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

small bottle which she held up before one eye to enforce her persuasions, said we would make a beginning on an early day, and requested the aid of my hand to descend from her elevated station. Thus assisted, she skipped down with much agility, and began to tie her double chin into her bonnet.

“The fee,” said Steerforth, “is⁠—”

“Five bob,” replied Miss Mowcher, “and dirt cheap, my chicken. Ain’t I volatile, Mr. Copperfield?”

I replied politely: “Not at all.” But I thought she was rather so, when she tossed up his two half-crowns like a goblin pieman, caught them, dropped them in her pocket, and gave it a loud slap.

“That’s the Till!” observed Miss Mowcher, standing at the chair again, and replacing in the bag a miscellaneous collection of little objects she had emptied out of it. “Have I got all my traps? It seems so. It won’t do to be like long Ned Beadwood, when they took him to church ‘to marry him to somebody,’ as he says, and left the bride behind. Ha! ha! ha! A wicked rascal, Ned, but droll! Now, I know I’m going to break your hearts, but I am forced to leave you. You must call up all your fortitude, and try to bear it. Goodbye, Mr. Copperfield! Take care of yourself, jockey of Norfolk! How I have been rattling on! It’s all the fault of you two wretches. I forgive you! ‘Bob swore!’⁠—as the Englishman said for ‘Good night,’ when he first learnt French, and thought it so like English. ‘Bob swore,’ my ducks!”

With the bag slung over her arm, and rattling as she waddled away, she waddled to the door, where she stopped to inquire if she should leave us a lock of her hair. “Ain’t I volatile?” she added, as a commentary on this offer, and, with her finger on her nose, departed.

Steerforth laughed to that degree, that it was impossible for me to help laughing too; though I am not sure I should have done so, but for this inducement. When we had had our laugh quite out, which was after some time, he told me that Miss Mowcher had quite an extensive connection, and made herself useful to a variety of people in a variety of ways. Some people trifled with her as a mere oddity, he said; but she was as shrewdly and sharply observant as anyone he knew, and as long-headed as she was short-armed. He told me that what she had said of being here, and there, and everywhere, was true enough; for she made little darts into the provinces, and seemed to pick up customers everywhere, and to know everybody. I asked him what her disposition was: whether it was at all mischievous, and if her sympathies were generally on the right side of things: but, not succeeding in attracting his attention to these questions after two or three attempts, I forbore or forgot to repeat them. He told me instead, with much rapidity, a good deal about her skill, and her profits; and about her being a scientific cupper, if I should ever have occasion for her service in that capacity.

She was the principal theme of our conversation during the evening: and when we parted for the night Steerforth called after me over the banisters, “Bob swore!” as I went downstairs.

I was surprised, when I came to Mr. Barkis’s house, to find Ham walking up and down in front of it, and still more surprised to learn from him that little Em’ly was inside. I naturally inquired why he was not there too, instead of pacing the streets by himself?

“Why, you see, Mas’r Davy,” he rejoined, in a hesitating manner, “Em’ly, she’s talking to some ’un in here.”

“I should have thought,” said I, smiling, “that that was a reason for your being in here too, Ham.”

“Well, Mas’r Davy, in a general way, so ’t would be,” he returned; “but look’ee here, Mas’r Davy,” lowering his voice, and speaking very gravely. “It’s a young woman, sir⁠—a young woman, that Em’ly knowed once, and doen’t ought to know no more.”

When I heard these words, a light began to fall upon the figure I had seen following them, some hours ago.

“It’s a poor wurem, Mas’r Davy,” said Ham, “as is trod under foot by all the town. Up street and down street. The mowld o’ the churchyard don’t hold any that the folk shrink away from, more.”

“Did I see her tonight, Ham, on the sand, after we met you?”

“Keeping us in sight?” said Ham. “It’s like you did, Mas’r Davy. Not that I know’d then, she was theer, sir, but along of her creeping soon arterwards under Em’ly’s little winder, when she see the light come, and whispering, ’Em’ly, Em’ly, for Christ’s sake, have a woman’s heart towards me. I was once like you!’ Those was solemn words, Mas’r Davy, fur to hear!”

“They were indeed, Ham. What did Em’ly do?”

“Says Em’ly, ‘Martha, is it you? Oh, Martha, can it be you?’⁠—for they had sat at work together, many a day, at Mr. Omer’s.”

“I recollect her now!” cried I, recalling one of the two girls I had seen when I first went there. “I recollect her quite well!”

“Martha Endell,” said Ham. “Two or three year older than Em’ly, but was at the school with her.”

“I never heard her name,” said I. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“For the matter o’ that, Mas’r Davy,” replied Ham, “all’s told a’most in them words, ’Em’ly, Em’ly, for Christ’s sake, have a woman’s heart towards me. I was once like you!’ She wanted to speak to Em’ly. Em’ly couldn’t speak to her theer, for her loving uncle was come home, and he wouldn’t⁠—no, Mas’r Davy,” said Ham, with great earnestness, “he couldn’t, kind-natur’d, tenderhearted as he is, see them two together, side by side, for all the treasures that’s wrecked in the sea.”

I felt how true this was. I knew it, on the instant, quite as well as Ham.

“So Em’ly writes in pencil on a bit of paper,”