Дэвид Копперфильд

My ‘First Half’ at Salem House

           Creakleinthemidstofus,withTungayathisside,andMrs.andMissCreaklelookinginatthedoorasiftheywerefrightened.Mr.Mell,withhiselbowsonhisdeskandhisfaceinhishands,sat,forsomemoments,quitestill.

           ‘Mr.Mell,’saidMr.Creakle,shakinghimbythearm;andhiswhisperwassoaudiblenow,thatTungayfeltitunnecessarytorepeathiswords;‘youhavenotforgottenyourself,Ihope?’

           ‘No,sir,no,’returnedtheMaster,showinghisface,andshakinghishead,andrubbinghishandsingreatagitation.‘No,sir.No.Ihaverememberedmyself,I—no,Mr.Creakle,Ihavenotforgottenmyself,I—Ihaverememberedmyself,sir.I—I—couldwishyouhadrememberedmealittlesooner,Mr.Creakle.It—it—wouldhavebeenmorekind,sir,morejust,sir.Itwouldhavesavedmesomething,sir.’

           Mr.Creakle,lookinghardatMr.Mell,puthishandonTungay’sshoulder,andgothisfeetupontheformcloseby,andsatuponthedesk.AfterstilllookinghardatMr.Mellfromhisthrone,asheshookhishead,andrubbedhishands,andremainedinthesamestateofagitation,Mr.CreakleturnedtoSteerforth,andsaid:

           ‘Now,sir,ashedon’tcondescendtotellme,whatisthis?’

           Steerforthevadedthequestionforalittlewhile;lookinginscornandangeronhisopponent,andremainingsilent.Icouldnothelpthinkingeveninthatinterval,Iremember,whatanoblefellowhewasinappearance,andhowhomelyandplainMr.

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