Chapter: I must have been married, if I may trust to my imperfect memory for
dates, about a year or so, when one evening, as I was returning from a
solitary walk, thinking of the book I was then writing--for my success
had steadily increased with my steady application, and I was engaged at
that time upon my first work of fiction--I came past Mrs. Steerforth's
house. I had often passed it before, during my residence in that
neighbourhood, though never when I could choose another road. Howbeit,
it did sometimes happen that it was not easy to find another, without
making a long circuit; and so I had passed that way, upon the whole,
pretty often.

I had never done more than glance at the house, as I went by with a
quickened step. It had been uniformly gloomy and dull. None of the best
rooms abutted on the road; and the narrow, heavily-framed old-fashioned
windows, never cheerful under any circumstances, looked very dismal,
close shut, and with their blinds always drawn down. There was a covered
way across a little paved court, to an entrance that was never used; and
there was one round staircase window, at odds with all the rest, and the
only one unshaded by a blind, which had the same unoccupied blank look.
I do not remember that I ever saw a light in all the house. If I had
been a casual passer-by, I should have probably supposed that some
childless person lay dead in it. If I had happily possessed no knowledge
of the place, and had seen it often in that changeless state, I should
have pleased my fancy with many ingenious speculations, I dare say.

As it was, I thought as little of it as I might. But my mind could not
go by it and leave it, as my body did; and it usually awakened a long
train of meditations. Coming before me, on this particular evening that
I mention, mingled with the childish recollections and later fancies,
the ghosts of half-formed hopes, the broken shadows of disappointments
dimly seen and understood, the blending of experience and imagination,
incidental to the occupation with which my thoughts had been busy, it
was more than commonly suggestive. I fell into a brown study as I walked
on, and a voice at my side made me start.

It was a woman's voice, too. I was not long in recollecting Mrs.
Steerforth's little parlour-maid, who had formerly worn blue ribbons in
her cap. She had taken them out now, to adapt herself, I suppose, to
the altered character of the house; and wore but one or two disconsolate
bows of sober brown.

'If you please, sir, would you have the goodness to walk in, and speak
to Miss Dartle?'

'Has Miss Dartle sent you for me?' I inquired.

'Not tonight, sir, but it's just the same. Miss Dartle saw you pass a
night or two ago; and I was to sit at work on the staircase, and when I
saw you pass again, to ask you to step in and speak to her.'

I turned back, and inquired of my conductor, as we went along, how Mrs.
Steerforth was. She said her lady was but poorly, and kept her own room
a good deal.

When we arrived at the house, I was directed to Miss Dartle in the
garden, and left to make my presence known to her myself. She was
sitting on a seat at one end of a kind of terrace, overlooking the great
city. It was a sombre evening, with a lurid light in the sky; and as
I saw the prospect scowling in the distance, with here and there some
larger object starting up into the sullen glare, I fancied it was no
inapt companion to the memory of this fierce woman.

She saw me as I advanced, and rose for a moment to receive me. I thought
her, then, still more colourless and thin than when I had seen her last;
the flashing eyes still brighter, and the scar still plainer.

Our meeting was not cordial. We had parted angrily on the last occasion;
and there was an air of disdain about her, which she took no pains to
conceal.

'I am told you wish to speak to me, Miss Dartle,' said I, standing near
her, with my hand upon the back of the seat, and declining her gesture
of invitation to sit down.

'If you please,' said she. 'Pray has this girl been found?'

'No.'

'And yet she has run away!'

I saw her thin lips working while she looked at me, as if they were
eager to load her with reproaches.

'Run away?' I repeated.

'Yes! From him,' she said, with a laugh. 'If she is not found, perhaps
she never will be found. She may be dead!'

The vaunting cruelty with which she met my glance, I never saw expressed
in any other face that ever I have seen.

'To wish her dead,' said I, 'may be the kindest wish that one of her own
sex could bestow upon her. I am glad that time has softened you so much,
Miss Dartle.'

She condescended to make no reply, but, turning on me with another
scornful laugh, said:

'The friends of this excellent and much-injured young lady are friends
of yours. You are their champion, and assert their rights. Do you wish
to know what is known of her?'

'Yes,' said I.

She rose with an ill-favoured smile, and taking a few steps towards
a wall of holly that was near at hand, dividing the lawn from a
kitchen-garden, said, in a louder voice, 'Come here!'--as if she were
calling to some unclean beast.

