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the moment as she lighted heer, all so desolate, she found (as she

believed) a friend; a decent woman as spoke to her about the needle-work

as she had been brought up to do, about finding plenty of it fur her,

about a lodging fur the night, and making secret inquiration concerning

of me and all at home, tomorrow. When my child,’ he said aloud, and with

an energy of gratitude that shook him from head to foot, ‘stood upon the

brink of more than I can say or think on--Martha, trew to her promise,

saved her.’

I could not repress a cry of joy.

‘Mas’r Davy!’ said he, gripping my hand in that strong hand of his,

‘it was you as first made mention of her to me. I thankee, sir! She was

arnest. She had know’d of her bitter knowledge wheer to watch and what

to do. She had done it. And the Lord was above all! She come, white and

hurried, upon Em’ly in her sleep. She says to her, “Rise up from worse

than death, and come with me!” Them belonging to the house would have

stopped her, but they might as soon have stopped the sea. “Stand away

from me,” she says, “I am a ghost that calls her from beside her open

grave!” She told Em’ly she had seen me, and know’d I loved her, and

forgive her. She wrapped her, hasty, in her clothes. She took her, faint

and trembling, on her arm. She heeded no more what they said, than if

she had had no ears. She walked among ‘em with my child, minding only

her; and brought her safe out, in the dead of the night, from that black

pit of ruin!

‘She attended on Em’ly,’ said Mr. Peggotty, who had released my hand,

and put his own hand on his heaving chest; ‘she attended to my Em’ly,

lying wearied out, and wandering betwixt whiles, till late next day.

Then she went in search of me; then in search of you, Mas’r Davy. She

didn’t tell Em’ly what she come out fur, lest her ‘art should fail, and

she should think of hiding of herself. How the cruel lady know’d of

her being theer, I can’t say. Whether him as I have spoke so much of,

chanced to see ‘em going theer, or whether (which is most like, to my

thinking) he had heerd it from the woman, I doen’t greatly ask myself.

My niece is found.

‘All night long,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘we have been together, Em’ly

and me. ‘Tis little (considering the time) as she has said, in wureds,

through them broken-hearted tears; ‘tis less as I have seen of her dear

face, as grow’d into a woman’s at my hearth. But, all night long, her

arms has been about my neck; and her head has laid heer; and we knows

full well, as we can put our trust in one another, ever more.’

He ceased to speak, and his hand upon the table rested there in perfect

repose, with a resolution in it that might have conquered lions.

‘It was a gleam of light upon me, Trot,’ said my aunt, drying her eyes,

‘when I formed the resolution of being godmother to your sister Betsey

Trotwood, who disappointed me; but, next to that, hardly anything would

have given me greater pleasure, than to be godmother to that good young

creature’s baby!’

Mr. Peggotty nodded his understanding of my aunt’s feelings, but could

not trust himself with any verbal reference to the subject of her

commendation. We all remained silent, and occupied with our own

reflections (my aunt drying her eyes, and now sobbing convulsively, and

now laughing and calling herself a fool); until I spoke.

‘You have quite made up your mind,’ said I to Mr. Peggotty, ‘as to the

future, good friend? I need scarcely ask you.’

‘Quite, Mas’r Davy,’ he returned; ‘and told Em’ly. Theer’s mighty

countries, fur from heer. Our future life lays over the sea.’

‘They will emigrate together, aunt,’ said I.

‘Yes!’ said Mr. Peggotty, with a hopeful smile. ‘No one can’t reproach

my darling in Australia. We will begin a new life over theer!’

I asked him if he yet proposed to himself any time for going away.

‘I was down at the Docks early this morning, sir,’ he returned, ‘to get

information concerning of them ships. In about six weeks or two

months from now, there’ll be one sailing--I see her this morning--went

aboard--and we shall take our passage in her.’

‘Quite alone?’ I asked.

‘Aye, Mas’r Davy!’ he returned. ‘My sister, you see, she’s that fond

of you and yourn, and that accustomed to think on’y of her own country,

that it wouldn’t be hardly fair to let her go. Besides which, theer’s

one she has in charge, Mas’r Davy, as doen’t ought to be forgot.’

‘Poor Ham!’ said I.

‘My good sister takes care of his house, you see, ma’am, and he takes

kindly to her,’ Mr. Peggotty explained for my aunt’s better information.

‘He’ll set and talk to her, with a calm spirit, wen it’s like he

couldn’t bring himself to open his lips to another. Poor fellow!’ said

Mr. Peggotty, shaking his head, ‘theer’s not so much left him, that he

could spare the little as he has!’

