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

been away, and would not have had broken, she said, for a hundred pounds. I had my own old mug with David on it, and my own old little knife and fork that wouldn’t cut.

While we were at table, I thought it a favourable occasion to tell Peggotty about Mr. Barkis, who, before I had finished what I had to tell her, began to laugh, and throw her apron over her face.

“Peggotty,” said my mother. “What’s the matter?”

Peggotty only laughed the more, and held her apron tight over her face when my mother tried to pull it away, and sat as if her head were in a bag.

“What are you doing, you stupid creature?” said my mother, laughing.

“Oh, drat the man!” cried Peggotty. “He wants to marry me.”

“It would be a very good match for you; wouldn’t it?” said my mother.

“Oh! I don’t know,” said Peggotty. “Don’t ask me. I wouldn’t have him if he was made of gold. Nor I wouldn’t have anybody.”

“Then, why don’t you tell him so, you ridiculous thing?” said my mother.

“Tell him so,” retorted Peggotty, looking out of her apron. “He has never said a word to me about it. He knows better. If he was to make so bold as say a word to me, I should slap his face.”

Her own was as red as ever I saw it, or any other face, I think; but she only covered it again, for a few moments at a time, when she was taken with a violent fit of laughter; and after two or three of those attacks, went on with her dinner.

I remarked that my mother, though she smiled when Peggotty looked at her, became more serious and thoughtful. I had seen at first that she was changed. Her face was very pretty still, but it looked careworn, and too delicate; and her hand was so thin and white that it seemed to me to be almost transparent. But the change to which I now refer was superadded to this: it was in her manner, which became anxious and fluttered. At last she said, putting out her hand, and laying it affectionately on the hand of her old servant,

“Peggotty, dear, you are not going to be married?”

“Me, ma’am?” returned Peggotty, staring. “Lord bless you, no!”

“Not just yet?” said my mother, tenderly.

“Never!” cried Peggotty.

My mother took her hand, and said:

“Don’t leave me, Peggotty. Stay with me. It will not be for long, perhaps. What should I ever do without you!”

“Me leave you, my precious!” cried Peggotty. “Not for all the world and his wife. Why, what’s put that in your silly little head?”⁠—For Peggotty had been used of old to talk to my mother sometimes like a child.

But my mother made no answer, except to thank her, and Peggotty went running on in her own fashion.

“Me leave you? I think I see myself. Peggotty go away from you? I should like to catch her at it! No, no, no,” said Peggotty, shaking her head, and folding her arms; “not she, my dear. It isn’t that there ain’t some cats that would be well enough pleased if she did, but they shan’t be pleased. They shall be aggravated. I’ll stay with you till I am a cross cranky old woman. And when I’m too deaf, and too lame, and too blind, and too mumbly for want of teeth, to be of any use at all, even to be found fault with, than I shall go to my Davy, and ask him to take me in.”

“And, Peggotty,” says I, “I shall be glad to see you, and I’ll make you as welcome as a queen.”

“Bless your dear heart!” cried Peggotty. “I know you will!” And she kissed me beforehand, in grateful acknowledgement of my hospitality. After that, she covered her head up with her apron again and had another laugh about Mr. Barkis. After that, she took the baby out of its little cradle, and nursed it. After that, she cleared the dinner table; after that, came in with another cap on, and her work-box, and the yard-measure, and the bit of wax-candle, all just the same as ever.

We sat round the fire, and talked delightfully. I told them what a hard master Mr. Creakle was, and they pitied me very much. I told them what a fine fellow Steerforth was, and what a patron of mine, and Peggotty said she would walk a score of miles to see him. I took the little baby in my arms when it was awake, and nursed it lovingly. When it was asleep again, I crept close to my mother’s side according to my old custom, broken now a long time, and sat with my arms embracing her waist, and my little red cheek on her shoulder, and once more felt her beautiful hair drooping over me⁠—like an angel’s wing as I used to think, I recollect⁠—and was very happy indeed.

While I sat thus, looking at the fire, and seeing pictures in the red-hot coals, I almost believed that I had never been away; that Mr. and Miss Murdstone were such pictures, and would vanish when the fire got low; and that there was nothing real in all that I remembered, save my mother, Peggotty, and I.

Peggotty darned away at a stocking as long as she could see, and then sat with it drawn on her left hand like a glove, and her needle in her right, ready to take another stitch whenever there was a blaze. I cannot conceive whose stockings they can have been that Peggotty was always darning, or where such an unfailing supply of stockings in want of darning can have come from. From my earliest infancy she seems to have been always employed in that class of needlework, and never by any chance in any other.

“I wonder,” said Peggotty, who was sometimes seized with a fit of wondering on some most unexpected topic, “what’s become of Davy’s great-aunt?”

“Lor, Peggotty!” observed my mother, rousing herself from a reverie, “what nonsense you