I cannot say what an impression this made upon me, or how impossible I found it,when I thought of her afterwards, to separate her from this look,and remember her face in its innocent loveliness again. It haunted me when I got home.I seemed to have left the Doctor’s roof with a dark cloud lowering on it.The reverence that I had for his grey head,was mingled with commiseration for his faith in those who were treacherous to him,and with resentment against those who injured him. The impending shadow of a great affliction,and a great disgrace that had no distinct form in it yet,fell like a stain upon the quiet place where I had worked and played as a boy,and did it a cruel wrong. I had no pleasure in thinking, any more,of the grave old broad-leaved aloe-trees,which remained shut up in themselves a hundred years together, and of the trim smooth grass-plot,and the stone urns, and the Doctor’s walk,and the congenial sound of the Cathedral bell hovering above them all.It was as if the tranquil sanctuary of my boyhood had been sacked before my face,and its peace and honour given to the winds.
But morning brought with it my parting from the old house,which Agnes had filled with her influence; and that occupied my mind sufficiently.I should be there again soon, no doubt; I might sleep again--perhaps often--in my old room;but the days of my inhabiting there were gone, and the old time was past.I was heavier at heart when I packed up such of my books and clothes as still remained there to be sent to Dover,than I cared to show to Uriah Heep; who was so officious to help me,that I uncharitably thought him mighty glad that I was going.
I got away from Agnes and her father, somehow, with an indifferent show of being very manly,and took my seat upon the box of the London coach. I was so softened and forgiving,going through the town, that I had half a mind to nod to my old enemy the butcher,and throw him five shillings to drink. But he looked such a very obdurate butcher as he stood scraping the great block in the shop,and moreover, his appearance was so little improved by the loss of a front tooth which I had knocked out,that I thought it best to make no advances.
The main object on my mind, I remember, when we got fairly on the road,was to appear as old as possible to the coachman, and to speak extremely gruff.The latter point I achieved at great personal inconvenience; but I stuck to it,because I felt it was a grown-up sort of thing.
‘You are going through, sir?’ said the coachman.
‘Yes, William,’ I said, condescendingly (I knew him); ‘I am going to London.I shall go down into Suffolk afterwards.’
‘Shooting, sir?’ said the coachman.
He knew as well as I did that it was just as likely, at that time of year,I was going down there whaling; but I felt complimented, too.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, pretending to be undecided, ‘whether I shall take a shot or not.’ ‘Birds is got wery shy, I’m told,’ said William.
‘So I understand,’ said I.
‘Is Suffolk your county, sir?’ asked William.
‘Yes,’ I said, with some importance. ‘Suffolk’s my county.’
‘I’m told the dumplings is uncommon fine down there,’ said William.
I was not aware of it myself, but I felt it necessary to uphold the institutions of my county,and to evince a familiarity with them; so I shook my head, as much as to say, ‘I believe you!’
‘And the Punches,’ said William. ‘There’s cattle!A Suffolk Punch, when he’s a good un, is worth his weight in gold.Did you ever breed any Suffolk Punches yourself, sir?’
‘N-no,’ I said, ‘not exactly.’
‘Here’s a gen’lm’n behind me, I’ll pound it,’ said William, ‘as has bred ‘em by wholesale.’
The gentleman spoken of was a gentleman with a very unpromising squint, and a prominent chin,who had a tall white hat on with a narrow flat brim,and whose close-fitting drab trousers seemed to button all the way up outside his legs from his boots to his hips.His chin was cocked over the coachman’s shoulder, so near to me,that his breath quite tickled the back of my head; and as I looked at him,he leered at the leaders with the eye with which he didn’t squint, in a very knowing manner.
‘Ain’t you?’ asked William.
‘Ain’t I what?’ said the gentleman behind.
‘Bred them Suffolk Punches by wholesale?’
‘I should think so,’ said the gentleman. ‘There ain’t no sort of orse that I ain’t bred,and no sort of dorg. Orses and dorgs is some men’s fancy. They’re wittles and drink to me--lodging,wife, and children--reading, writing, and Arithmetic--snuff, tobacker, and sleep.’
‘That ain’t a sort of man to see sitting behind a coach-box, is it though?’ said William in my ear, as he handled the reins.
I construed this remark into an indication of a wish that he should have my place, so I blushingly offered to resign it.
