CHAPTER 2. I OBSERVE

The first objects that assume a distinct presence before me, as I look

far back, into the blank of my infancy, are my mother with her pretty

hair and youthful shape, and Peggotty with no shape at all, and eyes so

dark that they seemed to darken their whole neighbourhood in her face,

and cheeks and arms so hard and red that I wondered the birds didn’t

peck her in preference to apples.

I believe I can remember these two at a little distance apart, dwarfed

to my sight by stooping down or kneeling on the floor, and I going

unsteadily from the one to the other. I have an impression on my mind

which I cannot distinguish from actual remembrance, of the touch of

Peggotty’s forefinger as she used to hold it out to me, and of its being

roughened by needlework, like a pocket nutmeg-grater.

This may be fancy, though I think the memory of most of us can go

farther back into such times than many of us suppose; just as I believe

the power of observation in numbers of very young children to be quite

wonderful for its closeness and accuracy. Indeed, I think that most

grown men who are remarkable in this respect, may with greater propriety

be said not to have lost the faculty, than to have acquired it; the

rather, as I generally observe such men to retain a certain freshness,

and gentleness, and capacity of being pleased, which are also an

inheritance they have preserved from their childhood.

I might have a misgiving that I am ‘meandering’ in stopping to say this,

but that it brings me to remark that I build these conclusions, in part

upon my own experience of myself; and if it should appear from

anything I may set down in this narrative that I was a child of close

observation, or that as a man I have a strong memory of my childhood, I

undoubtedly lay claim to both of these characteristics.

Looking back, as I was saying, into the blank of my infancy, the first

objects I can remember as standing out by themselves from a confusion of

things, are my mother and Peggotty. What else do I remember? Let me see.

There comes out of the cloud, our house--not new to me, but quite

familiar, in its earliest remembrance. On the ground-floor is Peggotty’s

kitchen, opening into a back yard; with a pigeon-house on a pole, in

the centre, without any pigeons in it; a great dog-kennel in a corner,

without any dog; and a quantity of fowls that look terribly tall to me,

walking about, in a menacing and ferocious manner. There is one cock who

gets upon a post to crow, and seems to take particular notice of me as

I look at him through the kitchen window, who makes me shiver, he is so

fierce. Of the geese outside the side-gate who come waddling after

me with their long necks stretched out when I go that way, I dream at

night: as a man environed by wild beasts might dream of lions.

Here is a long passage--what an enormous perspective I make of

it!--leading from Peggotty’s kitchen to the front door. A dark

store-room opens out of it, and that is a place to be run past at

night; for I don’t know what may be among those tubs and jars and old

tea-chests, when there is nobody in there with a dimly-burning light,

letting a mouldy air come out of the door, in which there is the smell

of soap, pickles, pepper, candles, and coffee, all at one whiff. Then

there are the two parlours: the parlour in which we sit of an evening,

my mother and I and Peggotty--for Peggotty is quite our companion, when

her work is done and we are alone--and the best parlour where we sit

on a Sunday; grandly, but not so comfortably. There is something of a

doleful air about that room to me, for Peggotty has told me--I don’t

know when, but apparently ages ago--about my father’s funeral, and the

company having their black cloaks put on. One Sunday night my mother

reads to Peggotty and me in there, how Lazarus was raised up from the

dead. And I am so frightened that they are afterwards obliged to take me

out of bed, and show me the quiet churchyard out of the bedroom window,

with the dead all lying in their graves at rest, below the solemn moon.

There is nothing half so green that I know anywhere, as the grass of

that churchyard; nothing half so shady as its trees; nothing half so

quiet as its tombstones. The sheep are feeding there, when I kneel up,

early in the morning, in my little bed in a closet within my mother’s

room, to look out at it; and I see the red light shining on the

sun-dial, and think within myself, ‘Is the sun-dial glad, I wonder, that

it can tell the time again?’

