DAVID
COPPERFIELD
PART 31
CHAPTER 31. A GREATER LOSS
It was
not difficult for me, on Peggotty's solicitation, to resolve to stay where I
was, until after the remains of the poor carrier should have made their last
journey to Blunderstone. She had long ago bought, out of her own savings, a
little piece of ground in our old churchyard near the grave of 'her sweet girl',
as she always called my mother; and there they were to rest.
In
keeping Peggotty company, and doing all I could for her (little enough at the
utmost), I was as grateful, I rejoice to think, as even now I could wish myself
to have been. But I am afraid I had a supreme satisfaction, of a personal and
professional nature, in taking charge of Mr. Barkis's will, and expounding its
contents.
I may
claim the merit of having originated the suggestion that the will should be
looked for in the box. After some search, it was found in the box, at the
bottom of a horse's nose-bag; wherein (besides hay) there was discovered an old
gold watch, with chain and seals, which Mr. Barkis had worn on his wedding-day,
and which had never been seen before or since; a silver tobacco-stopper, in the
form of a leg; an imitation lemon, full of minute cups and saucers, which I
have some idea Mr. Barkis must have purchased to present to me when I was a
child, and afterwards found himself unable to part with; eighty-seven guineas
and a half, in guineas and half-guineas; two hundred and ten pounds, in
perfectly clean Bank notes; certain receipts for Bank of England stock; an old
horseshoe, a bad shilling, a piece of camphor, and an oyster-shell. From the
circumstance of the latter article having been much polished, and displaying
prismatic colours on the inside, I conclude that Mr. Barkis had some general
ideas about pearls, which never resolved themselves into anything definite.
For years
and years, Mr. Barkis had carried this box, on all his journeys, every day.
That it might the better escape notice, he had invented a fiction that it
belonged to 'Mr. Blackboy', and was 'to be left with Barkis till called for'; a
fable he had elaborately written on the lid, in characters now scarcely
legible.
He had
hoarded, all these years, I found, to good purpose. His property in money
amounted to nearly three thousand pounds. Of this he bequeathed the interest of
one thousand to Mr. Peggotty for his life; on his decease, the principal to be equally
divided between Peggotty, little Emily, and me, or the survivor or survivors of
us, share and share alike. All the rest he died possessed of, he bequeathed to
Peggotty; whom he left residuary legatee, and sole executrix of that his last
will and testament.
I felt
myself quite a proctor when I read this document aloud with all possible
ceremony, and set forth its provisions, any number of times, to those whom they
concerned. I began to think there was more in the Commons than I had supposed.
I examined the will with the deepest attention, pronounced it perfectly formal
in all respects, made a pencil-mark or so in the margin, and thought it rather
extraordinary that I knew so much.
In this
abstruse pursuit; in making an account for Peggotty, of all the property into
which she had come; in arranging all the affairs in an orderly manner; and in
being her referee and adviser on every point, to our joint delight; I passed
the week before the funeral. I did not see little Emily in that interval, but
they told me she was to be quietly married in a fortnight.
I did not
attend the funeral in character, if I may venture to say so. I mean I was not
dressed up in a black coat and a streamer, to frighten the birds; but I walked
over to Blunderstone early in the morning, and was in the churchyard when it
came, attended only by Peggotty and her brother. The mad gentleman looked on,
out of my little window; Mr. Chillip's baby wagged its heavy head, and rolled
its goggle eyes, at the clergyman, over its nurse's shoulder; Mr. Omer breathed
short in the background; no one else was there; and it was very quiet. We
walked about the churchyard for an hour, after all was over; and pulled some
young leaves from the tree above my mother's grave.
A dread
falls on me here. A cloud is lowering on the distant town, towards which I
retraced my solitary steps. I fear to approach it. I cannot bear to think of
what did come, upon that memorable night; of what must come again, if I go on.
It is no
worse, because I write of it. It would be no better, if I stopped my most
unwilling hand. It is done. Nothing can undo it; nothing can make it otherwise
than as it was.
My old
nurse was to go to London with me next day, on the business of the will. Little
Emily was passing that day at Mr. Omer's. We were all to meet in the old
boathouse that night. Ham would bring Emily at the usual hour. I would walk
back at my leisure. The brother and sister would return as they had come, and
be expecting us, when the day closed in, at the fireside.
I parted
from them at the wicket-gate, where visionary Strap had rested with Roderick
Random's knapsack in the days of yore; and, instead of going straight back,
walked a little distance on the road to Lowestoft. Then I turned, and walked
back towards Yarmouth. I stayed to dine at a decent alehouse, some mile or two
from the Ferry I have mentioned before; and thus the day wore away, and it was
evening when I reached it. Rain was falling heavily by that time, and it was a
wild night; but there was a moon behind the clouds, and it was not dark.
