Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

Little Mother

The morning light was in no hurry to climb the prison wall and look
in at the Snuggery windows; and when it did come, it would have
been more welcome if it had come alone, instead of bringing a rush
of rain with it. But the equinoctial gales were blowing out at
sea, and the impartial south-west wind, in its flight, would not
neglect even the narrow Marshalsea. While it roared through the
steeple of St George's Church, and twirled all the cowls in the
neighbourhood, it made a swoop to beat the Southwark smoke into the
jail; and, plunging down the chimneys of the few early collegians
who were yet lighting their fires, half suffocated them.
Arthur Clennam would have been little disposed to linger in bed,
though his bed had been in a more private situation, and less
affected by the raking out of yesterday's fire, the kindling of to-
day's under the collegiate boiler, the filling of that Spartan
vessel at the pump, the sweeping and sawdusting of the common room,
and other such preparations. Heartily glad to see the morning,
though little rested by the night, he turned out as soon as he
could distinguish objects about him, and paced the yard for two
heavy hours before the gate was opened.

The walls were so near to one another, and the wild clouds hurried
over them so fast, that it gave him a sensation like the beginning
of sea-sickness to look up at the gusty sky. The rain, carried
aslant by flaws of wind, blackened that side of the central
building which he had visited last night, but left a narrow dry
trough under the lee of the wall, where he walked up and down among
the waits of straw and dust and paper, the waste droppings of the
pump, and the stray leaves of yesterday's greens. It was as
haggard a view of life as a man need look upon.

Nor was it relieved by any glimpse of the little creature who had
brought him there. Perhaps she glided out of her doorway and in at
that where her father lived, while his face was turned from both;
but he saw nothing of her. It was too early for her brother; to
have seen him once, was to have seen enough of him to know that he
would be sluggish to leave whatever frowsy bed he occupied at
night; so, as Arthur Clennam walked up and down, waiting for the
gate to open, he cast about in his mind for future rather than for
present means of pursuing his discoveries.

At last the lodge-gate turned, and the turnkey, standing on the
step, taking an early comb at his hair, was ready to let him out.
With a joyful sense of release he passed through the lodge, and
found himself again in the little outer court-yard where he had
spoken to the brother last night.

There was a string of people already straggling in, whom