'You will restrain any demonstrative championship or vengeance in this
place, of course, Mr. Copperfield?' said she, looking over her shoulder
at me with the same expression.

I inclined my head, without knowing what she meant; and she said, 'Come
here!' again; and returned, followed by the respectable Mr. Littimer,
who, with undiminished respectability, made me a bow, and took up his
position behind her. The air of wicked grace: of triumph, in which,
strange to say, there was yet something feminine and alluring: with
which she reclined upon the seat between us, and looked at me, was
worthy of a cruel Princess in a Legend.

'Now,' said she, imperiously, without glancing at him, and touching
the old wound as it throbbed: perhaps, in this instance, with pleasure
rather than pain. 'Tell Mr. Copperfield about the flight.'

'Mr. James and myself, ma'am--'

'Don't address yourself to me!' she interrupted with a frown.

'Mr. James and myself, sir--'

'Nor to me, if you please,' said I.

Mr. Littimer, without being at all discomposed, signified by a slight
obeisance, that anything that was most agreeable to us was most
agreeable to him; and began again.

'Mr. James and myself have been abroad with the young woman, ever
since she left Yarmouth under Mr. James's protection. We have been in a
variety of places, and seen a deal of foreign country. We have been in
France, Switzerland, Italy, in fact, almost all parts.'

He looked at the back of the seat, as if he were addressing himself to
that; and softly played upon it with his hands, as if he were striking
chords upon a dumb piano.

'Mr. James took quite uncommonly to the young woman; and was more
settled, for a length of time, than I have known him to be since I have
been in his service. The young woman was very improvable, and spoke the
languages; and wouldn't have been known for the same country-person. I
noticed that she was much admired wherever we went.'

Miss Dartle put her hand upon her side. I saw him steal a glance at her,
and slightly smile to himself.

'Very much admired, indeed, the young woman was. What with her dress;
what with the air and sun; what with being made so much of; what with
this, that, and the other; her merits really attracted general notice.'

He made a short pause. Her eyes wandered restlessly over the distant
prospect, and she bit her nether lip to stop that busy mouth.

Taking his hands from the seat, and placing one of them within the
other, as he settled himself on one leg, Mr. Littimer proceeded, with
his eyes cast down, and his respectable head a little advanced, and a
little on one side:

'The young woman went on in this manner for some time, being
occasionally low in her spirits, until I think she began to weary Mr.
James by giving way to her low spirits and tempers of that kind; and
things were not so comfortable. Mr. James he began to be restless again.
The more restless he got, the worse she got; and I must say, for myself,
that I had a very difficult time of it indeed between the two. Still
matters were patched up here, and made good there, over and over again;
and altogether lasted, I am sure, for a longer time than anybody could
have expected.'

Recalling her eyes from the distance, she looked at me again now, with
her former air. Mr. Littimer, clearing his throat behind his hand with a
respectable short cough, changed legs, and went on:

'At last, when there had been, upon the whole, a good many words and
reproaches, Mr. James he set off one morning, from the neighbourhood of
Naples, where we had a villa (the young woman being very partial to
the sea), and, under pretence of coming back in a day or so, left it in
charge with me to break it out, that, for the general happiness of all
concerned, he was'--here an interruption of the short cough--'gone. But
Mr. James, I must say, certainly did behave extremely honourable; for
he proposed that the young woman should marry a very respectable person,
who was fully prepared to overlook the past, and who was, at least, as
good as anybody the young woman could have aspired to in a regular way:
her connexions being very common.'

He changed legs again, and wetted his lips. I was convinced that the
scoundrel spoke of himself, and I saw my conviction reflected in Miss
Dartle's face.

'This I also had it in charge to communicate. I was willing to do
anything to relieve Mr. James from his difficulty, and to restore
harmony between himself and an affectionate parent, who has undergone
so much on his account. Therefore I undertook the commission. The
young woman's violence when she came to, after I broke the fact of his
departure, was beyond all expectations. She was quite mad, and had to
be held by force; or, if she couldn't have got to a knife, or got to the
sea, she'd have beaten her head against the marble floor.'

Miss Dartle, leaning back upon the seat, with a light of exultation in
her face, seemed almost to caress the sounds this fellow had uttered.

