DAVID
COPPERFIELD
PART 30
CHAPTER 30. A LOSS
I got
down to Yarmouth in the evening, and went to the inn. I knew that Peggotty's
spare room—my room—was likely to have occupation enough in a little while, if
that great Visitor, before whose presence all the living must give place, were
not already in the house; so I betook myself to the inn, and dined there, and
engaged my bed.
It was
ten o'clock when I went out. Many of the shops were shut, and the town was
dull. When I came to Omer and Joram's, I found the shutters up, but the shop
door standing open. As I could obtain a perspective view of Mr. Omer inside,
smoking his pipe by the parlour door, I entered, and asked him how he was.
'Why,
bless my life and soul!' said Mr. Omer, 'how do you find yourself? Take a
seat.—-Smoke not disagreeable, I hope?'
'By no
means,' said I. 'I like it—in somebody else's pipe.'
'What,
not in your own, eh?' Mr. Omer returned, laughing. 'All the better, sir. Bad
habit for a young man. Take a seat. I smoke, myself, for the asthma.'
Mr. Omer
had made room for me, and placed a chair. He now sat down again very much out
of breath, gasping at his pipe as if it contained a supply of that necessary,
without which he must perish.
'I am
sorry to have heard bad news of Mr. Barkis,' said I.
Mr. Omer
looked at me, with a steady countenance, and shook his head.
'Do you
know how he is tonight?' I asked.
'The very
question I should have put to you, sir,' returned Mr. Omer, 'but on account of
delicacy. It's one of the drawbacks of our line of business. When a party's
ill, we can't ask how the party is.'
The
difficulty had not occurred to me; though I had had my apprehensions too, when
I went in, of hearing the old tune. On its being mentioned, I recognized it,
however, and said as much.
'Yes,
yes, you understand,' said Mr. Omer, nodding his head. 'We dursn't do it. Bless
you, it would be a shock that the generality of parties mightn't recover, to
say "Omer and Joram's compliments, and how do you find yourself this
morning?"—or this afternoon—as it may be.'
Mr. Omer
and I nodded at each other, and Mr. Omer recruited his wind by the aid of his
pipe.
'It's one
of the things that cut the trade off from attentions they could often wish to
show,' said Mr. Omer. 'Take myself. If I have known Barkis a year, to move to
as he went by, I have known him forty years. But I can't go and say, "how
is he?"'
I felt it
was rather hard on Mr. Omer, and I told him so.
'I'm not
more self-interested, I hope, than another man,' said Mr. Omer. 'Look at me! My
wind may fail me at any moment, and it ain't likely that, to my own knowledge,
I'd be self-interested under such circumstances. I say it ain't likely, in a
man who knows his wind will go, when it DOES go, as if a pair of bellows was
cut open; and that man a grandfather,' said Mr. Omer.
I said,
'Not at all.'
'It ain't
that I complain of my line of business,' said Mr. Omer. 'It ain't that. Some
good and some bad goes, no doubt, to all callings. What I wish is, that parties
was brought up stronger-minded.'
Mr. Omer,
with a very complacent and amiable face, took several puffs in silence; and
then said, resuming his first point:
'Accordingly
we're obleeged, in ascertaining how Barkis goes on, to limit ourselves to
Em'ly. She knows what our real objects are, and she don't have any more alarms
or suspicions about us, than if we was so many lambs. Minnie and Joram have
just stepped down to the house, in fact (she's there, after hours, helping her
aunt a bit), to ask her how he is tonight; and if you was to please to wait
till they come back, they'd give you full partic'lers. Will you take something?
A glass of srub and water, now? I smoke on srub and water, myself,' said Mr.
Omer, taking up his glass, 'because it's considered softening to the passages,
by which this troublesome breath of mine gets into action. But, Lord bless
you,' said Mr. Omer, huskily, 'it ain't the passages that's out of order!
"Give me breath enough," said I to my daughter Minnie, "and I'll
find passages, my dear."'
He really
had no breath to spare, and it was very alarming to see him laugh. When he was
again in a condition to be talked to, I thanked him for the proffered
refreshment, which I declined, as I had just had dinner; and, observing that I
would wait, since he was so good as to invite me, until his daughter and his
son-in-law came back, I inquired how little Emily was?
