DAVID
COPPERFIELD
PART 46
CHAPTER 46. INTELLIGENCE
I must
have been married, if I may trust to my imperfect memory for dates, about a
year or so, when one evening, as I was returning from a solitary walk, thinking
of the book I was then writing—for my success had steadily increased with my
steady application, and I was engaged at that time upon my first work of
fiction—I came past Mrs. Steerforth's house. I had often passed it before,
during my residence in that neighbourhood, though never when I could choose
another road. Howbeit, it did sometimes happen that it was not easy to find
another, without making a long circuit; and so I had passed that way, upon the
whole, pretty often.
I had
never done more than glance at the house, as I went by with a quickened step.
It had been uniformly gloomy and dull. None of the best rooms abutted on the
road; and the narrow, heavily-framed old-fashioned windows, never cheerful
under any circumstances, looked very dismal, close shut, and with their blinds
always drawn down. There was a covered way across a little paved court, to an
entrance that was never used; and there was one round staircase window, at odds
with all the rest, and the only one unshaded by a blind, which had the same
unoccupied blank look. I do not remember that I ever saw a light in all the
house. If I had been a casual passer-by, I should have probably supposed that
some childless person lay dead in it. If I had happily possessed no knowledge
of the place, and had seen it often in that changeless state, I should have
pleased my fancy with many ingenious speculations, I dare say.
As it
was, I thought as little of it as I might. But my mind could not go by it and
leave it, as my body did; and it usually awakened a long train of meditations.
Coming before me, on this particular evening that I mention, mingled with the
childish recollections and later fancies, the ghosts of half-formed hopes, the
broken shadows of disappointments dimly seen and understood, the blending of
experience and imagination, incidental to the occupation with which my thoughts
had been busy, it was more than commonly suggestive. I fell into a brown study
as I walked on, and a voice at my side made me start.
It was a
woman's voice, too. I was not long in recollecting Mrs. Steerforth's little
parlour-maid, who had formerly worn blue ribbons in her cap. She had taken them
out now, to adapt herself, I suppose, to the altered character of the house;
and wore but one or two disconsolate bows of sober brown.
'If you
please, sir, would you have the goodness to walk in, and speak to Miss Dartle?'
'Has Miss
Dartle sent you for me?' I inquired.
'Not
tonight, sir, but it's just the same. Miss Dartle saw you pass a night or two
ago; and I was to sit at work on the staircase, and when I saw you pass again,
to ask you to step in and speak to her.'
I turned
back, and inquired of my conductor, as we went along, how Mrs. Steerforth was.
She said her lady was but poorly, and kept her own room a good deal.
When we
arrived at the house, I was directed to Miss Dartle in the garden, and left to
make my presence known to her myself. She was sitting on a seat at one end of a
kind of terrace, overlooking the great city. It was a sombre evening, with a
lurid light in the sky; and as I saw the prospect scowling in the distance,
with here and there some larger object starting up into the sullen glare, I
fancied it was no inapt companion to the memory of this fierce woman.
She saw
me as I advanced, and rose for a moment to receive me. I thought her, then,
still more colourless and thin than when I had seen her last; the flashing eyes
still brighter, and the scar still plainer.
Our
meeting was not cordial. We had parted angrily on the last occasion; and there
was an air of disdain about her, which she took no pains to conceal.
'I am
told you wish to speak to me, Miss Dartle,' said I, standing near her, with my
hand upon the back of the seat, and declining her gesture of invitation to sit
down.
'If you
please,' said she. 'Pray has this girl been found?'
'No.'
'And yet
she has run away!'
I saw her
thin lips working while she looked at me, as if they were eager to load her
with reproaches.
'Run
away?' I repeated.
'Yes!
From him,' she said, with a laugh. 'If she is not found, perhaps she never will
be found. She may be dead!'
The
vaunting cruelty with which she met my glance, I never saw expressed in any
other face that ever I have seen.
'To wish
her dead,' said I, 'may be the kindest wish that one of her own sex could
bestow upon her. I am glad that time has softened you so much, Miss Dartle.'
She
condescended to make no reply, but, turning on me with another scornful laugh,
said:
'The
friends of this excellent and much-injured young lady are friends of yours. You
are their champion, and assert their rights. Do you wish to know what is known
of her?'
'Yes,'
said I.
She rose
with an ill-favoured smile, and taking a few steps towards a wall of holly that
was near at hand, dividing the lawn from a kitchen-garden, said, in a louder
voice, 'Come here!'—as if she were calling to some unclean beast.
