"What is it? Something to drink?" asked Steerforth.
"To drink?" returned Miss Mowcher, stopping to slap his cheek. "To doctor his own moustachios with, you know. There was a woman in the shop--elderly female--quite a Griffin--who had never even heard of it by name. 'Begging pardon, sir,' said the Griffin to Charley, 'it's not--not--not ROUGE, is it?' 'Rouge,' said Charley to the Griffin. 'What the unmentionable to ears polite, do you think I want with rouge?' 'No offence, sir,' said the Griffin, 'we have it asked for by so many names, I thought it might be.' Now that, my child," continued Miss Mowcher, rubbing all the time as busily as ever, "is another instance of the refreshing humbug I was speaking of. I do something in that way myself--perhaps a good deal--per--haps a little--sharp's the word, my dear boy--never mind!".
"In what way do you mean? In the rouge way?" said Steerforth.
"Put this and that together, my tender pupil," returned the wary Mowcher, touching her nose, "work it by the rule of Secrets in all trades, and the product will give you the desired result. I say I do a little in that way myself. One Dowager, she calls it lip-salve. Another, she calls it gloves. Another, she calls it tucker-edging. Another, she calls it a fan. I call it whatever they call it. I supply it for 'em, but we keep up the trick so, to one another, and make believe with such a face, that they'd as soon think of laying it on before a whole drawing room, as before me. And when I wait upon 'em, they'll say to me sometimes--with it on--thick, and no mistake--'How am I looking, Mowcher? Am I pale?' Ha! ha! ha! ha! Isn't that refreshing, my young friend!"
I never did in my days behold anything like Mowcher as she stood upon the dining-table, intensely enjoying this refreshment, rubbing busily at Steerforth's head, and winking at me over it.
"Ahl" she said. "Such things are not much in demand here abouts. That sets me off again! I haven't seen a pretty woman since I've been here, Jemmy."
"No?" said Steerforth.
"Not the ghost of one," replied Miss Mowcher.
"We could show her the substance of one, I think?" said Steerforth, addressing his eyes to mine. "Eh, Daisy?"
"Yes, indeed," said L
"Aha?" cried the little creature, glancing sharply at my face, and then peeping round at Steerforth's. "Umph?"
The first exclamation sounded like a question put to both of us, and the second like a question put to Steerforth only. She seemed to have found no answer to either, but continued to rub, with her head on one side and her eye turned up, as if she were looking for an answer in the air, and were confident of its appearing presently.
"A sister of yours, Mr. Copperfield?" she cried, after a pause, and still keeping the same look-out. "Aye, aye?"
"No," said Steerforth, before I could reply. "Nothing of the sort. On the contrary, Mr. Copperfield used--or I am much mistaken--to have a great admiration for her."
"Why, hasn't he now?" returned Miss Mowcher. "Is he fickle? oh, for shame! Did he sip every flower, and change every hour, until Polly his passion requited?--Is her name Polly?"
The elfin suddenness with which she pounced upon me with this question, and a searching look, quite disconcerted me for a moment.
"No, Miss Mowcher," I replied. "Her name is Emily."
"Aha?" she cried exactly as before. "Umph? What a rattle I am! Mr. Copperfield, ain't I volatile?"
Her tone and look implied something that was not agreeable to me in connexion with the subject. So I said, in a graver manner than any of us had yet assumed:
"She is as virtuous as she is pretty. She is engaged to be married to a most worthy and deserving man in her own station of life. I esteem her for her good sense, as much as I admire her for her good looks."
"Well said!" cried Steerforth. "Hear, hear, hear! Now I'll quench the curiosity of this little Fatima, my dear Daisy, by leaving her nothing to guess at. She is at present apprenticed, Miss Mowcher, or articled, or whatever it may be, to Omer and Joram, Haberdashers, Milliners, and so forth, in this town. Do you observe? Omer and Joram. The promise of which my friend has spoken, is made and entered into with her cousin, Christian name, Ham, surname; Peggotty, occupation, boat-builder, also of this town. She lives with a relative, Christian name, unknown, surname, Peggotty, occupation, seafaring, also of this town. She is the prettiest and most engaging little fairy in the world. I admire her--as my friend does--exceedingly. If it were not that I might appear to disparage her Intended, which I know my friend would not like, I would add that to me she seems to be throwing herself away, that I am sure she might do better, and that I swear she was born to be a lady."
