion to trouble the Circumlocution Office any more. Let me tell
    you, Dan has done without 'em!'

    'What a load you take from my mind!' cried Arthur. 'What happiness you
    give me!'

    'Happiness?' retorted Mr Meagles. 'Don't talk about happiness till you
    see Dan. I assure you Dan is directing works and executing labours over
    yonder, that it would make your hair stand on end to look at. He's no
    public offender, bless you, now! He's medalled and ribboned, and starred
    and crossed, and I don't-know-what all'd, like a born nobleman. But we
    mustn't talk about that over here.'

    'Why not?'

    'Oh, egad!' said Mr Meagles, shaking his head very seriously, 'he must
    hide all those things under lock and key when he comes over here. They
    won't do over here. In that particular, Britannia is a Britannia in the
    Manger--won't give her children such distinctions herself, and won't
    allow them to be seen when they are given by other countries. No, no,
    Dan!' said Mr Meagles, shaking his head again. 'That won't do here!'

    'If you had brought me (except for Doyce's sake) twice what I have
    lost,' cried Arthur, 'you would not have given me the pleasure that you
    give me in this news.'

    'Why, of course, of course,' assented Mr Meagles. 'Of course I know
    that, my good fellow, and therefore I come out with it in the first
    burst. Now, to go back, about catching Doyce. I caught Doyce. Ran
    against him among a lot of those dirty brown dogs in women's nightcaps a
    great deal too big for 'em, calling themselves Arabs and all sorts of
    incoherent races. _You_ know 'em! Well! He was coming straight to me,
    and I was going to him, and so we came back together.'

    'Doyce in England!' exclaimed Arthur.

    'There!' said Mr Meagles, throwing open his arms. 'I am the worst man
    in the world to manage a thing of this sort. I don't know what I should
    have done if I had been in the diplomatic line--right, perhaps! The long
    and short of it is, Arthur, we have both been in England this fortnight.
    And if you go on to ask where Doyce is at the present moment, why, my
    plain answer is--here he is! And now I can breathe again at last!'

    Doyce darted in from behind the door, caught Arthur by both hands, and
    said the rest for himself.

    'There are only three branches of my subject, my dear Clennam,' said
    Doyce, proceeding to mould them severally, with his plastic thumb, on
    the palm of his hand, 'and they're soon disposed of. First, not a word
    more from you about the past. There was an error in your calculations.
    I know what that is. It affects the whole machine, and failure is the
    consequence. You will profit by the failure, and will avoid it another
    time. I have done a similar thing myself, in construction, often. Every
    failure teaches a man something, if he will learn; and you are too
    sensible a man not to learn from this failure. So much for firstly.
    Secondly. I was sorry you should have taken it so heavily to heart, and
    reproached yourself so severely; I was travelling home night and day
    to put matters right, with the assistance of our friend, when I fell in
    with our friend as he has informed you. Thirdly. We two agreed, that,
    after what you had undergone, after your distress of mind, and after
    your illness, it would be a pleasant surprise if we could so far keep
    quiet as to get things perfectly arranged without your knowledge, and
    then come and say that all the affairs were smooth, that everything was
    right, that the business stood in greater want of you than ever it did,
    and that a new and prosperous career was opened before you and me as
    partners. That's thirdly. But you know we always make an allowance for
    friction, and so I have reserved space to close in. My dear Clennam,
    I thoroughly confide in you; you have it in your power to be quite as
    useful to me as I have, or have had, it in my power to be useful to you;
    your old place awaits you, and wants you very much; there is nothing to
    detain you here one half-hour longer.'

    There was silence, which was not broken until Arthur had stood for some
    time at the window with his back towards them, and until his little wife
    that was to be had gone to him and stayed by him.

    'I made a remark a little while ago,' said Daniel Doyce then, 'which I
    am inclined to think was an incorrect one. I said there was nothing
    to detain you here, Clennam, half an hour longer. Am I mistaken in
    supposing that you would rather not leave here till to-morrow morning?
    Do I know, without being very wise, where you would like to go, direct
    from these walls and from this room?'

    'You do,' returned Arthur. 'It has been our cherished purpose.'

    'Very well!' said Doyce. 'Then, if this young lady will do me the honour
    of regarding me for four-and-twenty hours in the light of a father, and
    will take a ride with me now towards Saint Paul's Churchyard, I dare say
    I know what we want to get there.'

    Little Dorrit and he went out together soon afterwards, and Mr Meagles
    lingered behind to say a word to his friend.

    'I think, Arthur, you will not want Mother and me in the morning and
    we will keep away. It might set Mother thinking about Pet; she's a
    soft-hearted woman. She's best at the Cottage, and I'll stay there and
    keep her company.'

    With that they parted for the time. And the day ended, and the night
    ended, and the morning came, and Little Dorrit, simply dressed as usual
    and having no one with her but Maggy, came into the prison with the
    sunshine. The poor room was a happy room that morning. Where in the
    world was there a room so full of quiet joy!

    'My dear love,' said Arthur. 'Why does Maggy light the fire? We shall be
    gone directly.'

    'I asked her to do it. I have taken such an odd fancy. I want you to
    burn something for me.'

    'What?'

    'Only this folded paper. If you will put it in the fire with your own
    hand, just as it is, my fancy will be gratified.'