I was
soon within sight of Mr. Peggotty's house, and of the light within it shining
through the window. A little floundering across the sand, which was heavy,
brought me to the door, and I went in.
It looked
very comfortable indeed. Mr. Peggotty had smoked his evening pipe and there
were preparations for some supper by and by. The fire was bright, the ashes
were thrown up, the locker was ready for little Emily in her old place. In her
own old place sat Peggotty, once more, looking (but for her dress) as if she
had never left it. She had fallen back, already, on the society of the work-box
with St. Paul's upon the lid, the yard-measure in the cottage, and the bit of
wax-candle; and there they all were, just as if they had never been disturbed.
Mrs. Gummidge appeared to be fretting a little, in her old corner; and
consequently looked quite natural, too.
'You're
first of the lot, Mas'r Davy!' said Mr. Peggotty with a happy face. 'Doen't
keep in that coat, sir, if it's wet.'
'Thank
you, Mr. Peggotty,' said I, giving him my outer coat to hang up. 'It's quite
dry.'
'So
'tis!' said Mr. Peggotty, feeling my shoulders. 'As a chip! Sit ye down, sir.
It ain't o' no use saying welcome to you, but you're welcome, kind and hearty.'
'Thank
you, Mr. Peggotty, I am sure of that. Well, Peggotty!' said I, giving her a
kiss. 'And how are you, old woman?'
'Ha, ha!'
laughed Mr. Peggotty, sitting down beside us, and rubbing his hands in his
sense of relief from recent trouble, and in the genuine heartiness of his
nature; 'there's not a woman in the wureld, sir—as I tell her—that need to feel
more easy in her mind than her! She done her dooty by the departed, and the
departed know'd it; and the departed done what was right by her, as she done
what was right by the departed;—and—and—and it's all right!'
Mrs.
Gummidge groaned.
'Cheer
up, my pritty mawther!' said Mr. Peggotty. (But he shook his head aside at us,
evidently sensible of the tendency of the late occurrences to recall the memory
of the old one.) 'Doen't be down! Cheer up, for your own self, on'y a little
bit, and see if a good deal more doen't come nat'ral!'
'Not to
me, Dan'l,' returned Mrs. Gummidge. 'Nothink's nat'ral to me but to be lone and
lorn.'
'No, no,'
said Mr. Peggotty, soothing her sorrows.
'Yes,
yes, Dan'l!' said Mrs. Gummidge. 'I ain't a person to live with them as has had
money left. Thinks go too contrary with me. I had better be a riddance.'
'Why, how
should I ever spend it without you?' said Mr. Peggotty, with an air of serious
remonstrance. 'What are you a talking on? Doen't I want you more now, than ever
I did?'
'I know'd
I was never wanted before!' cried Mrs. Gummidge, with a pitiable whimper, 'and
now I'm told so! How could I expect to be wanted, being so lone and lorn, and
so contrary!'
Mr.
Peggotty seemed very much shocked at himself for having made a speech capable
of this unfeeling construction, but was prevented from replying, by Peggotty's
pulling his sleeve, and shaking her head. After looking at Mrs. Gummidge for
some moments, in sore distress of mind, he glanced at the Dutch clock, rose,
snuffed the candle, and put it in the window.
'Theer!'said
Mr. Peggotty, cheerily.'Theer we are, Missis Gummidge!' Mrs. Gummidge slightly
groaned. 'Lighted up, accordin' to custom! You're a wonderin' what that's fur,
sir! Well, it's fur our little Em'ly. You see, the path ain't over light or
cheerful arter dark; and when I'm here at the hour as she's a comin' home, I
puts the light in the winder. That, you see,' said Mr. Peggotty, bending over
me with great glee, 'meets two objects. She says, says Em'ly, "Theer's
home!" she says. And likewise, says Em'ly, "My uncle's theer!"
Fur if I ain't theer, I never have no light showed.'
'You're a
baby!' said Peggotty; very fond of him for it, if she thought so.
'Well,'
returned Mr. Peggotty, standing with his legs pretty wide apart, and rubbing
his hands up and down them in his comfortable satisfaction, as he looked
alternately at us and at the fire. 'I doen't know but I am. Not, you see, to
look at.'
'Not
azackly,' observed Peggotty.
'No,'
laughed Mr. Peggotty, 'not to look at, but to—to consider on, you know. I
doen't care, bless you! Now I tell you. When I go a looking and looking about
that theer pritty house of our Em'ly's, I'm—I'm Gormed,' said Mr. Peggotty,
with sudden emphasis—'theer! I can't say more—if I doen't feel as if the
littlest things was her, a'most. I takes 'em up and I put 'em down, and I
touches of 'em as delicate as if they was our Em'ly. So 'tis with her little
bonnets and that. I couldn't see one on 'em rough used a purpose—not fur the
whole wureld. There's a babby fur you, in the form of a great Sea Porkypine!'
said Mr. Peggotty, relieving his earnestness with a roar of laughter.
