"The miserable vanity of these earth-worms!" she said, when she had so far controlled the angry heavings of her breast, that she could trust herself to speak. "Your home! Do you imagine that I bestow a thought on it, or suppose you could do any harm to that low place, which money would not pay for, and handsomely? Your home! You were a part of the trade of your home, and were bought and sold like any other vendible thing your people dealt in."
"Oh not that!" cried Emily. "Say anything of me, but don't visit my disgrace and shame, more than I have done, on folks who are as honourable as you! Have some respect for them, as you are a lady, if you have no mercy for me."
"I speak," she said, not deigning to take any heed of this appeal, and drawing away her dress from the contamination of Emily's touch, "I speak of his home--where I live. Here," she said, stretching out her hand with her contemptuous laugh, and looking down upon the prostrate girl, "is a worthy cause of division between lady-mother and gentleman-son, of grief in a house where she wouldn't have been admitted as a kitchen-girl, of anger, and repining, and reproach. This piece of pollution, picked up from the water-side, to be made much of for an hour, and then tossed back to her original place!"
"No! no!" cried Emily, clasping her hands together. "When he first came into my way--that the day had never dawned upon me, and he had met me being carried to my grave!--I had been brought up as virtuous as you or any lady, and was going to be the wife of as good a man as you or any lady in the world can ever marry. If you live in his home and know him, you know, perhaps, what his power with a weak, vain girl might be. I don't defend myself, but I know well, and he knows well, or he will know when he comes to die, and his mind is troubled with it, that he used all his power to deceive me, and that I believed him, trusted him, and loved him!"
Rosa Dartle sprang up from her seat, recoiled, and, in recoiling, struck at her, with a face of such malignity, so darkened and disfigured by passion, that I had almost thrown myself between them. The blow, which had no aim, fell upon the air. As she now stood panting, looking at her with the utmost detestation that she was capable of expressing, and trembling from head to foot with rage and scorn, I thought I had never seen such a sight, and never could see such another.
"You love him? You?" she cried, with her clenched hand, quivering as if it only wanted a weapon to stab the object of her wrath.
Emily had shrunk out of my view. There was no reply.
"And tell that to me," she added, "with your shameful lips? Why don't they whip these creatures? If I could order it to be done, I would have this girl whipped to death."
And so she would, I have no doubt. I would not have trusted her with the rack itself, while that furious look lasted.
She slowly, very slowly, broke into a laugh, and pointed at Emily with her hand, as if she were a sight of shame for gods and men.
"She love!" she said. "That carrion! And he ever cared for her, she'd tell me. Ha, ha! The liars that these traders arel" Her mockery was worse than her undisguised rage. Of the two, I would have much preferred to be the object of the latter. But, when she suffered it to break loose, it was only for a moment. She had chained it up again, and however it might tear her within, she subdued it to herself.
"I came here, you pure fountain of love," she said, "to see --as I began by telling you--what such a thing as you was like. I was curious. I am satisfied. Also to tell you that you had best seek that home of yours, with all speed, and hide your head among those excellent people who are expecting you, and whom your money will console. When it's all gone, you can believe, and trust, and love again, you know! I thought you a broken toy that had lasted its time, a worthless spangle that was tarnished, and thrown away. But, finding you true gold, a very lady, and an ill-used innocent, with a fresh heart full of love and trustfulness--which you look like, and is quite consistent with your story!--I have something more to say. Attend to it, for what I say, I'll do. Do you hear me, you fairy spirit? What I say, I mean to do!"
Her rage got the better of her again, for a moment, but it passed over her face like a spasm, and left her smiling.
"Hide yourself," she pursued, "if not at home, somewhere. Let it be somewhere beyond reach, in some obscure life--or, better still, in some obscure death. I wonder, if your loving heart will not break, you have found no way of helping it to be still! I have heard of such means sometimes. I believe they may be easily found."
A low crying, on the part of Emily, interrupted her here. She stopped, and listened to it as if it were music.
