第 116 页

for whatever you may consider right, will you be so good? and drop me

a line where to forward it. Dear me!’ said Mr. Omer, ‘when a man is

drawing on to a time of life, where the two ends of life meet; when he

finds himself, however hearty he is, being wheeled about for the second

time, in a speeches of go-cart; he should be over-rejoiced to do a

kindness if he can. He wants plenty. And I don’t speak of myself,

particular,’ said Mr. Omer, ‘because, sir, the way I look at it is, that

we are all drawing on to the bottom of the hill, whatever age we are,

on account of time never standing still for a single moment. So let us

always do a kindness, and be over-rejoiced. To be sure!’

He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and put it on a ledge in the back

of his chair, expressly made for its reception.

‘There’s Em’ly’s cousin, him that she was to have been married to,’ said

Mr. Omer, rubbing his hands feebly, ‘as fine a fellow as there is in

Yarmouth! He’ll come and talk or read to me, in the evening, for an hour

together sometimes. That’s a kindness, I should call it! All his life’s

a kindness.’

‘I am going to see him now,’ said I.

‘Are you?’ said Mr. Omer. ‘Tell him I was hearty, and sent my respects.

Minnie and Joram’s at a ball. They would be as proud to see you as I

am, if they was at home. Minnie won’t hardly go out at all, you see, “on

account of father”, as she says. So I swore tonight, that if she didn’t

go, I’d go to bed at six. In consequence of which,’ Mr. Omer shook

himself and his chair with laughter at the success of his device, ‘she

and Joram’s at a ball.’

I shook hands with him, and wished him good night.

‘Half a minute, sir,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘If you was to go without seeing

my little elephant, you’d lose the best of sights. You never see such

a sight! Minnie!’ A musical little voice answered, from somewhere

upstairs, ‘I am coming, grandfather!’ and a pretty little girl with

long, flaxen, curling hair, soon came running into the shop.

‘This is my little elephant, sir,’ said Mr. Omer, fondling the child.

‘Siamese breed, sir. Now, little elephant!’

The little elephant set the door of the parlour open, enabling me to see

that, in these latter days, it was converted into a bedroom for Mr.

Omer who could not be easily conveyed upstairs; and then hid her pretty

forehead, and tumbled her long hair, against the back of Mr. Omer’s

chair.

‘The elephant butts, you know, sir,’ said Mr. Omer, winking, ‘when he

goes at a object. Once, elephant. Twice. Three times!’

At this signal, the little elephant, with a dexterity that was next to

marvellous in so small an animal, whisked the chair round with Mr. Omer

in it, and rattled it off, pell-mell, into the parlour, without touching

the door-post: Mr. Omer indescribably enjoying the performance, and

looking back at me on the road as if it were the triumphant issue of his

life’s exertions.

After a stroll about the town I went to Ham’s house. Peggotty had now

removed here for good; and had let her own house to the successor of

Mr. Barkis in the carrying business, who had paid her very well for the

good-will, cart, and horse. I believe the very same slow horse that Mr.

Barkis drove was still at work.

I found them in the neat kitchen, accompanied by Mrs. Gummidge, who had

been fetched from the old boat by Mr. Peggotty himself. I doubt if

she could have been induced to desert her post, by anyone else. He

had evidently told them all. Both Peggotty and Mrs. Gummidge had their

aprons to their eyes, and Ham had just stepped out ‘to take a turn on

the beach’. He presently came home, very glad to see me; and I hope they

were all the better for my being there. We spoke, with some approach to

cheerfulness, of Mr. Peggotty’s growing rich in a new country, and of

the wonders he would describe in his letters. We said nothing of Emily

by name, but distantly referred to her more than once. Ham was the

serenest of the party.

But, Peggotty told me, when she lighted me to a little chamber where the

Crocodile book was lying ready for me on the table, that he always was

the same. She believed (she told me, crying) that he was broken-hearted;

though he was as full of courage as of sweetness, and worked harder and

better than any boat-builder in any yard in all that part. There were

times, she said, of an evening, when he talked of their old life in

the boat-house; and then he mentioned Emily as a child. But, he never

mentioned her as a woman.

I thought I had read in his face that he would like to speak to me

alone. I therefore resolved to put myself in his way next evening, as he

came home from his work. Having settled this with myself, I fell asleep.

That night, for the first time in all those many nights, the candle was

taken out of the window, Mr. Peggotty swung in his old hammock in the

old boat, and the wind murmured with the old sound round his head.

All next day, he was occupied in disposing of his fishing-boat and

tackle; in packing up, and sending to London by waggon, such of his

little domestic possessions as he thought would be useful to him; and in

parting with the rest, or bestowing them on Mrs. Gummidge. She was with

him all day. As I had a sorrowful wish to see the old place once more,

before it was locked up, I engaged to meet them there in the evening.

But I so arranged it, as that I should meet Ham first.

It was easy to come in his way, as I knew where he worked. I met him

at a retired part of the sands, which I knew he would cross, and turned

back with him, that he might have leisure to speak to me if he really

wished. I had not mistaken the expression of his face. We had walked but

a little way together, when he said, without looking at me:

‘Mas’r Davy, have you seen her?’

‘Only for a moment, when she was in a swoon,’ I softly answered.

We walked a little farther, and he said:

‘Mas’r Davy, shall you see her, d’ye think?’

‘It would be too painful to her, perhaps,’ said I.

‘I have thowt of that,’ he replied. ‘So ‘twould, sir, so ‘twould.’

‘But, Ham,’ said I, gently, ‘if there is anything that I could write

to her, for you, in case I could not tell it; if there is anything

you would wish to make known to her through me; I should consider it a

sacred trust.’

‘I am sure on’t. I thankee, sir, most kind! I think theer is something I

could wish said or wrote.’

‘What is it?’

We walked a little farther in silence, and then he spoke.

‘’Tan’t that I forgive her. ‘Tan’t that so much. ‘Tis more as I beg of

her to forgive me, for having pressed my affections upon her. Odd times,

I think that if I hadn’t had her promise fur to marry me, sir, she was

that trustful of me, in a friendly way, that she’d have told me what was

struggling in her mind, and would have counselled with me, and I might

have saved her.’

I pressed his hand. ‘Is that all?’ ‘Theer’s yet a something else,’ he

returned, ‘if I can say it, Mas’r Davy.’

We walked on, farther than we had walked yet, before he spoke again. He

was not crying when he made the pauses I shall express by lines. He was

merely collecting himself to speak very plainly.

‘I loved her--and I love the mem’ry of her--too deep--to be able to

lead her to believe of my own self as I’m a happy man. I could only be

happy--by forgetting of her--and I’m afeerd I couldn’t hardly bear as

she should be told I done that. But if you, being so full of learning,

Mas’r Davy, could think of anything to say as might bring her to believe

I wasn’t greatly hurt: still loving of her, and mourning for her:

anything as might bring her to believe as I was not tired of my life,

and yet was hoping fur to see her without blame, wheer the wicked cease

from troubling and the weary are at rest--anything as would ease her

sorrowful mind, and yet not make her think as I could ever marry, or as

‘twas possible that anyone could ever be to me what she was--I should

ask of you to say that--with my prayers for her--that was so dear.’

I pressed his manly hand again, and told him I would charge myself to do

this as well as I could.

‘I thankee, sir,’ he answered. ‘’Twas kind of you to meet me. ‘Twas kind

of you to bear him company down. Mas’r Davy, I unnerstan’ very well,

though my aunt will come to Lon’on afore they sail, and they’ll unite

once more, that I am not like to see him agen. I fare to feel sure on’t.

We doen’t say so, but so ‘twill be, and better so. The last you see on

him--the very last--will you give him the lovingest duty and thanks of

the orphan, as he was ever more than a father to?’

This I also promised, faithfully.

‘I thankee agen, sir,’ he said, heartily shaking hands. ‘I know wheer

you’re a-going. Good-bye!’

With a slight wave of his hand, as though to explain to me that he could

not enter the old place, he turned away. As I looked after his figure,

crossing the waste in the moonlight, I saw him turn his face towards a

strip of silvery light upon the sea, and pass on, looking at it, until

he was a shadow in the distance.

The door of the boat-house stood open when I approached; and, on

entering, I found it emptied of all its furniture, saving one of the old

lockers, on which Mrs. Gummidge, with a basket on her knee, was seated,

looking at Mr. Peggotty. He leaned his elbow on the rough chimney-piece,

and gazed upon a few expiring embers in the grate; but he raised his

head, hopefully, on my coming in, and spoke in a cheery manner.

‘Come, according to promise, to bid farewell to ‘t, eh, Mas’r Davy?’

he said, taking up the candle. ‘Bare enough, now, an’t it?’ ‘Indeed you

have made good use of the time,’ said I.

‘Why, we have not been idle, sir. Missis Gummidge has worked like a--I

doen’t know what Missis Gummidge an’t worked like,’ said Mr. Peggotty,

looking at her, at a loss for a sufficiently approving simile.