'Well,
sir,' said Mr. Omer, removing his pipe, that he might rub his chin: 'I tell you
truly, I shall be glad when her marriage has taken place.'
'Why so?'
I inquired.
'Well,
she's unsettled at present,' said Mr. Omer. 'It ain't that she's not as pretty
as ever, for she's prettier—I do assure you, she is prettier. It ain't that she
don't work as well as ever, for she does. She WAS worth any six, and she IS
worth any six. But somehow she wants heart. If you understand,' said Mr. Omer,
after rubbing his chin again, and smoking a little, 'what I mean in a general
way by the expression, "A long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull
altogether, my hearties, hurrah!" I should say to you, that that was—in a
general way—what I miss in Em'ly.'
Mr.
Omer's face and manner went for so much, that I could conscientiously nod my
head, as divining his meaning. My quickness of apprehension seemed to please
him, and he went on: 'Now I consider this is principally on account of her
being in an unsettled state, you see. We have talked it over a good deal, her
uncle and myself, and her sweetheart and myself, after business; and I consider
it is principally on account of her being unsettled. You must always recollect
of Em'ly,' said Mr. Omer, shaking his head gently, 'that she's a most
extraordinary affectionate little thing. The proverb says, "You can't make
a silk purse out of a sow's ear." Well, I don't know about that. I rather
think you may, if you begin early in life. She has made a home out of that old boat,
sir, that stone and marble couldn't beat.'
'I am
sure she has!' said I.
'To see
the clinging of that pretty little thing to her uncle,' said Mr. Omer; 'to see
the way she holds on to him, tighter and tighter, and closer and closer, every
day, is to see a sight. Now, you know, there's a struggle going on when that's
the case. Why should it be made a longer one than is needful?'
I
listened attentively to the good old fellow, and acquiesced, with all my heart,
in what he said.
'Therefore,
I mentioned to them,' said Mr. Omer, in a comfortable, easy-going tone, 'this.
I said, "Now, don't consider Em'ly nailed down in point of time, at all.
Make it your own time. Her services have been more valuable than was supposed;
her learning has been quicker than was supposed; Omer and Joram can run their
pen through what remains; and she's free when you wish. If she likes to make
any little arrangement, afterwards, in the way of doing any little thing for us
at home, very well. If she don't, very well still. We're no losers,
anyhow." For—don't you see,' said Mr. Omer, touching me with his pipe, 'it
ain't likely that a man so short of breath as myself, and a grandfather too,
would go and strain points with a little bit of a blue-eyed blossom, like her?'
'Not at
all, I am certain,' said I.
'Not at
all! You're right!' said Mr. Omer. 'Well, sir, her cousin—you know it's a
cousin she's going to be married to?'
'Oh yes,'
I replied. 'I know him well.'
'Of
course you do,' said Mr. Omer. 'Well, sir! Her cousin being, as it appears, in
good work, and well to do, thanked me in a very manly sort of manner for this
(conducting himself altogether, I must say, in a way that gives me a high
opinion of him), and went and took as comfortable a little house as you or I
could wish to clap eyes on. That little house is now furnished right through,
as neat and complete as a doll's parlour; and but for Barkis's illness having
taken this bad turn, poor fellow, they would have been man and wife—I dare say,
by this time. As it is, there's a postponement.'
'And
Emily, Mr. Omer?' I inquired. 'Has she become more settled?'
'Why
that, you know,' he returned, rubbing his double chin again, 'can't naturally
be expected. The prospect of the change and separation, and all that, is, as
one may say, close to her and far away from her, both at once. Barkis's death
needn't put it off much, but his lingering might. Anyway, it's an uncertain
state of matters, you see.'
'I see,'
said I.
'Consequently,'
pursued Mr. Omer, 'Em'ly's still a little down, and a little fluttered;
perhaps, upon the whole, she's more so than she was. Every day she seems to get
fonder and fonder of her uncle, and more loth to part from all of us. A kind
word from me brings the tears into her eyes; and if you was to see her with my
daughter Minnie's little girl, you'd never forget it. Bless my heart alive!'
said Mr. Omer, pondering, 'how she loves that child!'
