第 106 页

I felt it due to my character to leave him. I could bear, and I have

borne, a great deal from Mr. James; but he insulted me too far. He hurt

me. Knowing the unfortunate difference between himself and his mother,

and what her anxiety of mind was likely to be, I took the liberty of

coming home to England, and relating--’

‘For money which I paid him,’ said Miss Dartle to me.

‘Just so, ma’am--and relating what I knew. I am not aware,’ said Mr.

Littimer, after a moment’s reflection, ‘that there is anything else.

I am at present out of employment, and should be happy to meet with a

respectable situation.’

Miss Dartle glanced at me, as though she would inquire if there were

anything that I desired to ask. As there was something which had

occurred to my mind, I said in reply:

‘I could wish to know from this--creature,’ I could not bring myself

to utter any more conciliatory word, ‘whether they intercepted a letter

that was written to her from home, or whether he supposes that she

received it.’

He remained calm and silent, with his eyes fixed on the ground, and the

tip of every finger of his right hand delicately poised against the tip

of every finger of his left.

Miss Dartle turned her head disdainfully towards him.

‘I beg your pardon, miss,’ he said, awakening from his abstraction,

‘but, however submissive to you, I have my position, though a servant.

Mr. Copperfield and you, miss, are different people. If Mr. Copperfield

wishes to know anything from me, I take the liberty of reminding Mr.

Copperfield that he can put a question to me. I have a character to

maintain.’

After a momentary struggle with myself, I turned my eyes upon him, and

said, ‘You have heard my question. Consider it addressed to yourself, if

you choose. What answer do you make?’

‘Sir,’ he rejoined, with an occasional separation and reunion of those

delicate tips, ‘my answer must be qualified; because, to betray Mr.

James’s confidence to his mother, and to betray it to you, are two

different actions. It is not probable, I consider, that Mr. James would

encourage the receipt of letters likely to increase low spirits and

unpleasantness; but further than that, sir, I should wish to avoid

going.’

‘Is that all?’ inquired Miss Dartle of me.

I indicated that I had nothing more to say. ‘Except,’ I added, as I

saw him moving off, ‘that I understand this fellow’s part in the wicked

story, and that, as I shall make it known to the honest man who has been

her father from her childhood, I would recommend him to avoid going too

much into public.’

He had stopped the moment I began, and had listened with his usual

repose of manner.

‘Thank you, sir. But you’ll excuse me if I say, sir, that there are

neither slaves nor slave-drivers in this country, and that people are

not allowed to take the law into their own hands. If they do, it is

more to their own peril, I believe, than to other people’s. Consequently

speaking, I am not at all afraid of going wherever I may wish, sir.’

With that, he made a polite bow; and, with another to Miss Dartle, went

away through the arch in the wall of holly by which he had come. Miss

Dartle and I regarded each other for a little while in silence; her

manner being exactly what it was, when she had produced the man.

‘He says besides,’ she observed, with a slow curling of her lip, ‘that

his master, as he hears, is coasting Spain; and this done, is away

to gratify his seafaring tastes till he is weary. But this is of no

interest to you. Between these two proud persons, mother and son, there

is a wider breach than before, and little hope of its healing, for they

are one at heart, and time makes each more obstinate and imperious.

Neither is this of any interest to you; but it introduces what I wish to

say. This devil whom you make an angel of. I mean this low girl whom he

picked out of the tide-mud,’ with her black eyes full upon me, and her

passionate finger up, ‘may be alive,--for I believe some common things

are hard to die. If she is, you will desire to have a pearl of such

price found and taken care of. We desire that, too; that he may not

by any chance be made her prey again. So far, we are united in one

interest; and that is why I, who would do her any mischief that so

coarse a wretch is capable of feeling, have sent for you to hear what

you have heard.’

I saw, by the change in her face, that someone was advancing behind me.

It was Mrs. Steerforth, who gave me her hand more coldly than of yore,

and with an augmentation of her former stateliness of manner, but still,

I perceived--and I was touched by it--with an ineffaceable remembrance

of my old love for her son. She was greatly altered. Her fine figure was

far less upright, her handsome face was deeply marked, and her hair was

almost white. But when she sat down on the seat, she was a handsome lady

still; and well I knew the bright eye with its lofty look, that had been

a light in my very dreams at school.