Here is our pew in the church. What a high-backed pew! With a window

near it, out of which our house can be seen, and IS seen many times

during the morning’s service, by Peggotty, who likes to make herself

as sure as she can that it’s not being robbed, or is not in flames. But

though Peggotty’s eye wanders, she is much offended if mine does,

and frowns to me, as I stand upon the seat, that I am to look at the

clergyman. But I can’t always look at him--I know him without that white

thing on, and I am afraid of his wondering why I stare so, and perhaps

stopping the service to inquire--and what am I to do? It’s a dreadful

thing to gape, but I must do something. I look at my mother, but she

pretends not to see me. I look at a boy in the aisle, and he makes faces

at me. I look at the sunlight coming in at the open door through

the porch, and there I see a stray sheep--I don’t mean a sinner, but

mutton--half making up his mind to come into the church. I feel that

if I looked at him any longer, I might be tempted to say something out

loud; and what would become of me then! I look up at the monumental

tablets on the wall, and try to think of Mr. Bodgers late of this

parish, and what the feelings of Mrs. Bodgers must have been, when

affliction sore, long time Mr. Bodgers bore, and physicians were in

vain. I wonder whether they called in Mr. Chillip, and he was in vain;

and if so, how he likes to be reminded of it once a week. I look from

Mr. Chillip, in his Sunday neckcloth, to the pulpit; and think what a

good place it would be to play in, and what a castle it would make, with

another boy coming up the stairs to attack it, and having the velvet

cushion with the tassels thrown down on his head. In time my eyes

gradually shut up; and, from seeming to hear the clergyman singing a

drowsy song in the heat, I hear nothing, until I fall off the seat with

a crash, and am taken out, more dead than alive, by Peggotty.

And now I see the outside of our house, with the latticed

bedroom-windows standing open to let in the sweet-smelling air, and the

ragged old rooks’-nests still dangling in the elm-trees at the bottom

of the front garden. Now I am in the garden at the back, beyond the

yard where the empty pigeon-house and dog-kennel are--a very preserve

of butterflies, as I remember it, with a high fence, and a gate and

padlock; where the fruit clusters on the trees, riper and richer than

fruit has ever been since, in any other garden, and where my

mother gathers some in a basket, while I stand by, bolting furtive

gooseberries, and trying to look unmoved. A great wind rises, and the

summer is gone in a moment. We are playing in the winter twilight,

dancing about the parlour. When my mother is out of breath and rests

herself in an elbow-chair, I watch her winding her bright curls round

her fingers, and straitening her waist, and nobody knows better than I

do that she likes to look so well, and is proud of being so pretty.

That is among my very earliest impressions. That, and a sense that we

were both a little afraid of Peggotty, and submitted ourselves in most

things to her direction, were among the first opinions--if they may be

so called--that I ever derived from what I saw.

Peggotty and I were sitting one night by the parlour fire, alone. I

had been reading to Peggotty about crocodiles. I must have read very

perspicuously, or the poor soul must have been deeply interested, for I

remember she had a cloudy impression, after I had done, that they were

a sort of vegetable. I was tired of reading, and dead sleepy; but

having leave, as a high treat, to sit up until my mother came home from

spending the evening at a neighbour’s, I would rather have died upon

my post (of course) than have gone to bed. I had reached that stage of

sleepiness when Peggotty seemed to swell and grow immensely large.

I propped my eyelids open with my two forefingers, and looked

perseveringly at her as she sat at work; at the little bit of wax-candle

she kept for her thread--how old it looked, being so wrinkled in

all directions!--at the little house with a thatched roof, where the

yard-measure lived; at her work-box with a sliding lid, with a view of

St. Paul’s Cathedral (with a pink dome) painted on the top; at the brass

thimble on her finger; at herself, whom I thought lovely. I felt so

sleepy, that I knew if I lost sight of anything for a moment, I was

gone.

‘Peggotty,’ says I, suddenly, ‘were you ever married?’

‘Lord, Master Davy,’ replied Peggotty. ‘What’s put marriage in your

head?’

She answered with such a start, that it quite awoke me. And then she

stopped in her work, and looked at me, with her needle drawn out to its

thread’s length.

‘But WERE you ever married, Peggotty?’ says I. ‘You are a very handsome

woman, an’t you?’

I thought her in a different style from my mother, certainly; but of

another school of beauty, I considered her a perfect example. There

was a red velvet footstool in the best parlour, on which my mother

had painted a nosegay. The ground-work of that stool, and Peggotty’s

complexion appeared to me to be one and the same thing. The stool was

smooth, and Peggotty was rough, but that made no difference.

