Little Dorrit, Charles Dickens [big ebook reader txt] 📗

you. You know the dream as well as I do. When you come downstairs into the kitchen with the candle in your hand, and hitched my apron off my head. When you told me I had been dreaming. When you wouldn’t believe the noises.” After this explosion Affery put her apron into her mouth again; always keeping her hand on the windowsill and her knee on the window-seat, ready to cry out or jump out if her lord and master approached.

Rigaud had not lost a word of this.

“Haha!” he cried, lifting his eyebrows, folding his arms, and leaning back in his chair. “Assuredly, Madame Flintwinch is an oracle! How shall we interpret the oracle, you and I and the old intriguer? He said that you were not⁠—? And you burst out and stopped him! What was it you were not? What is it you are not? Say then, madame!”

Under this ferocious banter, she sat breathing harder, and her mouth was disturbed. Her lips quivered and opened, in spite of her utmost efforts to keep them still.

“Come then, madame! Speak, then! Our old intriguer said that you were not⁠—and you stopped him. He was going to say that you were not⁠—what? I know already, but I want a little confidence from you. How, then? You are not what?”

She tried again to repress herself, but broke out vehemently, “Not Arthur’s mother!”

“Good,” said Rigaud. “You are amenable.”

With the set expression of her face all torn away by the explosion of her passion, and with a bursting, from every rent feature, of the smouldering fire so long pent up, she cried out: “I will tell it myself! I will not hear it from your lips, and with the taint of your wickedness upon it. Since it must be seen, I will have it seen by the light I stood in. Not another word. Hear me!”

“Unless you are a more obstinate and more persisting woman than even I know you to be,” Mr. Flintwinch interposed, “you had better leave Mr. Rigaud, Mr. Blandois, Mr. Beelzebub, to tell it in his own way. What does it signify when he knows all about it?”

“He does not know all about it.”

“He knows all he cares about it,” Mr. Flintwinch testily urged.

“He does not know me.”

“What do you suppose he cares for you, you conceited woman?” said Mr. Flintwinch.

“I tell you, Flintwinch, I will speak. I tell you when it has come to this, I will tell it with my own lips, and will express myself throughout it. What! Have I suffered nothing in this room, no deprivation, no imprisonment, that I should condescend at last to contemplate myself in such a glass as that. Can you see him? Can you hear him? If your wife were a hundred times the ingrate that she is, and if I were a thousand times more hopeless than I am of inducing her to be silent if this man is silenced, I would tell it myself, before I would bear the torment of the hearing it from him.”

Rigaud pushed his chair a little back; pushed his legs out straight before him; and sat with his arms folded over against her.

“You do not know what it is,” she went on addressing him, “to be brought up strictly and straitly. I was so brought up. Mine was no light youth of sinful gaiety and pleasure. Mine were days of wholesome repression, punishment, and fear. The corruption of our hearts, the evil of our ways, the curse that is upon us, the terrors that surround us⁠—these were the themes of my childhood. They formed my character, and filled me with an abhorrence of evildoers. When old Mr. Gilbert Clennam proposed his orphan nephew to my father for my husband, my father impressed upon me that his bringing-up had been, like mine, one of severe restraint. He told me, that besides the discipline his spirit had undergone, he had lived in a starved house, where rioting and gaiety were unknown, and where every day was a day of toil and trial like the last. He told me that he had been a man in years long before his uncle had acknowledged him as one; and that from his schooldays to that hour, his uncle’s roof has been a sanctuary to him from the contagion of the irreligious and dissolute. When, within a twelvemonth of our marriage, I found my husband, at that time when my father spoke of him, to have sinned against the Lord and outraged me by holding a guilty creature in my place, was I to doubt that it had been appointed to me to make the discovery, and that it was appointed to me to lay the hand of punishment upon that creature of perdition? Was I to dismiss in a moment⁠—not my own wrongs⁠—what was I! but all the rejection of sin, and all the war against it, in which I had been bred?”

She laid her wrathful hand upon the watch on the table.

“No! ‘Do not forget.’ The initials of those words are within here now, and were within here then. I was appointed to find the old letter that referred to them, and that told me what they meant, and whose work they were, and why they were worked, lying with this watch in his secret drawer. But for that appointment there would have been no discovery. ‘Do not forget.’ It spoke to me like a voice from an angry cloud. Do not forget the deadly sin, do not forget the appointed discovery, do not forget the appointed suffering. I did not forget. Was it my own wrong I remembered? Mine! I was but a servant and a minister. What power could I have over them, but that they were bound in the bonds of their sin, and delivered to me!”

More than forty years had passed over the grey head of this determined woman, since the time she recalled. More than forty years of strife and struggle with the whisper that, by whatever name she called her