David Copperfield, Charles Dickens [best historical fiction books of all time TXT] 📗

daughter, and her little children, went away to my dear old Peggotty’s.

Here she was, in the tiled kitchen, cooking dinner! The moment I knocked at the door she opened it, and asked me what I pleased to want. I looked at her with a smile, but she gave me no smile in return. I had never ceased to write to her, but it must have been seven years since we had met.

“Is Mr. Barkis at home, ma’am?” I said, feigning to speak roughly to her.

“He’s at home, sir,” returned Peggotty, “but he’s bad abed with the rheumatics.”

“Don’t he go over to Blunderstone now?” I asked.

“When he’s well he do,” she answered.

“Do you ever go there, Mrs. Barkis?”

She looked at me more attentively, and I noticed a quick movement of her hands towards each other.

“Because I want to ask a question about a house there, that they call the⁠—what is it?⁠—the Rookery,” said I.

She took a step backward, and put out her hands in an undecided frightened way, as if to keep me off.

“Peggotty!” I cried to her.

She cried, “My darling boy!” and we both burst into tears, and were locked in one another’s arms.

What extravagances she committed; what laughing and crying over me; what pride she showed, what joy, what sorrow that she whose pride and joy I might have been, could never hold me in a fond embrace; I have not the heart to tell. I was troubled with no misgiving that it was young in me to respond to her emotions. I had never laughed and cried in all my life, I dare say⁠—not even to her⁠—more freely than I did that morning.

“Barkis will be so glad,” said Peggotty, wiping her eyes with her apron, “that it’ll do him more good than pints of liniment. May I go and tell him you are here? Will you come up and see him, my dear?”

Of course I would. But Peggotty could not get out of the room as easily as she meant to, for as often as she got to the door and looked round at me, she came back again to have another laugh and another cry upon my shoulder. At last, to make the matter easier, I went upstairs with her; and having waited outside for a minute, while she said a word of preparation to Mr. Barkis, presented myself before that invalid.

He received me with absolute enthusiasm. He was too rheumatic to be shaken hands with, but he begged me to shake the tassel on the top of his nightcap, which I did most cordially. When I sat down by the side of the bed, he said that it did him a world of good to feel as if he was driving me on the Blunderstone road again. As he lay in bed, face upward, and so covered, with that exception, that he seemed to be nothing but a face⁠—like a conventional cherubim⁠—he looked the queerest object I ever beheld.

“What name was it, as I wrote up in the cart, sir?” said Mr. Barkis, with a slow rheumatic smile.

“Ah! Mr. Barkis, we had some grave talks about that matter, hadn’t we?”

“I was willin’ a long time, sir?” said Mr. Barkis.

“A long time,” said I.

“And I don’t regret it,” said Mr. Barkis. “Do you remember what you told me once, about her making all the apple parsties and doing all the cooking?”

“Yes, very well,” I returned.

“It was as true,” said Mr. Barkis, “as turnips is. It was as true,” said Mr. Barkis, nodding his nightcap, which was his only means of emphasis, “as taxes is. And nothing’s truer than them.”

Mr. Barkis turned his eyes upon me, as if for my assent to this result of his reflections in bed; and I gave it.

“Nothing’s truer than them,” repeated Mr. Barkis; “a man as poor as I am, finds that out in his mind when he’s laid up. I’m a very poor man, sir!”

“I am sorry to hear it, Mr. Barkis.”

“A very poor man, indeed I am,” said Mr. Barkis.

Here his right hand came slowly and feebly from under the bedclothes, and with a purposeless uncertain grasp took hold of a stick which was loosely tied to the side of the bed. After some poking about with this instrument, in the course of which his face assumed a variety of distracted expressions, Mr. Barkis poked it against a box, an end of which had been visible to me all the time. Then his face became composed.

“Old clothes,” said Mr. Barkis.

“Oh!” said I.

“I wish it was money, sir,” said Mr. Barkis.

“I wish it was, indeed,” said I.

“But it ain’t,” said Mr. Barkis, opening both his eyes as wide as he possibly could.

I expressed myself quite sure of that, and Mr. Barkis, turning his eyes more gently to his wife, said:

“She’s the usefullest and best of women, C. P. Barkis. All the praise that anyone can give to C. P. Barkis, she deserves, and more! My dear, you’ll get a dinner today, for company; something good to eat and drink, will you?”

I should have protested against this unnecessary demonstration in my honour, but that I saw Peggotty, on the opposite side of the bed, extremely anxious I should not. So I held my peace.

“I have got a trifle of money somewhere about me, my dear,” said Mr. Barkis, “but I’m a little tired. If you and Mr. David will leave me for a short nap, I’ll try and find it when I wake.”

We left the room, in compliance with this request. When we got outside the door, Peggotty informed me that Mr. Barkis, being now “a little nearer” than he used to be, always resorted to this same device before producing a single coin from his store; and that he endured unheard-of agonies in crawling out of bed alone, and taking it from that unlucky box. In effect, we presently heard him uttering suppressed groans of the most dismal nature, as this magpie proceeding racked him in every joint; but while Peggotty’s eyes were full of compassion for him, she said his generous impulse would do him good, and it was