Mrs. Gummidge, leaning on her basket, made no observation.

‘Theer’s the very locker that you used to sit on, ‘long with Em’ly!’

said Mr. Peggotty, in a whisper. ‘I’m a-going to carry it away with me,

last of all. And heer’s your old little bedroom, see, Mas’r Davy! A’most

as bleak tonight, as ‘art could wish!’

In truth, the wind, though it was low, had a solemn sound, and crept

around the deserted house with a whispered wailing that was very

mournful. Everything was gone, down to the little mirror with the

oyster-shell frame. I thought of myself, lying here, when that first

great change was being wrought at home. I thought of the blue-eyed child

who had enchanted me. I thought of Steerforth: and a foolish, fearful

fancy came upon me of his being near at hand, and liable to be met at

any turn.

‘’Tis like to be long,’ said Mr. Peggotty, in a low voice, ‘afore

the boat finds new tenants. They look upon ‘t, down heer, as being

unfortunate now!’

‘Does it belong to anybody in the neighbourhood?’ I asked.

‘To a mast-maker up town,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘I’m a-going to give the

key to him tonight.’

We looked into the other little room, and came back to Mrs. Gummidge,

sitting on the locker, whom Mr. Peggotty, putting the light on the

chimney-piece, requested to rise, that he might carry it outside the

door before extinguishing the candle.

‘Dan’l,’ said Mrs. Gummidge, suddenly deserting her basket, and clinging

to his arm ‘my dear Dan’l, the parting words I speak in this house is, I

mustn’t be left behind. Doen’t ye think of leaving me behind, Dan’l! Oh,

doen’t ye ever do it!’

Mr. Peggotty, taken aback, looked from Mrs. Gummidge to me, and from me

to Mrs. Gummidge, as if he had been awakened from a sleep.

‘Doen’t ye, dearest Dan’l, doen’t ye!’ cried Mrs. Gummidge, fervently.

‘Take me ‘long with you, Dan’l, take me ‘long with you and Em’ly! I’ll

be your servant, constant and trew. If there’s slaves in them parts

where you’re a-going, I’ll be bound to you for one, and happy, but

doen’t ye leave me behind, Dan’l, that’s a deary dear!’

‘My good soul,’ said Mr. Peggotty, shaking his head, ‘you doen’t know

what a long voyage, and what a hard life ‘tis!’ ‘Yes, I do, Dan’l! I can

guess!’ cried Mrs. Gummidge. ‘But my parting words under this roof is,

I shall go into the house and die, if I am not took. I can dig, Dan’l.

I can work. I can live hard. I can be loving and patient now--more than

you think, Dan’l, if you’ll on’y try me. I wouldn’t touch the ‘lowance,

not if I was dying of want, Dan’l Peggotty; but I’ll go with you and

Em’ly, if you’ll on’y let me, to the world’s end! I know how ‘tis; I

know you think that I am lone and lorn; but, deary love, ‘tan’t so no

more! I ain’t sat here, so long, a-watching, and a-thinking of your

trials, without some good being done me. Mas’r Davy, speak to him for

me! I knows his ways, and Em’ly’s, and I knows their sorrows, and can be

a comfort to ‘em, some odd times, and labour for ‘em allus! Dan’l, deary

Dan’l, let me go ‘long with you!’

And Mrs. Gummidge took his hand, and kissed it with a homely pathos and

affection, in a homely rapture of devotion and gratitude, that he well

deserved.

We brought the locker out, extinguished the candle, fastened the door

on the outside, and left the old boat close shut up, a dark speck in

the cloudy night. Next day, when we were returning to London outside the

coach, Mrs. Gummidge and her basket were on the seat behind, and Mrs.

Gummidge was happy.

CHAPTER 52. I ASSIST AT AN EXPLOSION

When the time Mr. Micawber had appointed so mysteriously, was within

four-and-twenty hours of being come, my aunt and I consulted how we

should proceed; for my aunt was very unwilling to leave Dora. Ah! how

easily I carried Dora up and down stairs, now!

We were disposed, notwithstanding Mr. Micawber’s stipulation for my

aunt’s attendance, to arrange that she should stay at home, and be

represented by Mr. Dick and me. In short, we had resolved to take this

course, when Dora again unsettled us by declaring that she never

would forgive herself, and never would forgive her bad boy, if my aunt

remained behind, on any pretence.

‘I won’t speak to you,’ said Dora, shaking her curls at my aunt. ‘I’ll

be disagreeable! I’ll make Jip bark at you all day. I shall be sure that

you really are a cross old thing, if you don’t go!’