His trembling voice and unfeigned earnestness brought Little Dorrit to
a stop. 'Oh, I don't know what to do,' she cried, 'I don't know what to
do!' To Young John, who had never seen her bereft of her quiet self-command,
who had seen her from her infancy ever so reliable and self-suppressed,
there was a shock in her distress, and in having to associate himself
with it as its cause, that shook him from his great hat to the
pavement. He felt it necessary to explain himself. He might be
misunderstood--supposed to mean something, or to have done something,
that had never entered into his imagination. He begged her to hear him
explain himself, as the greatest favour she could show him.
'Miss Amy, I know very well that your family is far above mine. It were
vain to conceal it. There never was a Chivery a gentleman that ever
I heard of, and I will not commit the meanness of making a false
representation on a subject so momentous. Miss Amy, I know very well
that your high-souled brother, and likewise your spirited sister, spurn
me from a height. What I have to do is to respect them, to wish to be
admitted to their friendship, to look up at the eminence on which they
are placed from my lowlier station--for, whether viewed as tobacco or
viewed as the lock, I well know it is lowly--and ever wish them well and
happy.'
There really was a genuineness in the poor fellow, and a contrast
between the hardness of his hat and the softness of his heart (albeit,
perhaps, of his head, too), that was moving. Little Dorrit entreated him
to disparage neither himself nor his station, and, above all things, to
divest himself of any idea that she supposed hers to be superior. This
gave him a little comfort.
'Miss Amy,' he then stammered, 'I have had for a long time--ages they
seem to me--Revolving ages--a heart-cherished wish to say something to
you. May I say it?' Little Dorrit involuntarily started from his side again, with the
faintest shadow of her former look; conquering that, she went on at
great speed half across the Bridge without replying!
'May I--Miss Amy, I but ask the question humbly--may I say it? I have
been so unlucky already in giving you pain without having any such
intentions, before the holy Heavens! that there is no fear of my saying
it unless I have your leave. I can be miserable alone, I can be cut up
by myself, why should I also make miserable and cut up one that I would
fling myself off that parapet to give half a moment's joy to! Not that
that's much to do, for I'd do it for twopence.'