'You will
restrain any demonstrative championship or vengeance in this place, of course,
Mr. Copperfield?' said she, looking over her shoulder at me with the same
expression.
I
inclined my head, without knowing what she meant; and she said, 'Come here!'
again; and returned, followed by the respectable Mr. Littimer, who, with
undiminished respectability, made me a bow, and took up his position behind
her. The air of wicked grace: of triumph, in which, strange to say, there was
yet something feminine and alluring: with which she reclined upon the seat
between us, and looked at me, was worthy of a cruel Princess in a Legend.
'Now,'
said she, imperiously, without glancing at him, and touching the old wound as
it throbbed: perhaps, in this instance, with pleasure rather than pain. 'Tell
Mr. Copperfield about the flight.'
'Mr.
James and myself, ma'am—'
'Don't
address yourself to me!' she interrupted with a frown.
'Mr.
James and myself, sir—'
'Nor to
me, if you please,' said I.
Mr.
Littimer, without being at all discomposed, signified by a slight obeisance,
that anything that was most agreeable to us was most agreeable to him; and
began again.
'Mr.
James and myself have been abroad with the young woman, ever since she left
Yarmouth under Mr. James's protection. We have been in a variety of places, and
seen a deal of foreign country. We have been in France, Switzerland, Italy, in
fact, almost all parts.'
He looked
at the back of the seat, as if he were addressing himself to that; and softly
played upon it with his hands, as if he were striking chords upon a dumb piano.
'Mr.
James took quite uncommonly to the young woman; and was more settled, for a
length of time, than I have known him to be since I have been in his service.
The young woman was very improvable, and spoke the languages; and wouldn't have
been known for the same country-person. I noticed that she was much admired
wherever we went.'
Miss
Dartle put her hand upon her side. I saw him steal a glance at her, and
slightly smile to himself.
'Very
much admired, indeed, the young woman was. What with her dress; what with the
air and sun; what with being made so much of; what with this, that, and the
other; her merits really attracted general notice.'
He made a
short pause. Her eyes wandered restlessly over the distant prospect, and she
bit her nether lip to stop that busy mouth.
Taking
his hands from the seat, and placing one of them within the other, as he
settled himself on one leg, Mr. Littimer proceeded, with his eyes cast down,
and his respectable head a little advanced, and a little on one side:
'The
young woman went on in this manner for some time, being occasionally low in her
spirits, until I think she began to weary Mr. James by giving way to her low
spirits and tempers of that kind; and things were not so comfortable. Mr. James
he began to be restless again. The more restless he got, the worse she got; and
I must say, for myself, that I had a very difficult time of it indeed between
the two. Still matters were patched up here, and made good there, over and over
again; and altogether lasted, I am sure, for a longer time than anybody could
have expected.'
Recalling
her eyes from the distance, she looked at me again now, with her former air.
Mr. Littimer, clearing his throat behind his hand with a respectable short
cough, changed legs, and went on:
'At last,
when there had been, upon the whole, a good many words and reproaches, Mr.
James he set off one morning, from the neighbourhood of Naples, where we had a
villa (the young woman being very partial to the sea), and, under pretence of
coming back in a day or so, left it in charge with me to break it out, that,
for the general happiness of all concerned, he was'—here an interruption of the
short cough—'gone. But Mr. James, I must say, certainly did behave extremely
honourable; for he proposed that the young woman should marry a very
respectable person, who was fully prepared to overlook the past, and who was,
at least, as good as anybody the young woman could have aspired to in a regular
way: her connexions being very common.'
He
changed legs again, and wetted his lips. I was convinced that the scoundrel
spoke of himself, and I saw my conviction reflected in Miss Dartle's face.
'This I
also had it in charge to communicate. I was willing to do anything to relieve
Mr. James from his difficulty, and to restore harmony between himself and an
affectionate parent, who has undergone so much on his account. Therefore I
undertook the commission. The young woman's violence when she came to, after I
broke the fact of his departure, was beyond all expectations. She was quite
mad, and had to be held by force; or, if she couldn't have got to a knife, or
got to the sea, she'd have beaten her head against the marble floor.'
Miss
Dartle, leaning back upon the seat, with a light of exultation in her face,
seemed almost to caress the sounds this fellow had uttered.
