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

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 tonight⁠—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 tonight, 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 abed? 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 courtyard 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 firebox 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.

XXXI 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 sleepwalker. 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