‘Is Mr. Copperfield informed of everything, Rosa?’

‘Yes.’

‘And has he heard Littimer himself?’

‘Yes; I have told him why you wished it.’ ‘You are a good girl. I have

had some slight correspondence with your former friend, sir,’ addressing

me, ‘but it has not restored his sense of duty or natural obligation.

Therefore I have no other object in this, than what Rosa has mentioned.

If, by the course which may relieve the mind of the decent man you

brought here (for whom I am sorry--I can say no more), my son may be

saved from again falling into the snares of a designing enemy, well!’

She drew herself up, and sat looking straight before her, far away.

‘Madam,’ I said respectfully, ‘I understand. I assure you I am in no

danger of putting any strained construction on your motives. But I must

say, even to you, having known this injured family from childhood,

that if you suppose the girl, so deeply wronged, has not been cruelly

deluded, and would not rather die a hundred deaths than take a cup of

water from your son’s hand now, you cherish a terrible mistake.’

‘Well, Rosa, well!’ said Mrs. Steerforth, as the other was about to

interpose, ‘it is no matter. Let it be. You are married, sir, I am

told?’

I answered that I had been some time married.

‘And are doing well? I hear little in the quiet life I lead, but I

understand you are beginning to be famous.’

‘I have been very fortunate,’ I said, ‘and find my name connected with

some praise.’

‘You have no mother?’--in a softened voice.

‘No.’

‘It is a pity,’ she returned. ‘She would have been proud of you. Good

night!’

I took the hand she held out with a dignified, unbending air, and it

was as calm in mine as if her breast had been at peace. Her pride could

still its very pulses, it appeared, and draw the placid veil before

her face, through which she sat looking straight before her on the far

distance.

As I moved away from them along the terrace, I could not help observing

how steadily they both sat gazing on the prospect, and how it thickened

and closed around them. Here and there, some early lamps were seen to

twinkle in the distant city; and in the eastern quarter of the sky

the lurid light still hovered. But, from the greater part of the broad

valley interposed, a mist was rising like a sea, which, mingling with

the darkness, made it seem as if the gathering waters would encompass

them. I have reason to remember this, and think of it with awe; for

before I looked upon those two again, a stormy sea had risen to their

feet.

Reflecting on what had been thus told me, I felt it right that it should

be communicated to Mr. Peggotty. On the following evening I went into

London in quest of him. He was always wandering about from place to

place, with his one object of recovering his niece before him; but was

more in London than elsewhere. Often and often, now, had I seen him in

the dead of night passing along the streets, searching, among the few

who loitered out of doors at those untimely hours, for what he dreaded

to find.

He kept a lodging over the little chandler’s shop in Hungerford Market,

which I have had occasion to mention more than once, and from which he

first went forth upon his errand of mercy. Hither I directed my walk. On

making inquiry for him, I learned from the people of the house that he

had not gone out yet, and I should find him in his room upstairs.

He was sitting reading by a window in which he kept a few plants. The

room was very neat and orderly. I saw in a moment that it was always

kept prepared for her reception, and that he never went out but he

thought it possible he might bring her home. He had not heard my tap

at the door, and only raised his eyes when I laid my hand upon his

shoulder.

‘Mas’r Davy! Thankee, sir! thankee hearty, for this visit! Sit ye down.

You’re kindly welcome, sir!’

‘Mr. Peggotty,’ said I, taking the chair he handed me, ‘don’t expect

much! I have heard some news.’

‘Of Em’ly!’

He put his hand, in a nervous manner, on his mouth, and turned pale, as

he fixed his eyes on mine.

‘It gives no clue to where she is; but she is not with him.’

He sat down, looking intently at me, and listened in profound silence

to all I had to tell. I well remember the sense of dignity, beauty even,

with which the patient gravity of his face impressed me, when, having

gradually removed his eyes from mine, he sat looking downward, leaning

his forehead on his hand. He offered no interruption, but remained

throughout perfectly still. He seemed to pursue her figure through

the narrative, and to let every other shape go by him, as if it were

nothing.

