David Copperfield by Charles Dickens (good novels to read in english .TXT) 📕

“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 doorstep, 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 awestricken whisper, “to London. She⁠—as had never seen it in her life⁠—alone⁠—without a penny⁠—young⁠—so pretty⁠—come to London. A’most the moment as she lighted heer, all so desolate, she found (as she believed) a friend; a decent woman as spoke to her about the needlework as she had been brought up to do, about finding plenty of it fur her, about a lodging fur the night, and making secret inquiration concerning of me and all at home, tomorrow. When my child,” he said aloud, and with an energy of gratitude that shook him from head to foot, “stood upon the brink of more than I can say or think on⁠—Martha, trew to her promise, saved her.”

I could not repress a cry of joy.

“Mas’r Davy!” said he, gripping my hand in that strong hand of his, “it was you as first made mention of her to me. I thankee, sir! She was arnest. She had know’d of her bitter knowledge wheer to watch and what to do. She had done it. And the Lord was above all! She come, white and hurried, upon Em’ly in her sleep. She says to her, ‘Rise up from worse than death, and come with me!’ Them belonging to the house would have stopped her, but they might as soon have stopped the sea. ‘Stand away from me,’ she says, ‘I am a ghost that calls her from beside her open grave!’ She told Em’ly she had seen me, and know’d I loved her, and forgive her. She wrapped her, hasty, in her clothes. She took her, faint and trembling, on her arm. She heeded no more what they said, than if she had had no ears. She walked among ’em with my child, minding only her; and brought her safe out, in the dead of the night, from that black pit of ruin!

“She attended on Em’ly,” said Mr. Peggotty, who had released my hand, and put his own hand on his heaving chest; “she attended to my Em’ly, lying wearied out, and wandering betwixt whiles, till late next day. Then she went in search of me; then in search of you, Mas’r Davy. She didn’t tell Em’ly what she come out fur, lest her ’art should fail, and she should think of hiding of herself. How the cruel lady know’d of her being theer, I can’t say. Whether him as I have spoke so much of, chanced to see ’em going theer, or whether (which is most like, to my thinking) he had heerd it from the woman, I doen’t greatly ask myself. My niece is found.

“All night long,” said Mr. Peggotty, “we have been together, Em’ly and me. ’Tis little (considering the time) as she has said, in wureds, through them brokenhearted tears; ’tis less as I have seen of her