第 133 页

else, for it's no use keeping 'em open at me.'

She slowly withdrew them when he had ceased, and dropped her forehead

on her hand. Her other hand pressed hard upon the table, and again the

curious stir was observable in her, as if she were going to rise.

'This box can never bring, elsewhere, the price it will bring here.

This knowledge can never be of the same profit to you, sold to any other

person, as sold to me. But I have not the present means of raising the

sum you have demanded. I have not prospered. What will you take now, and

what at another time, and how am I to be assured of your silence?'

'My angel,' said Rigaud, 'I have said what I will take, and time

presses. Before coming here, I placed copies of the most important of

these papers in another hand. Put off the time till the Marshalsea

gate shall be shut for the night, and it will be too late to treat. The

prisoner will have read them.'

She put her two hands to her head again, uttered a loud exclamation, and

started to her feet. She staggered for a moment, as if she would have

fallen; then stood firm.

'Say what you mean. Say what you mean, man!'

Before her ghostly figure, so long unused to its erect attitude, and so

stiffened in it, Rigaud fell back and dropped his voice. It was, to all

the three, almost as if a dead woman had risen.

'Miss Dorrit,' answered Rigaud, 'the little niece of Monsieur Frederick,

whom I have known across the water, is attached to the prisoner. Miss

Dorrit, little niece of Monsieur Frederick, watches at this moment over

the prisoner, who is ill. For her I with my own hands left a packet

at the prison, on my way here, with a letter of instructions, "FOR HIS

SAKE"--she will do anything for his sake--to keep it without breaking

the seal, in case of its being reclaimed before the hour of shutting up

to-night--if it should not be reclaimed before the ringing of the prison

bell, to give it to him; and it encloses a second copy for herself,

which he must give to her. What! I don't trust myself among you, now we

have got so far, without giving my secret a second life. And as to its

not bringing me, elsewhere, the price it will bring here, say then,

madame, have you limited and settled the price the little niece will

give--for his sake--to hush it up? Once more I say, time presses. The

packet not reclaimed before the ringing of the bell to-night, you cannot

buy. I sell, then, to the little girl!'

Once more the stir and struggle in her, and she ran to a closet, tore

the door open, took down a hood or shawl, and wrapped it over her head.

Affery, who had watched her in terror, darted to her in the middle of

the room, caught hold of her dress, and went on her knees to her.

'Don't, don't, don't! What are you doing? Where are you going? You're a

fearful woman, but I don't bear you no ill-will. I can do poor Arthur

no good now, that I see; and you needn't be afraid of me. I'll keep your

secret. Don't go out, you'll fall dead in the street. Only promise me,

that, if it's the poor thing that's kept here secretly, you'll let me

take charge of her and be her nurse. Only promise me that, and never be

afraid of me.'

Mrs Clennam stood still for an instant, at the height of her rapid

haste, saying in stern amazement:

'Kept here? She has been dead a score of years or more. Ask

Flintwinch--ask HIM. They can both tell you that she died when Arthur

went abroad.'

'So much the worse,' said Affery, with a shiver, 'for she haunts the

house, then. Who else rustles about it, making signals by dropping

dust so softly? Who else comes and goes, and marks the walls with

long crooked touches when we are all a-bed? Who else holds the door

sometimes? But don't go out--don't go out! Mistress, you'll die in the

street!'

Her mistress only disengaged her dress from the beseeching hands, said

to Rigaud, 'Wait here till I come back!' and ran out of the room. They

saw her, from the window, run wildly through the court-yard and out at

the gateway.

For a few moments they stood motionless. Affery was the first to move,

and she, wringing her hands, pursued her mistress. Next, Jeremiah

Flintwinch, slowly backing to the door, with one hand in a pocket, and

the other rubbing his chin, twisted himself out in his reticent way,

speechlessly. Rigaud, left alone, composed himself upon the window-seat

of the open window, in the old Marseilles-jail attitude. He laid his

cigarettes and fire-box ready to his hand, and fell to smoking.