Peggotty
and I both laughed, but not so loud.
'It's my
opinion, you see,' said Mr. Peggotty, with a delighted face, after some further
rubbing of his legs, 'as this is along of my havin' played with her so much,
and made believe as we was Turks, and French, and sharks, and every wariety of
forinners—bless you, yes; and lions and whales, and I doen't know what
all!—when she warn't no higher than my knee. I've got into the way on it, you
know. Why, this here candle, now!' said Mr. Peggotty, gleefully holding out his
hand towards it, 'I know wery well that arter she's married and gone, I shall
put that candle theer, just the same as now. I know wery well that when I'm
here o' nights (and where else should I live, bless your arts, whatever fortun'
I come into!) and she ain't here or I ain't theer, I shall put the candle in
the winder, and sit afore the fire, pretending I'm expecting of her, like I'm a
doing now. THERE'S a babby for you,' said Mr. Peggotty, with another roar, 'in
the form of a Sea Porkypine! Why, at the present minute, when I see the candle
sparkle up, I says to myself, "She's a looking at it! Em'ly's a
coming!" THERE'S a babby for you, in the form of a Sea Porkypine! Right
for all that,' said Mr. Peggotty, stopping in his roar, and smiting his hands
together; 'fur here she is!'
It was
only Ham. The night should have turned more wet since I came in, for he had a
large sou'wester hat on, slouched over his face.
'Wheer's
Em'ly?' said Mr. Peggotty.
Ham made
a motion with his head, as if she were outside. Mr. Peggotty took the light
from the window, trimmed it, put it on the table, and was busily stirring the
fire, when Ham, who had not moved, said:
'Mas'r
Davy, will you come out a minute, and see what Em'ly and me has got to show
you?'
We went
out. As I passed him at the door, I saw, to my astonishment and fright, that he
was deadly pale. He pushed me hastily into the open air, and closed the door
upon us. Only upon us two.
'Ham!
what's the matter?'
'Mas'r
Davy!—' Oh, for his broken heart, how dreadfully he wept!
I was
paralysed by the sight of such grief. I don't know what I thought, or what I
dreaded. I could only look at him.
'Ham!
Poor good fellow! For Heaven's sake, tell me what's the matter!'
'My love,
Mas'r Davy—the pride and hope of my art—her that I'd have died for, and would
die for now—she's gone!'
'Gone!'
'Em'ly's
run away! Oh, Mas'r Davy, think HOW she's run away, when I pray my good and
gracious God to kill her (her that is so dear above all things) sooner than let
her come to ruin and disgrace!'
The face
he turned up to the troubled sky, the quivering of his clasped hands, the agony
of his figure, remain associated with the lonely waste, in my remembrance, to
this hour. It is always night there, and he is the only object in the scene.
'You're a
scholar,' he said, hurriedly, 'and know what's right and best. What am I to
say, indoors? How am I ever to break it to him, Mas'r Davy?'
I saw the
door move, and instinctively tried to hold the latch on the outside, to gain a
moment's time. It was too late. Mr. Peggotty thrust forth his face; and never
could I forget the change that came upon it when he saw us, if I were to live
five hundred years.
I
remember a great wail and cry, and the women hanging about him, and we all
standing in the room; I with a paper in my hand, which Ham had given me; Mr.
Peggotty, with his vest torn open, his hair wild, his face and lips quite
white, and blood trickling down his bosom (it had sprung from his mouth, I
think), looking fixedly at me.
'Read it,
sir,' he said, in a low shivering voice. 'Slow, please. I doen't know as I can
understand.'
In the
midst of the silence of death, I read thus, from a blotted letter:
'"When
you, who love me so much better than I ever have deserved, even when my mind
was innocent, see this, I shall be far away."'
'I shall
be fur away,' he repeated slowly. 'Stop! Em'ly fur away. Well!'
'"When
I leave my dear home—my dear home—oh, my dear home!—in the morning,"'
the
letter bore date on the previous night:
'"—it
will be never to come back, unless he brings me back a lady. This will be found
at night, many hours after, instead of me. Oh, if you knew how my heart is
torn. If even you, that I have wronged so much, that never can forgive me,
could only know what I suffer! I am too wicked to write about myself! Oh, take
comfort in thinking that I am so bad. Oh, for mercy's sake, tell uncle that I
never loved him half so dear as now. Oh, don't remember how affectionate and
kind you have all been to me—don't remember we were ever to be married—but try
to think as if I died when I was little, and was buried somewhere. Pray Heaven
that I am going away from, have compassion on my uncle! Tell him that I never
loved him half so dear. Be his comfort. Love some good girl that will be what I
was once to uncle, and be true to you, and worthy of you, and know no shame but
me. God bless all! I'll pray for all, often, on my knees. If he don't bring me back
a lady, and I don't pray for my own self, I'll pray for all. My parting love to
uncle. My last tears, and my last thanks, for uncle!"'
