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 for 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 anyone 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 anyone. 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 some one 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--a
nd 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 can not 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 any one 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 then 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 youl"
"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 V
I Am Sent Away from Home
WEMIGHT 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.
The carrier looked at me, as if to inquire if she were coming back. I shook my head, and said I thought not. "Then, come up," said the carrier to the lazy horse, who came up accordingly.
Having by this time cried as much as I possibly could, I began to think it was of no use crying any more, especially as neither Roderick Random, nor that Captain in the Royal British Navy, had ever cried, that I could remember, in trying situations. The carrier, seeing me in this resolution, proposed that my pocket-handkerchief should be spread upon the horse's back to dry. I thanked him, and assented, and particularly small it looked, under those circumstances.
I had now leisure to examine the purse. It was a stiff leather purse, with a snap, and had three bright shillings in it, which Peggotty had evidently polished up with whitening, for my greater delight. But its most precious contents were two half-crowns folded together in a bit of paper, on which was written, in my mother's hand, "For Davy. With my love." I was so overcome by this that I asked the carrier to be so good as to reach me my pocket-handkerchief again, but he said he thought I had better do without it, and I thought I really had, so I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and stopped myself.
For good, too, though, in consequence of my previous emotions, I was still occasionally seized with a stormy sob. After we had jogged on for some little time, I asked the carrier if he was going all the way.
"All the way where?" inquired the carrier.
"There," I said.
"Where's there?" inquired the carrier.
"Near London," I said
"Why, that horse," said the carrier, jerking the rein to point him out, "would be deader than pork afore he got over half the ground."
"Are you only going to Yarmouth, then?" I asked.
"That's about it," said the carrier. "And there I shall take you to the stage-cutch, and the stage-cutch that'll take you to --wherever it is."
As this was a great deal for the carrier (whose name was Mr. Barkis) to say--he being, as I observed in a former chapter, of a phlegmatic temperament, and not at all conversational--I offered him a cake as a mark of attention; which he ate at one gulp, exactly like an elephant, and which made no more impression on his big face than it would have done on an elephant's.
"Did she make 'em, now?" said Mr. Barkis, always leaning forward, in his slouching way, on the footboard of the cart with an arm on each knee.
"Peggotty, do you mean, sir?"
"Ah!" said Mr. Barkis. "Her."
"Yes. She makes all our pastry and does all our cooking."
"Do she though?" said Mr. Barkis.
He made up his mouth as if to whistle, but he didn't whistle. He sat looking at the horse's ears, as if he saw something new there, and sat so for a considerable time. By-and-by, he said:
"No sweethearts, I b'lieve?"
"Sweetmeats did you say, Mr. Barkis?" For I thought he wanted something else to eat, and had pointedly alluded to that description of refreshment.
"Hearts," said Mr. Barkis. "Sweethearts; no person walks with her?"
"With Peggotty?"
"Ah!" he said. "Her."
"Oh, no. She never had a sweetheart."
"Didn't she, though?" said Mr. Barkis.
Again he made up his mouth to whistle, and again he didn't whistle, but sat looking at the horse's ears.
"So she makes," said Mr. Barkis, after a long interval of reflection, "all the apple parsties, and doos all the cooking, do she?"
I replied that such was the fact.
"Well. I'll tell you what," said Mr. Barkis. "P'raps you might be writin' to her?"
"I shall certainly write to her," I rejoined.
"Ah!" he said, slowly turning his eyes towards me. "Well! If you was writin' to her, p'raps you'd recollect to say that Barkis was willin', would you?"
"That Barkis was willing," I repeated, innocently. "Is that all the message?"
"Ye--es," he said, considering. "Ye--es. Barkis is willin'."
"But you will be at Blunderstone again tomorrow, Mr. Barkis," I said, faltering a little at the idea of my being far away from it then, "and could give your own message so much better."
As he repudiated this suggestion, however, with a jerk of his head, and once more confirmed his previous request by saying, with profound gravity, "Barkis is willin'. That's the message," I readily undertook its transmission. While I was waiting for the coach in the hotel at Yarmouth that very afternoon, I procured a sheet of paper and an inkstand and wrote a note to Peggotty, which ran thus: "My dear Peggotty. I have come here safe. Barkis is willing. My love to Mama. Yours affectionately. P.S. He says he particularly wants you to know--Barkis is willing."
When I had taken this commission on myself prospectively, Mr. Barkis relapsed into perfect silence, and I, feeling quite worn out by all that had happened lately, lay down on a sack in the cart an
d fell asleep. I slept soundly until we got to Yarmouth, which was so entirely new and strange to me in the inn-yard to which we drove, that I at once abandoned a latent hope I had had of meeting with some of Mr. Peggotty's family there, perhaps even with little Em'ly herself.
The coach was in the yard, shining very much all over, but without any horses to it as yet, and it looked in that state as if nothing was more unlikely than its ever going to London. I was thinking this, and wondering what would ultimately become of my box, which Mr. Barkis had put down on the yard-pavement by the pole (he having driven up the yard to turn his cart), and also what would ultimately become of me, when a lady looked out of a bow-window where some fowls and joints of meat were hanging up, and said:
"Is that the little gentleman from Blunderstone?"
"Yes, ma'am," I said.
"What name?" inquired the lady.
"Copperfield, ma'am," I said.
"That won't do," returned the lady. "Nobody's dinner is paid for here, in that name."
"Is it Murdstone, ma'am?" I said.
"If you're Master Murdstone," said the lady, "why do you go and give another name first?"
I explained to the lady how it was, who then rang a bell, and called out, "William! Show the coffee-room!" upon which a waiter came running out of a kitchen on the opposite side of the yard to show it, and seemed a good deal surprised when he was only to show it to me.
It was a large long room with some large maps in it. I doubt if I could have felt much stranger if the maps had been real foreign countries, and I cast away in the middle of them. I felt it was taking a liberty to sit down, with my cap in my hand, on the comer of the chair nearest the door, and when the waiter laid a cloth on purpose for me, and put a set of casters on it, I think I must have turned red all over with modesty.
He brought me some chops and vegetables, and took the covers off in such a bouncing manner that I was afraid I must have given him some offence. But he greatly relieved my mind by putting a chair for me at the table, and saying very affably, "Now, six-foot! come on!"
I thanked him, and took my seat at the board, but found it extremely difficult to handle my knife and fork with anything like dexterity, or to avoid splashing myself with the gravy, while he was standing opposite, staring so hard, and making me blush in the most dreadful manner every time I caught his eye. After watching me into the second chop, he said: