‘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 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.