'But when I came to the second part of what had been entrusted to me,'
said Mr. Littimer, rubbing his hands uneasily, 'which anybody might
have supposed would have been, at all events, appreciated as a kind
intention, then the young woman came out in her true colours. A more
outrageous person I never did see. Her conduct was surprisingly bad. She
had no more gratitude, no more feeling, no more patience, no more reason
in her, than a stock or a stone. If I hadn't been upon my guard, I am
convinced she would have had my blood.'

'I think the better of her for it,' said I, indignantly.

Mr. Littimer bent his head, as much as to say, 'Indeed, sir? But you're
young!' and resumed his narrative.

'It was necessary, in short, for a time, to take away everything nigh
her, that she could do herself, or anybody else, an injury with, and
to shut her up close. Notwithstanding which, she got out in the night;
forced the lattice of a window, that I had nailed up myself; dropped on
a vine that was trailed below; and never has been seen or heard of, to
my knowledge, since.'

'She is dead, perhaps,' said Miss Dartle, with a smile, as if she could
have spurned the body of the ruined girl.

'She may have drowned herself, miss,' returned Mr. Littimer, catching at
an excuse for addressing himself to somebody. 'It's very possible. Or,
she may have had assistance from the boatmen, and the boatmen's wives
and children. Being given to low company, she was very much in the
habit of talking to them on the beach, Miss Dartle, and sitting by their
boats. I have known her do it, when Mr. James has been away, whole days.
Mr. James was far from pleased to find out, once, that she had told the
children she was a boatman's daughter, and that in her own country, long
ago, she had roamed about the beach, like them.'

Oh, Emily! Unhappy beauty! What a picture rose before me of her sitting
on the far-off shore, among the children like herself when she was
innocent, listening to little voices such as might have called her
Mother had she been a poor man's wife; and to the great voice of the
sea, with its eternal 'Never more!'

'When it was clear that nothing could be done, Miss Dartle--'

'Did I tell you not to speak to me?' she said, with stern contempt.

'You spoke to me, miss,' he replied. 'I beg your pardon. But it is my
service to obey.'

'Do your service,' she returned. 'Finish your story, and go!'

'When it was clear,' he said, with infinite respectability and an
obedient bow, 'that she was not to be found, I went to Mr. James, at the
place where it had been agreed that I should write to him, and informed
him of what had occurred. Words passed between us in consequence, and
I felt it due to my character to leave him. I could bear, and I have
borne, a great deal from Mr. James; but he insulted me too far. He hurt
me. Knowing the unfortunate difference between himself and his mother,
and what her anxiety of mind was likely to be, I took the liberty of
coming home to England, and relating--'

'For money which I paid him,' said Miss Dartle to me.

'Just so, ma'am--and relating what I knew. I am not aware,' said Mr.
Littimer, after a moment's reflection, 'that there is anything else.
I am at present out of employment, and should be happy to meet with a
respectable situation.'

Miss Dartle glanced at me, as though she would inquire if there were
anything that I desired to ask. As there was something which had
occurred to my mind, I said in reply:

'I could wish to know from this--creature,' I could not bring myself
to utter any more conciliatory word, 'whether they intercepted a letter
that was written to her from home, or whether he supposes that she
received it.'

He remained calm and silent, with his eyes fixed on the ground, and the
tip of every finger of his right hand delicately poised against the tip
of every finger of his left.

Miss Dartle turned her head disdainfully towards him.

'I beg your pardon, miss,' he said, awakening from his abstraction,
'but, however submissive to you, I have my position, though a servant.
Mr. Copperfield and you, miss, are different people. If Mr. Copperfield
wishes to know anything from me, I take the liberty of reminding Mr.
Copperfield that he can put a question to me. I have a character to
maintain.'

After a momentary struggle with myself, I turned my eyes upon him, and
said, 'You have heard my question. Consider it addressed to yourself, if
you choose. What answer do you make?'

'Sir,' he rejoined, with an occasional separation and reunion of those
delicate tips, 'my answer must be qualified; because, to betray Mr.
James's confidence to his mother, and to betray it to you, are two
different actions. It is not probable, I consider, that Mr. James would
encourage the receipt of letters likely to increase low spirits and
unpleasantness; but further than that, sir, I should wish to avoid
going.'

'Is that all?' inquired Miss Dartle of me.

I indicated that I had nothing more to say. 'Except,' I added, as I
saw him moving off, 'that I understand this fellow's part in the wicked
story, and that, as I shall make it known to the honest man who has been
her father from her childhood, I would recommend him to avoid going too
much into public.'

He had stopped the moment I began, and had listened with his usual
repose of manner.

