prompt:
Chapter: By this time, some months had passed since our interview on the bank
of the river with Martha. I had never seen her since, but she had
communicated with Mr. Peggotty on several occasions. Nothing had come of
her zealous intervention; nor could I infer, from what he told me, that
any clue had been obtained, for a moment, to Emily's fate. I confess
that I began to despair of her recovery, and gradually to sink deeper
and deeper into the belief that she was dead.

His conviction remained unchanged. So far as I know--and I believe
his honest heart was transparent to me--he never wavered again, in his
solemn certainty of finding her. His patience never tired. And, although
I trembled for the agony it might one day be to him to have his strong
assurance shivered at a blow, there was something so religious in it, so
affectingly expressive of its anchor being in the purest depths of
his fine nature, that the respect and honour in which I held him were
exalted every day.

His was not a lazy trustfulness that hoped, and did no more. He had
been a man of sturdy action all his life, and he knew that in all things
wherein he wanted help he must do his own part faithfully, and help
himself. I have known him set out in the night, on a misgiving that the
light might not be, by some accident, in the window of the old boat,
and walk to Yarmouth. I have known him, on reading something in the
newspaper that might apply to her, take up his stick, and go forth on a
journey of three--or four-score miles. He made his way by sea to Naples,
and back, after hearing the narrative to which Miss Dartle had assisted
me. All his journeys were ruggedly performed; for he was always
steadfast in a purpose of saving money for Emily's sake, when she should
be found. In all this long pursuit, I never heard him repine; I never
heard him say he was fatigued, or out of heart.

Dora had often seen him since our marriage, and was quite fond of him.
I fancy his figure before me now, standing near her sofa, with his rough
cap in his hand, and the blue eyes of my child-wife raised, with a timid
wonder, to his face. Sometimes of an evening, about twilight, when
he came to talk with me, I would induce him to smoke his pipe in the
garden, as we slowly paced to and fro together; and then, the picture
of his deserted home, and the comfortable air it used to have in my
childish eyes of an evening when the fire was burning, and the wind
moaning round it, came most vividly into my mind.

One evening, at this hour, he told me that he had found Martha waiting
near his lodging on the preceding night when he came out, and that she
had asked him not to leave London on any account, until he should have
seen her again.

'Did she tell you why?' I inquired.

'I asked her, Mas'r Davy,' he replied, 'but it is but few words as she
ever says, and she on'y got my promise and so went away.'

'Did she say when you might expect to see her again?' I demanded.

'No, Mas'r Davy,' he returned, drawing his hand thoughtfully down his
face. 'I asked that too; but it was more (she said) than she could
tell.'

As I had long forborne to encourage him with hopes that hung on threads,
I made no other comment on this information than that I supposed he
would see her soon. Such speculations as it engendered within me I kept
to myself, and those were faint enough.

I was walking alone in the garden, one evening, about a fortnight
afterwards. I remember that evening well. It was the second in Mr.
Micawber's week of suspense. There had been rain all day, and there was
a damp feeling in the air. The leaves were thick upon the trees, and
heavy with wet; but the rain had ceased, though the sky was still dark;
and the hopeful birds were singing cheerfully. As I walked to and fro
in the garden, and the twilight began to close around me, their little
voices were hushed; and that peculiar silence which belongs to such an
evening in the country when the lightest trees are quite still, save for
the occasional droppings from their boughs, prevailed.

There was a little green perspective of trellis-work and ivy at the side
of our cottage, through which I could see, from the garden where I was
walking, into the road before the house. I happened to turn my eyes
towards this place, as I was thinking of many things; and I saw a figure
beyond, dressed in a plain cloak. It was bending eagerly towards me, and
beckoning.

'Martha!' said I, going to it.

'Can you come with me?' she inquired, in an agitated whisper. 'I have
been to him, and he is not at home. I wrote down where he was to come,
and left it on his table with my own hand. They said he would not be out
long. I have tidings for him. Can you come directly?'

My answer was, to pass out at the gate immediately. She made a hasty
gesture with her hand, as if to entreat my patience and my silence,
and turned towards London, whence, as her dress betokened, she had come
expeditiously on foot.

I asked her if that were not our destination? On her motioning Yes,
with the same hasty gesture as before, I stopped an empty coach that was
coming by, and we got into it. When I asked her where the coachman was
to drive, she answered, 'Anywhere near Golden Square! And quick!'--then
shrunk into a corner, with one trembling hand before her face, and the
other making the former gesture, as if she could not bear a voice.