Having so
favourable an opportunity, it occurred to me to ask Mr. Omer, before our
conversation should be interrupted by the return of his daughter and her
husband, whether he knew anything of Martha.
'Ah!' he
rejoined, shaking his head, and looking very much dejected. 'No good. A sad
story, sir, however you come to know it. I never thought there was harm in the
girl. I wouldn't wish to mention it before my daughter Minnie—for she'd take me
up directly—but I never did. None of us ever did.'
Mr. Omer,
hearing his daughter's footstep before I heard it, touched me with his pipe,
and shut up one eye, as a caution. She and her husband came in immediately
afterwards.
Their
report was, that Mr. Barkis was 'as bad as bad could be'; that he was quite
unconscious; and that Mr. Chillip had mournfully said in the kitchen, on going
away just now, that the College of Physicians, the College of Surgeons, and
Apothecaries' Hall, if they were all called in together, couldn't help him. He
was past both Colleges, Mr. Chillip said, and the Hall could only poison him.
Hearing
this, and learning that Mr. Peggotty was there, I determined to go to the house
at once. I bade good night to Mr. Omer, and to Mr. and Mrs. Joram; and directed
my steps thither, with a solemn feeling, which made Mr. Barkis quite a new and
different creature.
My low
tap at the door was answered by Mr. Peggotty. He was not so much surprised to
see me as I had expected. I remarked this in Peggotty, too, when she came down;
and I have seen it since; and I think, in the expectation of that dread
surprise, all other changes and surprises dwindle into nothing.
I shook
hands with Mr. Peggotty, and passed into the kitchen, while he softly closed
the door. Little Emily was sitting by the fire, with her hands before her face.
Ham was standing near her.
We spoke
in whispers; listening, between whiles, for any sound in the room above. I had
not thought of it on the occasion of my last visit, but how strange it was to
me, now, to miss Mr. Barkis out of the kitchen!
'This is
very kind of you, Mas'r Davy,' said Mr. Peggotty.
'It's
oncommon kind,' said Ham.
'Em'ly,
my dear,' cried Mr. Peggotty. 'See here! Here's Mas'r Davy come! What, cheer
up, pretty! Not a wured to Mas'r Davy?'
There was
a trembling upon her, that I can see now. The coldness of her hand when I
touched it, I can feel yet. Its only sign of animation was to shrink from mine;
and then she glided from the chair, and creeping to the other side of her
uncle, bowed herself, silently and trembling still, upon his breast.
'It's
such a loving art,' said Mr. Peggotty, smoothing her rich hair with his great
hard hand, 'that it can't abear the sorrer of this. It's nat'ral in young folk,
Mas'r Davy, when they're new to these here trials, and timid, like my little
bird,—it's nat'ral.'
She clung
the closer to him, but neither lifted up her face, nor spoke a word.
'It's
getting late, my dear,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'and here's Ham come fur to take you
home. Theer! Go along with t'other loving art! What' Em'ly? Eh, my pretty?'
The sound
of her voice had not reached me, but he bent his head as if he listened to her,
and then said:
'Let you
stay with your uncle? Why, you doen't mean to ask me that! Stay with your
uncle, Moppet? When your husband that'll be so soon, is here fur to take you
home? Now a person wouldn't think it, fur to see this little thing alongside a
rough-weather chap like me,' said Mr. Peggotty, looking round at both of us,
with infinite pride; 'but the sea ain't more salt in it than she has fondness
in her for her uncle—a foolish little Em'ly!'
'Em'ly's
in the right in that, Mas'r Davy!' said Ham. 'Lookee here! As Em'ly wishes of
it, and as she's hurried and frightened, like, besides, I'll leave her till
morning. Let me stay too!'
'No, no,'
said Mr. Peggotty. 'You doen't ought—a married man like you—or what's as
good—to take and hull away a day's work. And you doen't ought to watch and work
both. That won't do. You go home and turn in. You ain't afeerd of Em'ly not
being took good care on, I know.'