'Thank you, sir. But you'll excuse me if I say, sir, that there are
neither slaves nor slave-drivers in this country, and that people are
not allowed to take the law into their own hands. If they do, it is
more to their own peril, I believe, than to other people's. Consequently
speaking, I am not at all afraid of going wherever I may wish, sir.'

With that, he made a polite bow; and, with another to Miss Dartle, went
away through the arch in the wall of holly by which he had come. Miss
Dartle and I regarded each other for a little while in silence; her
manner being exactly what it was, when she had produced the man.

'He says besides,' she observed, with a slow curling of her lip, 'that
his master, as he hears, is coasting Spain; and this done, is away
to gratify his seafaring tastes till he is weary. But this is of no
interest to you. Between these two proud persons, mother and son, there
is a wider breach than before, and little hope of its healing, for they
are one at heart, and time makes each more obstinate and imperious.
Neither is this of any interest to you; but it introduces what I wish to
say. This devil whom you make an angel of. I mean this low girl whom he
picked out of the tide-mud,' with her black eyes full upon me, and her
passionate finger up, 'may be alive,--for I believe some common things
are hard to die. If she is, you will desire to have a pearl of such
price found and taken care of. We desire that, too; that he may not
by any chance be made her prey again. So far, we are united in one
interest; and that is why I, who would do her any mischief that so
coarse a wretch is capable of feeling, have sent for you to hear what
you have heard.'

I saw, by the change in her face, that someone was advancing behind me.
It was Mrs. Steerforth, who gave me her hand more coldly than of yore,
and with an augmentation of her former stateliness of manner, but still,
I perceived--and I was touched by it--with an ineffaceable remembrance
of my old love for her son. She was greatly altered. Her fine figure was
far less upright, her handsome face was deeply marked, and her hair was
almost white. But when she sat down on the seat, she was a handsome lady
still; and well I knew the bright eye with its lofty look, that had been
a light in my very dreams at school.

'Is Mr. Copperfield informed of everything, Rosa?'

'Yes.'

'And has he heard Littimer himself?'

'Yes; I have told him why you wished it.' 'You are a good girl. I have
had some slight correspondence with your former friend, sir,' addressing
me, 'but it has not restored his sense of duty or natural obligation.
Therefore I have no other object in this, than what Rosa has mentioned.
If, by the course which may relieve the mind of the decent man you
brought here (for whom I am sorry--I can say no more), my son may be
saved from again falling into the snares of a designing enemy, well!'

She drew herself up, and sat looking straight before her, far away.

'Madam,' I said respectfully, 'I understand. I assure you I am in no
danger of putting any strained construction on your motives. But I must
say, even to you, having known this injured family from childhood,
that if you suppose the girl, so deeply wronged, has not been cruelly
deluded, and would not rather die a hundred deaths than take a cup of
water from your son's hand now, you cherish a terrible mistake.'

'Well, Rosa, well!' said Mrs. Steerforth, as the other was about to
interpose, 'it is no matter. Let it be. You are married, sir, I am
told?'

I answered that I had been some time married.

'And are doing well? I hear little in the quiet life I lead, but I
understand you are beginning to be famous.'

'I have been very fortunate,' I said, 'and find my name connected with
some praise.'

'You have no mother?'--in a softened voice.

'No.'

'It is a pity,' she returned. 'She would have been proud of you. Good
night!'

I took the hand she held out with a dignified, unbending air, and it
was as calm in mine as if her breast had been at peace. Her pride could
still its very pulses, it appeared, and draw the placid veil before
her face, through which she sat looking straight before her on the far
distance.

As I moved away from them along the terrace, I could not help observing
how steadily they both sat gazing on the prospect, and how it thickened
and closed around them. Here and there, some early lamps were seen to
twinkle in the distant city; and in the eastern quarter of the sky
the lurid light still hovered. But, from the greater part of the broad
valley interposed, a mist was rising like a sea, which, mingling with
the darkness, made it seem as if the gathering waters would encompass
them. I have reason to remember this, and think of it with awe; for
before I looked upon those two again, a stormy sea had risen to their
feet.

Reflecting on what had been thus told me, I felt it right that it should
be communicated to Mr. Peggotty. On the following evening I went into
London in quest of him. He was always wandering about from place to
place, with his one object of recovering his niece before him; but was
more in London than elsewhere. Often and often, now, had I seen him in
the dead of night passing along the streets, searching, among the few
who loitered out of doors at those untimely hours, for what he dreaded
to find.

