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

bonnet on the wall, began to go backwards and forwards again when she asked this question.

I remembered very well what she referred to, having had it in my thoughts many times that day. I told her so.

“May the Father of all Evil confound him,” said the little woman, holding up her forefinger between me and her sparkling eyes, “and ten times more confound that wicked servant; but I believed it was you who had a boyish passion for her!”

“I?” I repeated.

“Child, child! In the name of blind ill-fortune,” cried Miss Mowcher, wringing her hands impatiently, as she went to and fro again upon the fender, “why did you praise her so, and blush, and look disturbed?”

I could not conceal from myself that I had done this, though for a reason very different from her supposition.

“What did I know?” said Miss Mowcher, taking out her handkerchief again, and giving one little stamp on the ground whenever, at short intervals, she applied it to her eyes with both hands at once. “He was crossing you and wheedling you, I saw; and you were soft wax in his hands, I saw. Had I left the room a minute, when his man told me that ‘Young Innocence’ (so he called you, and you may call him ‘Old Guilt’ all the days of your life) had set his heart upon her, and she was giddy and liked him, but his master was resolved that no harm should come of it⁠—more for your sake than for hers⁠—and that that was their business here? How could I but believe him? I saw Steerforth soothe and please you by his praise of her! You were the first to mention her name. You owned to an old admiration of her. You were hot and cold, and red and white, all at once when I spoke to you of her. What could I think⁠—what did I think⁠—but that you were a young libertine in everything but experience, and had fallen into hands that had experience enough, and could manage you (having the fancy) for your own good? Oh! oh! oh! They were afraid of my finding out the truth,” exclaimed Miss Mowcher, getting off the fender, and trotting up and down the kitchen with her two short arms distressfully lifted up, “because I am a sharp little thing⁠—I need be, to get through the world at all!⁠—and they deceived me altogether, and I gave the poor unfortunate girl a letter, which I fully believe was the beginning of her ever speaking to Littimer, who was left behind on purpose!”

I stood amazed at the revelation of all this perfidy, looking at Miss Mowcher as she walked up and down the kitchen until she was out of breath: when she sat upon the fender again, and, drying her face with her handkerchief, shook her head for a long time, without otherwise moving, and without breaking silence.

“My country rounds,” she added at length, “brought me to Norwich, Mr. Copperfield, the night before last. What I happened to find there, about their secret way of coming and going, without you⁠—which was strange⁠—led to my suspecting something wrong. I got into the coach from London last night, as it came through Norwich, and was here this morning. Oh, oh, oh! too late!”

Poor little Mowcher turned so chilly after all her crying and fretting, that she turned round on the fender, putting her poor little wet feet in among the ashes to warm them, and sat looking at the fire, like a large doll. I sat in a chair on the other side of the hearth, lost in unhappy reflections, and looking at the fire too, and sometimes at her.

“I must go,” she said at last, rising as she spoke. “It’s late. You don’t mistrust me?”

Meeting her sharp glance, which was as sharp as ever when she asked me, I could not on that short challenge answer no, quite frankly.

“Come!” said she, accepting the offer of my hand to help her over the fender, and looking wistfully up into my face, “you know you wouldn’t mistrust me, if I was a full-sized woman!”

I felt that there was much truth in this; and I felt rather ashamed of myself.

“You are a young man,” she said, nodding. “Take a word of advice, even from three foot nothing. Try not to associate bodily defects with mental, my good friend, except for a solid reason.”

She had got over the fender now, and I had got over my suspicion. I told her that I believed she had given me a faithful account of herself, and that we had both been hapless instruments in designing hands. She thanked me, and said I was a good fellow.

“Now, mind!” she exclaimed, turning back on her way to the door, and looking shrewdly at me, with her forefinger up again. “I have some reason to suspect, from what I have heard⁠—my ears are always open; I can’t afford to spare what powers I have⁠—that they are gone abroad. But if ever they return, if ever any one of them returns, while I am alive, I am more likely than another, going about as I do, to find it out soon. Whatever I know, you shall know. If ever I can do anything to serve the poor betrayed girl, I will do it faithfully, please Heaven! And Littimer had better have a bloodhound at his back, than little Mowcher!”

I placed implicit faith in this last statement, when I marked the look with which it was accompanied.

“Trust me no more, but trust me no less, than you would trust a full-sized woman,” said the little creature, touching me appealingly on the wrist. “If ever you see me again, unlike what I am now, and like what I was when you first saw me, observe what company I am in. Call to mind that I am a very helpless and defenceless little thing. Think of me at home with my brother like myself and sister like myself, when my