“What’s this!” said Martha in a whisper. “She has gone into my room. I don’t know her!”

I knew her. I had recognised her with amazement, for Miss Dartle.

I said something to the effect that it was a lady whom I had seen before, in a few words, to my conductress; and had scarcely done so, when we heard her voice in the room, though not, from where we stood, what she was saying. Martha, with an astonished look, repeated her former action, and softly led me up the stairs; and then, by a little back-door which seemed to have no lock, and which she pushed open with a touch, into a small empty garret with a low sloping roof—little better than a cupboard. Between this, and the room she had called hers, there was a small door of communication, standing partly open. Here we stopped, breathless with our ascent, and she placed her hand lightly on my lips. I could only see, of the room beyond, that it was pretty large; that there was a bed in it; and that there were some common pictures of ships upon the walls. I could not see Miss Dartle, or the person whom we had heard her address. Certainly, my companion could not, for my position was the best.

A dead silence prevailed for some moments. Martha kept one hand on my lips, and raised the other in a listening attitude.

“It matters little to me her not being at home,” said Rosa Dartle, haughtily, “I know nothing of her. It is you I come to see.”

“Me?” replied a soft voice.

At the sound of it, a thrill went through my frame. For it was Emily’s!

“Yes,” returned Miss Dartle, “I have come to look at you. What? You are not ashamed of the face that has done so much?”

The resolute and unrelenting hatred of her tone, its cold stern sharpness, and its mastered rage, presented her before me, as if I had seen her standing in the light. I saw the flashing black eyes, and the passion- wasted figure; and I saw the scar, with its white track cutting through her lips, quivering and throbbing as she spoke.

“I have come to see,” she said, “James Steerforth’s fancy; the girl who ran away with him, and is the town-talk of the commonest people of her native place; the bold, flaunting, practised companion of persons like James Steerforth. I want to know what such a thing is like.”

There was a rustle, as if the unhappy girl, on whom she heaped these taunts, ran towards the door, and the speaker swiftly interposed herself before it. It was succeeded by a moment’s pause.

When Miss Dartle spoke again, it was through her set teeth, and with a stamp upon the ground.

“Stay there!” she said, “or I’ll proclaim you to the house, and the whole street! If you try to evade me, I’ll stop you, if it’s by the hair, and raise the very stones against you!”

A frightened murmur was the only reply that reached my ears. A silence succeeded. I did not know what to do. Much as I desired to put an end to the interview, I felt that I had no right to present myself; that it was for Mr. Peggotty alone to see her and recover her. Would he never come? I thought impatiently.

“So!” said Rosa Dartle, with a contemptuous laugh, “I see her at last! Why, he was a poor creature to be taken by that delicate mock-modesty, and that hanging head!”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, spare me!” exclaimed Emily. “Whoever you are, you know my pitiable story, and for Heaven’s sake spare me, if you would be spared yourself!”

“If I would be spared!” returned the other, fiercely; “what is there in common between us, do you think?”