Ham
yielded to this persuasion, and took his hat to go. Even when he kissed her—and
I never saw him approach her, but I felt that nature had given him the soul of
a gentleman—she seemed to cling closer to her uncle, even to the avoidance of
her chosen husband. I shut the door after him, that it might cause no
disturbance of the quiet that prevailed; and when I turned back, I found Mr.
Peggotty still talking to her.
'Now, I'm
a going upstairs to tell your aunt as Mas'r Davy's here, and that'll cheer her
up a bit,' he said. 'Sit ye down by the fire, the while, my dear, and warm
those mortal cold hands. You doen't need to be so fearsome, and take on so
much. What? You'll go along with me?—Well! come along with me—come! If her
uncle was turned out of house and home, and forced to lay down in a dyke, Mas'r
Davy,' said Mr. Peggotty, with no less pride than before, 'it's my belief she'd
go along with him, now! But there'll be someone else, soon,—someone else, soon,
Em'ly!'
Afterwards,
when I went upstairs, as I passed the door of my little chamber, which was
dark, I had an indistinct impression of her being within it, cast down upon the
floor. But, whether it was really she, or whether it was a confusion of the
shadows in the room, I don't know now.
I had
leisure to think, before the kitchen fire, of pretty little Emily's dread of
death—which, added to what Mr. Omer had told me, I took to be the cause of her
being so unlike herself—and I had leisure, before Peggotty came down, even to
think more leniently of the weakness of it: as I sat counting the ticking of
the clock, and deepening my sense of the solemn hush around me. Peggotty took
me in her arms, and blessed and thanked me over and over again for being such a
comfort to her (that was what she said) in her distress. She then entreated me
to come upstairs, sobbing that Mr. Barkis had always liked me and admired me;
that he had often talked of me, before he fell into a stupor; and that she
believed, in case of his coming to himself again, he would brighten up at sight
of me, if he could brighten up at any earthly thing.
The
probability of his ever doing so, appeared to me, when I saw him, to be very
small. He was lying with his head and shoulders out of bed, in an uncomfortable
attitude, half resting on the box which had cost him so much pain and trouble.
I learned, that, when he was past creeping out of bed to open it, and past
assuring himself of its safety by means of the divining rod I had seen him use,
he had required to have it placed on the chair at the bed-side, where he had
ever since embraced it, night and day. His arm lay on it now. Time and the
world were slipping from beneath him, but the box was there; and the last words
he had uttered were (in an explanatory tone) 'Old clothes!'
'Barkis,
my dear!' said Peggotty, almost cheerfully: bending over him, while her brother
and I stood at the bed's foot. 'Here's my dear boy—my dear boy, Master Davy,
who brought us together, Barkis! That you sent messages by, you know! Won't you
speak to Master Davy?'
He was as
mute and senseless as the box, from which his form derived the only expression
it had.
'He's a
going out with the tide,' said Mr. Peggotty to me, behind his hand.
My eyes
were dim and so were Mr. Peggotty's; but I repeated in a whisper, 'With the
tide?'
'People
can't die, along the coast,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'except when the tide's pretty
nigh out. They can't be born, unless it's pretty nigh in—not properly born,
till flood. He's a going out with the tide. It's ebb at half-arter three, slack
water half an hour. If he lives till it turns, he'll hold his own till past the
flood, and go out with the next tide.'
We
remained there, watching him, a long time—hours. What mysterious influence my
presence had upon him in that state of his senses, I shall not pretend to say;
but when he at last began to wander feebly, it is certain he was muttering
about driving me to school.
'He's
coming to himself,' said Peggotty.
Mr.
Peggotty touched me, and whispered with much awe and reverence. 'They are both
a-going out fast.'
'Barkis,
my dear!' said Peggotty.
'C. P.
Barkis,' he cried faintly. 'No better woman anywhere!'
'Look!
Here's Master Davy!' said Peggotty. For he now opened his eyes.
I was on
the point of asking him if he knew me, when he tried to stretch out his arm,
and said to me, distinctly, with a pleasant smile:
'Barkis
is willin'!'
And, it
being low water, he went out with the tide.
To be continued