"I am of a strange nature, perhaps," Rosa Dartle went on, "but I can't breathe freely in the air you breathe. I find it sickly. Therefore, I will have it cleared, I will have it purified of you. If you live here tomorrow, I'll have your story and your character proclaimed on the common stair. There are decent women in the house, I am told, and it is a pity such a light as you should be among them, and concealed. If, leaving here, you seek any refuge in this town in any character but your true one (which you are welcome to bear, without molestation from me), the same service shall be done you, if I hear of your retreat. Being assisted by a gentleman who not long ago aspired to the favour of your hand, I am sanguine as to that."
Would he never, never come? How long was I to bear this? How long could I bear it?
"Oh me, oh me!" exclaimed the wretched Emily, in a tone that might have touched the hardest heart, I should have thought, but there was no relenting in Rosa Dartle's smile. "What, what, shall I dol"
"Do?" returned the other. "Live happy in your own reflections! Consecrate your existence to the recollection of James Steerforth's tenderness--he would have made you his serving-man's wife, would he not?--or to feeling grateful to the upright and deserving creature who would have taken you as his gift. Or, if those proud remembrances, and the consciousness of your own virtues, and the honourable position to which they have raised you in the eyes of everything that wears the human shape, will not sustain you, marry that good man, and be happy in his condescension. If this will not do either, die! There are doorways and dust-heaps for such deaths, and such despair--find one, and take your flight to Heaven!"
I heard a distant foot upon the stairs. I knew it, I was certain. It was his, thank God!
She moved slowly from before the door when she said this, and passed out of my sight.
"But mark!" she added, slowly and sternly, opening the other door to go away, "I am resolved, for reasons that I have and hatreds that I entertain, to cast you out, unless you withdraw from my reach altogether, or drop your pretty mask. This is what I had to say, and what I say, I mean to do!"
The foot upon the stairs came nearer--nearer--passed her as she went down--rushed into the room!
"Uncle!"
A fearful cry followed the word. I paused a moment, and, looking in, saw him supporting her insensible figure in his arms. He gazed for a few seconds in the face, then stooped to kiss it--oh, how tenderly!--and drew a handkerchief before it.
"Mas'r Davy," he said, in a low tremulous voice, when it was covered, "I thank my Heav'nly Father as my dream's come true! I thank Him heartily for having guided of me, in His own ways, to my darling!"
With those words he took her up in his arms, and, with the veiled face lying on his bosom, and addressed towards his own, carried her, motionless and unconscious, down the stairs.
CHAPTER LI
The Beginning of a Longer Journey
IT WAS YET EARLY IN THE MORNING OF THE FOLLOWING DAY, when, as I was walking in my garden with my aunt (who took little other exercise now, being so much in attendance on my dear Dora), I was told that Mr. Peggotty desired to speak with me. He came into the garden to meet me half-way, on my going towards the gate, and bared his head, as it was always his custom to do when he saw my aunt, for whom he had a high respect. I had been telling her all that had happened overnight. Without saying a word, she walked up with a cordial face, shook hands with him, and patted him on the arm. It was so expressively done that she had no need to say a word. Mr. Peg
gotty understood her quite as well as if she had said a thousand.
"I'll go in now, Trot," said my aunt, "and look after Little Blossom, who will be getting up presently."
"Not along of my being heer, ma'am, I hope?" said Mr. Peggotty. "Unless my wits is gone a bahd's neezing"--by which Mr. Peggotty meant to say bird's-nesting--"this morning, 'tis along of me as you're a-going to quit us?"
"You have something to say, my good friend," returned my aunt, "and will do better without me."
"By your leave, ma'am," returned Mr. Peggotty, "I should take it kind, pervising you doen't mind my clicketten, if you'd bide heer."
"Would you?" said my aunt, with short good-nature. "Then I am sure I will!"
So, she drew her arm through Mr. Peggotty's, and walked with him to a leafy little summer-house there was at the bottom of the garden, where she sat down on a bench, and I beside her. There was a seat for Mr. Peggotty too, but he preferred to stand, leaning his hand on the small rustic table. As he stood, looking at his cap for a little while before beginning to speak, I could not help observing what power and force of character his sinewy hand expressed, and what a good and trusty companion it was to his honest brow and iron-grey hair.
