David Copperfield

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'You're a pretty fellow!' said Miss Mowcher, after a brief
inspection. 'You'd be as bald as a friar on the top of your head
in twelve months, but for me. Just half a minute, my young friend,
and we'll give you a polishing that shall keep your curls on for
the next ten years!'

With this, she tilted some of the contents of the little bottle on
to one of the little bits of flannel, and, again imparting some of
the virtues of that preparation to one of the little brushes, began
rubbing and scraping away with both on the crown of Steerforth's
head in the busiest manner I ever witnessed, talking all the time.

'There's Charley Pyegrave, the duke's son,' she said. 'You know
Charley?' peeping round into his face.

'A little,' said Steerforth.

'What a man HE is! THERE'S a whisker! As to Charley's legs, if
they were only a pair (which they ain't), they'd defy competition.
Would you believe he tried to do without me - in the Life-Guards,
too?'

'Mad!' said Steerforth.

'It looks like it. However, mad or sane, he tried,' returned Miss
Mowcher. 'What does he do, but, lo and behold you, he goes into a
perfumer's shop, and wants to buy a bottle of the Madagascar
Liquid.'

'Charley does?' said Steerforth.

'Charley does. But they haven't got any of the Madagascar Liquid.'

'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 - perhaps 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.

'Ah!' she said. 'Such things are not much in demand hereabouts.
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 I.

'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 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. 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 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, 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' winder 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 is!' 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 child!'

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 you!'

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 so
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 enough!' 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!'

She dropped her face on my old nurse's breast, and, ceasing this
supplication, which in its agony and grief was half a woman's, half
a child's, as all her manner was (being, in that, more natural, and
better suited to her beauty, as I thought, than any other manner
could have been), wept silently, while my old nurse hushed her like
an infant.

She got calmer by degrees, and then we soothed her; now talking
encouragingly, and now jesting a little with her, until she began
to raise her head and speak to us. So we got on, until she was
able to smile, and then to laugh, and then to sit up, half ashamed;
while Peggotty recalled her stray ringlets, dried her eyes, and
made her neat again, lest her uncle should wonder, when she got
home, why his darling had been crying.

I saw her do, that night, what I had never seen her do before. I
saw her innocently kiss her chosen husband on the cheek, and creep
close to his bluff form as if it were her best support. When they
went away together, in the waning moonlight, and I looked after
them, comparing their departure in my mind with Martha's, I saw
that she held his arm with both her hands, and still kept close to
him.

CHAPTER 23
I CORROBORATE Mr. DICK, AND CHOOSE A PROFESSION

When I awoke in the morning I thought very much of little Em'ly,
and her emotion last night, after Martha had left. I felt as if I
had come into the knowledge of those domestic weaknesses and
tendernesses in a sacred confidence, and that to disclose them,
even to Steerforth, would be wrong. I had no gentler feeling
towards anyone than towards the pretty creature who had been my
playmate, and whom I have always been persuaded, and shall always
be persuaded, to my dying day, I then devotedly loved. The
repetition to any ears - even to Steerforth's - of what she had
been unable to repress when her heart lay open to me by an
accident, I felt would be a rough deed, unworthy of myself,
unworthy of the light of our pure childhood, which I always saw
encircling her head. I made a resolution, therefore, to keep it in
my own breast; and there it gave her image a new grace.

While we were at breakfast, a letter was delivered to me from my
aunt. As it contained matter on which I thought Steerforth could
advise me as well as anyone, and on which I knew I should be
delighted to consult him, I resolved to make it a subject of
discussion on our journey home. For the present we had enough to
do, in taking leave of all our friends. Mr. Barkis was far from
being the last among them, in his regret at our departure; and I
believe would even have opened the box again, and sacrificed
another guinea, if it would have kept us eight-and-forty hours in
Yarmouth. Peggotty and all her family were full of grief at our
going. The whole house of Omer and Joram turned out to bid us
good-bye; and there were so many seafaring volunteers in attendance
on Steerforth, when our portmanteaux went to the coach, that if we
had had the baggage of a regiment with us, we should hardly have
wanted porters to carry it. In a word, we departed to the regret
and admiration of all concerned, and left a great many people very
sorry behind US.

Do you stay long here, Littimer?' said I, as he stood waiting to
see the coach start.

'No, sir,' he replied; 'probably not very long, sir.'

'He can hardly say, just now,' observed Steerforth, carelessly.
'He knows what he has to do, and he'll do it.'

'That I am sure he will,' said I.

Littimer touched his hat in acknowledgement of my good opinion, and
I felt about eight years old. He touched it once more, wishing us
a good journey; and we left him standing on the pavement, as
respectable a mystery as any pyramid in Egypt.

For some little time we held no conversation, Steerforth being
unusually silent, and I being sufficiently engaged in wondering,
within myself, when I should see the old places again, and what new
changes might happen to me or them in the meanwhile. At length
Steerforth, becoming gay and talkative in a moment, as he could
become anything he liked at any moment, pulled me by the arm:

'Find a voice, David. What about that letter you were speaking of
at breakfast?'

'Oh!' said I, taking it out of my pocket. 'It's from my aunt.'

'And what does she say, requiring consideration?'

'Why, she reminds me, Steerforth,' said I, 'that I came out on
this expedition to look about me, and to think a little.'

'Which, of course, you have done?'

'Indeed I can't say I have, particularly. To tell you the truth,
I am afraid I have forgotten it.'