Now much disturbed, and dazzled with conflicting gleams of hope and
dread, I looked at her for some explanation. But seeing how strongly
she desired to remain quiet, and feeling that it was my own natural
inclination too, at such a time, I did not attempt to break the silence.
We proceeded without a word being spoken. Sometimes she glanced out of
the window, as though she thought we were going slowly, though indeed we
were going fast; but otherwise remained exactly as at first.

We alighted at one of the entrances to the Square she had mentioned,
where I directed the coach to wait, not knowing but that we might have
some occasion for it. She laid her hand on my arm, and hurried me on
to one of the sombre streets, of which there are several in that part,
where the houses were once fair dwellings in the occupation of single
families, but have, and had, long degenerated into poor lodgings let off
in rooms. Entering at the open door of one of these, and releasing my
arm, she beckoned me to follow her up the common staircase, which was
like a tributary channel to the street.

The house swarmed with inmates. As we went up, doors of rooms were
opened and people's heads put out; and we passed other people on the
stairs, who were coming down. In glancing up from the outside, before
we entered, I had seen women and children lolling at the windows over
flower-pots; and we seemed to have attracted their curiosity, for these
were principally the observers who looked out of their doors. It was a
broad panelled staircase, with massive balustrades of some dark wood;
cornices above the doors, ornamented with carved fruit and flowers; and
broad seats in the windows. But all these tokens of past grandeur
were miserably decayed and dirty; rot, damp, and age, had weakened
the flooring, which in many places was unsound and even unsafe. Some
attempts had been made, I noticed, to infuse new blood into this
dwindling frame, by repairing the costly old wood-work here and there
with common deal; but it was like the marriage of a reduced old noble to
a plebeian pauper, and each party to the ill-assorted union shrunk away
from the other. Several of the back windows on the staircase had
been darkened or wholly blocked up. In those that remained, there was
scarcely any glass; and, through the crumbling frames by which the bad
air seemed always to come in, and never to go out, I saw, through other
glassless windows, into other houses in a similar condition, and looked
giddily down into a wretched yard, which was the common dust-heap of the
mansion.

We proceeded to the top-storey of the house. Two or three times, by the
way, I thought I observed in the indistinct light the skirts of a female
figure going up before us. As we turned to ascend the last flight of
stairs between us and the roof, we caught a full view of this figure
pausing for a moment, at a door. Then it turned the handle, and went in.

'What's this!' said Martha, in a whisper. 'She has gone into my room. I
don't know her!'

I knew her. I had recognized her with amazement, for Miss Dartle.

I said something to the effect that it was a lady whom I had seen
before, in a few words, to my conductress; and had scarcely done so,
when we heard her voice in the room, though not, from where we stood,
what she was saying. Martha, with an astonished look, repeated her
former action, and softly led me up the stairs; and then, by a little
back-door which seemed to have no lock, and which she pushed open with a
touch, into a small empty garret with a low sloping roof, little better
than a cupboard. Between this, and the room she had called hers,
there was a small door of communication, standing partly open. Here we
stopped, breathless with our ascent, and she placed her hand lightly on
my lips. I could only see, of the room beyond, that it was pretty large;
that there was a bed in it; and that there were some common pictures of
ships upon the walls. I could not see Miss Dartle, or the person whom
we had heard her address. Certainly, my companion could not, for my
position was the best. A dead silence prevailed for some moments. Martha
kept one hand on my lips, and raised the other in a listening attitude.

'It matters little to me her not being at home,' said Rosa Dartle
haughtily, 'I know nothing of her. It is you I come to see.'

'Me?' replied a soft voice.

At the sound of it, a thrill went through my frame. For it was Emily's!

'Yes,' returned Miss Dartle, 'I have come to look at you. What? You are
not ashamed of the face that has done so much?'

The resolute and unrelenting hatred of her tone, its cold stern
sharpness, and its mastered rage, presented her before me, as if I had
seen her standing in the light. I saw the flashing black eyes, and the
passion-wasted figure; and I saw the scar, with its white track cutting
through her lips, quivering and throbbing as she spoke.

'I have come to see,' she said, 'James Steerforth's fancy; the girl who
ran away with him, and is the town-talk of the commonest people of her
native place; the bold, flaunting, practised companion of persons like
James Steerforth. I want to know what such a thing is like.'

There was a rustle, as if the unhappy girl, on whom she heaped these
taunts, ran towards the door, and the speaker swiftly interposed herself
before it. It was succeeded by a moment's pause.

When Miss Dartle spoke again, it was through her set teeth, and with a
stamp upon the ground.

'Stay there!' she said, 'or I'll proclaim you to the house, and the
whole street! If you try to evade me, I'll stop you, if it's by the
hair, and raise the very stones against you!'

A frightened murmur was the only reply that reached my ears. A silence
succeeded. I did not know what to do. Much as I desired to put an end to
the interview, I felt that I had no right to present myself; that it was
for Mr. Peggotty alone to see her and recover her. Would he never come?
I thought impatiently.