Miss Mowcher listened to these words, which were very slowly and distinctly spoken, with her head on one side, and her eye in the air, as if she were still looking for that answer. When he ceased she became brisk again in an instant, and rattled away with surprising volubility.
"Oh! And that's all about it, is it?" she exclaimed, trimming his whiskers with a little restless pair of scissors, that went glancing round his head in all directions. "Very well, very well! Quite a long story. Ought to end 'and they lived happy ever afterwards'; oughtn't it? Ah! What's that game at forfeits? I love my love with an E, because she's enticing; I hate her with an E, because she's engaged. I took her to the sign of the exquisite, and treated her with an elopement, her name's Emily, and she lives in the east? Ha! ha! ha! Mr. Copperfield, ain't I volatile?"
Merely looking at me with extravagant slyness, and not waiting for any reply, she continued, without drawing breath:
"There! If ever any scapegrace was trimmed and touched up to perfection, you are, Steerforth. If I understand any noddle in the world, I understand yours. Do you hear me when I tell you that, my darling? I understand yours," peeping down into his face. "Now you may mizzle, Jemmy (as we say at Court,), and if Mr. Copperfield will take the chair I'll operate on him."
"What do you say, Daisy?" inquired Steerforth, laughing, and resigning his seat. "Will you be improved?"
"Thank you, Miss Mowcher, not this evening."
"Don't say no," returned the little woman, looking at me with the aspect of a connoisseur, "a little bit more eyebrow?"
"Thank you," I returned, "some other time."
"Have it carried half a quarter of an inch towards the temple," said Miss Mowcher. "We can do it in a fortnight."
"No, I thank you. Not at present."
"Go in for a tip," she urged. "No? Let's get the scaffolding up, then, for a pair of whiskers. Come!"
I could not help blushing as I declined, for I felt we were on my weak point, now. But Miss Mowcher, finding that I was not at present disposed for any decoration within the range of her art, and that I was, for the time being, proof against the blandishments of the 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 pie-man, caught them, dropped them in her pocket, and gave it a loud slap.
"That's the Tilll" 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. Good-bye, 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 connexion, and made herself useful to a variety of people in a variety of ways. Some people bifted 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 sands, 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 whisp'ring '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 nowl" 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, tender-hearted 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," he pursued, "and gives it to her out o' window to bring here. 'Show that,' she says, to my aunt, Mrs. Barkis, and she'll set you down by her fire, for the love of me, till uncle is gone out, and I can come.' By-and-by she tells me what I tell you, Mas'r Davy, and asks me to bring her. What can I do? She doen't ought to know any such, but I can't deny her, when the tears is on her face."
He put his hand into the breast of his shaggy jacket, and took out with great care a pretty little purse.
"And if I could deny her when the tears was on her face, Mas'r Davy," said Ham, tenderly adjusting it on the rough palm of his hand, "how could I deny her when she give me this to carry for her--knowing what she brought it for? Such a toy as it isl" said Ham, thoughtfully looking on it. "With such a little money in it, Em'ly my dear!"
I shook him warmly by the hand when he had put it away again--for that was more satisfactory to me than saying anything--and we walked up and down, for a minute or two, in silence. The door opened then, and Peggotty appeared, beckoning to Ham to come in. I would have kept away, but she came after me, entreating me to come in too. Even then, I would have avoided the room where they all were, but for its being the neat-tiled kitchen I have mentioned more than once. The door opening immediately into it, I found myself among them, before I considered whither I was going.
The girl--the same I had seen upon the sands--was near the fire. She was sitting on the ground, with her head and one arm lying on a chair. I fancied, from the disposition of her figure, that Em'ly had but newly risen from the chair, and that the forlorn head might perhaps have been lying on her lap. I saw but little of the girl's face, over which her hair fell loose and scattered, as if she had been disordering it with her own hands, but I saw that she was young, and of a fair complexion. Peggotty had been crying. So had little Em'ly. Not a word was spoken when we first went in, and the Dutch clock by the dresser seemed, in the silence, to tick twice as loud as usual.
