When Mr Chivery, who was on duty, admitted them into the Lodge, he saw
something in their faces which filled him with astonishment. He stood
looking after them, when they hurried into the prison, as though he
perceived that they had come back accompanied by a ghost a-piece. Two or
three Collegians whom they passed, looked after them too, and presently
joining Mr Chivery, formed a little group on the Lodge steps, in the
midst of which there spontaneously originated a whisper that the Father
was going to get his discharge. Within a few minutes, it was heard in
the remotest room in the College.
Little Dorrit opened the door from without, and they both entered. He
was sitting in his old grey gown and his old black cap, in the sunlight
by the window, reading his newspaper. His glasses were in his hand, and
he had just looked round; surprised at first, no doubt, by her step upon
the stairs, not expecting her until night; surprised again, by seeing
Arthur Clennam in her company. As they came in, the same unwonted look
in both of them which had already caught attention in the yard below,
struck him. He did not rise or speak, but laid down his glasses and his
newspaper on the table beside him, and looked at them with his mouth
a little open and his lips trembling. When Arthur put out his hand,
he touched it, but not with his usual state; and then he turned to his
daughter, who had sat down close beside him with her hands upon his
shoulder, and looked attentively in her face.
'Father! I have been made so happy this morning!'
'You have been made so happy, my dear?'
'By Mr Clennam, father. He brought me such joyful and wonderful
intelligence about you! If he had not with his great kindness and
gentleness, prepared me for it, father--prepared me for it, father--I
think I could not have borne it.' Her agitation was exceedingly great, and the tears rolled down her face.
He put his hand suddenly to his heart, and looked at Clennam. 'Compose yourself, sir,' said Clennam, 'and take a little time to think.
To think of the brightest and most fortunate accidents of life. We have
all heard of great surprises of joy. They are not at an end, sir. They
are rare, but not at an end.'
'Mr Clennam? Not at an end? Not at an end for--' He touched himself upon
the breast, instead of saying 'me.' 'No,' returned Clennam. 'What surprise,' he asked, keeping his left hand over his heart, and
there stopping in his speech, while with his right hand he put his
glasses exactly level on the table: 'what such surprise can be in store
for me?' 'Let me answer with another question. Tell me, Mr Dorrit, what surprise
would be the most unlooked for and the most acceptable to you. Do not be
afraid to imagine it, or to say what it would be.'