‘Me handsome, Davy!’ said Peggotty. ‘Lawk, no, my dear! But what put

marriage in your head?’

‘I don’t know!--You mustn’t marry more than one person at a time, may

you, Peggotty?’

‘Certainly not,’ says Peggotty, with the promptest decision.

‘But if you marry a person, and the person dies, why then you may marry

another person, mayn’t you, Peggotty?’

‘YOU MAY,’ says Peggotty, ‘if you choose, my dear. That’s a matter of

opinion.’

‘But what is your opinion, Peggotty?’ said I.

I asked her, and looked curiously at her, because she looked so

curiously at me.

‘My opinion is,’ said Peggotty, taking her eyes from me, after a little

indecision and going on with her work, ‘that I never was married myself,

Master Davy, and that I don’t expect to be. That’s all I know about the

subject.’

‘You an’t cross, I suppose, Peggotty, are you?’ said I, after sitting

quiet for a minute.

I really thought she was, she had been so short with me; but I was quite

mistaken: for she laid aside her work (which was a stocking of her own),

and opening her arms wide, took my curly head within them, and gave it

a good squeeze. I know it was a good squeeze, because, being very plump,

whenever she made any little exertion after she was dressed, some of the

buttons on the back of her gown flew off. And I recollect two bursting

to the opposite side of the parlour, while she was hugging me.

‘Now let me hear some more about the Crorkindills,’ said Peggotty, who

was not quite right in the name yet, ‘for I an’t heard half enough.’

I couldn’t quite understand why Peggotty looked so queer, or why she

was so ready to go back to the crocodiles. However, we returned to those

monsters, with fresh wakefulness on my part, and we left their eggs in

the sand for the sun to hatch; and we ran away from them, and baffled

them by constantly turning, which they were unable to do quickly, on

account of their unwieldy make; and we went into the water after them,

as natives, and put sharp pieces of timber down their throats; and in

short we ran the whole crocodile gauntlet. I did, at least; but I had

my doubts of Peggotty, who was thoughtfully sticking her needle into

various parts of her face and arms, all the time.

We had exhausted the crocodiles, and begun with the alligators, when

the garden-bell rang. We went out to the door; and there was my mother,

looking unusually pretty, I thought, and with her a gentleman with

beautiful black hair and whiskers, who had walked home with us from

church last Sunday.

As my mother stooped down on the threshold to take me in her arms and

kiss me, the gentleman said I was a more highly privileged little fellow

than a monarch--or something like that; for my later understanding

comes, I am sensible, to my aid here.

‘What does that mean?’ I asked him, over her shoulder.

He patted me on the head; but somehow, I didn’t like him or his deep

voice, and I was jealous that his hand should touch my mother’s in

touching me--which it did. I put it away, as well as I could.

‘Oh, Davy!’ remonstrated my mother.

‘Dear boy!’ said the gentleman. ‘I cannot wonder at his devotion!’

I never saw such a beautiful colour on my mother’s face before. She

gently chid me for being rude; and, keeping me close to her shawl,

turned to thank the gentleman for taking so much trouble as to bring her

home. She put out her hand to him as she spoke, and, as he met it with

his own, she glanced, I thought, at me.

‘Let us say “good night”, my fine boy,’ said the gentleman, when he had

bent his head--I saw him!--over my mother’s little glove.

‘Good night!’ said I.

‘Come! Let us be the best friends in the world!’ said the gentleman,

laughing. ‘Shake hands!’

My right hand was in my mother’s left, so I gave him the other.

‘Why, that’s the Wrong hand, Davy!’ laughed the gentleman.

My mother drew my right hand forward, but I was resolved, for my former

reason, not to give it him, and I did not. I gave him the other, and he

shook it heartily, and said I was a brave fellow, and went away.

At this minute I see him turn round in the garden, and give us a last

look with his ill-omened black eyes, before the door was shut.

Peggotty, who had not said a word or moved a finger, secured the

fastenings instantly, and we all went into the parlour. My mother,

contrary to her usual habit, instead of coming to the elbow-chair by the

fire, remained at the other end of the room, and sat singing to herself.

--‘Hope you have had a pleasant evening, ma’am,’ said Peggotty, standing

as stiff as a barrel in the centre of the room, with a candlestick in

her hand.