'But when
I came to the second part of what had been entrusted to me,' said Mr. Littimer,
rubbing his hands uneasily, 'which anybody might have supposed would have been,
at all events, appreciated as a kind intention, then the young woman came out
in her true colours. A more outrageous person I never did see. Her conduct was
surprisingly bad. She had no more gratitude, no more feeling, no more patience,
no more reason in her, than a stock or a stone. If I hadn't been upon my guard,
I am convinced she would have had my blood.'
'I think
the better of her for it,' said I, indignantly.
Mr.
Littimer bent his head, as much as to say, 'Indeed, sir? But you're young!' and
resumed his narrative.
'It was
necessary, in short, for a time, to take away everything nigh her, that she
could do herself, or anybody else, an injury with, and to shut her up close.
Notwithstanding which, she got out in the night; forced the lattice of a
window, that I had nailed up myself; dropped on a vine that was trailed below;
and never has been seen or heard of, to my knowledge, since.'
'She is
dead, perhaps,' said Miss Dartle, with a smile, as if she could have spurned
the body of the ruined girl.
'She may
have drowned herself, miss,' returned Mr. Littimer, catching at an excuse for
addressing himself to somebody. 'It's very possible. Or, she may have had
assistance from the boatmen, and the boatmen's wives and children. Being given
to low company, she was very much in the habit of talking to them on the beach,
Miss Dartle, and sitting by their boats. I have known her do it, when Mr. James
has been away, whole days. Mr. James was far from pleased to find out, once,
that she had told the children she was a boatman's daughter, and that in her
own country, long ago, she had roamed about the beach, like them.'
Oh,
Emily! Unhappy beauty! What a picture rose before me of her sitting on the
far-off shore, among the children like herself when she was innocent, listening
to little voices such as might have called her Mother had she been a poor man's
wife; and to the great voice of the sea, with its eternal 'Never more!'
'When it
was clear that nothing could be done, Miss Dartle—'
'Did I
tell you not to speak to me?' she said, with stern contempt.
'You
spoke to me, miss,' he replied. 'I beg your pardon. But it is my service to
obey.'
'Do your
service,' she returned. 'Finish your story, and go!'
'When it
was clear,' he said, with infinite respectability and an obedient bow, 'that
she was not to be found, I went to Mr. James, at the place where it had been
agreed that I should write to him, and informed him of what had occurred. Words
passed between us in consequence, and 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 way in which he
looked out to sea, and spoke about "the end of it"?'
'Sure I
do!' said he.
'What do
you suppose he meant?'
'Mas'r
Davy,' he replied, 'I've put the question to myself a mort o' times, and never
found no answer. And theer's one curious thing—that, though he is so pleasant,
I wouldn't fare to feel comfortable to try and get his mind upon 't. He never
said a wured to me as warn't as dootiful as dootiful could be, and it ain't
likely as he'd begin to speak any other ways now; but it's fur from being fleet
water in his mind, where them thowts lays. It's deep, sir, and I can't see
down.'
'You are
right,' said I, 'and that has sometimes made me anxious.'
'And me
too, Mas'r Davy,' he rejoined. 'Even more so, I do assure you, than his
ventersome ways, though both belongs to the alteration in him. I doen't know as
he'd do violence under any circumstances, but I hope as them two may be kep
asunders.'
We had
come, through Temple Bar, into the city. Conversing no more now, and walking at
my side, he yielded himself up to the one aim of his devoted life, and went on,
with that hushed concentration of his faculties which would have made his
figure solitary in a multitude. We were not far from Blackfriars Bridge, when
he turned his head and pointed to a solitary female figure flitting along the
opposite side of the street. I knew it, readily, to be the figure that we
sought.
We
crossed the road, and were pressing on towards her, when it occurred to me that
she might be more disposed to feel a woman's interest in the lost girl, if we
spoke to her in a quieter place, aloof from the crowd, and where we should be
less observed. I advised my companion, therefore, that we should not address
her yet, but follow her; consulting in this, likewise, an indistinct desire I
had, to know where she went.
He
acquiescing, we followed at a distance: never losing sight of her, but never
caring to come very near, as she frequently looked about. Once, she stopped to
listen to a band of music; and then we stopped too.
She went
on a long way. Still we went on. It was evident, from the manner in which she
held her course, that she was going to some fixed destination; and this, and
her keeping in the busy streets, and I suppose the strange fascination in the
secrecy and mystery of so following anyone, made me adhere to my first purpose.
At length she turned into a dull, dark street, where the noise and crowd were
lost; and I said, 'We may speak to her now'; and, mending our pace, we went
after her.
To be continued
