David Copperfield, Charles Dickens [best historical fiction books of all time TXT] 📗

mistake, and was glad to change the subject. Fortunately it was not difficult to do, for Steerforth could always pass from one subject to another with a carelessness and lightness that were his own.

Lunch succeeded to our sightseeing, and the short winter day wore away so fast, that it was dusk when the stagecoach stopped with us at an old brick house at Highgate on the summit of the hill. An elderly lady, though not very far advanced in years, with a proud carriage and a handsome face, was in the doorway as we alighted; and greeting Steerforth as “My dearest James,” folded him in her arms. To this lady he presented me as his mother, and she gave me a stately welcome.

It was a genteel old-fashioned house, very quiet and orderly. From the windows of my room I saw all London lying in the distance like a great vapour, with here and there some lights twinkling through it. I had only time, in dressing, to glance at the solid furniture, the framed pieces of work (done, I supposed, by Steerforth’s mother when she was a girl), and some pictures in crayons of ladies with powdered hair and bodices, coming and going on the walls, as the newly-kindled fire crackled and sputtered, when I was called to dinner.

There was a second lady in the dining room, of a slight short figure, dark, and not agreeable to look at, but with some appearance of good looks too, who attracted my attention: perhaps because I had not expected to see her; perhaps because I found myself sitting opposite to her; perhaps because of something really remarkable in her. She had black hair and eager black eyes, and was thin, and had a scar upon her lip. It was an old scar⁠—I should rather call it seam, for it was not discoloured, and had healed years ago⁠—which had once cut through her mouth, downward towards the chin, but was now barely visible across the table, except above and on her upper lip, the shape of which it had altered. I concluded in my own mind that she was about thirty years of age, and that she wished to be married. She was a little dilapidated⁠—like a house⁠—with having been so long to let; yet had, as I have said, an appearance of good looks. Her thinness seemed to be the effect of some wasting fire within her, which found a vent in her gaunt eyes.

She was introduced as Miss Dartle, and both Steerforth and his mother called her Rosa. I found that she lived there, and had been for a long time Mrs. Steerforth’s companion. It appeared to me that she never said anything she wanted to say, outright; but hinted it, and made a great deal more of it by this practice. For example, when Mrs. Steerforth observed, more in jest than earnest, that she feared her son led but a wild life at college, Miss Dartle put in thus:

“Oh, really? You know how ignorant I am, and that I only ask for information, but isn’t it always so? I thought that kind of life was on all hands understood to be⁠—eh?”

“It is education for a very grave profession, if you mean that, Rosa,” Mrs. Steerforth answered with some coldness.

“Oh! Yes! That’s very true,” returned Miss Dartle. “But isn’t it, though?⁠—I want to be put right, if I am wrong⁠—isn’t it, really?”

“Really what?” said Mrs. Steerforth.

“Oh! You mean it’s not!” returned Miss Dartle. “Well, I’m very glad to hear it! Now, I know what to do! That’s the advantage of asking. I shall never allow people to talk before me about wastefulness and profligacy, and so forth, in connection with that life, any more.”

“And you will be right,” said Mrs. Steerforth. “My son’s tutor is a conscientious gentleman; and if I had not implicit reliance on my son, I should have reliance on him.”

“Should you?” said Miss Dartle. “Dear me! Conscientious, is he? Really conscientious, now?”

“Yes, I am convinced of it,” said Mrs. Steerforth.

“How very nice!” exclaimed Miss Dartle. “What a comfort! Really conscientious? Then he’s not⁠—but of course he can’t be, if he’s really conscientious. Well, I shall be quite happy in my opinion of him, from this time. You can’t think how it elevates him in my opinion, to know for certain that he’s really conscientious!”

Her own views of every question, and her correction of everything that was said to which she was opposed, Miss Dartle insinuated in the same way: sometimes, I could not conceal from myself, with great power, though in contradiction even of Steerforth. An instance happened before dinner was done. Mrs. Steerforth speaking to me about my intention of going down into Suffolk, I said at hazard how glad I should be, if Steerforth would only go there with me; and explaining to him that I was going to see my old nurse, and Mr. Peggotty’s family, I reminded him of the boatman whom he had seen at school.

“Oh! That bluff fellow!” said Steerforth. “He had a son with him, hadn’t he?”

“No. That was his nephew,” I replied; “whom he adopted, though, as a son. He has a very pretty little niece too, whom he adopted as a daughter. In short, his house⁠—or rather his boat, for he lives in one, on dry land⁠—is full of people who are objects of his generosity and kindness. You would be delighted to see that household.”

“Should I?” said Steerforth. “Well, I think I should. I must see what can be done. It would be worth a journey (not to mention the pleasure of a journey with you, Daisy), to see that sort of people together, and to make one of ’em.”

My heart leaped with a new hope of pleasure. But it was in reference to the tone in which he had spoken of “that sort of people,” that Miss Dartle, whose sparkling eyes had been watchful of us, now broke in again.

“Oh, but, really? Do tell me. Are they, though?” she said.

“Are they what? And are who