Little Dorrit, her face very pale, sat down again to listen. 'Hadn't I
better work the while?' she asked. 'I can work and attend too. I would
rather, if I may.'
Her earnestness was so expressive of her being uneasy without her work,
that Flora answered, 'Well my dear whatever you like best,' and produced
a basket of white handkerchiefs. Little Dorrit gladly put it by her
side, took out her little pocket-housewife, threaded the needle, and
began to hem. 'What nimble fingers you have,' said Flora, 'but are you sure you are
well?' 'Oh yes, indeed!' Flora put her feet upon the fender, and settled herself for a thorough
good romantic disclosure. She started off at score, tossing her head,
sighing in the most demonstrative manner, making a great deal of use
of her eyebrows, and occasionally, but not often, glancing at the quiet
face that bent over the work.
'You must know my dear,' said Flora, 'but that I have no doubt you know
already not only because I have already thrown it out in a general way
but because I feel I carry it stamped in burning what's his names
upon my brow that before I was introduced to the late Mr F. I had
been engaged to Arthur Clennam--Mr Clennam in public where reserve is
necessary Arthur here--we were all in all to one another it was the
morning of life it was bliss it was frenzy it was everything else of
that sort in the highest degree, when rent asunder we turned to stone in
which capacity Arthur went to China and I became the statue bride of the
late Mr F.' Flora, uttering these words in a deep voice, enjoyed herself immensely.
'To paint,' said she, 'the emotions of that morning when all was marble
within and Mr F.'s Aunt followed in a glass-coach which it stands to
reason must have been in shameful repair or it never could have broken
down two streets from the house and Mr F.'s Aunt brought home like the
fifth of November in a rush-bottomed chair I will not attempt,
suffice it to say that the hollow form of breakfast took place in the
dining-room downstairs that papa partaking too freely of pickled salmon
was ill for weeks and that Mr F. and myself went upon a continental
tour to Calais where the people fought for us on the pier until they
separated us though not for ever that was not yet to be.'
The statue bride, hardly pausing for breath, went on, with the greatest
complacency, in a rambling manner sometimes incidental to flesh and
blood. 'I will draw a veil over that dreamy life, Mr F. was in good spirits his
appetite was good he liked the cookery he considered the wine weak but
palatable and all was well, we returned to the immediate neighbourhood
of Number Thirty Little Gosling Street London Docks and settled down,
ere we had yet fully detected the housemaid in selling the feathers
out of the spare bed Gout flying upwards soared with Mr F. to another
sphere.' His relict, with a glance at his portrait, shook her head and wiped her
eyes. 'I revere the memory of Mr F. as an estimable man and most indulgent
husband, only necessary to mention Asparagus and it appeared or to hint
at any little delicate thing to drink and it came like magic in a pint
bottle it was not ecstasy but it was comfort, I returned to papa's roof
and lived secluded if not happy during some years until one day papa
came smoothly blundering in and said that Arthur Clennam awaited me
below, I went below and found him ask me not what I found him except
that he was still unmarried still unchanged!'