And, considering that the hour-glass they turned from year to year was
filled with the earthiest and coarsest sand, the Bleeding Heart Yarders
had reason enough for objecting to be despoiled of the one little golden
grain of poetry that sparkled in it.
Down in to the Yard, by way of the steps, came Daniel Doyce, Mr Meagles,
and Clennam. Passing along the Yard, and between the open doors on
either hand, all abundantly garnished with light children nursing heavy
ones, they arrived at its opposite boundary, the gateway. Here Arthur
Clennam stopped to look about him for the domicile of Plornish,
plasterer, whose name, according to the custom of Londoners, Daniel
Doyce had never seen or heard of to that hour.
It was plain enough, nevertheless, as Little Dorrit had said; over a
lime-splashed gateway in the corner, within which Plornish kept a ladder
and a barrel or two. The last house in Bleeding Heart Yard which she
had described as his place of habitation, was a large house, let off to
various tenants; but Plornish ingeniously hinted that he lived in the
parlour, by means of a painted hand under his name, the forefinger of
which hand (on which the artist had depicted a ring and a most elaborate
nail of the genteelest form) referred all inquirers to that apartment.
Parting from his companions, after arranging another meeting with
Mr Meagles, Clennam went alone into the entry, and knocked with his
knuckles at the parlour-door. It was opened presently by a woman with
a child in her arms, whose unoccupied hand was hastily rearranging the
upper part of her dress. This was Mrs Plornish, and this maternal
action was the action of Mrs Plornish during a large part of her waking
existence. Was Mr Plornish at home? 'Well, sir,' said Mrs Plornish, a civil woman,
'not to deceive you, he's gone to look for a job.'
'Not to deceive you' was a method of speech with Mrs Plornish. She would
deceive you, under any circumstances, as little as might be; but she had
a trick of answering in this provisional form. '
Do you think he will be back soon, if I wait for him?'
'I have been expecting him,' said Mrs Plornish, 'this half an hour, at
any minute of time. Walk in, sir.' Arthur entered the rather dark and
close parlour (though it was lofty too), and sat down in the chair she
placed for him. 'Not to deceive you, sir, I notice it,' said Mrs Plornish, 'and I take
it kind of you.' He was at a loss to understand what she meant; and by expressing as much
in his looks, elicited her explanation.