“Indeed!” he answered. “That’s a bad hearing, so soon, Clara.”
“I say it’s very hard I should be made so now,” returned my mother, pouting; “and it is—very hard—isn’t it?”
He drew her to him, whispered in her ear, and kissed her. I knew as well, when I saw my mother’s head lean down upon his shoulder, and her arm touch his neck—I knew as well that he could mould her pliant nature into any form he chose, as I know, now, that he did it.
“Go you below, my love,” said Mr. Murdstone. “David and I will come down, together. My friend,” turning a darkening face on Peggotty, when he had watched my mother out, and dismissed her with a nod and a smile; “do you know your mistress’s name?”
“She has been my mistress a long time, sir,” answered Peggotty, “I ought to know it.”
“That’s true,” he answered. “But I thought I heard you, as I came upstairs, address her by a name that is not hers. She has taken mine, you know. Will you remember that?”
Peggotty, with some uneasy glances at me, curtseyed herself out of the room without replying; seeing, I suppose, that she was expected to go, and had no excuse for remaining. When we two were left alone, he shut the door, and sitting on a chair, and holding me standing before him, looked steadily into my eyes. I felt my own attracted, no less steadily, to his. As I recall our being opposed thus, face to face, I seem again to hear my heart beat fast and high.
“David,” he said, making his lips thin, by pressing them together, “if I have an obstinate horse or dog to deal with, what do you think I do?”
“I don’t know.”
“I beat him.”