第 69 页

divided angrily and deeply?’

‘I should say yes,’ said Steerforth.

‘Should you?’ she retorted. ‘Dear me! Supposing then, for instance--any

unlikely thing will do for a supposition--that you and your mother were

to have a serious quarrel.’

‘My dear Rosa,’ interposed Mrs. Steerforth, laughing good-naturedly,

‘suggest some other supposition! James and I know our duty to each other

better, I pray Heaven!’

‘Oh!’ said Miss Dartle, nodding her head thoughtfully. ‘To be sure. That

would prevent it? Why, of course it would. Exactly. Now, I am glad I

have been so foolish as to put the case, for it is so very good to know

that your duty to each other would prevent it! Thank you very much.’

One other little circumstance connected with Miss Dartle I must

not omit; for I had reason to remember it thereafter, when all the

irremediable past was rendered plain. During the whole of this day, but

especially from this period of it, Steerforth exerted himself with his

utmost skill, and that was with his utmost ease, to charm this singular

creature into a pleasant and pleased companion. That he should succeed,

was no matter of surprise to me. That she should struggle against the

fascinating influence of his delightful art--delightful nature I thought

it then--did not surprise me either; for I knew that she was sometimes

jaundiced and perverse. I saw her features and her manner slowly change;

I saw her look at him with growing admiration; I saw her try, more and

more faintly, but always angrily, as if she condemned a weakness in

herself, to resist the captivating power that he possessed; and finally,

I saw her sharp glance soften, and her smile become quite gentle, and I

ceased to be afraid of her as I had really been all day, and we all sat

about the fire, talking and laughing together, with as little reserve as

if we had been children.

Whether it was because we had sat there so long, or because Steerforth

was resolved not to lose the advantage he had gained, I do not know; but

we did not remain in the dining-room more than five minutes after her

departure. ‘She is playing her harp,’ said Steerforth, softly, at the

drawing-room door, ‘and nobody but my mother has heard her do that, I

believe, these three years.’ He said it with a curious smile, which was

gone directly; and we went into the room and found her alone.

‘Don’t get up,’ said Steerforth (which she had already done)’ my dear

Rosa, don’t! Be kind for once, and sing us an Irish song.’

‘What do you care for an Irish song?’ she returned.

‘Much!’ said Steerforth. ‘Much more than for any other. Here is Daisy,

too, loves music from his soul. Sing us an Irish song, Rosa! and let me

sit and listen as I used to do.’

He did not touch her, or the chair from which she had risen, but sat

himself near the harp. She stood beside it for some little while, in a

curious way, going through the motion of playing it with her right hand,

but not sounding it. At length she sat down, and drew it to her with one

sudden action, and played and sang.

I don’t know what it was, in her touch or voice, that made that song the

most unearthly I have ever heard in my life, or can imagine. There was

something fearful in the reality of it. It was as if it had never been

written, or set to music, but sprung out of passion within her; which

found imperfect utterance in the low sounds of her voice, and crouched

again when all was still. I was dumb when she leaned beside the harp

again, playing it, but not sounding it, with her right hand.

A minute more, and this had roused me from my trance:--Steerforth had

left his seat, and gone to her, and had put his arm laughingly about

her, and had said, ‘Come, Rosa, for the future we will love each other

very much!’ And she had struck him, and had thrown him off with the fury

of a wild cat, and had burst out of the room.

‘What is the matter with Rosa?’ said Mrs. Steerforth, coming in.

‘She has been an angel, mother,’ returned Steerforth, ‘for a little

while; and has run into the opposite extreme, since, by way of

compensation.’

‘You should be careful not to irritate her, James. Her temper has been

soured, remember, and ought not to be tried.’

Rosa did not come back; and no other mention was made of her, until I

went with Steerforth into his room to say Good night. Then he laughed

about her, and asked me if I had ever seen such a fierce little piece of

incomprehensibility.

I expressed as much of my astonishment as was then capable of

expression, and asked if he could guess what it was that she had taken

so much amiss, so suddenly.

‘Oh, Heaven knows,’ said Steerforth. ‘Anything you like--or nothing!

I told you she took everything, herself included, to a grindstone, and

sharpened it. She is an edge-tool, and requires great care in dealing

with. She is always dangerous. Good night!’

‘Good night!’ said I, ‘my dear Steerforth! I shall be gone before you

wake in the morning. Good night!’

