第 10 页

The reader now understands, as well as I do, what I was when I came to

that point of my youthful history to which I am now coming again.

One morning when I went into the parlour with my books, I found my

mother looking anxious, Miss Murdstone looking firm, and Mr. Murdstone

binding something round the bottom of a cane--a lithe and limber cane,

which he left off binding when I came in, and poised and switched in the

air.

‘I tell you, Clara,’ said Mr. Murdstone, ‘I have been often flogged

myself.’

‘To be sure; of course,’ said Miss Murdstone.

‘Certainly, my dear Jane,’ faltered my mother, meekly. ‘But--but do you

think it did Edward good?’

‘Do you think it did Edward harm, Clara?’ asked Mr. Murdstone, gravely.

‘That’s the point,’ said his sister.

To this my mother returned, ‘Certainly, my dear Jane,’ and said no more.

I felt apprehensive that I was personally interested in this dialogue,

and sought Mr. Murdstone’s eye as it lighted on mine.

‘Now, David,’ he said--and I saw that cast again as he said it--‘you

must be far more careful today than usual.’ He gave the cane another

poise, and another switch; and having finished his preparation of it,

laid it down beside him, with an impressive look, and took up his book.

This was a good freshener to my presence of mind, as a beginning. I felt

the words of my lessons slipping off, not one by one, or line by line,

but by the entire page; I tried to lay hold of them; but they seemed,

if I may so express it, to have put skates on, and to skim away from me

with a smoothness there was no checking.

We began badly, and went on worse. I had come in with an idea of

distinguishing myself rather, conceiving that I was very well prepared;

but it turned out to be quite a mistake. Book after book was added to

the heap of failures, Miss Murdstone being firmly watchful of us all the

time. And when we came at last to the five thousand cheeses (canes he

made it that day, I remember), my mother burst out crying.

‘Clara!’ said Miss Murdstone, in her warning voice.

‘I am not quite well, my dear Jane, I think,’ said my mother.

I saw him wink, solemnly, at his sister, as he rose and said, taking up

the cane:

‘Why, Jane, we can hardly expect Clara to bear, with perfect firmness,

the worry and torment that David has occasioned her today. That would be

stoical. Clara is greatly strengthened and improved, but we can hardly

expect so much from her. David, you and I will go upstairs, boy.’

As he took me out at the door, my mother ran towards us. Miss Murdstone

said, ‘Clara! are you a perfect fool?’ and interfered. I saw my mother

stop her ears then, and I heard her crying.

He walked me up to my room slowly and gravely--I am certain he had a

delight in that formal parade of executing justice--and when we got

there, suddenly twisted my head under his arm.

‘Mr. Murdstone! Sir!’ I cried to him. ‘Don’t! Pray don’t beat me! I have

tried to learn, sir, but I can’t learn while you and Miss Murdstone are

by. I can’t indeed!’

‘Can’t you, indeed, David?’ he said. ‘We’ll try that.’

He had my head as in a vice, but I twined round him somehow, and stopped

him for a moment, entreating him not to beat me. It was only a moment

that I stopped him, for he cut me heavily an instant afterwards, and in

the same instant I caught the hand with which he held me in my mouth,

between my teeth, and bit it through. It sets my teeth on edge to think

of it.

He beat me then, as if he would have beaten me to death. Above all the

noise we made, I heard them running up the stairs, and crying out--I

heard my mother crying out--and Peggotty. Then he was gone; and the

door was locked outside; and I was lying, fevered and hot, and torn, and

sore, and raging in my puny way, upon the floor.

How well I recollect, when I became quiet, what an unnatural stillness

seemed to reign through the whole house! How well I remember, when my

smart and passion began to cool, how wicked I began to feel!

I sat listening for a long while, but there was not a sound. I crawled

up from the floor, and saw my face in the glass, so swollen, red, and

ugly that it almost frightened me. My stripes were sore and stiff, and

made me cry afresh, when I moved; but they were nothing to the guilt I

felt. It lay heavier on my breast than if I had been a most atrocious

criminal, I dare say.

It had begun to grow dark, and I had shut the window (I had been lying,

for the most part, with my head upon the sill, by turns crying, dozing,

and looking listlessly out), when the key was turned, and Miss Murdstone

came in with some bread and meat, and milk. These she put down upon the

table without a word, glaring at me the while with exemplary firmness,

and then retired, locking the door after her.