When I had done, he shaded his face, and continued silent. I looked out

of the window for a little while, and occupied myself with the plants.

‘How do you fare to feel about it, Mas’r Davy?’ he inquired at length.

‘I think that she is living,’ I replied.

‘I doen’t know. Maybe the first shock was too rough, and in the wildness

of her art--! That there blue water as she used to speak on. Could she

have thowt o’ that so many year, because it was to be her grave!’

He said this, musing, in a low, frightened voice; and walked across the

little room.

‘And yet,’ he added, ‘Mas’r Davy, I have felt so sure as she was

living--I have know’d, awake and sleeping, as it was so trew that I

should find her--I have been so led on by it, and held up by it--that I

doen’t believe I can have been deceived. No! Em’ly’s alive!’

He put his hand down firmly on the table, and set his sunburnt face into

a resolute expression.

‘My niece, Em’ly, is alive, sir!’ he said, steadfastly. ‘I doen’t know

wheer it comes from, or how ‘tis, but I am told as she’s alive!’

He looked almost like a man inspired, as he said it. I waited for a

few moments, until he could give me his undivided attention; and then

proceeded to explain the precaution, that, it had occurred to me last

night, it would be wise to take.

‘Now, my dear friend--‘I began.

‘Thankee, thankee, kind sir,’ he said, grasping my hand in both of his.

‘If she should make her way to London, which is likely--for where could

she lose herself so readily as in this vast city; and what would she

wish to do, but lose and hide herself, if she does not go home?--’

‘And she won’t go home,’ he interposed, shaking his head mournfully. ‘If

she had left of her own accord, she might; not as It was, sir.’

‘If she should come here,’ said I, ‘I believe there is one person,

here, more likely to discover her than any other in the world. Do

you remember--hear what I say, with fortitude--think of your great

object!--do you remember Martha?’

‘Of our town?’

I needed no other answer than his face.

‘Do you know that she is in London?’

‘I have seen her in the streets,’ he answered, with a shiver.

‘But you don’t know,’ said I, ‘that Emily was charitable to her, with

Ham’s help, long before she fled from home. Nor, that, when we met one

night, and spoke together in the room yonder, over the way, she listened

at the door.’

‘Mas’r Davy!’ he replied in astonishment. ‘That night when it snew so

hard?’

‘That night. I have never seen her since. I went back, after parting

from you, to speak to her, but she was gone. I was unwilling to mention

her to you then, and I am now; but she is the person of whom I speak,

and with whom I think we should communicate. Do you understand?’

‘Too well, sir,’ he replied. We had sunk our voices, almost to a

whisper, and continued to speak in that tone.

‘You say you have seen her. Do you think that you could find her? I

could only hope to do so by chance.’

‘I think, Mas’r Davy, I know wheer to look.’

‘It is dark. Being together, shall we go out now, and try to find her

tonight?’

He assented, and prepared to accompany me. Without appearing to observe

what he was doing, I saw how carefully he adjusted the little room,

put a candle ready and the means of lighting it, arranged the bed, and

finally took out of a drawer one of her dresses (I remember to have

seen her wear it), neatly folded with some other garments, and a bonnet,

which he placed upon a chair. He made no allusion to these clothes,

neither did I. There they had been waiting for her, many and many a

night, no doubt.

‘The time was, Mas’r Davy,’ he said, as we came downstairs, ‘when I

thowt this girl, Martha, a’most like the dirt underneath my Em’ly’s

feet. God forgive me, theer’s a difference now!’

As we went along, partly to hold him in conversation, and partly to

satisfy myself, I asked him about Ham. He said, almost in the same words

as formerly, that Ham was just the same, ‘wearing away his life with

kiender no care nohow for ‘t; but never murmuring, and liked by all’.

I asked him what he thought Ham’s state of mind was, in reference to the

cause of their misfortunes? Whether he believed it was dangerous? What

he supposed, for example, Ham would do, if he and Steerforth ever should

encounter?

‘I doen’t know, sir,’ he replied. ‘I have thowt of it oftentimes, but I

can’t awize myself of it, no matters.’

I recalled to his remembrance the morning after her departure, when we

were all three on the beach. ‘Do you recollect,’ said I, ‘a certain wild