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

come? How long was I to bear this? How long could I bear it? “Oh me, oh me!” exclaimed the wretched Emily, in a tone that might have touched the hardest heart, I should have thought; but there was no relenting in Rosa Dartle’s smile. “What, what, shall I do!”

“Do?” returned the other. “Live happy in your own reflections! Consecrate your existence to the recollection of James Steerforth’s tenderness⁠—he would have made you his serving-man’s wife, would he not?⁠—or to feeling grateful to the upright and deserving creature who would have taken you as his gift. Or, if those proud remembrances, and the consciousness of your own virtues, and the honourable position to which they have raised you in the eyes of everything that wears the human shape, will not sustain you, marry that good man, and be happy in his condescension. If this will not do either, die! There are doorways and dustheaps for such deaths, and such despair⁠—find one, and take your flight to Heaven!”

I heard a distant foot upon the stairs. I knew it, I was certain. It was his, thank God!

She moved slowly from before the door when she said this, and passed out of my sight.

“But mark!” she added, slowly and sternly, opening the other door to go away, “I am resolved, for reasons that I have and hatreds that I entertain, to cast you out, unless you withdraw from my reach altogether, or drop your pretty mask. This is what I had to say; and what I say, I mean to do!”

The foot upon the stairs came nearer⁠—nearer⁠—passed her as she went down⁠—rushed into the room!

“Uncle!”

A fearful cry followed the word. I paused a moment, and looking in, saw him supporting her insensible figure in his arms. He gazed for a few seconds in the face; then stooped to kiss it⁠—oh, how tenderly!⁠—and drew a handkerchief before it.

“Mas’r Davy,” he said, in a low tremulous voice, when it was covered, “I thank my Heav’nly Father as my dream’s come true! I thank Him hearty for having guided of me, in His own ways, to my darling!”

With those words he took her up in his arms; and, with the veiled face lying on his bosom, and addressed towards his own, carried her, motionless and unconscious, down the stairs.

LI The Beginning of a Longer Journey

It was yet early in the morning of the following day, when, as I was walking in my garden with my aunt (who took little other exercise now, being so much in attendance on my dear Dora), I was told that Mr. Peggotty desired to speak with me. He came into the garden to meet me halfway, on my going towards the gate; and bared his head, as it was always his custom to do when he saw my aunt, for whom he had a high respect. I had been telling her all that had happened overnight. Without saying a word, she walked up with a cordial face, shook hands with him, and patted him on the arm. It was so expressively done, that she had no need to say a word. Mr. Peggotty understood her quite as well as if she had said a thousand.

“I’ll go in now, Trot,” said my aunt, “and look after Little Blossom, who will be getting up presently.”

“Not along of my being heer, ma’am, I hope?” said Mr. Peggotty. “Unless my wits is gone a bahd’s neezing”⁠—by which Mr. Peggotty meant to say, bird’s-nesting⁠—“this morning, ’tis along of me as you’re a-going to quit us?”

“You have something to say, my good friend,” returned my aunt, “and will do better without me.”

“By your leave, ma’am,” returned Mr. Peggotty, “I should take it kind, pervising you doen’t mind my clicketten, if you’d bide heer.”

“Would you?” said my aunt, with short good-nature. “Then I am sure I will!”

So, she drew her arm through Mr. Peggotty’s, and walked with him to a leafy little summerhouse there was at the bottom of the garden, where she sat down on a bench, and I beside her. There was a seat for Mr. Peggotty too, but he preferred to stand, leaning his hand on the small rustic table. As he stood, looking at his cap for a little while before beginning to speak, I could not help observing what power and force of character his sinewy hand expressed, and what a good and trusty companion it was to his honest brow and iron-grey hair.

“I took my dear child away last night,” Mr. Peggotty began, as he raised his eyes to ours, “to my lodging, wheer I have a long time been expecting of her and preparing fur her. It was hours afore she knowed me right; and when she did, she kneeled down at my feet, and kiender said to me, as if it was her prayers, how it all come to be. You may believe me, when I heerd her voice, as I had heerd at home so playful⁠—and see her humbled, as it might be in the dust our Saviour wrote in with his blessed hand⁠—I felt a wownd go to my ’art, in the midst of all its thankfulness.”

He drew his sleeve across his face, without any pretence of concealing why; and then cleared his voice.

“It warn’t for long as I felt that; for she was found. I had on’y to think as she was found, and it was gone. I doen’t know why I do so much as mention of it now, I’m sure. I didn’t have it in my mind a minute ago, to say a word about myself; but it come up so nat’ral, that I yielded to it afore I was aweer.”

“You are a self-denying soul,” said my aunt, “and will have your reward.”

Mr. Peggotty, with the shadows of the leaves playing athwart his face, made a surprised inclination of the head towards my aunt, as an acknowledgement of her good opinion; then took up the thread he had relinquished.

“When my Em’ly took flight,” he said, in stern wrath