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

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 whatnot 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 heer 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 heer, some said theer. I travelled heer, 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 a-shining 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