He kept a lodging over the little chandler's shop in Hungerford Market,
which I have had occasion to mention more than once, and from which he
first went forth upon his errand of mercy. Hither I directed my walk. On
making inquiry for him, I learned from the people of the house that he
had not gone out yet, and I should find him in his room upstairs.

He was sitting reading by a window in which he kept a few plants. The
room was very neat and orderly. I saw in a moment that it was always
kept prepared for her reception, and that he never went out but he
thought it possible he might bring her home. He had not heard my tap
at the door, and only raised his eyes when I laid my hand upon his
shoulder.

'Mas'r Davy! Thankee, sir! thankee hearty, for this visit! Sit ye down.
You're kindly welcome, sir!'

'Mr. Peggotty,' said I, taking the chair he handed me, 'don't expect
much! I have heard some news.'

'Of Em'ly!'

He put his hand, in a nervous manner, on his mouth, and turned pale, as
he fixed his eyes on mine.

'It gives no clue to where she is; but she is not with him.'

He sat down, looking intently at me, and listened in profound silence
to all I had to tell. I well remember the sense of dignity, beauty even,
with which the patient gravity of his face impressed me, when, having
gradually removed his eyes from mine, he sat looking downward, leaning
his forehead on his hand. He offered no interruption, but remained
throughout perfectly still. He seemed to pursue her figure through
the narrative, and to let every other shape go by him, as if it were
nothing.

When I had done, he shaded his face, and continued silent. I looked out
of the window for a little while, and occupied myself with the plants.

'How do you fare to feel about it, Mas'r Davy?' he inquired at length.

'I think that she is living,' I replied.

'I doen't know. Maybe the first shock was too rough, and in the wildness
of her art--! That there blue water as she used to speak on. Could she
have thowt o' that so many year, because it was to be her grave!'

He said this, musing, in a low, frightened voice; and walked across the
little room.

'And yet,' he added, 'Mas'r Davy, I have felt so sure as she was
living--I have know'd, awake and sleeping, as it was so trew that I
should find her--I have been so led on by it, and held up by it--that I
doen't believe I can have been deceived. No! Em'ly's alive!'

He put his hand down firmly on the table, and set his sunburnt face into
a resolute expression.

'My niece, Em'ly, is alive, sir!' he said, steadfastly. 'I doen't know
wheer it comes from, or how 'tis, but I am told as she's alive!'

He looked almost like a man inspired, as he said it. I waited for a
few moments, until he could give me his undivided attention; and then
proceeded to explain the precaution, that, it had occurred to me last
night, it would be wise to take.

'Now, my dear friend--'I began.

'Thankee, thankee, kind sir,' he said, grasping my hand in both of his.

'If she should make her way to London, which is likely--for where could
she lose herself so readily as in this vast city; and what would she
wish to do, but lose and hide herself, if she does not go home?--'

'And she won't go home,' he interposed, shaking his head mournfully. 'If
she had left of her own accord, she might; not as It was, sir.'

'If she should come here,' said I, 'I believe there is one person,
here, more likely to discover her than any other in the world. Do
you remember--hear what I say, with fortitude--think of your great
object!--do you remember Martha?'

'Of our town?'

I needed no other answer than his face.

'Do you know that she is in London?'

'I have seen her in the streets,' he answered, with a shiver.

'But you don't know,' said I, 'that Emily was charitable to her, with
Ham's help, long before she fled from home. Nor, that, when we met one
night, and spoke together in the room yonder, over the way, she listened
at the door.'

'Mas'r Davy!' he replied in astonishment. 'That night when it snew so
hard?'

'That night. I have never seen her since. I went back, after parting
from you, to speak to her, but she was gone. I was unwilling to mention
her to you then, and I am now; but she is the person of whom I speak,
and with whom I think we should communicate. Do you understand?'

'Too well, sir,' he replied. We had sunk our voices, almost to a
whisper, and continued to speak in that tone.

'You say you have seen her. Do you think that you could find her? I
could only hope to do so by chance.'

'I think, Mas'r Davy, I know wheer to look.'

'It is dark. Being together, shall we go out now, and try to find her
tonight?'