    'Superstitious, darling Little Dorrit? Is it a charm?'

    'It is anything you like best, my own,' she answered, laughing with
    glistening eyes and standing on tiptoe to kiss him, 'if you will only
    humour me when the fire burns up.'

    So they stood before the fire, waiting: Clennam with his arm about her
    waist, and the fire shining, as fire in that same place had often shone,
    in Little Dorrit's eyes. 'Is it bright enough now?' said Arthur. 'Quite
    bright enough now,' said Little Dorrit. 'Does the charm want any words
    to be said?' asked Arthur, as he held the paper over the flame. 'You can
    say (if you don't mind) "I love you!"' answered Little Dorrit. So he said
    it, and the paper burned away.

    They passed very quietly along the yard; for no one was there, though
    many heads were stealthily peeping from the windows. Only one face,
    familiar of old, was in the Lodge. When they had both accosted it, and
    spoken many kind words, Little Dorrit turned back one last time with her
    hand stretched out, saying, 'Good-bye, good John! I hope you will live
    very happy, dear!'

    Then they went up the steps of the neighbouring Saint George's Church,
    and went up to the altar, where Daniel Doyce was waiting in his paternal
    character. And there was Little Dorrit's old friend who had given her
    the Burial Register for a pillow; full of admiration that she should
    come back to them to be married, after all.

    And they were married with the sun shining on them through the painted
    figure of Our Saviour on the window. And they went into the very room
    where Little Dorrit had slumbered after her party, to sign the Marriage
    Register. And there, Mr Pancks, (destined to be chief clerk to Doyce and
            Clennam, and afterwards partner in the house), sinking the Incendiary
    in the peaceful friend, looked in at the door to see it done, with Flora
    gallantly supported on one arm and Maggy on the other, and a back-ground
    of John Chivery and father and other turnkeys who had run round for the
    moment, deserting the parent Marshalsea for its happy child. Nor had
    Flora the least signs of seclusion upon her, notwithstanding her recent
    declaration; but, on the contrary, was wonderfully smart, and enjoyed
    the ceremonies mightily, though in a fluttered way.

    Little Dorrit's old friend held the inkstand as she signed her name, and
    the clerk paused in taking off the good clergyman's surplice, and all
    the witnesses looked on with special interest. 'For, you see,' said
    Little Dorrit's old friend, 'this young lady is one of our curiosities,
    and has come now to the third volume of our Registers. Her birth is in
    what I call the first volume; she lay asleep, on this very floor,
    with her pretty head on what I call the second volume; and she's now
    a-writing her little name as a bride in what I call the third volume.'

    They all gave place when the signing was done, and Little Dorrit and her
    husband walked out of the church alone. They paused for a moment on the
    steps of the portico, looking at the fresh perspective of the street in
    the autumn morning sun's bright rays, and then went down.

    Went down into a modest life of usefulness and happiness. Went down
    to give a mother's care, in the fulness of time, to Fanny's neglected
    children no less than to their own, and to leave that lady going into
    Society for ever and a day. Went down to give a tender nurse and friend
    to Tip for some few years, who was never vexed by the great exactions he
    made of her in return for the riches he might have given her if he had
    ever had them, and who lovingly closed his eyes upon the Marshalsea
    and all its blighted fruits. They went quietly down into the roaring
    streets, inseparable and blessed; and as they passed along in sunshine
    and shade, the noisy and the eager, and the arrogant and the froward and
    the vain, fretted and chafed, and made their usual uproar.

 Amy takes care of Arthur, who is slowly recovering from his illness in jail. She keeps playfully offering him half of her fortune. He says no every time. Finally she asks him if he wants to know how much her fortune actually is. Ready? It's... nothing at all. Dorrit had given all his money to Merdle to invest, so there is nothing left. Arthur laughs and agrees now to share half of her fortune. She makes a nice little speech half-proposing to him and half-accepting a marriage proposal. At that moment Flora and Mr. F's Aunt come up the stairs. Amy tells them the good news that they are engaged. Flora asks Amy to go with her to a nearby cafe, where Flora makes a long flowery, nonsensical speech basically wishing them well and saying no hard feelings. Mr. F's Aunt, meanwhile, demands that Arthur be brought "for'ard, and I'll chuck him out o' winder!" . In a little while, Meagles comes to visit Arthur in jail for the first time. Meagles has news that Doyce is doing swimmingly in Russia. They love him over there and are psyched to have all of his inventions. They've given him medals and titles and honors, and he's made a heap of money. Then Meagles says, actually, here he is! Doyce is not at all mad at Arthur and says that mistakes are part of the learning process. Also, Meagles and Doyce tell Amy and Arthur that everything has been taken care of and that Arthur is free to go. He can have his old job back at Doyce & Clennam and everything will be just fine. Arthur and Amy decide to leave the next day, because first they want to... get married! The next morning Amy brings Arthur a piece of paper to burn in the fire before they go to church. Arthur doesn't know what it is, but we can assume that it's the codicil to the will that leaves Amy all that money. She decides to tell him about his own family when the time comes, but not about the money. They go to the same church where Amy spent the night with Maggy way back at the beginning of the book. They get married. And then they live quietly and peacefully ever after.

