第 114 页

leaving here, you seek any refuge in this town in any character but your

true one (which you are welcome to bear, without molestation from me),

the same service shall be done you, if I hear of your retreat. Being

assisted by a gentleman who not long ago aspired to the favour of your

hand, I am sanguine as to that.’

Would he never, never 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 dust-heaps 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.

CHAPTER 51. 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

half-way, 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 summer-house 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 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 to try. He broke down again, endeavouring to bless

her!

‘That done my Em’ly good,’ he resumed, after such emotion as I could

not behold without sharing in; and as to my aunt, she wept with all her

heart; ‘that done Em’ly good, and she begun to mend. But, the language

of that country was quite gone from her, and she was forced to make

signs. So she went on, getting better from day to day, slow, but sure,

and trying to learn the names of common things--names as she seemed

never to have heerd in all her life--till one evening come, when she

was a-setting at her window, looking at a little girl at play upon the

beach. And of a sudden this child held out her hand, and said, what

would be in English, “Fisherman’s daughter, here’s a shell!”--for you

are to unnerstand that they used at first to call her “Pretty lady”, as

the general way in that country is, and that she had taught ‘em to

call her “Fisherman’s daughter” instead. The child says of a sudden,

“Fisherman’s daughter, here’s a shell!” Then Em’ly unnerstands her; and

she answers, bursting out a-crying; and it all comes back!

‘When Em’ly got strong again,’ said Mr. Peggotty, after another short

interval of silence, ‘she cast about to leave that good young creetur,

and get to her own country. The husband was come home, then; and the two

together put her aboard a small trader bound to Leghorn, and from that

to France. She had a little money, but it was less than little as they

would take for all they done. I’m a’most glad on it, though they was

so poor! What they done, is laid up wheer neither moth or rust doth

corrupt, and wheer thieves do not break through nor steal. Mas’r Davy,

it’ll outlast all the treasure in the wureld.

‘Em’ly got to France, and took service to wait on travelling ladies at a

inn in the port. Theer, theer come, one day, that snake. --Let him never

come nigh me. I doen’t know what hurt I might do him!--Soon as she see

him, without him seeing her, all her fear and wildness returned upon

her, and she fled afore the very breath he draw’d. She come to England,

and was set ashore at Dover.

‘I doen’t know,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘for sure, when her ‘art begun to

fail her; but all the way to England she had thowt to come to her dear

home. Soon as she got to England she turned her face tow’rds it. But,

fear of not being forgiv, fear of being pinted at, fear of some of

us being dead along of her, fear of many things, turned her from it,

kiender by force, upon the road: “Uncle, uncle,” she says to me, “the

fear of not being worthy to do what my torn and bleeding breast so

longed to do, was the most fright’ning fear of all! I turned back, when

my ‘art was full of prayers that I might crawl to the old door-step, in

the night, kiss it, lay my wicked face upon it, and theer be found dead

in the morning.”

‘She come,’ said Mr. Peggotty, dropping his voice to an

awe-stricken whisper, ‘to London. She--as had never seen it in her

life--alone--without a penny--young--so pretty--come to London. A’most