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 what?’ said Steerforth.
‘That sort of
people. – Are they really animals and clods, and beings of another order? I
want to know so much.’
‘Why, there’s a
pretty wide separation between them and us,’ said Steerforth, with
indifference. ‘They are not to be expected to be as sensitive as we are. Their
delicacy is not to be shocked, or hurt easily. They are wonderfully virtuous, I
dare say – some people contend for that, at least; and I am sure I don’t want
to contradict them – but they have not very fine natures, and they may be
thankful that, like their coarse rough skins, they are not easily wounded.’
‘Really!’ said
Miss Dartle. ‘Well, I don’t know, now, when I have been better pleased than to
hear that. It’s so consoling! It’s such a delight to know that, when they
suffer, they don’t feel! Sometimes I have been quite uneasy for that sort of
people; but now I shall just dismiss the idea of them, altogether. Live and
learn. I had my doubts, I confess, but now they’re cleared up. I didn’t know,
and now I do know, and that shows the advantage of asking – don’t it?’
I believed that
Steerforth had said what he had, in jest, or to draw Miss Dartle out; and I
expected him to say as much when she was gone, and we two were sitting before
the fire. But he merely asked me what I thought of her.
‘She is very
clever, is she not?’ I asked.
‘Clever! She brings everything to a grindstone,’ said Steerforth, ‘and sharpens it, as she has sharpened her own face and figure these years past. She has worn herself away by constant sharpening. She is all edge.’
‘What a
remarkable scar that is upon her lip!’ I said.
Steerforth’s
face fell, and he paused a moment.
‘Why, the fact
is,’ he returned, ‘– I did that.’
‘By an
unfortunate accident!’
‘No. I was a young boy, and she exasperated me,
and I threw a hammer at her. A promising young angel I must have been!’
I was deeply
sorry to have touched on such a painful theme, but that was useless now.
‘She has borne
the mark ever since, as you see,’ said Steerforth; ‘and she’ll bear it to her
grave, if she ever rests in one – though I can hardly believe she will ever
rest anywhere. She was the motherless child of a sort of cousin of my father’s.
He died one day. My mother, who was then a widow, brought her here to be
company to her. She has a couple of thousand pounds of her own, and saves the
interest of it every year, to add to the principal. There’s the history of Miss
Rosa Dartle for you.’
‘And I have no
doubt she loves you like a brother?’ said I.
‘Humph!’ retorted Steerforth, looking at the fire. ‘Some brothers are not loved over much; and some love – but elp yourself, Copperfield! We’ll drink the daisies of the field, in compliment to you; and the lilies of the valley that toil not, neither do they spin, in compliment to me – the more shame for me!’ A moody smile that had overspread his features cleared off as he said this merrily, and he was his own frank, winning self again.