‘Well, if you don’t mind, sir,’ said William, ‘I think it would be more correct.’
I have always considered this as the first fall I had in life.When I booked my place at the coach office I had had ‘Box Seat’ written against the entry,and had given the book-keeper half-a-crown. I was got up in a special great-coat and shawl,expressly to do honour to that distinguished eminence; had glorified myself upon it a good deal;and had felt that I was a credit to the coach. And here, in the very first stage,I was supplanted by a shabby man with a squint,who had no other merit than smelling like a livery-stables, and being able to walk across me,more like a fly than a human being, while the horses were at a canter!
A distrust of myself, which has often beset me in life on small occasions,when it would have been better away, was assuredly not stopped in its growth by this little incident outside the Canterbury coach.It was in vain to take refuge in gruffness of speech.I spoke from the pit of my stomach for the rest of the journey, but I felt completely extinguished, and dreadfully young.
It was curious and interesting, nevertheless, to be sitting up there behind four horses:well educated, well dressed, and with plenty of money in my pocket;and to look out for the places where I had slept on my weary journey.I had abundant occupation for my thoughts, in every conspicuous landmark on the road.When I looked down at the trampers whom we passed,and saw that well-remembered style of face turned up,I felt as if the tinker’s blackened hand were in the bosom of my shirt again.When we clattered through the narrow street of Chatham, and I caught a glimpse, in passing,of the lane where the old monster lived who had bought my jacket,I stretched my neck eagerly to look for the place where I had sat, in the sun and in the shade,waiting for my money. When we came, at last, within a stage of London,and passed the veritable Salem House where Mr. Creakle had laid about him with a heavy hand,I would have given all I had, for lawful permission to get down and thrash him,and let all the boys out like so many caged sparrows.
We went to the Golden Cross at Charing Cross,then a mouldy sort of establishment in a close neighbourhood.A waiter showed me into the coffee-room; and a chambermaid introduced me to my small bedchamber,which smelt like a hackney-coach, and was shut up like a family vault.I was still painfully conscious of my youth, for nobody stood in any awe of me at all:the chambermaid being utterly indifferent to my opinions on any subject,and the waiter being familiar with me, and offering advice to my inexperience.
‘Well now,’ said the waiter, in a tone of confidence, ‘what would you like for dinner?Young gentlemen likes poultry in general: have a fowl!’
I told him, as majestically as I could, that I wasn’t in the humour for a fowl.
‘Ain’t you?’ said the waiter. ‘Young gentlemen is generally tired of beef and mutton: have a weal cutlet!’
I assented to this proposal, in default of being able to suggest anything else.
‘Do you care for taters?’ said the waiter, with an insinuating smile, and his head on one side.‘Young gentlemen generally has been overdosed with taters.’
I commanded him, in my deepest voice, to order a veal cutlet and potatoes, and all things fitting;and to inquire at the bar if there were any letters for Trotwood Copperfield,Esquire--which I knew there were not, and couldn’t be, but thought it manly to appear to expect.
He soon came back to say that there were none (at which I was much surprised) and began to lay the cloth for my dinner in a box by the fire.While he was so engaged, he asked me what I would take with it;and on my replying ‘Half a pint of sherry,’ thought it a favourable opportunity, I am afraid,to extract that measure of wine from the stale leavings at the bottoms of several small decanters.I am of this opinion, because, while I was reading the newspaper,I observed him behind a low wooden partition, which was his private apartment,very busy pouring out of a number of those vessels into one,like a chemist and druggist making up a prescription. When the wine came, too, I thought it flat;and it certainly had more English crumbs in it,than were to be expected in a foreign wine in anything like a pure state,but I was bashful enough to drink it, and say nothing.
Being then in a pleasant frame of mind (from which I infer that poisoning is not always disagreeable in some stages of the process),I resolved to go to the play. It was Covent Garden Theatre that I chose; and there,from the back of a centre box, I saw Julius Caesar and the new Pantomime.To have all those noble Romans alive before me, and walking in and out for my entertainment,instead of being the stern taskmasters they had been at school,was a most novel and delightful effect. But the mingled reality and mystery of the whole show,the influence upon me of the poetry, the lights, the music, the company,the smooth stupendous changes of glittering and brilliant scenery, were so dazzling,and opened up such illimitable regions of delight, that when I came out into the rainy street,at twelve o’clock at night, I felt as if I had come from the clouds,where I had been leading a romantic life for ages, to a bawling, splashing, link-lighted,umbrella-struggling, hackney-coach-jostling, patten-clinking, muddy, miserable world.