He was unwilling to let me go; and stood, holding me out, with a hand on

each of my shoulders, as he had done in my own room.

‘Daisy,’ he said, with a smile--‘for though that’s not the name your

godfathers and godmothers gave you, it’s the name I like best to call

you by--and I wish, I wish, I wish, you could give it to me!’

‘Why so I can, if I choose,’ said I.

‘Daisy, if anything should ever separate us, you must think of me at my

best, old boy. Come! Let us make that bargain. Think of me at my best,

if circumstances should ever part us!’

‘You have no best to me, Steerforth,’ said I, ‘and no worst. You are

always equally loved, and cherished in my heart.’

So much compunction for having ever wronged him, even by a shapeless

thought, did I feel within me, that the confession of having done so was

rising to my lips. But for the reluctance I had to betray the confidence

of Agnes, but for my uncertainty how to approach the subject with no

risk of doing so, it would have reached them before he said, ‘God bless

you, Daisy, and good night!’ In my doubt, it did NOT reach them; and we

shook hands, and we parted.

I was up with the dull dawn, and, having dressed as quietly as I could,

looked into his room. He was fast asleep; lying, easily, with his head

upon his arm, as I had often seen him lie at school.

The time came in its season, and that was very soon, when I almost

wondered that nothing troubled his repose, as I looked at him. But he

slept--let me think of him so again--as I had often seen him sleep at

school; and thus, in this silent hour, I left him. --Never more, oh

God forgive you, Steerforth! to touch that passive hand in love and

friendship. Never, never more!

CHAPTER 30. A LOSS

I got down to Yarmouth in the evening, and went to the inn. I knew that

Peggotty’s spare room--my room--was likely to have occupation enough

in a little while, if that great Visitor, before whose presence all

the living must give place, were not already in the house; so I betook

myself to the inn, and dined there, and engaged my bed.

It was ten o’clock when I went out. Many of the shops were shut, and the

town was dull. When I came to Omer and Joram’s, I found the shutters up,

but the shop door standing open. As I could obtain a perspective view

of Mr. Omer inside, smoking his pipe by the parlour door, I entered, and

asked him how he was.

‘Why, bless my life and soul!’ said Mr. Omer, ‘how do you find yourself?

Take a seat.---Smoke not disagreeable, I hope?’

‘By no means,’ said I. ‘I like it--in somebody else’s pipe.’

‘What, not in your own, eh?’ Mr. Omer returned, laughing. ‘All the

better, sir. Bad habit for a young man. Take a seat. I smoke, myself,

for the asthma.’

Mr. Omer had made room for me, and placed a chair. He now sat down again

very much out of breath, gasping at his pipe as if it contained a supply

of that necessary, without which he must perish.

‘I am sorry to have heard bad news of Mr. Barkis,’ said I.

Mr. Omer looked at me, with a steady countenance, and shook his head.

‘Do you know how he is tonight?’ I asked.

‘The very question I should have put to you, sir,’ returned Mr. Omer,

‘but on account of delicacy. It’s one of the drawbacks of our line of

business. When a party’s ill, we can’t ask how the party is.’

The difficulty had not occurred to me; though I had had my apprehensions

too, when I went in, of hearing the old tune. On its being mentioned, I

recognized it, however, and said as much.

‘Yes, yes, you understand,’ said Mr. Omer, nodding his head. ‘We dursn’t

do it. Bless you, it would be a shock that the generality of parties

mightn’t recover, to say “Omer and Joram’s compliments, and how do you

find yourself this morning?”--or this afternoon--as it may be.’

Mr. Omer and I nodded at each other, and Mr. Omer recruited his wind by

the aid of his pipe.

‘It’s one of the things that cut the trade off from attentions they

could often wish to show,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘Take myself. If I have known

Barkis a year, to move to as he went by, I have known him forty years.

But I can’t go and say, “how is he?”’

I felt it was rather hard on Mr. Omer, and I told him so.

‘I’m not more self-interested, I hope, than another man,’ said Mr. Omer.

‘Look at me! My wind may fail me at any moment, and it ain’t

likely that, to my own knowledge, I’d be self-interested under such

circumstances. I say it ain’t likely, in a man who knows his wind will

go, when it DOES go, as if a pair of bellows was cut open; and that man

a grandfather,’ said Mr. Omer.

I said, ‘Not at all.’

