David Copperfield, Charles Dickens [books to read for 13 year olds txt] 📗

was thankful to have no need on. I thank him kind, for all he done, I’m sure! “I’ve wrote afore you,” he says to me, “and I shall speak to many as will come that way, and many will know you, fur distant from here, when you’re a-travelling alone.” I told him, best as I was able, what my gratitoode was, and went away through France.’

‘Alone, and on foot?’ said I.

‘Mostly a-foot,’ he rejoined; ‘sometimes in carts along with people going to market; sometimes in empty coaches. Many mile a day a-foot, and often with some poor soldier or another, travelling to see his friends. I couldn’t talk to him,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘nor he to me; but we was company for one another, too, along the dusty roads.’

I should have known that by his friendly tone.

‘When I come to any town,’ he pursued, ‘I found the inn, and waited about the yard till someone turned up (someone mostly did) as know’d English. Then I told how that I was on my way to seek my niece, and they told me what manner of gentlefolks was in the house, and I waited to see any as seemed like her, going in or out. When it warn’t Em’ly, I went on agen. By little and little, when I come to a new village or that, among the poor people, I found they know’d about me. They would set me down at their cottage doors, and give me what-not fur to eat and drink, and show me where to sleep; and many a woman, Mas’r Davy, as has had a daughter of about Em’ly’s age, I’ve found awaiting fur me, at Our Saviour’s Cross outside the village, fur to do me sim’lar kindnesses. Some has had daughters as was dead. And God only knows how good them mothers was to me!’

It was Martha at the door. I saw her haggard, listening face distinctly. My dread was lest he should turn his head, and see her too.

‘They would often put their children - particular their little girls,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘upon my knee; and many a time you might have seen me sitting at their doors, when night was coming in, a’most as if they’d been my Darling’s children. Oh, my Darling!’

Overpowered by sudden grief, he sobbed aloud. I laid my trembling hand upon the hand he put before his face. ‘Thankee, sir,’ he said, ‘doen’t take no notice.’

In a very little while he took his hand away and put it on his breast, and went on with his story. ‘They often walked with me,’ he said, ‘in the morning, maybe a mile or two upon my road; and when we parted, and I said, “I’m very thankful to you! God bless you!” they always seemed to understand, and answered pleasant. At last I come to the sea. It warn’t hard, you may suppose, for a seafaring man like me to work his way over to Italy. When I got theer, I wandered on as I had done afore. The people was just as good to me, and I should have gone from town to town, maybe the country through, but that I got news of her being seen among them Swiss mountains yonder. One as know’d his servant see ‘em there, all three, and told me how they travelled, and where they was. I made fur them mountains, Mas’r Davy, day and night. Ever so fur as I went, ever so fur the mountains seemed to shift away from me. But I come up with ‘em, and I crossed ‘em. When I got nigh the place as I had been told of, I began to think within my own self, “What shall I do when I see her?”’

The listening face, insensible to the inclement night, still drooped at the door, and the hands begged me - prayed me - not to cast it forth.

‘I never doubted her,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘No! Not a bit! On’y let her see my face - on’y let her beer my voice - on’y let my stanning still afore her bring to her thoughts the home she had fled away from, and the child she had been - and if she had growed to be a royal lady, she’d have fell down at my feet! I know’d it well! Many a time in my sleep had I heerd her cry out, “Uncle!” and seen her fall like death afore me. Many a time in my sleep had I raised her up, and whispered to her, “Em’ly, my dear, I am come fur to bring forgiveness, and to take you home!”’

He stopped and shook his head, and went on with a sigh.

‘He was nowt to me now. Em’ly was all. I bought a country dress to put upon her; and I know’d that, once found, she would walk beside me over them stony roads, go where I would, and never, never, leave me more. To put that dress upon her, and to cast off what she wore - to take her on my arm again, and wander towards home - to stop sometimes upon the road, and heal her bruised feet and her worse-bruised heart - was all that I thowt of now. I doen’t believe I should have done so much as look at him. But, Mas’r Davy, it warn’t to be - not yet! I was too late, and they was gone. Wheer, I couldn’t learn. Some said beer, some said theer. I travelled beer, and I travelled theer, but I found no Em’ly, and I travelled home.’

‘How long ago?’ I asked.