I had emerged by another door, and stood in the street for a little while,as if I really were a stranger upon earth:but the unceremonious pushing and hustling that I received, soon recalled me to myself,and put me in the road back to the hotel; whither I went,revolving the glorious vision all the way; and where, after some porter and oysters,I sat revolving it still, at past one o’clock, with my eyes on the coffee-room fire.
I was so filled with the play, and with the past--for it was, in a manner,like a shining transparency, through which I saw my earlier life moving along--that I don’t know when the figure of a handsome well-formed young man dressed with a tasteful easy negligence which I have reason to remember very well, became a real presence to me. But I recollect being conscious of his company without having noticed his coming in--and my still sitting, musing, over the coffee-room fire.
At last I rose to go to bed, much to the relief of the sleepy waiter,who had got the fidgets in his legs, and was twisting them, and hitting them,and putting them through all kinds of contortions in his small pantry. In going towards the door,I passed the person who had come in, and saw him plainly. I turned directly, came back,and looked again. He did not know me, but I knew him in a moment.
At another time I might have wanted the confidence or the decision to speak to him,and might have put it off until next day, and might have lost him. But,in the then condition of my mind, where the play was still running high,his former protection of me appeared so deserving of my gratitude,and my old love for him overflowed my breast so freshly and spontaneously,that I went up to him at once, with a fast-beating heart, and said:
‘Steerforth!won’t you speak to me?’
He looked at me--just as he used to look, sometimes--but I saw no recognition in his face.
‘You don’t remember me, I am afraid,’ said I.
‘My God!’ he suddenly exclaimed. ‘It’s little Copperfield!’
I grasped him by both hands, and could not let them go. But for very shame,and the fear that it might displease him, I could have held him round the neck and cried.
‘I never, never, never was so glad!My dear Steerforth, I am so overjoyed to see you!’
‘And I am rejoiced to see you, too!’ he said, shaking my hands heartily. ‘Why, Copperfield, old boy, don’t be overpowered!’ And yet he was glad, too, I thought, to see how the delight I had in meeting him affected me.
I brushed away the tears that my utmost resolution had not been able to keep back,and I made a clumsy laugh of it, and we sat down together, side by side.
‘Why, how do you come to be here?’ said Steerforth, clapping me on the shoulder.
‘I came here by the Canterbury coach, today.I have been adopted by an aunt down in that part of the country,and have just finished my education there. How do YOU come to be here, Steerforth?’
‘Well, I am what they call an Oxford man,’ he returned; ‘that is to say,I get bored to death down there, periodically--and I am on my way now to my mother’s.You’re a devilish amiable-looking fellow, Copperfield. Just what you used to be, now I look at you!Not altered in the least!’
‘I knew you immediately,’ I said; ‘but you are more easily remembered.’
He laughed as he ran his hand through the clustering curls of his hair, and said gaily:
‘Yes, I am on an expedition of duty. My mother lives a little way out of town;and the roads being in a beastly condition, and our house tedious enough,I remained here tonight instead of going on. I have not been in town half-a-dozen hours,and those I have been dozing and grumbling away at the play.’
‘I have been at the play, too,’ said I. ‘At Covent Garden.What a delightful and magnificent entertainment, Steerforth!’
Steerforth laughed heartily.
‘My dear young Davy,’ he said, clapping me on the shoulder again, ‘you are a very Daisy.The daisy of the field, at sunrise, is not fresher than you are. I have been at Covent Garden, too,and there never was a more miserable business. Holloa, you sir!’
This was addressed to the waiter, who had been very attentive to our recognition, at a distance, and now came forward deferentially.
‘Where have you put my friend, Mr. Copperfield?’ said Steerforth.
‘Beg your pardon, sir?’
‘Where does he sleep?What’s his number?You know what I mean,’ said Steerforth.
‘Well, sir,’ said the waiter, with an apologetic air. ‘Mr. Copperfield is at present in forty-four, sir.’
‘And what the devil do you mean,’ retorted Steerforth, ‘by putting Mr.Copperfield into a little loft over a stable?’
