you only to tell me, is it anger, is it hatred, is it pride, is it restlessness, is it some wild fancy, is it love, what is it, that is leading him?"
"Miss Dartle," I returned, "how shall I tell you, so that you will believe me, that I know of nothing in Steerforth different from what there was when I first came here. I can think of nothing. I firmly believe there is nothing. I hardly understand, even, what you mean."
As she still looked fixedly at me, a twitching or throbbing, from which I could not dissociate the idea of pain, came into that cruel mark; and lifted up the corner of her lip as if with scorn, or with a pity that despised its object. She put her hand upon it hurriedly—a hand so thin and delicate, that when I had seen her hold it up before the fire to shade her face, I had compared it in my thoughts to fine porcelain—and saying, in a quick, fierce, passionate way, "I swear you to secresy about this!" said not a word more.
Mrs. Steerforth was particularly happy in her son's society, and Steerforth was, on this occasion, particularly attentive and respectful to her. It was very interesting to me to see them together, not only on account of their mutual affection, but because of the strong personal resemblance between them, and the manner in which what was haughty or impetuous in him was softened by age and sex, in her, to a gracious dignity. I thought, more than once, that it was well no serious cause of division had ever come between them; or two such natures—I ought rather to express it, two such shades of the same nature—might have been harder to reconcile than the two extremest opposites in creation. The idea did not originate in my own discernment, I am bound to confess, but in a speech of Rosa Dartle's.
She said at dinner:
"Oh, but do tell me, though, somebody, because I have been thinking about it all day, and I want to know."
"You want to know what, Rosa?" returned Mrs. Steerforth. "Pray, pray, Rosa, do not be mysterious."
"Mysterious!" she cried. "Oh! really? Do you consider me so?"
"Do I constantly entreat you," said Mrs. Steerforth, "to speak plainly, in your own natural manner?"
"Oh! then, this is not my natural manner?" she rejoined. "Now you must really bear with me, because I ask for information. We never know ourselves."
"It has become a second nature," said Mrs. Steerforth, without any displeasure; "but I remember,—and so must you, I think,—when your manner was different, Rosa; when it was not so guarded, and was more trustful."
"I am sure you are right," she returned; "and so it is that bad habits grow upon one! Really? Less guarded and more trustful? How can I, imperceptibly, have changed, I wonder! Well, that's very odd! I must study to regain my former self."
"I wish you would," said Mrs. Steerforth, with a smile.
"Oh! I really will, you know!" she answered. "I will learn frankness from—let me see—from James."
"You cannot learn frankness, Rosa," said Mrs. Steerforth, quickly—for there was always some effect of sarcasm in what Rosa Dartle said, though