'So!' said Rosa Dartle, with a contemptuous laugh, 'I see her at last!
Why, he was a poor creature to be taken by that delicate mock-modesty,
and that hanging head!'

'Oh, for Heaven's sake, spare me!' exclaimed Emily. 'Whoever you are,
you know my pitiable story, and for Heaven's sake spare me, if you would
be spared yourself!'

'If I would be spared!' returned the other fiercely; 'what is there in
common between US, do you think!'

'Nothing but our sex,' said Emily, with a burst of tears.

'And that,' said Rosa Dartle, 'is so strong a claim, preferred by one
so infamous, that if I had any feeling in my breast but scorn and
abhorrence of you, it would freeze it up. Our sex! You are an honour to
our sex!'

'I have deserved this,' said Emily, 'but it's dreadful! Dear, dear lady,
think what I have suffered, and how I am fallen! Oh, Martha, come back!
Oh, home, home!'

Miss Dartle placed herself in a chair, within view of the door, and
looked downward, as if Emily were crouching on the floor before her.
Being now between me and the light, I could see her curled lip, and her
cruel eyes intently fixed on one place, with a greedy triumph.

'Listen to what I say!' she said; 'and reserve your false arts for your
dupes. Do you hope to move me by your tears? No more than you could
charm me by your smiles, you purchased slave.'

'Oh, have some mercy on me!' cried Emily. 'Show me some compassion, or I
shall die mad!'

'It would be no great penance,' said Rosa Dartle, 'for your crimes. Do
you know what you have done? Do you ever think of the home you have laid
waste?'

'Oh, is there ever night or day, when I don't think of it!' cried Emily;
and now I could just see her, on her knees, with her head thrown back,
her pale face looking upward, her hands wildly clasped and held out,
and her hair streaming about her. 'Has there ever been a single minute,
waking or sleeping, when it hasn't been before me, just as it used to
be in the lost days when I turned my back upon it for ever and for ever!
Oh, home, home! Oh dear, dear uncle, if you ever could have known the
agony your love would cause me when I fell away from good, you never
would have shown it to me so constant, much as you felt it; but would
have been angry to me, at least once in my life, that I might have had
some comfort! I have none, none, no comfort upon earth, for all of them
were always fond of me!' She dropped on her face, before the imperious
figure in the chair, with an imploring effort to clasp the skirt of her
dress.

Rosa Dartle sat looking down upon her, as inflexible as a figure of
brass. Her lips were tightly compressed, as if she knew that she
must keep a strong constraint upon herself--I write what I sincerely
believe--or she would be tempted to strike the beautiful form with
her foot. I saw her, distinctly, and the whole power of her face and
character seemed forced into that expression.---Would he never come?

'The miserable vanity of these earth-worms!' she said, when she had so
far controlled the angry heavings of her breast, that she could trust
herself to speak. 'YOUR home! Do you imagine that I bestow a thought
on it, or suppose you could do any harm to that low place, which money
would not pay for, and handsomely? YOUR home! You were a part of the
trade of your home, and were bought and sold like any other vendible
thing your people dealt in.'

'Oh, not that!' cried Emily. 'Say anything of me; but don't visit
my disgrace and shame, more than I have done, on folks who are as
honourable as you! Have some respect for them, as you are a lady, if you
have no mercy for me.'

'I speak,' she said, not deigning to take any heed of this appeal, and
drawing away her dress from the contamination of Emily's touch, 'I speak
of HIS home--where I live. Here,' she said, stretching out her hand with
her contemptuous laugh, and looking down upon the prostrate girl, 'is a
worthy cause of division between lady-mother and gentleman-son; of grief
in a house where she wouldn't have been admitted as a kitchen-girl; of
anger, and repining, and reproach. This piece of pollution, picked up
from the water-side, to be made much of for an hour, and then tossed
back to her original place!'

'No! no!' cried Emily, clasping her hands together. 'When he first came
into my way--that the day had never dawned upon me, and he had met me
being carried to my grave!--I had been brought up as virtuous as you or
any lady, and was going to be the wife of as good a man as you or any
lady in the world can ever marry. If you live in his home and know him,
you know, perhaps, what his power with a weak, vain girl might be. I
don't defend myself, but I know well, and he knows well, or he will know
when he comes to die, and his mind is troubled with it, that he used all
his power to deceive me, and that I believed him, trusted him, and loved
him!'

Rosa Dartle sprang up from her seat; recoiled; and in recoiling struck
at her, with a face of such malignity, so darkened and disfigured by
passion, that I had almost thrown myself between them. The blow, which
had no aim, fell upon the air. As she now stood panting, looking at
her with the utmost detestation that she was capable of expressing, and
trembling from head to foot with rage and scorn, I thought I had never
seen such a sight, and never could see such another.