‘Why, you see we wasn’t aware, sir,’ returned the waiter, still apologetically, ‘as Mr.Copperfield was anyways particular. We can give Mr. Copperfield seventy-two, sir,if it would be preferred. Next you, sir.’
‘Of course it would be preferred,’ said Steerforth. ‘And do it at once.’ The waiter immediately withdrew to make the exchange. Steerforth,very much amused at my having been put into forty-four, laughed again,and clapped me on the shoulder again, and invited me to breakfast with him next morning at ten o’clock--an invitation I was only too proud and happy to accept.It being now pretty late, we took our candles and went upstairs,where we parted with friendly heartiness at his door,and where I found my new room a great improvement on my old one, it not being at all musty,and having an immense four-post bedstead in it, which was quite a little landed estate. Here,among pillows enough for six, I soon fell asleep in a blissful condition,and dreamed of ancient Rome, Steerforth, and friendship, until the early morning coaches,rumbling out of the archway underneath, made me dream of thunder and the gods.
CHAPTER 20. STEERFORTH’S HOME
When the chambermaid tapped at my door at eight o’clock,and informed me that my shaving-water was outside, I felt severely the having no occasion for it,and blushed in my bed. The suspicion that she laughed too, when she said it,preyed upon my mind all the time I was dressing; and gave me, I was conscious,a sneaking and guilty air when I passed her on the staircase, as I was going down to breakfast.I was so sensitively aware, indeed, of being younger than I could have wished,that for some time I could not make up my mind to pass her at all,under the ignoble circumstances of the case; but, hearing her there with a broom,stood peeping out of window at King Charles on horseback, surrounded by a maze of hackney-coaches,and looking anything but regal in a drizzling rain and a dark-brown fog,until I was admonished by the waiter that the gentleman was waiting for me.
It was not in the coffee-room that I found Steerforth expecting me, but in a snug private apartment,red-curtained and Turkey-carpeted, where the fire burnt bright,and a fine hot breakfast was set forth on a table covered with a clean cloth;and a cheerful miniature of the room, the fire, the breakfast, Steerforth, and all,was shining in the little round mirror over the sideboard. I was rather bashful at first,Steerforth being so self-possessed, and elegant, and superior to me in all respects (age included);but his easy patronage soon put that to rights, and made me quite at home.I could not enough admire the change he had wrought in the Golden Cross;or compare the dull forlorn state I had held yesterday,with this morning’s comfort and this morning’s entertainment. As to the waiter’s familiarity,it was quenched as if it had never been. He attended on us, as I may say, in sackcloth and ashes.
‘Now, Copperfield,’ said Steerforth, when we were alone, ‘I should like to hear what you are doing,and where you are going, and all about you. I feel as if you were my property.’ Glowing with pleasure to find that he had still this interest in me,I told him how my aunt had proposed the little expedition that I had before me, and whither it tended.
‘As you are in no hurry, then,’ said Steerforth, ‘come home with me to Highgate,and stay a day or two. You will be pleased with my mother--she is a little vain and prosy about me,but that you can forgive her--and she will be pleased with you.’
‘I should like to be as sure of that, as you are kind enough to say you are,’ I answered, smiling.
‘Oh!’ said Steerforth, ‘everyone who likes me, has a claim on her that is sure to be acknowledged.’
‘Then I think I shall be a favourite,’ said I.
‘Good!’ said Steerforth. ‘Come and prove it. We will go and see the lions for an hour or two--it’s something to have a fresh fellow like you to show them to,Copperfield--and then we’ll journey out to Highgate by the coach.’
I could hardly believe but that I was in a dream,and that I should wake presently in number forty-four,to the solitary box in the coffee-room and the familiar waiter again.After I had written to my aunt and told her of my fortunate meeting with my admired old schoolfellow,and my acceptance of his invitation, we went out in a hackney-chariot,and saw a Panorama and some other sights, and took a walk through the Museum,where I could not help observing how much Steerforth knew, on an infinite variety of subjects,and of how little account he seemed to make his knowledge.
‘You’ll take a high degree at college, Steerforth,’ said I, ‘if you have not done so already;and they will have good reason to be proud of you.’
‘I take a degree!’ cried Steerforth. ‘Not I!my dear Daisy--will you mind my calling you Daisy?’
‘Not at all!’ said I.