‘Much obliged to you, Peggotty,’ returned my mother, in a cheerful

voice, ‘I have had a VERY pleasant evening.’

‘A stranger or so makes an agreeable change,’ suggested Peggotty.

‘A very agreeable change, indeed,’ returned my mother.

Peggotty continuing to stand motionless in the middle of the room, and

my mother resuming her singing, I fell asleep, though I was not so sound

asleep but that I could hear voices, without hearing what they said.

When I half awoke from this uncomfortable doze, I found Peggotty and my

mother both in tears, and both talking.

‘Not such a one as this, Mr. Copperfield wouldn’t have liked,’ said

Peggotty. ‘That I say, and that I swear!’

‘Good Heavens!’ cried my mother, ‘you’ll drive me mad! Was ever any

poor girl so ill-used by her servants as I am! Why do I do myself

the injustice of calling myself a girl? Have I never been married,

Peggotty?’

‘God knows you have, ma’am,’ returned Peggotty. ‘Then, how can you

dare,’ said my mother--‘you know I don’t mean how can you dare,

Peggotty, but how can you have the heart--to make me so uncomfortable

and say such bitter things to me, when you are well aware that I

haven’t, out of this place, a single friend to turn to?’

‘The more’s the reason,’ returned Peggotty, ‘for saying that it won’t

do. No! That it won’t do. No! No price could make it do. No!’--I thought

Peggotty would have thrown the candlestick away, she was so emphatic

with it.

‘How can you be so aggravating,’ said my mother, shedding more tears

than before, ‘as to talk in such an unjust manner! How can you go on as

if it was all settled and arranged, Peggotty, when I tell you over

and over again, you cruel thing, that beyond the commonest civilities

nothing has passed! You talk of admiration. What am I to do? If people

are so silly as to indulge the sentiment, is it my fault? What am I to

do, I ask you? Would you wish me to shave my head and black my face, or

disfigure myself with a burn, or a scald, or something of that sort? I

dare say you would, Peggotty. I dare say you’d quite enjoy it.’

Peggotty seemed to take this aspersion very much to heart, I thought.

‘And my dear boy,’ cried my mother, coming to the elbow-chair in which

I was, and caressing me, ‘my own little Davy! Is it to be hinted to me

that I am wanting in affection for my precious treasure, the dearest

little fellow that ever was!’

‘Nobody never went and hinted no such a thing,’ said Peggotty.

‘You did, Peggotty!’ returned my mother. ‘You know you did. What else

was it possible to infer from what you said, you unkind creature,

when you know as well as I do, that on his account only last quarter I

wouldn’t buy myself a new parasol, though that old green one is frayed

the whole way up, and the fringe is perfectly mangy? You know it is,

Peggotty. You can’t deny it.’ Then, turning affectionately to me, with

her cheek against mine, ‘Am I a naughty mama to you, Davy? Am I a nasty,

cruel, selfish, bad mama? Say I am, my child; say “yes”, dear boy, and

Peggotty will love you; and Peggotty’s love is a great deal better than

mine, Davy. I don’t love you at all, do I?’

At this, we all fell a-crying together. I think I was the loudest of

the party, but I am sure we were all sincere about it. I was quite

heart-broken myself, and am afraid that in the first transports of

wounded tenderness I called Peggotty a ‘Beast’. That honest creature was

in deep affliction, I remember, and must have become quite buttonless

on the occasion; for a little volley of those explosives went off,

when, after having made it up with my mother, she kneeled down by the

elbow-chair, and made it up with me.

We went to bed greatly dejected. My sobs kept waking me, for a long

time; and when one very strong sob quite hoisted me up in bed, I found

my mother sitting on the coverlet, and leaning over me. I fell asleep in

her arms, after that, and slept soundly.

Whether it was the following Sunday when I saw the gentleman again,

or whether there was any greater lapse of time before he reappeared,

I cannot recall. I don’t profess to be clear about dates. But there he

was, in church, and he walked home with us afterwards. He came in, too,

to look at a famous geranium we had, in the parlour-window. It did not

appear to me that he took much notice of it, but before he went he asked

my mother to give him a bit of the blossom. She begged him to choose it

for himself, but he refused to do that--I could not understand why--so

she plucked it for him, and gave it into his hand. He said he would

never, never part with it any more; and I thought he must be quite a

fool not to know that it would fall to pieces in a day or two.