'Whoof! Almost as dull as the infernal old jail. Warmer, but almost as

dismal. Wait till she comes back? Yes, certainly; but where is she gone,

and how long will she be gone? No matter! Rigaud Lagnier Blandois, my

amiable subject, you will get your money. You will enrich yourself. You

have lived a gentleman; you will die a gentleman. You triumph, my little

boy; but it is your character to triumph. Whoof!' In the hour of his

triumph, his moustache went up and his nose came down, as he ogled a

great beam over his head with particular satisfaction.

CHAPTER 31. Closed

The sun had set, and the streets were dim in the dusty twilight, when

the figure so long unused to them hurried on its way. In the immediate

neighbourhood of the old house it attracted little attention, for there

were only a few straggling people to notice it; but, ascending from the

river by the crooked ways that led to London Bridge, and passing into

the great main road, it became surrounded by astonishment.

Resolute and wild of look, rapid of foot and yet weak and uncertain,

conspicuously dressed in its black garments and with its hurried

head-covering, gaunt and of an unearthly paleness, it pressed forward,

taking no more heed of the throng than a sleep-walker. More remarkable

by being so removed from the crowd it was among than if it had been

lifted on a pedestal to be seen, the figure attracted all eyes.

Saunterers pricked up their attention to observe it; busy people,

crossing it, slackened their pace and turned their heads; companions

pausing and standing aside, whispered one another to look at this

spectral woman who was coming by; and the sweep of the figure as it

passed seemed to create a vortex, drawing the most idle and most curious

after it.

Made giddy by the turbulent irruption of this multitude of staring faces

into her cell of years, by the confusing sensation of being in the air,

and the yet more confusing sensation of being afoot, by the unexpected

changes in half-remembered objects, and the want of likeness between the

controllable pictures her imagination had often drawn of the life from

which she was secluded and the overwhelming rush of the reality, she

held her way as if she were environed by distracting thoughts, rather

than by external humanity and observation. But, having crossed the

bridge and gone some distance straight onward, she remembered that she

must ask for a direction; and it was only then, when she stopped and

turned to look about her for a promising place of inquiry, that she

found herself surrounded by an eager glare of faces.

'Why are you encircling me?' she asked, trembling.

None of those who were nearest answered; but from the outer ring there

arose a shrill cry of ''Cause you're mad!'

'I am sure as sane as any one here. I want to find the Marshalsea

prison.'

The shrill outer circle again retorted, 'Then that 'ud show you was mad

if nothing else did, 'cause it's right opposite!'

A short, mild, quiet-looking young man made his way through to her, as

a whooping ensued on this reply, and said: 'Was it the Marshalsea you

wanted? I'm going on duty there. Come across with me.'

She laid her hand upon his arm, and he took her over the way; the crowd,

rather injured by the near prospect of losing her, pressing before and

behind and on either side, and recommending an adjournment to Bedlam.

After a momentary whirl in the outer court-yard, the prison-door opened,

and shut upon them. In the Lodge, which seemed by contrast with the

outer noise a place of refuge and peace, a yellow lamp was already

striving with the prison shadows.

'Why, John!' said the turnkey who admitted them. 'What is it?'

'Nothing, father; only this lady not knowing her way, and being badgered

by the boys. Who did you want, ma'am?'

'Miss Dorrit. Is she here?'

The young man became more interested. 'Yes, she is here. What might your

name be?'

'Mrs Clennam.'

'Mr Clennam's mother?' asked the young man.

She pressed her lips together, and hesitated. 'Yes. She had better be

told it is his mother.'

'You see,' said the young man,'the Marshal's family living in the

country at present, the Marshal has given Miss Dorrit one of the rooms

in his house to use when she likes. Don't you think you had better come

up there, and let me bring Miss Dorrit?'