‘It ain’t that I complain of my line of business,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘It

ain’t that. Some good and some bad goes, no doubt, to all callings. What

I wish is, that parties was brought up stronger-minded.’

Mr. Omer, with a very complacent and amiable face, took several puffs in

silence; and then said, resuming his first point:

‘Accordingly we’re obleeged, in ascertaining how Barkis goes on, to

limit ourselves to Em’ly. She knows what our real objects are, and she

don’t have any more alarms or suspicions about us, than if we was so

many lambs. Minnie and Joram have just stepped down to the house, in

fact (she’s there, after hours, helping her aunt a bit), to ask her how

he is tonight; and if you was to please to wait till they come back,

they’d give you full partic’lers. Will you take something? A glass of

srub and water, now? I smoke on srub and water, myself,’ said Mr. Omer,

taking up his glass, ‘because it’s considered softening to the passages,

by which this troublesome breath of mine gets into action. But, Lord

bless you,’ said Mr. Omer, huskily, ‘it ain’t the passages that’s out of

order! “Give me breath enough,” said I to my daughter Minnie, “and I’ll

find passages, my dear.”’

He really had no breath to spare, and it was very alarming to see him

laugh. When he was again in a condition to be talked to, I thanked

him for the proffered refreshment, which I declined, as I had just had

dinner; and, observing that I would wait, since he was so good as to

invite me, until his daughter and his son-in-law came back, I inquired

how little Emily was?

‘Well, sir,’ said Mr. Omer, removing his pipe, that he might rub his

chin: ‘I tell you truly, I shall be glad when her marriage has taken

place.’

‘Why so?’ I inquired.

‘Well, she’s unsettled at present,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘It ain’t that she’s

not as pretty as ever, for she’s prettier--I do assure you, she is

prettier. It ain’t that she don’t work as well as ever, for she does.

She WAS worth any six, and she IS worth any six. But somehow she wants

heart. If you understand,’ said Mr. Omer, after rubbing his chin again,

and smoking a little, ‘what I mean in a general way by the expression,

“A long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull altogether, my hearties,

hurrah!” I should say to you, that that was--in a general way--what I

miss in Em’ly.’

Mr. Omer’s face and manner went for so much, that I could

conscientiously nod my head, as divining his meaning. My quickness of

apprehension seemed to please him, and he went on: ‘Now I consider this

is principally on account of her being in an unsettled state, you

see. We have talked it over a good deal, her uncle and myself, and her

sweetheart and myself, after business; and I consider it is principally

on account of her being unsettled. You must always recollect of Em’ly,’

said Mr. Omer, shaking his head gently, ‘that she’s a most extraordinary

affectionate little thing. The proverb says, “You can’t make a silk

purse out of a sow’s ear.” Well, I don’t know about that. I rather think

you may, if you begin early in life. She has made a home out of that old

boat, sir, that stone and marble couldn’t beat.’

‘I am sure she has!’ said I.

‘To see the clinging of that pretty little thing to her uncle,’ said

Mr. Omer; ‘to see the way she holds on to him, tighter and tighter, and

closer and closer, every day, is to see a sight. Now, you know, there’s

a struggle going on when that’s the case. Why should it be made a longer

one than is needful?’

I listened attentively to the good old fellow, and acquiesced, with all

my heart, in what he said.

‘Therefore, I mentioned to them,’ said Mr. Omer, in a comfortable,

easy-going tone, ‘this. I said, “Now, don’t consider Em’ly nailed down

in point of time, at all. Make it your own time. Her services have been

more valuable than was supposed; her learning has been quicker than was

supposed; Omer and Joram can run their pen through what remains; and

she’s free when you wish. If she likes to make any little arrangement,

afterwards, in the way of doing any little thing for us at home,

very well. If she don’t, very well still. We’re no losers, anyhow.”

For--don’t you see,’ said Mr. Omer, touching me with his pipe, ‘it ain’t

likely that a man so short of breath as myself, and a grandfather too,

would go and strain points with a little bit of a blue-eyed blossom,

like her?’

‘Not at all, I am certain,’ said I.

‘Not at all! You’re right!’ said Mr. Omer. ‘Well, sir, her cousin--you

know it’s a cousin she’s going to be married to?’

‘Oh yes,’ I replied. ‘I know him well.’

‘Of course you do,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘Well, sir! Her cousin being, as it