Long after it was dark I sat there, wondering whether anybody else would

come. When this appeared improbable for that night, I undressed, and

went to bed; and, there, I began to wonder fearfully what would be done

to me. Whether it was a criminal act that I had committed? Whether I

should be taken into custody, and sent to prison? Whether I was at all

in danger of being hanged?

I never shall forget the waking, next morning; the being cheerful and

fresh for the first moment, and then the being weighed down by the stale

and dismal oppression of remembrance. Miss Murdstone reappeared before

I was out of bed; told me, in so many words, that I was free to walk in

the garden for half an hour and no longer; and retired, leaving the door

open, that I might avail myself of that permission.

I did so, and did so every morning of my imprisonment, which lasted five

days. If I could have seen my mother alone, I should have gone down on

my knees to her and besought her forgiveness; but I saw no one, Miss

Murdstone excepted, during the whole time--except at evening prayers in

the parlour; to which I was escorted by Miss Murdstone after everybody

else was placed; where I was stationed, a young outlaw, all alone by

myself near the door; and whence I was solemnly conducted by my jailer,

before any one arose from the devotional posture. I only observed that

my mother was as far off from me as she could be, and kept her face

another way so that I never saw it; and that Mr. Murdstone’s hand was

bound up in a large linen wrapper.

The length of those five days I can convey no idea of to any one. They

occupy the place of years in my remembrance. The way in which I listened

to all the incidents of the house that made themselves audible to me;

the ringing of bells, the opening and shutting of doors, the murmuring

of voices, the footsteps on the stairs; to any laughing, whistling, or

singing, outside, which seemed more dismal than anything else to me in

my solitude and disgrace--the uncertain pace of the hours, especially

at night, when I would wake thinking it was morning, and find that the

family were not yet gone to bed, and that all the length of night had

yet to come--the depressed dreams and nightmares I had--the return of

day, noon, afternoon, evening, when the boys played in the churchyard,

and I watched them from a distance within the room, being ashamed to

show myself at the window lest they should know I was a prisoner--the

strange sensation of never hearing myself speak--the fleeting intervals

of something like cheerfulness, which came with eating and drinking,

and went away with it--the setting in of rain one evening, with a fresh

smell, and its coming down faster and faster between me and the church,

until it and gathering night seemed to quench me in gloom, and fear, and

remorse--all this appears to have gone round and round for years instead

of days, it is so vividly and strongly stamped on my remembrance. On the

last night of my restraint, I was awakened by hearing my own name spoken

in a whisper. I started up in bed, and putting out my arms in the dark,

said:

‘Is that you, Peggotty?’

There was no immediate answer, but presently I heard my name again, in a

tone so very mysterious and awful, that I think I should have gone into

a fit, if it had not occurred to me that it must have come through the

keyhole.

I groped my way to the door, and putting my own lips to the keyhole,

whispered: ‘Is that you, Peggotty dear?’

‘Yes, my own precious Davy,’ she replied. ‘Be as soft as a mouse, or the

Cat’ll hear us.’

I understood this to mean Miss Murdstone, and was sensible of the

urgency of the case; her room being close by.

‘How’s mama, dear Peggotty? Is she very angry with me?’

I could hear Peggotty crying softly on her side of the keyhole, as I was

doing on mine, before she answered. ‘No. Not very.’

‘What is going to be done with me, Peggotty dear? Do you know?’

‘School. Near London,’ was Peggotty’s answer. I was obliged to get her

to repeat it, for she spoke it the first time quite down my throat,

in consequence of my having forgotten to take my mouth away from the

keyhole and put my ear there; and though her words tickled me a good

deal, I didn’t hear them.

‘When, Peggotty?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Is that the reason why Miss Murdstone took the clothes out of my

drawers?’ which she had done, though I have forgotten to mention it.

‘Yes,’ said Peggotty. ‘Box.’

‘Shan’t I see mama?’

‘Yes,’ said Peggotty. ‘Morning.’

Then Peggotty fitted her mouth close to the keyhole, and delivered these

words through it with as much feeling and earnestness as a keyhole

has ever been the medium of communicating, I will venture to assert:

shooting in each broken little sentence in a convulsive little burst of

its own.

