David Copperfield - Charles Dickens (fun to read .txt) 📗

gently saying his name, but it trembled. She repeated it to herself, two or three times, in a low tone. Then, addressing me, she said, with enforced calmness:

“My son is ill.”

“Very ill.”

“You have seen him?”

“I have.”

“Are you reconciled?”

I could not say Yes, I could not say No. She slightly turned her head towards the spot where Rosa Dartle had been standing at her elbow, and in that moment I said, by the motion of my lips, to Rosa, “Dead!”

That Mrs. Steerforth might not be induced to look behind her, and read, plainly written, what she was not yet prepared to know, I met her look quickly; but I had seen Rosa Dartle throw her hands up in the air with vehemence of despair and horror, and then clasp them on her face.

The handsome lady⁠—so like, oh so like!⁠—regarded me with a fixed look, and put her hand to her forehead. I besought her to be calm, and prepare herself to bear what I had to tell; but I should rather have entreated her to weep, for she sat like a stone figure.

“When I was last here,” I faltered, “Miss Dartle told me he was sailing here and there. The night before last was a dreadful one at sea. If he were at sea that night, and near a dangerous coast, as it is said he was; and if the vessel that was seen should really be the ship which⁠—”

“Rosa!” said Mrs. Steerforth, “come to me!”

She came, but with no sympathy or gentleness. Her eyes gleamed like fire as she confronted his mother, and broke into a frightful laugh.

“Now,” she said, “is your pride appeased, you madwoman? Now has he made atonement to you⁠—with his life! Do you hear?⁠—His life!”

Mrs. Steerforth, fallen back stiffly in her chair, and making no sound but a moan, cast her eyes upon her with a wide stare.

“Aye!” cried Rosa, smiting herself passionately on the breast, “look at me! Moan, and groan, and look at me! Look here!” striking the scar, “at your dead child’s handiwork!”

The moan the mother uttered, from time to time, went to my heart. Always the same. Always inarticulate and stifled. Always accompanied with an incapable motion of the head, but with no change of face. Always proceeding from a rigid mouth and closed teeth, as if the jaw were locked and the face frozen up in pain.

“Do you remember when he did this?” she proceeded. “Do you remember when, in his inheritance of your nature, and in your pampering of his pride and passion, he did this, and disfigured me for life? Look at me, marked until I die with his high displeasure; and moan and groan for what you made him!”

“Miss Dartle,” I entreated her. “For Heaven’s sake⁠—”

“I will speak!” she said, turning on me with her lightning eyes. “Be silent, you! Look at me, I say, proud mother of a proud, false son! Moan for your nurture of him, moan for your corruption of him, moan for your loss of him, moan for mine!”

She clenched her hand, and trembled through her spare, worn figure, as if her passion were killing her by inches.

“You, resent his self-will!” she exclaimed. “You, injured by his haughty temper! You, who opposed to both, when your hair was grey, the qualities which made both when you gave him birth! You, who from his cradle reared him to be what he was, and stunted what he should have been! Are you rewarded, now, for your years of trouble?”

“Oh, Miss Dartle, shame! Oh cruel!”

“I tell you,” she returned, “I will speak to her. No power on earth should stop me, while I was standing here! Have I been silent all these years, and shall I not speak now? I loved him better than you ever loved him!” turning on her fiercely. “I could have loved him, and asked no return. If I had been his wife, I could have been the slave of his caprices for a word of love a year. I should have been. Who knows it better than I? You were exacting, proud, punctilious, selfish. My love would have been devoted⁠—would have trod your paltry whimpering under foot!”

With flashing eyes, she stamped upon the ground as if she actually did it.

“Look here!” she said, striking the scar again, with a relentless hand. “When he grew into the better understanding of what he had done, he saw it, and repented of it! I could sing to him, and talk to him, and show the ardour that I felt in all he did, and attain with labour to such knowledge as most interested him; and I attracted him. When he was freshest and truest, he loved me. Yes, he did! Many a time, when you were put off with a slight word, he has taken me to his heart!”

She said it with a taunting pride in the midst of her frenzy⁠—for it was little less⁠—yet with an eager remembrance of it, in which the smouldering embers of a gentler feeling kindled for the moment.

“I descended⁠—as I might have known I should, but that he fascinated me with his boyish courtship⁠—into a doll, a trifle for the occupation of an idle hour, to be dropped, and taken up, and trifled with, as the inconstant humour took him. When he grew weary, I grew weary. As his fancy died out, I would no more have tried to strengthen any power I had, than I would have married him on his being forced to take me for his wife. We fell away from one another without a word. Perhaps you saw it, and were not sorry. Since then, I have been a mere disfigured piece of furniture between you both; having no eyes, no ears, no feelings, no remembrances. Moan? Moan for what you made him; not for your love. I tell you that the time was, when I loved him better than you ever did!”

She stood with her bright angry eyes confronting the wide stare, and the set face; and