‘And Mrs. Gummidge?’ said I.

‘Well, I’ve had a mort of consideration, I do tell you,’ returned Mr.

Peggotty, with a perplexed look which gradually cleared as he went

on, ‘concerning of Missis Gummidge. You see, wen Missis Gummidge falls

a-thinking of the old ‘un, she an’t what you may call good company.

Betwixt you and me, Mas’r Davy--and you, ma’am--wen Mrs. Gummidge takes

to wimicking,’--our old country word for crying,--‘she’s liable to be

considered to be, by them as didn’t know the old ‘un, peevish-like. Now

I DID know the old ‘un,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘and I know’d his merits,

so I unnerstan’ her; but ‘tan’t entirely so, you see, with

others--nat’rally can’t be!’

My aunt and I both acquiesced.

‘Wheerby,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘my sister might--I doen’t say she would,

but might--find Missis Gummidge give her a leetle trouble now-and-again.

Theerfur ‘tan’t my intentions to moor Missis Gummidge ‘long with them,

but to find a Beein’ fur her wheer she can fisherate for herself.’

(A Beein’ signifies, in that dialect, a home, and to fisherate is to

provide.) ‘Fur which purpose,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘I means to make her

a ‘lowance afore I go, as’ll leave her pretty comfort’ble. She’s the

faithfullest of creeturs. ‘Tan’t to be expected, of course, at her

time of life, and being lone and lorn, as the good old Mawther is to

be knocked about aboardship, and in the woods and wilds of a new and

fur-away country. So that’s what I’m a-going to do with her.’

He forgot nobody. He thought of everybody’s claims and strivings, but

his own.

‘Em’ly,’ he continued, ‘will keep along with me--poor child, she’s sore

in need of peace and rest!--until such time as we goes upon our voyage.

She’ll work at them clothes, as must be made; and I hope her troubles

will begin to seem longer ago than they was, wen she finds herself once

more by her rough but loving uncle.’

My aunt nodded confirmation of this hope, and imparted great

satisfaction to Mr. Peggotty.

‘Theer’s one thing furder, Mas’r Davy,’ said he, putting his hand in his

breast-pocket, and gravely taking out the little paper bundle I had

seen before, which he unrolled on the table. ‘Theer’s these here

banknotes--fifty pound, and ten. To them I wish to add the money as she

come away with. I’ve asked her about that (but not saying why), and have

added of it up. I an’t a scholar. Would you be so kind as see how ‘tis?’

He handed me, apologetically for his scholarship, a piece of paper, and

observed me while I looked it over. It was quite right.

‘Thankee, sir,’ he said, taking it back. ‘This money, if you doen’t

see objections, Mas’r Davy, I shall put up jest afore I go, in a cover

directed to him; and put that up in another, directed to his mother.

I shall tell her, in no more wureds than I speak to you, what it’s the

price on; and that I’m gone, and past receiving of it back.’

I told him that I thought it would be right to do so--that I was

thoroughly convinced it would be, since he felt it to be right.

‘I said that theer was on’y one thing furder,’ he proceeded with a grave

smile, when he had made up his little bundle again, and put it in his

pocket; ‘but theer was two. I warn’t sure in my mind, wen I come out

this morning, as I could go and break to Ham, of my own self, what had

so thankfully happened. So I writ a letter while I was out, and put

it in the post-office, telling of ‘em how all was as ‘tis; and that I

should come down tomorrow to unload my mind of what little needs a-doing

of down theer, and, most-like, take my farewell leave of Yarmouth.’

‘And do you wish me to go with you?’ said I, seeing that he left

something unsaid.

‘If you could do me that kind favour, Mas’r Davy,’ he replied. ‘I know

the sight on you would cheer ‘em up a bit.’

My little Dora being in good spirits, and very desirous that I should

go--as I found on talking it over with her--I readily pledged myself to

accompany him in accordance with his wish. Next morning, consequently,

we were on the Yarmouth coach, and again travelling over the old ground.

As we passed along the familiar street at night--Mr. Peggotty, in

despite of all my remonstrances, carrying my bag--I glanced into Omer

and Joram’s shop, and saw my old friend Mr. Omer there, smoking his

pipe. I felt reluctant to be present, when Mr. Peggotty first met his

sister and Ham; and made Mr. Omer my excuse for lingering behind.

‘How is Mr. Omer, after this long time?’ said I, going in.

