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

complete. She stood, shrinkingly, before him, as if she were afraid to meet his eyes; but her passionate sorrow was quite hushed and mute.

“If you heerd,” said Mr. Peggotty, “owt of what passed between Mas’r Davy and me, th’ night when it snew so hard, you know as I have been⁠—wheer not⁠—fur to seek my dear niece. My dear niece,” he repeated steadily. “Fur she’s more dear to me now, Martha, than she was dear afore.”

She put her hands before her face; but otherwise remained quiet.

“I have heerd her tell,” said Mr. Peggotty, “as you was early left fatherless and motherless, with no friend fur to take, in a rough seafaring-way, their place. Maybe you can guess that if you’d had such a friend, you’d have got into a way of being fond of him in course of time, and that my niece was kiender daughter-like to me.”

As she was silently trembling, he put her shawl carefully about her, taking it up from the ground for that purpose.

“Whereby,” said he, “I know, both as she would go to the wureld’s furdest end with me, if she could once see me again; and that she would fly to the wureld’s furdest end to keep off seeing me. For though she ain’t no call to doubt my love, and doen’t⁠—and doen’t,” he repeated, with a quiet assurance of the truth of what he said, “there’s shame steps in, and keeps betwixt us.”

I read, in every word of his plain impressive way of delivering himself, new evidence of his having thought of this one topic, in every feature it presented.

“According to our reckoning,” he proceeded, “Mas’r Davy’s here, and mine, she is like, one day, to make her own poor solitary course to London. We believe⁠—Mas’r Davy, me, and all of us⁠—that you are as innocent of everything that has befell her, as the unborn child. You’ve spoke of her being pleasant, kind, and gentle to you. Bless her, I knew she was! I knew she always was, to all. You’re thankful to her, and you love her. Help us all you can to find her, and may Heaven reward you!”

She looked at him hastily, and for the first time, as if she were doubtful of what he had said.

“Will you trust me?” she asked, in a low voice of astonishment.

“Full and free!” said Mr. Peggotty.

“To speak to her, if I should ever find her; shelter her, if I have any shelter to divide with her; and then, without her knowledge, come to you, and bring you to her?” she asked hurriedly.

We both replied together, “Yes!”

She lifted up her eyes, and solemnly declared that she would devote herself to this task, fervently and faithfully. That she would never waver in it, never be diverted from it, never relinquish it, while there was any chance of hope. If she were not true to it, might the object she now had in life, which bound her to something devoid of evil, in its passing away from her, leave her more forlorn and more despairing, if that were possible, than she had been upon the river’s brink that night; and then might all help, human and Divine, renounce her evermore!

She did not raise her voice above her breath, or address us, but said this to the night sky; then stood profoundly quiet, looking at the gloomy water.

We judged it expedient, now, to tell her all we knew; which I recounted at length. She listened with great attention, and with a face that often changed, but had the same purpose in all its varying expressions. Her eyes occasionally filled with tears, but those she repressed. It seemed as if her spirit were quite altered, and she could not be too quiet.

She asked, when all was told, where we were to be communicated with, if occasion should arise. Under a dull lamp in the road, I wrote our two addresses on a leaf of my pocketbook, which I tore out and gave to her, and which she put in her poor bosom. I asked her where she lived herself. She said, after a pause, in no place long. It were better not to know.

Mr. Peggotty suggesting to me, in a whisper, what had already occurred to myself, I took out my purse; but I could not prevail upon her to accept any money, nor could I exact any promise from her that she would do so at another time. I represented to her that Mr. Peggotty could not be called, for one in his condition, poor; and that the idea of her engaging in this search, while depending on her own resources, shocked us both. She continued steadfast. In this particular, his influence upon her was equally powerless with mine. She gratefully thanked him but remained inexorable.

“There may be work to be got,” she said. “I’ll try.”

“At least take some assistance,” I returned, “until you have tried.”

“I could not do what I have promised, for money,” she replied. “I could not take it, if I was starving. To give me money would be to take away your trust, to take away the object that you have given me, to take away the only certain thing that saves me from the river.”

“In the name of the great judge,” said I, “before whom you and all of us must stand at His dread time, dismiss that terrible idea! We can all do some good, if we will.”

She trembled, and her lip shook, and her face was paler, as she answered:

“It has been put into your hearts, perhaps, to save a wretched creature for repentance. I am afraid to think so; it seems too bold. If any good should come of me, I might begin to hope; for nothing but harm has ever come of my deeds yet. I am to be trusted, for the first time in a long while, with my miserable life, on account of what you have given me to try for. I know no more, and I can say no more.”

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