Peggotty began to be less with us, of an evening, than she had always

been. My mother deferred to her very much--more than usual, it occurred

to me--and we were all three excellent friends; still we were different

from what we used to be, and were not so comfortable among ourselves.

Sometimes I fancied that Peggotty perhaps objected to my mother’s

wearing all the pretty dresses she had in her drawers, or to her

going so often to visit at that neighbour’s; but I couldn’t, to my

satisfaction, make out how it was.

Gradually, I became used to seeing the gentleman with the black

whiskers. I liked him no better than at first, and had the same uneasy

jealousy of him; but if I had any reason for it beyond a child’s

instinctive dislike, and a general idea that Peggotty and I could make

much of my mother without any help, it certainly was not THE reason that

I might have found if I had been older. No such thing came into my mind,

or near it. I could observe, in little pieces, as it were; but as to

making a net of a number of these pieces, and catching anybody in it,

that was, as yet, beyond me.

One autumn morning I was with my mother in the front garden, when Mr.

Murdstone--I knew him by that name now--came by, on horseback. He reined

up his horse to salute my mother, and said he was going to Lowestoft to

see some friends who were there with a yacht, and merrily proposed to

take me on the saddle before him if I would like the ride.

The air was so clear and pleasant, and the horse seemed to like the

idea of the ride so much himself, as he stood snorting and pawing at the

garden-gate, that I had a great desire to go. So I was sent upstairs

to Peggotty to be made spruce; and in the meantime Mr. Murdstone

dismounted, and, with his horse’s bridle drawn over his arm, walked

slowly up and down on the outer side of the sweetbriar fence, while my

mother walked slowly up and down on the inner to keep him company. I

recollect Peggotty and I peeping out at them from my little window; I

recollect how closely they seemed to be examining the sweetbriar between

them, as they strolled along; and how, from being in a perfectly angelic

temper, Peggotty turned cross in a moment, and brushed my hair the wrong

way, excessively hard.

Mr. Murdstone and I were soon off, and trotting along on the green turf

by the side of the road. He held me quite easily with one arm, and I

don’t think I was restless usually; but I could not make up my mind to

sit in front of him without turning my head sometimes, and looking up in

his face. He had that kind of shallow black eye--I want a better word to

express an eye that has no depth in it to be looked into--which, when

it is abstracted, seems from some peculiarity of light to be disfigured,

for a moment at a time, by a cast. Several times when I glanced at him,

I observed that appearance with a sort of awe, and wondered what he

was thinking about so closely. His hair and whiskers were blacker and

thicker, looked at so near, than even I had given them credit for being.

A squareness about the lower part of his face, and the dotted indication

of the strong black beard he shaved close every day, reminded me of

the wax-work that had travelled into our neighbourhood some half-a-year

before. This, his regular eyebrows, and the rich white, and black, and

brown, of his complexion--confound his complexion, and his memory!--made

me think him, in spite of my misgivings, a very handsome man. I have no

doubt that my poor dear mother thought him so too.

We went to an hotel by the sea, where two gentlemen were smoking cigars

in a room by themselves. Each of them was lying on at least four chairs,

and had a large rough jacket on. In a corner was a heap of coats and

boat-cloaks, and a flag, all bundled up together.

They both rolled on to their feet in an untidy sort of manner, when we

came in, and said, ‘Halloa, Murdstone! We thought you were dead!’

‘Not yet,’ said Mr. Murdstone.

‘And who’s this shaver?’ said one of the gentlemen, taking hold of me.

‘That’s Davy,’ returned Mr. Murdstone.

‘Davy who?’ said the gentleman. ‘Jones?’

‘Copperfield,’ said Mr. Murdstone.

‘What! Bewitching Mrs. Copperfield’s encumbrance?’ cried the gentleman.

‘The pretty little widow?’

‘Quinion,’ said Mr. Murdstone, ‘take care, if you please. Somebody’s

sharp.’

‘Who is?’ asked the gentleman, laughing. I looked up, quickly; being

curious to know.