That was
all.
He stood,
long after I had ceased to read, still looking at me. At length I ventured to
take his hand, and to entreat him, as well as I could, to endeavour to get some
command of himself. He replied, 'I thankee, sir, I thankee!' without moving.
Ham spoke
to him. Mr. Peggotty was so far sensible of HIS affliction, that he wrung his
hand; but, otherwise, he remained in the same state, and no one dared to
disturb him.
Slowly,
at last, he moved his eyes from my face, as if he were waking from a vision,
and cast them round the room. Then he said, in a low voice:
'Who's
the man? I want to know his name.'
Ham
glanced at me, and suddenly I felt a shock that struck me back.
'There's
a man suspected,' said Mr. Peggotty. 'Who is it?'
'Mas'r
Davy!' implored Ham. 'Go out a bit, and let me tell him what I must. You doen't
ought to hear it, sir.'
I felt
the shock again. I sank down in a chair, and tried to utter some reply; but my
tongue was fettered, and my sight was weak.
'I want
to know his name!' I heard said once more.
'For some
time past,' Ham faltered, 'there's been a servant about here, at odd times.
There's been a gen'lm'n too. Both of 'em belonged to one another.'
Mr.
Peggotty stood fixed as before, but now looking at him.
'The
servant,' pursued Ham, 'was seen along with—our poor girl—last night. He's been
in hiding about here, this week or over. He was thought to have gone, but he
was hiding. Doen't stay, Mas'r Davy, doen't!'
I felt
Peggotty's arm round my neck, but I could not have moved if the house had been
about to fall upon me.
'A
strange chay and hosses was outside town, this morning, on the Norwich road,
a'most afore the day broke,' Ham went on. 'The servant went to it, and come
from it, and went to it again. When he went to it again, Em'ly was nigh him.
The t'other was inside. He's the man.'
'For the
Lord's love,' said Mr. Peggotty, falling back, and putting out his hand, as if
to keep off what he dreaded. 'Doen't tell me his name's Steerforth!'
'Mas'r
Davy,' exclaimed Ham, in a broken voice, 'it ain't no fault of yourn—and I am
far from laying of it to you—but his name is Steerforth, and he's a damned
villain!'
Mr.
Peggotty uttered no cry, and shed no tear, and moved no more, until he seemed
to wake again, all at once, and pulled down his rough coat from its peg in a
corner.
'Bear a
hand with this! I'm struck of a heap, and can't do it,' he said, impatiently.
'Bear a hand and help me. Well!' when somebody had done so. 'Now give me that
theer hat!'
Ham asked
him whither he was going.
'I'm a
going to seek my niece. I'm a going to seek my Em'ly. I'm a going, first, to
stave in that theer boat, and sink it where I would have drownded him, as I'm a
living soul, if I had had one thought of what was in him! As he sat afore me,'
he said, wildly, holding out his clenched right hand, 'as he sat afore me, face
to face, strike me down dead, but I'd have drownded him, and thought it
right!—I'm a going to seek my niece.'
'Where?'
cried Ham, interposing himself before the door.
'Anywhere!
I'm a going to seek my niece through the wureld. I'm a going to find my poor
niece in her shame, and bring her back. No one stop me! I tell you I'm a going
to seek my niece!'
'No, no!'
cried Mrs. Gummidge, coming between them, in a fit of crying. 'No, no, Dan'l,
not as you are now. Seek her in a little while, my lone lorn Dan'l, and that'll
be but right! but not as you are now. Sit ye down, and give me your forgiveness
for having ever been a worrit to you, Dan'l—what have my contraries ever been
to this!—and let us speak a word about them times when she was first an orphan,
and when Ham was too, and when I was a poor widder woman, and you took me in.
It'll soften your poor heart, Dan'l,' laying her head upon his shoulder, 'and
you'll bear your sorrow better; for you know the promise, Dan'l, "As you
have done it unto one of the least of these, you have done it unto
me",—and that can never fail under this roof, that's been our shelter for
so many, many year!'
He was
quite passive now; and when I heard him crying, the impulse that had been upon
me to go down upon my knees, and ask their pardon for the desolation I had
caused, and curse Steer—forth, yielded to a better feeling, My overcharged
heart found the same relief, and I cried too.
To be continued