'YOU love him? You?' she cried, with her clenched hand, quivering as if
it only wanted a weapon to stab the object of her wrath.

Emily had shrunk out of my view. There was no reply.

'And tell that to ME,' she added, 'with your shameful lips? Why don't
they whip these creatures? If I could order it to be done, I would have
this girl whipped to death.'

And so she would, I have no doubt. I would not have trusted her with the
rack itself, while that furious look lasted. She slowly, very slowly,
broke into a laugh, and pointed at Emily with her hand, as if she were a
sight of shame for gods and men.

'SHE love!' she said. 'THAT carrion! And he ever cared for her, she'd
tell me. Ha, ha! The liars that these traders are!'

Her mockery was worse than her undisguised rage. Of the two, I would
have much preferred to be the object of the latter. But, when she
suffered it to break loose, it was only for a moment. She had chained
it up again, and however it might tear her within, she subdued it to
herself.

'I came here, you pure fountain of love,' she said, 'to see--as I began
by telling you--what such a thing as you was like. I was curious. I am
satisfied. Also to tell you, that you had best seek that home of yours,
with all speed, and hide your head among those excellent people who are
expecting you, and whom your money will console. When it's all gone, you
can believe, and trust, and love again, you know! I thought you a broken
toy that had lasted its time; a worthless spangle that was tarnished,
and thrown away. But, finding you true gold, a very lady, and
an ill-used innocent, with a fresh heart full of love and
trustfulness--which you look like, and is quite consistent with your
story!--I have something more to say. Attend to it; for what I say I'll
do. Do you hear me, you fairy spirit? What I say, I mean to do!'

Her rage got the better of her again, for a moment; but it passed over
her face like a spasm, and left her smiling.

'Hide yourself,' she pursued, 'if not at home, somewhere. Let it be
somewhere beyond reach; in some obscure life--or, better still, in some
obscure death. I wonder, if your loving heart will not break, you have
found no way of helping it to be still! I have heard of such means
sometimes. I believe they may be easily found.'

A low crying, on the part of Emily, interrupted her here. She stopped,
and listened to it as if it were music.

'I am of a strange nature, perhaps,' Rosa Dartle went on; 'but I can't
breathe freely in the air you breathe. I find it sickly. Therefore, I
will have it cleared; I will have it purified of you. If you live here
tomorrow, I'll have your story and your character proclaimed on the
common stair. There are decent women in the house, I am told; and it
is a pity such a light as you should be among them, and concealed. If,
leaving here, you seek any refuge in this town in any character but your
true one (which you are welcome to bear, without molestation from me),
the same service shall be done you, if I hear of your retreat. Being
assisted by a gentleman who not long ago aspired to the favour of your
hand, I am sanguine as to that.'

Would he never, never come? How long was I to bear this? How long could
I bear it? 'Oh me, oh me!' exclaimed the wretched Emily, in a tone that
might have touched the hardest heart, I should have thought; but there
was no relenting in Rosa Dartle's smile. 'What, what, shall I do!'

'Do?' returned the other. 'Live happy in your own reflections!
Consecrate your existence to the recollection of James Steerforth's
tenderness--he would have made you his serving-man's wife, would he
not?---or to feeling grateful to the upright and deserving creature who
would have taken you as his gift. Or, if those proud remembrances, and
the consciousness of your own virtues, and the honourable position to
which they have raised you in the eyes of everything that wears the
human shape, will not sustain you, marry that good man, and be happy in
his condescension. If this will not do either, die! There are doorways
and dust-heaps for such deaths, and such despair--find one, and take
your flight to Heaven!'

I heard a distant foot upon the stairs. I knew it, I was certain. It was
his, thank God!

She moved slowly from before the door when she said this, and passed out
of my sight.

'But mark!' she added, slowly and sternly, opening the other door to
go away, 'I am resolved, for reasons that I have and hatreds that
I entertain, to cast you out, unless you withdraw from my reach
altogether, or drop your pretty mask. This is what I had to say; and
what I say, I mean to do!'

The foot upon the stairs came nearer--nearer--passed her as she went
down--rushed into the room!

'Uncle!'

A fearful cry followed the word. I paused a moment, and looking in, saw
him supporting her insensible figure in his arms. He gazed for a few
seconds in the face; then stooped to kiss it--oh, how tenderly!--and
drew a handkerchief before it.

'Mas'r Davy,' he said, in a low tremulous voice, when it was covered, 'I
thank my Heav'nly Father as my dream's come true! I thank Him hearty for
having guided of me, in His own ways, to my darling!'