Em'ly spoke first.
"Martha wants," she said to Ham, "to go to London."
"Why to London?" returned Ham.
He stood between them, looking on the prostrate girl with a mixture of compassion for her, and of jealousy of her holding any companionship with her whom he loved so well, which I have always remembered distinctly. They both spoke as if she were ill, in a soft, suppressed tone that was plainly heard, although it hardly rose above a whisper.
"Better there than here," said a third voice aloud--Martha's, though she did not move. "No one knows me there. Everybody knows me here."
"What will she do there?" inquired Ham.
She lifted up her head, and looked darkly round at him for a moment, then laid it down again, and curved her right arm about her neck, as a woman in a fever, or in an agony of pain from a shot, might twist herself.
"She will try to do well," said little Em'ly. "You don't know what she has said to us. Does he--do they--Aunt?"
Peggotty shook her head compassionately.
"I'll try," said Martha, "if you'll help me away. I never can do worse than I have done here. I may do better. Oh!" with a dreadful shiver, "take me out of these streets, where the whole town knows me from a childl"
As Em'ly held out her hand to Ham, I saw him put in it a little canvas bag. She took it, as if she thought it were her purse, and made a step or two forward, but, finding her mistake, came back to where he had retired near me, and showed it to him.
"It's all yourn, Em'ly," I could hear him say. "I haven't nowt in all the wureld that ain't yourn, my dear. It ain't of no delight to me, except for youl"
The tears rose freshly in her eyes, but she turned away and went to Martha. What she gave her, I don't know. I saw her stooping over her, and putting money in her bosom. She whispered something, as she asked was that enough? "More than enough," the other said, and took her hand and kissed it.
Then Martha arose, and, gathering her shawl about her, covering her face with it, and weeping aloud, went slowly to the
door. She stopped a moment before going out, as if she would have uttered something or turned back, but no word passed her lips. Making the same low, dreary, wretched moaning in her shawl, she went away.
As the door closed, little Em'ly looked at us three in a hurried manner, and then hid her face in her hands, and fell to sobbing.
"Doen't, Em'ly!" said Ham, tapping her gently on the shoulder. "Doen't, my dear! You doen't ought to cry so, pretty!"
"Oh, Ham!" she exclaimed, still weeping pitifully, "I am not as good a girl as I ought to be! I know I have not the thankful heart, sometimes. I ought to have!"
"Yes, yes, you have, I'm sure," said Ham.
"No! no! no!" cried little Em'ly, sobbing, and shaking her head. "I am not as good a girl as I ought to be. Not near! not near!"
And still she cried, as if her heart would break.
"I try your love too much. I know I do!" she sobbed. "I'm often cross to you, and changeable with you, when I ought to be far different. You are never so to me. Why am I ever so to you, when I should think of nothing but how to be grateful, and to make you happy!"
"You always make me so," said Ham, "my dear! I am happy in the sight of you. I am happy, all day long, in the thoughts of you."
"Ah! that's not enoughl" she cried. "That is because you are good, not because I am! Oh, my dear, it might have been a better fortune for-you, if you had been fond of someone else----of someone steadier and much worthier than me, who was all bound up in you, and never vain and changeable like me!"
"Poor little tender-heart," said Ham, in a low voice. "Martha has overset her, altogether."
"Please, Aunt," sobbed Em'ly, "come here, and let me lay my head upon you. Oh, I am very miserable tonight, Aunt! Oh, I am not as good a girl as I ought to be. I am not, I know!"
Peggotty had hastened to the chair before the fire. Em'ly, with her arms around her neck, kneeled by her, looking up most earnestly into her face.
"Oh, pray, Aunt, try to help me! Ham, dear, try to help me! Mr. David, for the sake of old times, do, please, try to help me! I want to be a better girl than I am. I want to feel a hundred times more thankful than I do. I want to feel more, what a blessed thing it is to be the wife of a good man, and to lead a peaceful life. Oh me, oh me! Oh my heart, my heart!"