‘That’s a good fellow!My dear Daisy,’ said Steerforth, laughing.‘I have not the least desire or intention to distinguish myself in that way.I have done quite sufficient for my purpose.I find that I am heavy company enough for myself as I am.’
‘But the fame--’ I was beginning.
‘You romantic Daisy!’ said Steerforth, laughing still more heartily: ‘why should I trouble myself,that a parcel of heavy-headed fellows may gape and hold up their hands?Let them do it at some other man. There’s fame for him, and he’s welcome to it.’
I was abashed at having made so great a mistake, and was glad to change the subject.Fortunately it was not difficult to do,for Steerforth could always pass from one subject to another with a carelessness and lightness that were his own.
Lunch succeeded to our sight-seeing, and the short winter day wore away so fast,that it was dusk when the stage-coach stopped with us at an old brick house at Highgate on the summit of the hill.An elderly lady, though not very far advanced in years, with a proud carriage and a handsome face,was in the doorway as we alighted; and greeting Steerforth as ‘My dearest James,’ folded him in her arms. To this lady he presented me as his mother, and she gave me a stately welcome.
It was a genteel old-fashioned house, very quiet and orderly.From the windows of my room I saw all London lying in the distance like a great vapour,with here and there some lights twinkling through it. I had only time, in dressing,to glance at the solid furniture, the framed pieces of work (done, I supposed,by Steerforth’s mother when she was a girl),and some pictures in crayons of ladies with powdered hair and bodices,coming and going on the walls, as the newly-kindled fire crackled and sputtered, when I was called to dinner.
There was a second lady in the dining-room, of a slight short figure, dark,and not agreeable to look at, but with some appearance of good looks too,who attracted my attention: perhaps because I had not expected to see her;perhaps because I found myself sitting opposite to her;perhaps because of something really remarkable in her. She had black hair and eager black eyes,and was thin, and had a scar upon her lip. It was an old scar--I should rather call it seam,for it was not discoloured, and had healed years ago--which had once cut through her mouth,downward towards the chin, but was now barely visible across the table,except above and on her upper lip, the shape of which it had altered.I concluded in my own mind that she was about thirty years of age,and that she wished to be married. She was a little dilapidated--like a house--with having been so long to let;yet had, as I have said, an appearance of good looks.Her thinness seemed to be the effect of some wasting fire within her, which found a vent in her gaunt eyes.
She was introduced as Miss Dartle, and both Steerforth and his mother called her Rosa.I found that she lived there, and had been for a long time Mrs. Steerforth’s companion.It appeared to me that she never said anything she wanted to say, outright; but hinted it,and made a great deal more of it by this practice. For example, when Mrs. Steerforth observed,more in jest than earnest, that she feared her son led but a wild life at college, Miss Dartle put in thus:
‘Oh, really?You know how ignorant I am, and that I only ask for information, but isn’t it always so?I thought that kind of life was on all hands understood to be--eh?’ ‘It is education for a very grave profession, if you mean that, Rosa,’ Mrs. Steerforth answered with some coldness.
‘Oh!Yes!That’s very true,’ returned Miss Dartle. ‘But isn’t it, though?--I want to be put right, if I am wrong--isn’t it, really?’
‘Really what?’ said Mrs. Steerforth.
‘Oh!You mean it’s not!’ returned Miss Dartle. ‘Well, I’m very glad to hear it!Now, I know what to do!That’s the advantage of asking. I shall never allow people to talk before me about wastefulness and profligacy,and so forth, in connexion with that life, any more.’
‘And you will be right,’ said Mrs. Steerforth. ‘My son’s tutor is a conscientious gentleman;and if I had not implicit reliance on my son, I should have reliance on him.’
‘Should you?’ said Miss Dartle. ‘Dear me!Conscientious, is he?Really conscientious, now?’
‘Yes, I am convinced of it,’ said Mrs. Steerforth.
‘How very nice!’ exclaimed Miss Dartle. ‘What a comfort!Really conscientious?Then he’s not--but of course he can’t be, if he’s really conscientious. Well,I shall be quite happy in my opinion of him, from this time.You can’t think how it elevates him in my opinion,to know for certain that he’s really conscientious!’