With those words he took her up in his arms; and, with the veiled
face lying on his bosom, and addressed towards his own, carried her,
motionless and unconscious, down the stairs.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: David doesn't hear anything from Martha Endell for several months, but she's in touch with Mr. Peggotty. David thinks more and more that Emily must be dead. Mr. Peggotty's faith that she's alive never changes. Dora grows to like Mr. Peggotty and sees him quite often. One night, Mr. Peggotty tells David that Martha has been to see him, and to ask that Mr. Peggotty absolutely not leave England. Martha won't say why though. David doesn't want to get Mr. Peggotty's hopes up, so he says nothing about this. About two weeks later, and two days after David saw Mr. Micawber, he is walking in his garden. A woman beckons him over: it is Martha Endell. She asks David to come with her immediately. David and Martha drive into downtown London. Martha guides David down one of the dark and grungy streets to a poor lodging-house. David walks up to the top story of the house. In the shadows on the staircase, he can see a woman walking ahead of them. Martha exclaims that she doesn't know the woman who has gone into this room. David knows her, though: it's Miss Dartle. Martha leads David softly up the stairs, but she indicates that he must not say anything. Miss Dartle is inside telling someone that she has come to see her. A voice speaks, and David recognizes it as Emily's. Miss Dartle asks how Emily can show her face to Miss Dartle, after she has done so much. Miss Dartle won't let Emily leave; if she tries, Miss Dartle will tell the whole world Emily's history. Emily sounds frightened. Miss Dartle asks how Steerforth can have fallen for such fake modesty. Emily begs Miss Dartle to be merciful, because of her suffering. Miss Dartle tells Emily that she can't be moved by Emily's tears. She reproaches Emily with the home Emily has ruined. Emily weeps to think of the pain her uncle and her family has gone through on her behalf. Miss Dartle looks down on Emily and mocks her for thinking that Miss Dartle meant Emily's family; she meant her own. Emily protests: when Steerforth first came to her, she truly loved him! She believed that she would be his wife! Miss Dartle threatens that, if she had her way, Emily would be whipped to death. Then she mocks Emily for daring to claim that she knows how to love. Miss Dartle warns Emily to hide herself among her family or to die, because Miss Dartle will hunt her down wherever Emily goes and tell everyone what kind of a creature she is. David is in agony waiting for Mr. Peggotty, because he cannot bear to hear this torture. Miss Dartle tells Emily that she should spend the rest of her days thinking of Steerforth's treatment of her, or of her own lost virtue - and then she should die. Miss Dartle hears a footstep on the stairs and walks out the door, but not without warning Emily again of her plans. Finally Mr. Peggotty comes in and embraces a fainting Emily. Mr. Peggotty thanks God that he has finally found his darling niece. He carries Emily down the stairs.


prompt:
Chapter: It was yet early in the morning of the following day, when, as I was
walking in my garden with my aunt (who took little other exercise
now, being so much in attendance on my dear Dora), I was told that Mr.
Peggotty desired to speak with me. He came into the garden to meet me
half-way, on my going towards the gate; and bared his head, as it was
always his custom to do when he saw my aunt, for whom he had a high
respect. I had been telling her all that had happened overnight. Without
saying a word, she walked up with a cordial face, shook hands with him,
and patted him on the arm. It was so expressively done, that she had no
need to say a word. Mr. Peggotty understood her quite as well as if she
had said a thousand.

'I'll go in now, Trot,' said my aunt, 'and look after Little Blossom,
who will be getting up presently.'

'Not along of my being heer, ma'am, I hope?' said Mr. Peggotty. 'Unless
my wits is gone a bahd's neezing'--by which Mr. Peggotty meant to say,
bird's-nesting--'this morning, 'tis along of me as you're a-going to
quit us?'

'You have something to say, my good friend,' returned my aunt, 'and will
do better without me.'

'By your leave, ma'am,' returned Mr. Peggotty, 'I should take it kind,
pervising you doen't mind my clicketten, if you'd bide heer.'

'Would you?' said my aunt, with short good-nature. 'Then I am sure I
will!'

So, she drew her arm through Mr. Peggotty's, and walked with him to a
leafy little summer-house there was at the bottom of the garden, where
she sat down on a bench, and I beside her. There was a seat for Mr.
Peggotty too, but he preferred to stand, leaning his hand on the small
rustic table. As he stood, looking at his cap for a little while before
beginning to speak, I could not help observing what power and force
of character his sinewy hand expressed, and what a good and trusty
companion it was to his honest brow and iron-grey hair.