"I took my dear child away last night," Mr. Peggotty began, as he raised his eyes to ours, "to my lodging, wheer I have a long time been expecting of her and preparing fur her. It was hours afore she knowed me right, and when she did, she kneeled down at my feet, and kiender said to me, as if it was her prayers, how it all come to be. You may believe me, when I heerd her voice, as I had heerd at home so playful--and see her humbled, as it might be in the dust our Saviour wrote in with His blessed hand--I felt a wownd go to my 'art, in the midst of all its thankfulness."
He drew his sleeve across his face, without any pretence of concealing why, and then cleared his voice.
"It warn't for long as I felt that, for she was found. I had on'y to think as she was found, and it was gone. I doen't know why I do so much as mention of it now, I'm sure. I didn't have it in my mind a minute ago, to say a word about myself, but it come up so nat'ral, that I yielded to it afore I was aweer."
"You are a self-denying soul," said my aunt, "and will have your reward."
Mr. Peggotty, with the shadows of the leaves playing athwart his face, made a surprised inclination of the head towards my aunt, as an acknowledgment of her good opinion, then, took up the thread he had relinquished.
"When my Em'ly took flight," he said, in stern wrath for the moment, "from the house wheer she was made a pris'ner by that theer spotted shake as Mas'r Davy see--and his story's trew, and may GOD confound him!--she took flight in the night. It was a dark night, with a many stars a-shining. She was wild. She ran along the sea-beach, believing the old boat was theer, and calling out to us to turn away our faces, for she was a-coming by. She heerd herself a-crying out, like as if it was another person, and cut herself on them sharp-pinted stones and rocks, and felt it no more than if she had been rock herself. Ever so fur she run, and there was fire afore her eyes, and roarings in her ears. Of a sudden--or so she thowt, you unnerstand--the day broke, wet and windy, and she was lying b'low a heap of stone upon the shore, and a woman was a-speaking to her, saying, in the language of that country, what was it as had gone so much amiss?"
He saw everything he related. It passed before him, as he spoke, so vividly, that, in the intensity of his earnestness, he presented what he described to me, with greater distinctness than I can express. I can hardly believe, writing now long afterwards, but that I was actually present in these scenes: they are impressed upon me with such an astonishing air of fidelity.
"As Em'ly's eyes--which was heavy--see this woman better," Mr. Peggotty went on, "she know'd as she was one of them as she had often talked to on the beach. Fur, though she had run (as I have said) ever so fur in the night, she had oftentimes wandered long ways, partly afoot, partly in boats and carriages, and know'd all that country, 'long the coast, miles and miles. She hadn't no children of her own, this woman, being a young wife, but she was a-looking to have one afore long. And may my prayers go up to Heaven that 'twill be a happ'ness to her, and a comfort, and a honour, all her life! May it love her and be dootiful to her, in her old age, helpful of her at the last, a Angel to her heer, and heerafter!"
"Amen!" said my aunt.
"She had been summat timorous and down," said Mr. Peggotty, "and had sat, at first, a little way off, at her spinning, or such work as it was, when Em'ly talked to the children. But Em'ly had took notice of her, and had gone and spoke to her, and as the young woman was partial to the children herself, they had soon made friends. Sermuchser, that when Em'ly went that way, she always giv Em'ly flowers. This was her as now asked what it was that had gone so much amiss. Em'ly told her, and she--took her home. She did indeed. She took her home," said Mr. Peggotty, covering his face.
He was more affected by this act of kindness, than I had ever seen him affected by anything since the night she went away. My aunt and I did not attempt to disturb him.
"It was a little cottage, you may suppose," he said, presently, "but she found space for Em'ly in it--her husband was away at sea and she kep it secret, and prevailed upon such neighbours as she had (they was not many near) to keep it secret too. Em'ly was took bad with fever, and what is very strange to me is--maybe 'tis not so strange to scholars--the language of that country went out of her head, and she could only speak her own, that no one unnerstood. She recollects, as if she had dreamed it, that she lay there, always a-talking her own tongue, always believing as the old boat was round the next pint in the bay, and begging and imploring of 'em to send theer and tell how she was dying, and bring back a message of forgiveness, if it was on'y a wured. A'most the whole time, she thowt--now, that him as I made mention on just now was lurking for her unnerneath the winder, now that him as had brought her to this was in the room--and cried to the good young woman not to give her up, and know'd at the same time, that she couldn't unnerstand, and dreaded that she must be took away. Likewise the fire was afore her eyes, and the roarings in her ears, and there was no today, nor yesterday, nor yet tomorrow, but everything in her life as ever had been, or as ever could be, and everything as never had been, and as never could be, was a-crowding on her all at once, and nothing clear nor welcome, and yet she sang and laughed about it! How long this lasted, I doen't know, but then there come a sleep, and in that sleep, from being a many times stronger than her own self, she fell into the weakness of the littlest child."
