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.