much as possible, I wrote to her that night. I told her as mildly as I could what his wrong was, and what my own share in his injury. I said he was a man in very common life, but of a most gentle and upright character; and that I ventured to express a hope that she would not refuse to see him in his heavy trouble. I mentioned two o'clock in the afternoon as the hour of our coming, and I sent the letter myself by the first coach in the morning.
At the appointed time, we stood at the door—the door of that house where I had been, a few days since, so happy: where my youthful confidence and warmth of heart had been yielded up so freely: which was closed against me henceforth: which was now a waste, a ruin.
No Littimer appeared. The pleasanter face which had replaced his, on the occasion of my last visit, answered to our summons, and went before us to the drawing-room. Mrs. Steerforth was sitting there. Rosa Dartle glided, as we went in, from another part of the room, and stood behind her chair.
I saw, directly, in his mother's face, that she knew from himself what he had done. It was very pale; and bore the traces of deeper emotion than my letter alone, weakened by the doubts her fondness would have raised upon it, would have been likely to create. I thought her more like him than ever I had thought her; and I felt, rather than saw, that the resemblance was not lost on my companion.
She sat upright in her arm-chair, with a stately, immoveable, passionless air, that it seemed as if nothing could disturb. She looked very stedfastly at Mr. Peggotty when he stood before her; and he looked, quite as stedfastly, at her. Rosa Dartle's keen glance comprehended all of us. For some moments not a word was spoken.
She motioned to Mr. Peggotty to be seated. He said, in a low voice, "I shouldn't feel it nat'ral, ma'am, to sit down in this house. I'd sooner stand." And this was succeeded by another silence, which she broke thus:
"I know, with deep regret, what has brought you here. What do you want of me? What do you ask me to do?"
He put his hat under his arm, and feeling in his breast for Emily's letter, took it out, unfolded it, and gave it to her.
"Please to read that, ma'am. That's my niece's hand!"
She read it, in the same stately and impassive way,—untouched by its contents, as far as I could see,—and returned it to him.
"'Unless he brings me back a lady,'" said Mr. Peggotty, tracing out that part with his finger. "I come to know, ma'am, whether he will keep his wured?"
"No," she returned.
"Why not?" said Mr. Peggotty.
"It is impossible. He would disgrace himself. You cannot fail to know that she is far below him."
"Raise her up!" said Mr. Peggotty.
"She is uneducated and ignorant."
"Maybe she's not; maybe she is," said Mr. Peggotty. "I think not, ma'am; but I'm no judge of them things. Teach her better!"