'I took my dear child away last night,' Mr. Peggotty began, as he
raised his eyes to ours, 'to my lodging, wheer I have a long time been
expecting of her and preparing fur her. It was hours afore she knowed me
right; and when she did, she kneeled down at my feet, and kiender said
to me, as if it was her prayers, how it all come to be. You may believe
me, when I heerd her voice, as I had heerd at home so playful--and see
her humbled, as it might be in the dust our Saviour wrote in with his
blessed hand--I felt a wownd go to my 'art, in the midst of all its
thankfulness.'

He drew his sleeve across his face, without any pretence of concealing
why; and then cleared his voice.

'It warn't for long as I felt that; for she was found. I had on'y to
think as she was found, and it was gone. I doen't know why I do so much
as mention of it now, I'm sure. I didn't have it in my mind a minute
ago, to say a word about myself; but it come up so nat'ral, that I
yielded to it afore I was aweer.'

'You are a self-denying soul,' said my aunt, 'and will have your
reward.'

Mr. Peggotty, with the shadows of the leaves playing athwart his
face, made a surprised inclination of the head towards my aunt, as an
acknowledgement of her good opinion; then took up the thread he had
relinquished.

'When my Em'ly took flight,' he said, in stern wrath for the moment,
'from the house wheer she was made a prisoner by that theer spotted
snake as Mas'r Davy see,--and his story's trew, and may GOD confound
him!--she took flight in the night. It was a dark night, with a many
stars a-shining. She was wild. She ran along the sea beach, believing
the old boat was theer; and calling out to us to turn away our faces,
for she was a-coming by. She heerd herself a-crying out, like as if
it was another person; and cut herself on them sharp-pinted stones and
rocks, and felt it no more than if she had been rock herself. Ever so
fur she run, and there was fire afore her eyes, and roarings in her
ears. Of a sudden--or so she thowt, you unnerstand--the day broke, wet
and windy, and she was lying b'low a heap of stone upon the shore, and
a woman was a-speaking to her, saying, in the language of that country,
what was it as had gone so much amiss?'

He saw everything he related. It passed before him, as he spoke, so
vividly, that, in the intensity of his earnestness, he presented what
he described to me, with greater distinctness than I can express. I can
hardly believe, writing now long afterwards, but that I was actually
present in these scenes; they are impressed upon me with such an
astonishing air of fidelity.

'As Em'ly's eyes--which was heavy--see this woman better,' Mr. Peggotty
went on, 'she know'd as she was one of them as she had often talked to
on the beach. Fur, though she had run (as I have said) ever so fur in
the night, she had oftentimes wandered long ways, partly afoot, partly
in boats and carriages, and know'd all that country, 'long the coast,
miles and miles. She hadn't no children of her own, this woman, being
a young wife; but she was a-looking to have one afore long. And may
my prayers go up to Heaven that 'twill be a happiness to her, and a
comfort, and a honour, all her life! May it love her and be dootiful to
her, in her old age; helpful of her at the last; a Angel to her heer,
and heerafter!'

'Amen!' said my aunt.

'She had been summat timorous and down,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'and had sat,
at first, a little way off, at her spinning, or such work as it was,
when Em'ly talked to the children. But Em'ly had took notice of her,
and had gone and spoke to her; and as the young woman was partial to
the children herself, they had soon made friends. Sermuchser, that when
Em'ly went that way, she always giv Em'ly flowers. This was her as
now asked what it was that had gone so much amiss. Em'ly told her,
and she--took her home. She did indeed. She took her home,' said Mr.
Peggotty, covering his face.

He was more affected by this act of kindness, than I had ever seen him
affected by anything since the night she went away. My aunt and I did
not attempt to disturb him.

'It was a little cottage, you may suppose,' he said, presently, 'but she
found space for Em'ly in it,--her husband was away at sea,--and she kep
it secret, and prevailed upon such neighbours as she had (they was not
many near) to keep it secret too. Em'ly was took bad with fever,
and, what is very strange to me is,--maybe 'tis not so strange to
scholars,--the language of that country went out of her head, and she
could only speak her own, that no one unnerstood. She recollects, as if
she had dreamed it, that she lay there always a-talking her own tongue,
always believing as the old boat was round the next pint in the bay, and
begging and imploring of 'em to send theer and tell how she was dying,
and bring back a message of forgiveness, if it was on'y a wured. A'most
the whole time, she thowt,--now, that him as I made mention on just now
was lurking for her unnerneath the winder; now that him as had brought
her to this was in the room,--and cried to the good young woman not to
give her up, and know'd, at the same time, that she couldn't unnerstand,
and dreaded that she must be took away. Likewise the fire was afore
her eyes, and the roarings in her ears; and theer was no today, nor
yesterday, nor yet tomorrow; but everything in her life as ever had
been, or as ever could be, and everything as never had been, and as
never could be, was a crowding on her all at once, and nothing clear nor
welcome, and yet she sang and laughed about it! How long this lasted, I
doen't know; but then theer come a sleep; and in that sleep, from being
a many times stronger than her own self, she fell into the weakness of
the littlest child.'