‘Only Brooks of Sheffield,’ said Mr. Murdstone.

I was quite relieved to find that it was only Brooks of Sheffield; for,

at first, I really thought it was I.

There seemed to be something very comical in the reputation of Mr.

Brooks of Sheffield, for both the gentlemen laughed heartily when he

was mentioned, and Mr. Murdstone was a good deal amused also. After some

laughing, the gentleman whom he had called Quinion, said:

‘And what is the opinion of Brooks of Sheffield, in reference to the

projected business?’

‘Why, I don’t know that Brooks understands much about it at present,’

replied Mr. Murdstone; ‘but he is not generally favourable, I believe.’

There was more laughter at this, and Mr. Quinion said he would ring the

bell for some sherry in which to drink to Brooks. This he did; and when

the wine came, he made me have a little, with a biscuit, and, before

I drank it, stand up and say, ‘Confusion to Brooks of Sheffield!’ The

toast was received with great applause, and such hearty laughter that

it made me laugh too; at which they laughed the more. In short, we quite

enjoyed ourselves.

We walked about on the cliff after that, and sat on the grass, and

looked at things through a telescope--I could make out nothing myself

when it was put to my eye, but I pretended I could--and then we came

back to the hotel to an early dinner. All the time we were out, the two

gentlemen smoked incessantly--which, I thought, if I might judge from

the smell of their rough coats, they must have been doing, ever since

the coats had first come home from the tailor’s. I must not forget that

we went on board the yacht, where they all three descended into the

cabin, and were busy with some papers. I saw them quite hard at work,

when I looked down through the open skylight. They left me, during this

time, with a very nice man with a very large head of red hair and a very

small shiny hat upon it, who had got a cross-barred shirt or waistcoat

on, with ‘Skylark’ in capital letters across the chest. I thought it was

his name; and that as he lived on board ship and hadn’t a street door

to put his name on, he put it there instead; but when I called him Mr.

Skylark, he said it meant the vessel.

I observed all day that Mr. Murdstone was graver and steadier than the

two gentlemen. They were very gay and careless. They joked freely with

one another, but seldom with him. It appeared to me that he was

more clever and cold than they were, and that they regarded him with

something of my own feeling. I remarked that, once or twice when Mr.

Quinion was talking, he looked at Mr. Murdstone sideways, as if to make

sure of his not being displeased; and that once when Mr. Passnidge (the

other gentleman) was in high spirits, he trod upon his foot, and gave

him a secret caution with his eyes, to observe Mr. Murdstone, who was

sitting stern and silent. Nor do I recollect that Mr. Murdstone laughed

at all that day, except at the Sheffield joke--and that, by the by, was

his own.

We went home early in the evening. It was a very fine evening, and my

mother and he had another stroll by the sweetbriar, while I was sent in

to get my tea. When he was gone, my mother asked me all about the day I

had had, and what they had said and done. I mentioned what they had said

about her, and she laughed, and told me they were impudent fellows who

talked nonsense--but I knew it pleased her. I knew it quite as well as

I know it now. I took the opportunity of asking if she was at all

acquainted with Mr. Brooks of Sheffield, but she answered No, only she

supposed he must be a manufacturer in the knife and fork way.

Can I say of her face--altered as I have reason to remember it, perished

as I know it is--that it is gone, when here it comes before me at this

instant, as distinct as any face that I may choose to look on in a

crowded street? Can I say of her innocent and girlish beauty, that it

faded, and was no more, when its breath falls on my cheek now, as it

fell that night? Can I say she ever changed, when my remembrance brings

her back to life, thus only; and, truer to its loving youth than I have

been, or man ever is, still holds fast what it cherished then?

I write of her just as she was when I had gone to bed after this talk,

and she came to bid me good night. She kneeled down playfully by the

side of the bed, and laying her chin upon her hands, and laughing, said:

‘What was it they said, Davy? Tell me again. I can’t believe it.’

‘“Bewitching--”’ I began.

My mother put her hands upon my lips to stop me.

‘It was never bewitching,’ she said, laughing. ‘It never could have been

bewitching, Davy. Now I know it wasn’t!’

‘Yes, it was. “Bewitching Mrs. Copperfield”,’ I repeated stoutly. ‘And,

“pretty.”’

