"How's mamma, 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."
"When, Peggotty?"
"To-morrow."
"Sha'n't I see mamma?"
"Yes," said Peggotty. "Morning."
Then she stole away, fearful of surprises. 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 down stairs into the parlor, 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.
"Yes, 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. God bless you!"
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.
We had not gone half a mile when I was astonished to see Peggotty burst
from a hedge and climb into the cart. Not a word did she say, but she
squeezed me tight, crammed a bag of cakes into my pockets, and put a
purse into my hand. After a final squeeze she got down from the cart
and ran away as quickly as she had come.
My pocket-handkerchief was now so wet that the carrier proposed
spreading it out upon the horse's back to dry. We did so, and I then
had leisure to look at the purse. It had three bright shillings in it
from Peggotty, and--more precious still--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 reach me my
handkerchief again, but he said I had better let it dry first. I
thought so too, and wiped my eyes on my sleeve this time.
Then the cakes came in for consideration. I offered the carrier one
which he ate at a gulp, without the slightest change of expression.
"Did _she_ make 'em?" asked the carrier, whose name, by the way, was
Barkis.
"Peggotty, you mean, sir?"
"Ah!" said Mr. Barkis. "Her."
"Yes, she makes all our pastry, and does all our cooking."