‘Davy, dear. If I ain’t been azackly as intimate with you. Lately, as I

used to be. It ain’t because I don’t love you. Just as well and more, my

pretty poppet. It’s because I thought it better for you. And for someone

else besides. Davy, my darling, are you listening? Can you hear?’

‘Ye-ye-ye-yes, Peggotty!’ I sobbed.

‘My own!’ said Peggotty, with infinite compassion. ‘What I want to say,

is. That you must never forget me. For I’ll never forget you. And I’ll

take as much care of your mama, Davy. As ever I took of you. And I won’t

leave her. The day may come when she’ll be glad to lay her poor head.

On her stupid, cross old Peggotty’s arm again. And I’ll write to you,

my dear. Though I ain’t no scholar. And I’ll--I’ll--’ Peggotty fell to

kissing the keyhole, as she couldn’t kiss me.

‘Thank you, dear Peggotty!’ said I. ‘Oh, thank you! Thank you! Will you

promise me one thing, Peggotty? Will you write and tell Mr. Peggotty and

little Em’ly, and Mrs. Gummidge and Ham, that I am not so bad as they

might suppose, and that I sent ‘em all my love--especially to little

Em’ly? Will you, if you please, Peggotty?’

The kind soul promised, and we both of us kissed the keyhole with the

greatest affection--I patted it with my hand, I recollect, as if it had

been her honest face--and parted. From that night there grew up in my

breast a feeling for Peggotty which I cannot very well define. She did

not replace my mother; no one could do that; but she came into a vacancy

in my heart, which closed upon her, and I felt towards her something

I have never felt for any other human being. It was a sort of comical

affection, too; and yet if she had died, I cannot think what I should

have done, or how I should have acted out the tragedy it would have been

to me.

In the morning Miss Murdstone appeared as usual, and told me I was going

to school; which was not altogether such news to me as she supposed. She

also informed me that when I was dressed, I was to come downstairs into

the parlour, and have my breakfast. There, I found my mother, very pale

and with red eyes: into whose arms I ran, and begged her pardon from my

suffering soul.

‘Oh, Davy!’ she said. ‘That you could hurt anyone I love! Try to be

better, pray to be better! I forgive you; but I am so grieved, Davy,

that you should have such bad passions in your heart.’

They had persuaded her that I was a wicked fellow, and she was more

sorry for that than for my going away. I felt it sorely. I tried to eat

my parting breakfast, but my tears dropped upon my bread-and-butter,

and trickled into my tea. I saw my mother look at me sometimes, and then

glance at the watchful Miss Murdstone, and than look down, or look away.

‘Master Copperfield’s box there!’ said Miss Murdstone, when wheels were

heard at the gate.

I looked for Peggotty, but it was not she; neither she nor Mr. Murdstone

appeared. My former acquaintance, the carrier, was at the door. The box

was taken out to his cart, and lifted in.

‘Clara!’ said Miss Murdstone, in her warning note.

‘Ready, my dear Jane,’ returned my mother. ‘Good-bye, Davy. You are

going for your own good. Good-bye, my child. You will come home in the

holidays, and be a better boy.’

‘Clara!’ Miss Murdstone repeated.

‘Certainly, my dear Jane,’ replied my mother, who was holding me. ‘I

forgive you, my dear boy. God bless you!’

‘Clara!’ Miss Murdstone repeated.

Miss Murdstone was good enough to take me out to the cart, and to say on

the way that she hoped I would repent, before I came to a bad end; and

then I got into the cart, and the lazy horse walked off with it.

CHAPTER 5. I AM SENT AWAY FROM HOME

We might have gone about half a mile, and my pocket-handkerchief was

quite wet through, when the carrier stopped short. Looking out to

ascertain for what, I saw, to My amazement, Peggotty burst from a hedge

and climb into the cart. She took me in both her arms, and squeezed me

to her stays until the pressure on my nose was extremely painful, though

I never thought of that till afterwards when I found it very tender. Not

a single word did Peggotty speak. Releasing one of her arms, she put

it down in her pocket to the elbow, and brought out some paper bags of

cakes which she crammed into my pockets, and a purse which she put into

my hand, but not one word did she say. After another and a final squeeze

with both arms, she got down from the cart and ran away; and, my belief

is, and has always been, without a solitary button on her gown. I

picked up one, of several that were rolling about, and treasured it as a

keepsake for a long time.