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

but one sentiment. Among all kinds of people a respect for them in their distress prevailed, which was full of gentleness and delicacy. The seafaring men kept apart, when those two were seen early, walking with slow steps on the beach; and stood in knots, talking compassionately among themselves.

It was on the beach, close down by the sea, that I found them. It would have been easy to perceive that they had not slept all last night, even if Peggotty had failed to tell me of their still sitting just as I left them, when it was broad day. They looked worn; and I thought Mr. Peggotty’s head was bowed in one night more than in all the years I had known him. But they were both as grave and steady as the sea itself, then lying beneath a dark sky, waveless⁠—yet with a heavy roll upon it, as if it breathed in its rest⁠—and touched, on the horizon, with a strip of silvery light from the unseen sun.

“We have had a mort of talk, sir,” said Mr. Peggotty to me, when we had all three walked a little while in silence, “of what we ought and doen’t ought to do. But we see our course now.”

I happened to glance at Ham, then looking out to sea upon the distant light, and a frightful thought came into my mind⁠—not that his face was angry, for it was not; I recall nothing but an expression of stern determination in it⁠—that if ever he encountered Steerforth, he would kill him.

“My dooty here, sir,” said Mr. Peggotty, “is done. I’m a-going to seek my⁠—” he stopped, and went on in a firmer voice: “I’m a-going to seek her. That’s my dooty evermore.”

He shook his head when I asked him where he would seek her, and inquired if I were going to London tomorrow? I told him I had not gone today, fearing to lose the chance of being of any service to him; but that I was ready to go when he would.

“I’ll go along with you, sir,” he rejoined, “if you’re agreeable, tomorrow.”

We walked again, for a while, in silence.

“Ham,” he presently resumed, “he’ll hold to his present work, and go and live along with my sister. The old boat yonder⁠—”

“Will you desert the old boat, Mr. Peggotty?” I gently interposed.

“My station, Mas’r Davy,” he returned, “ain’t there no longer; and if ever a boat foundered, since there was darkness on the face of the deep, that one’s gone down. But no, sir, no; I doen’t mean as it should be deserted. Fur from that.”

We walked again for a while, as before, until he explained:

“My wishes is, sir, as it shall look, day and night, winter and summer, as it has always looked, since she fust know’d it. If ever she should come a wandering back, I wouldn’t have the old place seem to cast her off, you understand, but seem to tempt her to draw nigher to ’t, and to peep in, maybe, like a ghost, out of the wind and rain, through the old winder, at the old seat by the fire. Then, maybe, Mas’r Davy, seein’ none but Missis Gummidge there, she might take heart to creep in, trembling; and might come to be laid down in her old bed, and rest her weary head where it was once so gay.”

I could not speak to him in reply, though I tried.

“Every night,” said Mr. Peggotty, “as reg’lar as the night comes, the candle must be stood in its old pane of glass, that if ever she should see it, it may seem to say ‘Come back, my child, come back!’ If ever there’s a knock, Ham (partic’ler a soft knock), arter dark, at your aunt’s door, doen’t you go nigh it. Let it be her⁠—not you⁠—that sees my fallen child!”

He walked a little in front of us, and kept before us for some minutes. During this interval, I glanced at Ham again, and observing the same expression on his face, and his eyes still directed to the distant light, I touched his arm.

Twice I called him by his name, in the tone in which I might have tried to rouse a sleeper, before he heeded me. When I at last inquired on what his thoughts were so bent, he replied:

“On what’s afore me, Mas’r Davy; and over yon.”

“On the life before you, do you mean?” He had pointed confusedly out to sea.

“Ay, Mas’r Davy. I doen’t rightly know how ’tis, but from over yon there seemed to me to come⁠—the end of it like,” looking at me as if he were waking, but with the same determined face.

“What end?” I asked, possessed by my former fear.

“I doen’t know,” he said, thoughtfully; “I was calling to mind that the beginning of it all did take place here⁠—and then the end come. But it’s gone! Mas’r Davy,” he added; answering, as I think, my look; “you han’t no call to be afeerd of me: but I’m kiender muddled; I don’t fare to feel no matters,”⁠—which was as much as to say that he was not himself, and quite confounded.

Mr. Peggotty stopping for us to join him: we did so, and said no more. The remembrance of this, in connection with my former thought, however, haunted me at intervals, even until the inexorable end came at its appointed time.

We insensibly approached the old boat, and entered. Mrs. Gummidge, no longer moping in her especial corner, was busy preparing breakfast. She took Mr. Peggotty’s hat, and placed his seat for him, and spoke so comfortably and softly, that I hardly knew her.

“Dan’l, my good man,” said she, “you must eat and drink, and keep up your strength, for without it you’ll do nowt. Try, that’s a dear soul! An if I disturb you with my clicketten,” she meant her chattering, “tell me so, Dan’l, and I won’t.”

When she had served us all, she withdrew to the window, where she sedulously employed herself in repairing some shirts and other clothes belonging to