He fanned away the smoke of his pipe, that he might get a better view of

me, and soon recognized me with great delight.

‘I should get up, sir, to acknowledge such an honour as this visit,’

said he, ‘only my limbs are rather out of sorts, and I am wheeled about.

With the exception of my limbs and my breath, howsoever, I am as hearty

as a man can be, I’m thankful to say.’

I congratulated him on his contented looks and his good spirits, and

saw, now, that his easy-chair went on wheels.

‘It’s an ingenious thing, ain’t it?’ he inquired, following the

direction of my glance, and polishing the elbow with his arm. ‘It runs

as light as a feather, and tracks as true as a mail-coach. Bless you,

my little Minnie--my grand-daughter you know, Minnie’s child--puts her

little strength against the back, gives it a shove, and away we go, as

clever and merry as ever you see anything! And I tell you what--it’s a

most uncommon chair to smoke a pipe in.’

I never saw such a good old fellow to make the best of a thing, and

find out the enjoyment of it, as Mr. Omer. He was as radiant, as if

his chair, his asthma, and the failure of his limbs, were the various

branches of a great invention for enhancing the luxury of a pipe.

‘I see more of the world, I can assure you,’ said Mr. Omer, ‘in this

chair, than ever I see out of it. You’d be surprised at the number of

people that looks in of a day to have a chat. You really would! There’s

twice as much in the newspaper, since I’ve taken to this chair, as there

used to be. As to general reading, dear me, what a lot of it I do get

through! That’s what I feel so strong, you know! If it had been my eyes,

what should I have done? If it had been my ears, what should I have

done? Being my limbs, what does it signify? Why, my limbs only made my

breath shorter when I used ‘em. And now, if I want to go out into

the street or down to the sands, I’ve only got to call Dick, Joram’s

youngest ‘prentice, and away I go in my own carriage, like the Lord

Mayor of London.’

He half suffocated himself with laughing here.

‘Lord bless you!’ said Mr. Omer, resuming his pipe, ‘a man must take

the fat with the lean; that’s what he must make up his mind to, in this

life. Joram does a fine business. Ex-cellent business!’

‘I am very glad to hear it,’ said I.

‘I knew you would be,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘And Joram and Minnie are like

Valentines. What more can a man expect? What’s his limbs to that!’

His supreme contempt for his own limbs, as he sat smoking, was one of

the pleasantest oddities I have ever encountered.

‘And since I’ve took to general reading, you’ve took to general writing,

eh, sir?’ said Mr. Omer, surveying me admiringly. ‘What a lovely work

that was of yours! What expressions in it! I read it every word--every

word. And as to feeling sleepy! Not at all!’

I laughingly expressed my satisfaction, but I must confess that I

thought this association of ideas significant.

‘I give you my word and honour, sir,’ said Mr. Omer, ‘that when I lay

that book upon the table, and look at it outside; compact in three

separate and indiwidual wollumes--one, two, three; I am as proud as

Punch to think that I once had the honour of being connected with

your family. And dear me, it’s a long time ago, now, ain’t it? Over

at Blunderstone. With a pretty little party laid along with the other

party. And you quite a small party then, yourself. Dear, dear!’

I changed the subject by referring to Emily. After assuring him that I

did not forget how interested he had always been in her, and how

kindly he had always treated her, I gave him a general account of her

restoration to her uncle by the aid of Martha; which I knew would please

the old man. He listened with the utmost attention, and said, feelingly,

when I had done:

‘I am rejoiced at it, sir! It’s the best news I have heard for many

a day. Dear, dear, dear! And what’s going to be undertook for that

unfortunate young woman, Martha, now?’

‘You touch a point that my thoughts have been dwelling on since

yesterday,’ said I, ‘but on which I can give you no information yet, Mr.

Omer. Mr. Peggotty has not alluded to it, and I have a delicacy in

doing so. I am sure he has not forgotten it. He forgets nothing that is

disinterested and good.’

‘Because you know,’ said Mr. Omer, taking himself up, where he had left

off, ‘whatever is done, I should wish to be a member of. Put me down for

anything you may consider right, and let me know. I never could think

the girl all bad, and I am glad to find she’s not. So will my daughter

Minnie be. Young women are contradictory creatures in some things--her

mother was just the same as her--but their hearts are soft and kind.

It’s all show with Minnie, about Martha. Why she should consider it

necessary to make any show, I don’t undertake to tell you. But it’s all

show, bless you. She’d do her any kindness in private. So, put me down