“My dear Steerforth, what is the matter?”
“I wish with all my soul I had been better guided!” he exclaimed. “I wish with all my soul I could guide myself better!”
There was a passionate dejection in his manner that quite amazed me. He was more unlike himself than I could have supposed possible.
“It would be better to be this poor Peggotty, or his lout of a nephew,” he said, getting up and leaning moodily against the chimney piece, with his face toward the fire, “than to be myself, twenty times richer and twenty times wiser and be the torment to myself that I have been, in this Devil’s bark of a boat, within the last half hour!”
He had already begun to poison the fountains of little Emily’s purity.
When Steerforth, after running away with Emily and deserting her, was drowned and brought home, Rosa Dartle, who had loved him, charged his mother with his ruin. She had a scar on her lip, made by a hammer thrown by Steerforth when he was a boy.
“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 clinched her hand, and trembled through her spare, worn figure, as if her passion were killing her by inches.