Her own views of every question, and her correction of everything that was said to which she was opposed,Miss Dartle insinuated in the same way: sometimes, I could not conceal from myself,with great power, though in contradiction even of Steerforth.An instance happened before dinner was done. Mrs.Steerforth speaking to me about my intention of going down into Suffolk,I said at hazard how glad I should be, if Steerforth would only go there with me;and explaining to him that I was going to see my old nurse, and Mr. Peggotty’s family,I reminded him of the boatman whom he had seen at school.
‘Oh!That bluff fellow!’ said Steerforth. ‘He had a son with him, hadn’t he?’
‘No. That was his nephew,’ I replied; ‘whom he adopted, though, as a son.He has a very pretty little niece too, whom he adopted as a daughter. In short,his house--or rather his boat, for he lives in one,on dry land--is full of people who are objects of his generosity and kindness.You would be delighted to see that household.’
‘Should I?’ said Steerforth. ‘Well, I think I should. I must see what can be done.It would be worth a journey (not to mention the pleasure of a journey with you, Daisy),to see that sort of people together, and to make one of ‘em.’
My heart leaped with a new hope of pleasure.But it was in reference to the tone in which he had spoken of ‘that sort of people’,that Miss Dartle, whose sparkling eyes had been watchful of us, now broke in again.
‘Oh, but, really?Do tell me. Are they, though?’ she said.
‘Are they what?And are who what?’ said Steerforth.
‘That sort of people.---Are they really animals and clods, and beings of another order?I want to know SO much.’
‘Why, there’s a pretty wide separation between them and us,’ said Steerforth, with indifference.‘They are not to be expected to be as sensitive as we are. Their delicacy is not to be shocked,or hurt easily. They are wonderfully virtuous, I dare say--some people contend for that, at least;and I am sure I don’t want to contradict them--but they have not very fine natures,and they may be thankful that, like their coarse rough skins, they are not easily wounded.’
‘Really!’ said Miss Dartle. ‘Well, I don’t know, now, when I have been better pleased than to hear that. It’s so consoling!It’s such a delight to know that, when they suffer, they don’t feel!Sometimes I have been quite uneasy for that sort of people;but now I shall just dismiss the idea of them, altogether. Live and learn. I had my doubts,I confess, but now they’re cleared up. I didn’t know, and now I do know,and that shows the advantage of asking--don’t it?’
I believed that Steerforth had said what he had, in jest, or to draw Miss Dartle out;and I expected him to say as much when she was gone, and we two were sitting before the fire.But he merely asked me what I thought of her.
‘She is very clever, is she not?’ I asked.
‘Clever!She brings everything to a grindstone,’ said Steerforth, and sharpens it,as she has sharpened her own face and figure these years past.She has worn herself away by constant sharpening. She is all edge.’
‘What a remarkable scar that is upon her lip!’ I said.
Steerforth’s face fell, and he paused a moment.
‘Why, the fact is,’ he returned, ‘I did that.’
‘By an unfortunate accident!’
‘No. I was a young boy, and she exasperated me, and I threw a hammer at her.A promising young angel I must have been!’ I was deeply sorry to have touched on such a painful theme, but that was useless now.
‘She has borne the mark ever since, as you see,’ said Steerforth; ‘and she’ll bear it to her grave,if she ever rests in one--though I can hardly believe she will ever rest anywhere.She was the motherless child of a sort of cousin of my father’s. He died one day. My mother,who was then a widow, brought her here to be company to her.She has a couple of thousand pounds of her own, and saves the interest of it every year,to add to the principal. There’s the history of Miss Rosa Dartle for you.’
‘And I have no doubt she loves you like a brother?’ said I.
‘Humph!’ retorted Steerforth, looking at the fire. ‘Some brothers are not loved over much;and some love--but help yourself, Copperfield!We’ll drink the daisies of the field, in compliment to you;and the lilies of the valley that toil not, neither do they spin,in compliment to me--the more shame for me!’ A moody smile that had overspread his features cleared off as he said this merrily,and he was his own frank, winning self again.
I could not help glancing at the scar with a painful interest when we went in to tea.It was not long before I observed that it was the most susceptible part of her face, and that,when she turned pale, that mark altered first, and became a dull, lead-coloured streak,lengthening out to its full extent, like a mark in invisible ink brought to the fire.There was a little altercation between her and Steerforth about a cast of the dice at backgammon--when I thought her,for one moment, in a storm of rage; and then I saw it start forth like the old writing on the wall.