Here he stopped, as if for relief from the terrors of his own
description. After being silent for a few moments, he pursued his story.

'It was a pleasant arternoon when she awoke; and so quiet, that there
warn't a sound but the rippling of that blue sea without a tide, upon
the shore. It was her belief, at first, that she was at home upon a
Sunday morning; but the vine leaves as she see at the winder, and the
hills beyond, warn't home, and contradicted of her. Then, come in her
friend to watch alongside of her bed; and then she know'd as the old
boat warn't round that next pint in the bay no more, but was fur off;
and know'd where she was, and why; and broke out a-crying on that good
young woman's bosom, wheer I hope her baby is a-lying now, a-cheering of
her with its pretty eyes!'

He could not speak of this good friend of Emily's without a flow of
tears. It was in vain to try. He broke down again, endeavouring to bless
her!

'That done my Em'ly good,' he resumed, after such emotion as I could
not behold without sharing in; and as to my aunt, she wept with all her
heart; 'that done Em'ly good, and she begun to mend. But, the language
of that country was quite gone from her, and she was forced to make
signs. So she went on, getting better from day to day, slow, but sure,
and trying to learn the names of common things--names as she seemed
never to have heerd in all her life--till one evening come, when she
was a-setting at her window, looking at a little girl at play upon the
beach. And of a sudden this child held out her hand, and said, what
would be in English, "Fisherman's daughter, here's a shell!"--for you
are to unnerstand that they used at first to call her "Pretty lady", as
the general way in that country is, and that she had taught 'em to
call her "Fisherman's daughter" instead. The child says of a sudden,
"Fisherman's daughter, here's a shell!" Then Em'ly unnerstands her; and
she answers, bursting out a-crying; and it all comes back!

'When Em'ly got strong again,' said Mr. Peggotty, after another short
interval of silence, 'she cast about to leave that good young creetur,
and get to her own country. The husband was come home, then; and the two
together put her aboard a small trader bound to Leghorn, and from that
to France. She had a little money, but it was less than little as they
would take for all they done. I'm a'most glad on it, though they was
so poor! What they done, is laid up wheer neither moth or rust doth
corrupt, and wheer thieves do not break through nor steal. Mas'r Davy,
it'll outlast all the treasure in the wureld.

'Em'ly got to France, and took service to wait on travelling ladies at a
inn in the port. Theer, theer come, one day, that snake. --Let him never
come nigh me. I doen't know what hurt I might do him!--Soon as she see
him, without him seeing her, all her fear and wildness returned upon
her, and she fled afore the very breath he draw'd. She come to England,
and was set ashore at Dover.

'I doen't know,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'for sure, when her 'art begun to
fail her; but all the way to England she had thowt to come to her dear
home. Soon as she got to England she turned her face tow'rds it. But,
fear of not being forgiv, fear of being pinted at, fear of some of
us being dead along of her, fear of many things, turned her from it,
kiender by force, upon the road: "Uncle, uncle," she says to me, "the
fear of not being worthy to do what my torn and bleeding breast so
longed to do, was the most fright'ning fear of all! I turned back, when
my 'art was full of prayers that I might crawl to the old door-step, in
the night, kiss it, lay my wicked face upon it, and theer be found dead
in the morning."