‘No, no, it was never pretty. Not pretty,’ interposed my mother, laying

her fingers on my lips again.

‘Yes it was. “Pretty little widow.”’

‘What foolish, impudent creatures!’ cried my mother, laughing and

covering her face. ‘What ridiculous men! An’t they? Davy dear--’

‘Well, Ma.’

‘Don’t tell Peggotty; she might be angry with them. I am dreadfully

angry with them myself; but I would rather Peggotty didn’t know.’

I promised, of course; and we kissed one another over and over again,

and I soon fell fast asleep.

It seems to me, at this distance of time, as if it were the next day

when Peggotty broached the striking and adventurous proposition I am

about to mention; but it was probably about two months afterwards.

We were sitting as before, one evening (when my mother was out as

before), in company with the stocking and the yard-measure, and the bit

of wax, and the box with St. Paul’s on the lid, and the crocodile book,

when Peggotty, after looking at me several times, and opening her mouth

as if she were going to speak, without doing it--which I thought was

merely gaping, or I should have been rather alarmed--said coaxingly:

‘Master Davy, how should you like to go along with me and spend a

fortnight at my brother’s at Yarmouth? Wouldn’t that be a treat?’

‘Is your brother an agreeable man, Peggotty?’ I inquired, provisionally.

‘Oh, what an agreeable man he is!’ cried Peggotty, holding up her hands.

‘Then there’s the sea; and the boats and ships; and the fishermen; and

the beach; and Am to play with--’

Peggotty meant her nephew Ham, mentioned in my first chapter; but she

spoke of him as a morsel of English Grammar.

I was flushed by her summary of delights, and replied that it would

indeed be a treat, but what would my mother say?

‘Why then I’ll as good as bet a guinea,’ said Peggotty, intent upon my

face, ‘that she’ll let us go. I’ll ask her, if you like, as soon as ever

she comes home. There now!’

‘But what’s she to do while we’re away?’ said I, putting my small elbows

on the table to argue the point. ‘She can’t live by herself.’

If Peggotty were looking for a hole, all of a sudden, in the heel of

that stocking, it must have been a very little one indeed, and not worth

darning.

‘I say! Peggotty! She can’t live by herself, you know.’

‘Oh, bless you!’ said Peggotty, looking at me again at last. ‘Don’t

you know? She’s going to stay for a fortnight with Mrs. Grayper. Mrs.

Grayper’s going to have a lot of company.’

Oh! If that was it, I was quite ready to go. I waited, in the utmost

impatience, until my mother came home from Mrs. Grayper’s (for it was

that identical neighbour), to ascertain if we could get leave to carry

out this great idea. Without being nearly so much surprised as I had

expected, my mother entered into it readily; and it was all arranged

that night, and my board and lodging during the visit were to be paid

for.

The day soon came for our going. It was such an early day that it came

soon, even to me, who was in a fever of expectation, and half afraid

that an earthquake or a fiery mountain, or some other great convulsion

of nature, might interpose to stop the expedition. We were to go in a

carrier’s cart, which departed in the morning after breakfast. I would

have given any money to have been allowed to wrap myself up over-night,

and sleep in my hat and boots.

It touches me nearly now, although I tell it lightly, to recollect how

eager I was to leave my happy home; to think how little I suspected what

I did leave for ever.

I am glad to recollect that when the carrier’s cart was at the gate, and

my mother stood there kissing me, a grateful fondness for her and for

the old place I had never turned my back upon before, made me cry. I am

glad to know that my mother cried too, and that I felt her heart beat

against mine.

I am glad to recollect that when the carrier began to move, my mother

ran out at the gate, and called to him to stop, that she might kiss me

once more. I am glad to dwell upon the earnestness and love with which

she lifted up her face to mine, and did so.

As we left her standing in the road, Mr. Murdstone came up to where

she was, and seemed to expostulate with her for being so moved. I was

looking back round the awning of the cart, and wondered what business

it was of his. Peggotty, who was also looking back on the other side,

seemed anything but satisfied; as the face she brought back in the cart

denoted.

I sat looking at Peggotty for some time, in a reverie on this

supposititious case: whether, if she were employed to lose me like the

boy in the fairy tale, I should be able to track my way home again by

the buttons she would shed.