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

for the moment, “from the house wheer she was made a prisoner by that theer spotted snake as Mas’r Davy see⁠—and his story’s trew, and may God confound him!⁠—she took flight in the night. It was a dark night, with a many stars a-shining. She was wild. She ran along the sea beach, believing the old boat was theer; and calling out to us to turn away our faces, for she was a-coming by. She heerd herself a-crying out, like as if it was another person; and cut herself on them sharp-pinted stones and rocks, and felt it no more than if she had been rock herself. Ever so fur she run, and there was fire afore her eyes, and roarings in her ears. Of a sudden⁠—or so she thowt, you unnerstand⁠—the day broke, wet and windy, and she was lying b’low a heap of stone upon the shore, and a woman was a-speaking to her, saying, in the language of that country, what was it as had gone so much amiss?”

He saw everything he related. It passed before him, as he spoke, so vividly, that, in the intensity of his earnestness, he presented what he described to me, with greater distinctness than I can express. I can hardly believe, writing now long afterwards, but that I was actually present in these scenes; they are impressed upon me with such an astonishing air of fidelity.

“As Em’ly’s eyes⁠—which was heavy⁠—see this woman better,” Mr. Peggotty went on, “she know’d as she was one of them as she had often talked to on the beach. Fur, though she had run (as I have said) ever so fur in the night, she had oftentimes wandered long ways, partly afoot, partly in boats and carriages, and know’d all that country, ’long the coast, miles and miles. She hadn’t no children of her own, this woman, being a young wife; but she was a-looking to have one afore long. And may my prayers go up to Heaven that ’twill be a happiness to her, and a comfort, and a honour, all her life! May it love her and be dootiful to her, in her old age; helpful of her at the last; a angel to her heer, and heerafter!”

“Amen!” said my aunt.

“She had been summat timorous and down,” said Mr. Peggotty, “and had sat, at first, a little way off, at her spinning, or such work as it was, when Em’ly talked to the children. But Em’ly had took notice of her, and had gone and spoke to her; and as the young woman was partial to the children herself, they had soon made friends. Sermuchser, that when Em’ly went that way, she always giv Em’ly flowers. This was her as now asked what it was that had gone so much amiss. Em’ly told her, and she⁠—took her home. She did indeed. She took her home,” said Mr. Peggotty, covering his face.

He was more affected by this act of kindness, than I had ever seen him affected by anything since the night she went away. My aunt and I did not attempt to disturb him.

“It was a little cottage, you may suppose,” he said, presently, “but she found space for Em’ly in it⁠—her husband was away at sea⁠—and she kep it secret, and prevailed upon such neighbours as she had (they was not many near) to keep it secret too. Em’ly was took bad with fever, and, what is very strange to me is⁠—maybe ’tis not so strange to scholars⁠—the language of that country went out of her head, and she could only speak her own, that no one unnerstood. She recollects, as if she had dreamed it, that she lay there always a-talking her own tongue, always believing as the old boat was round the next pint in the bay, and begging and imploring of ’em to send theer and tell how she was dying, and bring back a message of forgiveness, if it was on’y a wured. A’most the whole time, she thowt⁠—now, that him as I made mention on just now was lurking for her unnerneath the winder; now that him as had brought her to this was in the room⁠—and cried to the good young woman not to give her up, and know’d, at the same time, that she couldn’t unnerstand, and dreaded that she must be took away. Likewise the fire was afore her eyes, and the roarings in her ears; and theer was no today, nor yesterday, nor yet tomorrow; but everything in her life as ever had been, or as ever could be, and everything as never had been, and as never could be, was a crowding on her all at once, and nothing clear nor welcome, and yet she sang and laughed about it! How long this lasted, I doen’t know; but then theer come a sleep; and in that sleep, from being a many times stronger than her own self, she fell into the weakness of the littlest child.”

Here he stopped, as if for relief from the terrors of his own description. After being silent for a few moments, he pursued his story.

“It was a pleasant arternoon when she awoke; and so quiet, that there warn’t a sound but the rippling of that blue sea without a tide, upon the shore. It was her belief, at first, that she was at home upon a Sunday morning; but the vine leaves as she see at the winder, and the hills beyond, warn’t home, and contradicted of her. Then, come in her friend to watch alongside of her bed; and then she know’d as the old boat warn’t round that next pint in the bay no more, but was fur off; and know’d where she was, and why; and broke out a-crying on that good young woman’s bosom, wheer I hope her baby is a-lying now, a-cheering of her with its pretty eyes!”

He could not speak of this good friend of Emily’s without a flow of tears. It was in vain