Here he stopped, as if for relief from the terrors of his own description. After being silent for a few moments, he pursued his story.
"It was a pleasant arternoon when she awoke, and so quiet, that there warn't a sound but the rippling of that blue sea without a tide, upon the shore. It was her belief, at first, that she was at home upon a Sunday morning, but, the vine leaves as she see at the winder, and the hills beyond, warn't home, and contradicted of her. Then, come in her friend, to watch alongside of her bed, and then she know'd as the old boat warn't round that next pint in the bay no more, but was fur off, and know'd where she was, and why, and broke out a-crying on that good young woman's bosom, wheer I hope her baby is a-lying now, a-cheering of her with its pretty eyes!"
He could not speak of this good friend of Emily's without a flow of tears. It was in vain to try. He broke down again, endeavouring to bless her!
"That done my Em'ly good," he resumed, after such emotion as I could not behold without sharing in, and as to my aunt, she wept with all her heart, "that done Em'ly good, and she begun to mend. But, the language of that country was quite gone from her, and she was forced to make signs.-So she went on, getting better from day to day, slow, but sure, and trying to learn the names of common things--names as she seemed never to have heerd in all her life--till one evening come, when she was a setting at her window, looking at a little girl at play upon the beach. And of a sudden this child held out her hand, and said, what would be in English, 'Fisherman's daughter
, here's a shell!'--for you are to unnerstand that they used at first to call her 'Pretty lady,' as the general way in that country is, and that she had taught 'em to call her 'Fisherman's daughter' instead. The child says of a sudden, 'Fisherman's daughter, here's a shell!' Then Em'ly unnerstands her, and she answers, bursting out a-crying, and it all comes backl
"When Em'ly got strong again," said Mr. Peggotty, after another short interval of silence, "she casts about to leave that good young creetur, and get to her own country. The husband was come home, then, and the two together put her aboard a small trader bound to Leghorn, and from that to France. She bad a little money, but it was less than little as they would take for all they done. I'm a'most glad on it, though they was so poor! What they done is laid up wheer neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and wheer thieves do not break through nor steal. Mas'r Davy, it'll outlast all the treasure in the wureld.
"Em'ly got to France, and took service to wait on travelling ladies at a inn in the port. Theer, theer come, one day, that snake.--Let him never come nigh me. I doen't know what hurt I might do him!--Soon as she see him, without him seeing her, all her fear and wildness returned upon her, and she fled afore the very breath he draw'd. She come to England, and was set ashore at Dover.
"I doen't know," said Mr. Peggotty, "for sure, when her 'art begun to fail her, but all the way to England she had thowt to come to her dear home. Soon as she got to England she turned her face tow'rds it. But, fear of not being forgiv, fear of being pinted at, fear of some of us being dead along of her, fear of many things, turned her from it, kiender by force, upon the road. 'Uncle, Uncle,' she says to me, 'the fear of not being worthy to do what my torn and bleeding breast so longed to do, was the most fright'ning fear of all! I turned back, when my 'art was full of prayers that I might crawl to the old doorstep, in the night, kiss it, lay my wicked face upon it, and theer be found dead in the morning.'
"She come," said Mr. Peggotty, dropping his voice to an awe-stricken whisper, "to London. She--as had never seen it in her life--alone--without a penny--young--so pretty--come to London. A'most the moment as she lighted heer, all so desolate, she found (as she believed) a friend, a decent woman as spoke to her about the needlework as she had been brought up to do, about finding plenty of it fur her, about a lodging for the night, and making secret inquiration concerning of me and all at home, tomorrow. When my child," he said aloud, and with an energy of gratitude that shook him from head to foot, "stood upon the brink of more than I can say or think on--Martha, trew to her promise, saved her!"
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