David Copperfield
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
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.