He assented, and prepared to accompany me. Without appearing to observe
what he was doing, I saw how carefully he adjusted the little room,
put a candle ready and the means of lighting it, arranged the bed, and
finally took out of a drawer one of her dresses (I remember to have
seen her wear it), neatly folded with some other garments, and a bonnet,
which he placed upon a chair. He made no allusion to these clothes,
neither did I. There they had been waiting for her, many and many a
night, no doubt.

'The time was, Mas'r Davy,' he said, as we came downstairs, 'when I
thowt this girl, Martha, a'most like the dirt underneath my Em'ly's
feet. God forgive me, theer's a difference now!'

As we went along, partly to hold him in conversation, and partly to
satisfy myself, I asked him about Ham. He said, almost in the same words
as formerly, that Ham was just the same, 'wearing away his life with
kiender no care nohow for 't; but never murmuring, and liked by all'.

I asked him what he thought Ham's state of mind was, in reference to the
cause of their misfortunes? Whether he believed it was dangerous? What
he supposed, for example, Ham would do, if he and Steerforth ever should
encounter?

'I doen't know, sir,' he replied. 'I have thowt of it oftentimes, but I
can't awize myself of it, no matters.'

I recalled to his remembrance the morning after her departure, when we
were all three on the beach. 'Do you recollect,' said I, 'a certain wild
way in which he looked out to sea, and spoke about "the end of it"?'

'Sure I do!' said he.

'What do you suppose he meant?'

'Mas'r Davy,' he replied, 'I've put the question to myself a mort o'
times, and never found no answer. And theer's one curious thing--that,
though he is so pleasant, I wouldn't fare to feel comfortable to try and
get his mind upon 't. He never said a wured to me as warn't as dootiful
as dootiful could be, and it ain't likely as he'd begin to speak any
other ways now; but it's fur from being fleet water in his mind, where
them thowts lays. It's deep, sir, and I can't see down.'

'You are right,' said I, 'and that has sometimes made me anxious.'

'And me too, Mas'r Davy,' he rejoined. 'Even more so, I do assure you,
than his ventersome ways, though both belongs to the alteration in him.
I doen't know as he'd do violence under any circumstances, but I hope as
them two may be kep asunders.'

We had come, through Temple Bar, into the city. Conversing no more now,
and walking at my side, he yielded himself up to the one aim of his
devoted life, and went on, with that hushed concentration of his
faculties which would have made his figure solitary in a multitude.
We were not far from Blackfriars Bridge, when he turned his head and
pointed to a solitary female figure flitting along the opposite side of
the street. I knew it, readily, to be the figure that we sought.

We crossed the road, and were pressing on towards her, when it occurred
to me that she might be more disposed to feel a woman's interest in the
lost girl, if we spoke to her in a quieter place, aloof from the crowd,
and where we should be less observed. I advised my companion, therefore,
that we should not address her yet, but follow her; consulting in this,
likewise, an indistinct desire I had, to know where she went.

He acquiescing, we followed at a distance: never losing sight of her,
but never caring to come very near, as she frequently looked about.
Once, she stopped to listen to a band of music; and then we stopped too.

She went on a long way. Still we went on. It was evident, from the
manner in which she held her course, that she was going to some fixed
destination; and this, and her keeping in the busy streets, and I
suppose the strange fascination in the secrecy and mystery of so
following anyone, made me adhere to my first purpose. At length she
turned into a dull, dark street, where the noise and crowd were lost;
and I said, 'We may speak to her now'; and, mending our pace, we went
after her.

 Intelligence As David passes by the Steerforths' house one evening, a servant summons him inside to speak to Miss Dartle. She is cruel to David. Miss Dartle summons Littimer, who informs David that Steerforth, having grown tired of Little Em'ly, has her in a villa in Naples. Littimer proposed to her, but she became furious and hysterical, so he locked her up to prevent her from killing herself. Little Em'ly fled the house nonetheless, and no one has heard from her since. Littimer has returned home to report to Mrs. Steerforth and seek new employment after Steerforth was unbearably rude to him. David warns Littimer that he will tell Mr. Peggotty about his part in Little Em'ly seduction and that Littimer should stay out of public places. Littimer is unfazed. David speaks to Mrs. Steerforth. They are polite to each other, and she wishes him well. David goes to Mr. Peggotty, who is still in London looking for Little Em'ly. He relays the information Littimer has given him. David and Mr. Peggotty decide to ask Martha to try to find Little Em'ly, so they go off together in search of Martha. When they find Martha, they follow her until she gets to a less populated area where they feel it is appropriate to speak to her