'She come,' said Mr. Peggotty, dropping his voice to an
awe-stricken whisper, 'to London. She--as had never seen it in her
life--alone--without a penny--young--so pretty--come to London. A'most
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
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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: David is walking with Miss Betsey in the garden early the next morning when Mr. Peggotty comes by to speak to David. Miss Betsey shakes Mr. Peggotty's hand and starts to go inside. Mr. Peggotty asks her to stay. He tells them that he brought Emily to his lodging house the night before. Mr. Peggotty recounts Emily's story: After she flees from the house where Littimer has kept her a prisoner, she runs along the beach. She is so out of it that she thinks she is running towards the old boat house. A woman finds Emily lying on a rock near the shore and starts to speak to her. Emily can barely speak, she feels so ill. Still, this woman - a pregnant young wife - tries to help Emily. The woman asks how things can have gone so wrong for Emily, and Emily tells her whole story. The woman takes Emily home, and convinces her neighbors to keep Emily's presence a secret. Emily gets a bad fever, and she finds herself forgetting all the Italian she knew. Even so, the young woman keeps helping her. Emily falls into delirium and thinks she sees familiar faces all around her, both bad and good. Finally, one morning, she wakes up clear-headed. Emily begins to recover, and her knowledge of Italian starts to come back. When Emily is strong again, she travels to France and becomes a maid at an inn in a port town. One day, that fiend comes into sight, and Emily runs away again without him ever seeing her. She grows frightened and jumps on a boat to England. Once Emily arrives in England, she suddenly worries that her uncle will never forgive her. So, Emily runs to London, alone and penniless. Almost the minute Emily arrives in London, she runs into a woman who offers her lodging for the night and a job as a needleworker. This woman is Martha! Mr. Peggotty thanks David for recommending that Mr. Peggotty trust in Martha. Martha has been true to her word. Martha tells Emily that she has seen Mr. Peggotty and that he forgives Emily. Martha nurses Emily until she can go out and find Mr. Peggotty. Mr. Peggotty has no idea how Miss Dartle might have found Emily, but he suspects it's thanks to Littimer. It doesn't matter to Mr. Peggotty: he has spent the evening talking to his long-lost niece, and he is so happy. Miss Betsey says that nothing would make her happier than to be godmother to that kindly Italian woman's child. Mr. Peggotty nods, but cannot speak. Finally, David asks if Mr. Peggotty has decided what to do for the future. Mr. Peggotty is going to sail with Emily to Australia, where no one will reproach Emily. Emily and Mr. Peggotty will go alone: Peggotty is too fond of David to leave, and Ham - can't. Ham is still broken-hearted. Mr. Peggotty doesn't know what to do about Mrs. Gummidge, though. When Mrs. Gummidge starts thinking about her husband, she is such bad company, and he doesn't want anything to bring Emily down. Mr. Peggotty wants to leave Mrs. Gummidge an allowance so that she can provide for herself. In the meanwhile, Emily will rest with Mr. Peggotty while preparations are being made. Mr. Peggotty's last piece of business is to send back the banknotes that came from Steerforth and that Emily sent to him. He plans to direct them to Mrs. Steerforth's house. Mr. Peggotty also asks David to come with him to Yarmouth. Dora seems better, so off David goes with Mr. Peggotty. David doesn't want to be there when Mr. Peggotty first meets Peggotty and Ham, so he decides to stop and see Mr. Omer first. Mr. Omer is now in a wheelchair, but he still seems in good spirits. In fact, David is impressed by how cheerful Mr. Omer is: he says he enjoys the newspaper twice as much now that he's placed in his chair. Joram and Minnie are both happy, and Joram's work is going well. And Mr. Omer compliments David on his own work, which he claims to have enjoyed very much - although David has his doubts. David thanks Mr. Omer for all of his kindness towards Emily and explains that she has been found by her uncle. Mr. Omer is happy to hear it and asks what has become of Martha? David says that he is not sure yet, but he's sure Mr. Peggotty has a plan. Mr. Omer says he'll be happy to find some way to help Martha, and he's sure that Minnie will be glad to help, too. Mr. Omer adds that Ham is the best man in Yarmouth, always willing to help other people out. Mr. Omer sends his respects to Ham and then plays happily with his granddaughter. David now heads over to Ham's house. He finds Ham, Mrs. Gummidge, Mr. Peggotty, and Peggotty all gathered around the table. Mr. Peggotty has told them the news. The next day, when Ham comes home from fishing, David gets Ham alone for a bit. Ham asks if David has seen Emily, and if he plans to see her again? David thinks it would be too painful for her, but he would be happy to write to Emily for Ham if Ham wants to get in touch. Ham thanks him, and asks David to say just this: Ham wants Emily to forgive him. He worries that, if he hadn't pressed Emily to marry him, she might have felt free to talk to him about Steerforth and his plans, and then Ham could have saved her. And there is something else: Ham is terribly unhappy. But he doesn't want Emily to know that. Ham wants David to convince her that Ham wasn't too badly hurt, and that he's still living a good life. David promises that he will do his best to soothe Emily's mind. Ham thanks him for that, and for accompanying Mr. Peggotty on his trip from London to Yarmouth. David approaches the boat house, which has been emptied of furniture. He finds Mrs. Gummidge and Mr. Peggotty. The boat house seems lonely now that it is empty; apparently, the villagers think it's unlucky now. Mrs. Gummidge suddenly grabs Mr. Peggotty's arm. She begs him not to leave her behind. Mr. Peggotty says that they are in for a long trip and a hard life, but Mrs. Gummidge doesn't care - she will die if she is left behind. Mrs. Gummidge begs David to speak to Mr. Peggotty and convince him for her. She kisses Mr. Peggotty's hand. They carry her trunk out the door, lock up the house, and Mrs. Gummidge travels to London with Mr. Peggotty and David the next day.