‘A matter o’ fower days,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘I sighted the old boat arter dark, and the light ashining in the winder. When I come nigh and looked in through the glass, I see the faithful creetur Missis Gummidge sittin’ by the fire, as we had fixed upon, alone. I called out, “Doen’t be afeerd! It’s Dan’l!” and I went in. I never could have thowt the old boat would have been so strange!’ From some pocket in his breast, he took out, with a very careful hand a small paper bundle containing two or three letters or little packets, which he laid upon the table.

‘This fust one come,’ he said, selecting it from the rest, ‘afore I had been gone a week. A fifty pound Bank note, in a sheet of paper, directed to me, and put underneath the door in the night. She tried to hide her writing, but she couldn’t hide it from Me!’

He folded up the note again, with great patience and care, in exactly the same form, and laid it on one side.

‘This come to Missis Gummidge,’ he said, opening another, ‘two or three months ago.‘After looking at it for some moments, he gave it to me, and added in a low voice, ‘Be so good as read it, sir.’

I read as follows:

 

‘Oh what will you feel when you see this writing, and know it comes from my wicked hand! But try, try - not for my sake, but for uncle’s goodness, try to let your heart soften to me, only for a little little time! Try, pray do, to relent towards a miserable girl, and write down on a bit of paper whether he is well, and what he said about me before you left off ever naming me among yourselves - and whether, of a night, when it is my old time of coming home, you ever see him look as if he thought of one he used to love so dear. Oh, my heart is breaking when I think about it! I am kneeling down to you, begging and praying you not to be as hard with me as I deserve - as I well, well, know I deserve - but to be so gentle and so good, as to write down something of him, and to send it to me. You need not call me Little, you need not call me by the name I have disgraced; but oh, listen to my agony, and have mercy on me so far as to write me some word of uncle, never, never to be seen in this world by my eyes again!

‘Dear, if your heart is hard towards me - justly hard, I know - but, listen, if it is hard, dear, ask him I have wronged the most - him whose wife I was to have been - before you quite decide against my poor poor prayer! If he should be so compassionate as to say that you might write something for me to read - I think he would, oh, I think he would, if you would only ask him, for he always was so brave and so forgiving - tell him then (but not else), that when I hear the wind blowing at night, I feel as if it was passing angrily from seeing him and uncle, and was going up to God against me. Tell him that if I was to die tomorrow (and oh, if I was fit, I would be so glad to die!) I would bless him and uncle with my last words, and pray for his happy home with my last breath!’

 

Some money was enclosed in this letter also. Five pounds. It was untouched like the previous sum, and he refolded it in the same way. Detailed instructions were added relative to the address of a reply, which, although they betrayed the intervention of several hands, and made it difficult to arrive at any very probable conclusion in reference to her place of concealment, made it at least not unlikely that she had written from that spot where she was stated to have been seen.

‘What answer was sent?’ I inquired of Mr. Peggotty.

‘Missis Gummidge,’ he returned, ‘not being a good scholar, sir, Ham kindly drawed it out, and she made a copy on it. They told her I was gone to seek her, and what my parting words was.’

‘Is that another letter in your hand?’ said I.

‘It’s money, sir,’ said Mr. Peggotty, unfolding it a little way. ‘Ten pound, you see. And wrote inside, “From a true friend,” like the fust. But the fust was put underneath the door, and this come by the post, day afore yesterday. I’m a-going to seek her at the post-mark.’

He showed it to me. It was a town on the Upper Rhine. He had found out, at Yarmouth, some foreign dealers who knew that country, and they had drawn him a rude map on paper, which he could very well understand. He laid it between us on the table; and, with his chin resting on one hand, tracked his course upon it with the other.

I asked him how Ham was? He shook his head.

‘He works,’ he said, ‘as bold as a man can. His name’s as good, in all that part, as any man’s is, anywheres in the wureld. Anyone’s hand is ready to help him, you understand, and his is ready to help them. He’s never been heerd fur to complain. But my sister’s belief is (‘twixt ourselves) as it has cut him deep.’

‘Poor fellow, I can believe it!’

‘He ain’t no care, Mas’r Davy,’ said Mr. Peggotty in a solemn whisper - ‘kinder no care no-how for his life. When a man’s wanted for rough sarvice in rough weather, he’s theer. When there’s hard duty to be done with danger in it, he steps for’ard afore all his mates. And yet he’s as gentle as any child. There ain’t a child in Yarmouth that doen’t know him.’

He gathered up the letters thoughtfully, smoothing them with his hand; put them into their little bundle; and placed it tenderly in his breast again. The face was gone from the door. I still