She signified her assent, and he unlocked a door and conducted her up

a side staircase into a dwelling-house above. He showed her into a

darkening room, and left her. The room looked down into the darkening

prison-yard, with its inmates strolling here and there, leaning out

of windows communing as much apart as they could with friends who were

going away, and generally wearing out their imprisonment as they best

might that summer evening. The air was heavy and hot; the closeness

of the place, oppressive; and from without there arose a rush of

free sounds, like the jarring memory of such things in a headache and

heartache. She stood at the window, bewildered, looking down into this

prison as it were out of her own different prison, when a soft word or

two of surprise made her start, and Little Dorrit stood before her.

'Is it possible, Mrs Clennam, that you are so happily recovered as--'

Little Dorrit stopped, for there was neither happiness nor health in the

face that turned to her. 'This is not recovery; it is not strength; I

don't know what it is.' With an agitated wave of her hand, she put all

that aside. 'You have a packet left with you which you were to give to

Arthur, if it was not reclaimed before this place closed to-night.'

'Yes.'

'I reclaim it.'

Little Dorrit took it from her bosom, and gave it into her hand, which

remained stretched out after receiving it.

'Have you any idea of its contents?'

Frightened by her being there with that new power Of Movement in her,

which, as she said herself, was not strength, and which was unreal

to look upon, as though a picture or statue had been animated, Little

Dorrit answered 'No.'

'Read them.'

Little Dorrit took the packet from the still outstretched hand, and

broke the seal. Mrs Clennam then gave her the inner packet that was

addressed to herself, and held the other. The shadow of the wall and of

the prison buildings, which made the room sombre at noon, made it too

dark to read there, with the dusk deepening apace, save in the window.

In the window, where a little of the bright summer evening sky

could shine upon her, Little Dorrit stood, and read. After a broken

exclamation or so of wonder and of terror, she read in silence. When

she had finished, she looked round, and her old mistress bowed herself

before her.

'You know, now, what I have done.'

'I think so. I am afraid so; though my mind is so hurried, and so sorry,

and has so much to pity that it has not been able to follow all I have

read,' said Little Dorrit tremulously.

'I will restore to you what I have withheld from you. Forgive me. Can

you forgive me?'

'I can, and Heaven knows I do! Do not kiss my dress and kneel to me; you

are too old to kneel to me; I forgive you freely without that.'

'I have more yet to ask.'

'Not in that posture,' said Little Dorrit. 'It is unnatural to see your

grey hair lower than mine. Pray rise; let me help you.' With that she

raised her up, and stood rather shrinking from her, but looking at her

earnestly.

'The great petition that I make to you (there is another which grows

out of it), the great supplication that I address to your merciful and

gentle heart, is, that you will not disclose this to Arthur until I am

dead. If you think, when you have had time for consideration, that it

can do him any good to know it while I am yet alive, then tell him. But

you will not think that; and in such case, will you promise me to spare

me until I am dead?'

'I am so sorry, and what I have read has so confused my thoughts,'

returned Little Dorrit, 'that I can scarcely give you a steady answer.

If I should be quite sure that to be acquainted with it will do Mr

Clennam no good--'

'I know you are attached to him, and will make him the first

consideration. It is right that he should be the first consideration. I

ask that. But, having regarded him, and still finding that you may spare

me for the little time I shall remain on earth, will you do it?'

'I will.'

'GOD bless you!'

She stood in the shadow so that she was only a veiled form to Little

Dorrit in the light; but the sound of her voice, in saying those three

grateful words, was at once fervent and broken--broken by emotion as

unfamiliar to her frozen eyes as action to her frozen limbs.

'You will wonder, perhaps,' she said in a stronger tone, 'that I can

better bear to be known to you whom I have wronged, than to the son

of my enemy who wronged me.--For she did wrong me! She not only sinned

grievously against the Lord, but she wronged me. What Arthur's father

was to me, she made him. From our marriage day I was his dread, and that

she made me. I was the scourge of both, and that is referable to her.

You love Arthur (I can see the blush upon your face; may it be the dawn