We had a very serious conversation in Buckingham Street that night,about the domestic occurrences I have detailed in the last chapter. Myaunt was deeply interested in them, and walked up and down the room withher arms folded, for more than two hours afterwards. Whenever she wasparticularly discomposed, she always performed one of these pedestrianfeats; and the amount of her discomposure might always be estimated bythe duration of her walk. On this occasion she was so much disturbed inmind as to find it necessary to open the bedroom door, and make a coursefor herself, comprising the full extent of the bedrooms from wall towall; and while Mr. Dick and I sat quietly by the fire, she kept passingin and out, along this measured track, at an unchanging pace, with theregularity of a clock-pendulum.

When my aunt and I were left to ourselves by Mr. Dick's going out tobed, I sat down to write my letter to the two old ladies. By that timeshe was tired of walking, and sat by the fire with her dress tucked upas usual. But instead of sitting in her usual manner, holding her glassupon her knee, she suffered it to stand neglected on the chimney-piece;and, resting her left elbow on her right arm, and her chin on her lefthand, looked thoughtfully at me. As often as I raised my eyes from whatI was about, I met hers. 'I am in the lovingest of tempers, my dear,'she would assure me with a nod, 'but I am fidgeted and sorry!'

I had been too busy to observe, until after she was gone to bed, thatshe had left her night-mixture, as she always called it, untasted onthe chimney-piece. She came to her door, with even more than her usualaffection of manner, when I knocked to acquaint her with this discovery;but only said, 'I have not the heart to take it, Trot, tonight,' andshook her head, and went in again.

She read my letter to the two old ladies, in the morning, and approvedof it. I posted it, and had nothing to do then, but wait, as patientlyas I could, for the reply. I was still in this state of expectation, andhad been, for nearly a week; when I left the Doctor's one snowy night,to walk home.

It had been a bitter day, and a cutting north-east wind had blown forsome time. The wind had gone down with the light, and so the snow hadcome on. It was a heavy, settled fall, I recollect, in great flakes; andit lay thick. The noise of wheels and tread of people were as hushed, asif the streets had been strewn that depth with feathers.

My shortest way home,--and I naturally took the shortest way on such anight--was through St. Martin's Lane. Now, the church which gives itsname to the lane, stood in a less free situation at that time; therebeing no open space before it, and the lane winding down to the Strand.As I passed the steps of the portico, I encountered, at the corner,a woman's face. It looked in mine, passed across the narrow lane,and disappeared. I knew it. I had seen it somewhere. But I could notremember where. I had some association with it, that struck upon myheart directly; but I was thinking of anything else when it came uponme, and was confused.

On the steps of the church, there was the stooping figure of a man, whohad put down some burden on the smooth snow, to adjust it; my seeing theface, and my seeing him, were simultaneous. I don't think I had stoppedin my surprise; but, in any case, as I went on, he rose, turned, andcame down towards me. I stood face to face with Mr. Peggotty!

Then I remembered the woman. It was Martha, to whom Emily had given themoney that night in the kitchen. Martha Endell--side by side with whom,he would not have seen his dear niece, Ham had told me, for all thetreasures wrecked in the sea.

We shook hands heartily. At first, neither of us could speak a word.

'Mas'r Davy!' he said, gripping me tight, 'it do my art good to see you,sir. Well met, well met!'

'Well met, my dear old friend!' said I.

'I had my thowts o' coming to make inquiration for you, sir, tonight,'he said, 'but knowing as your aunt was living along wi' you--fur I'vebeen down yonder--Yarmouth way--I was afeerd it was too late. I shouldhave come early in the morning, sir, afore going away.'

'Again?' said I.

'Yes, sir,' he replied, patiently shaking his head, 'I'm away tomorrow.'

'Where were you going now?' I asked.

'Well!' he replied, shaking the snow out of his long hair, 'I wasa-going to turn in somewheers.'

In those days there was a side-entrance to the stable-yard of the GoldenCross, the inn so memorable to me in connexion with his misfortune,nearly opposite to where we stood. I pointed out the gateway, put my armthrough his, and we went across. Two or three public-rooms opened out ofthe stable-yard; and looking into one of them, and finding it empty, anda good fire burning, I took him in there.

When I saw him in the light, I observed, not only that his hair was longand ragged, but that his face was burnt dark by the sun. He was greyer,the lines in his face and forehead were deeper, and he had everyappearance of having toiled and wandered through all varietiesof weather; but he looked very strong, and like a man upheld bysteadfastness of purpose, whom nothing could tire out. He shook the snowfrom his hat and clothes, and brushed it away from his face, while I wasinwardly making these remarks. As he sat down opposite to me at a table,with his back to the door by which we had entered, he put out his roughhand again, and grasped mine warmly.

'I'll tell you, Mas'r Davy,' he said,--'wheer all I've been, andwhat-all we've heerd. I've been fur, and we've heerd little; but I'lltell you!'

I rang the bell for something hot to drink. He would have nothingstronger than ale; and while it was being brought, and being warmedat the fire, he sat thinking. There was a fine, massive gravity in hisface, I did not venture to disturb.

'When she was a child,' he said, lifting up his head soon after we wereleft alone, 'she used to talk to me a deal about the sea, and aboutthem coasts where the sea got to be dark blue, and to lay a-shining anda-shining in the sun. I thowt, odd times, as her father being drowndedmade her think on it so much. I doen't know, you see, but maybe shebelieved--or hoped--he had drifted out to them parts, where the flowersis always a-blowing, and the country bright.'

'It is likely to have been a childish fancy,' I replied.

'When she was--lost,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'I know'd in my mind, as hewould take her to them countries. I know'd in my mind, as he'd have toldher wonders of 'em, and how she was to be a lady theer, and how he gother to listen to him fust, along o' sech like. When we see his mother,I know'd quite well as I was right. I went across-channel to France, andlanded theer, as if I'd fell down from the sky.'

I saw the door move, and the snow drift in. I saw it move a little more,and a hand softly interpose to keep it open.

'I found out an English gen'leman as was in authority,' said Mr.Peggotty, 'and told him I was a-going to seek my niece. He got me thempapers as I wanted fur to carry me through--I doen't rightly know howthey're called--and he would have give me money, but that I was thankfulto have no need on. I thank him kind, for all he done, I'm sure! "I'vewrote afore you," he says to me, "and I shall speak to many as will comethat way, and many will know you, fur distant from here, when you'rea-travelling alone." I told him, best as I was able, what my gratitoodewas, and went away through France.'

'Alone, and on foot?' said I.

'Mostly a-foot,' he rejoined; 'sometimes in carts along with peoplegoing to market; sometimes in empty coaches. Many mile a day a-foot, andoften with some poor soldier or another, travelling to see his friends.I couldn't talk to him,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'nor he to me; but we wascompany for one another, too, along the dusty roads.'

I should have known that by his friendly tone.

'When I come to any town,' he pursued, 'I found the inn, and waitedabout the yard till someone turned up (someone mostly did) as know'dEnglish. Then I told how that I was on my way to seek my niece, and theytold me what manner of gentlefolks was in the house, and I waited to seeany as seemed like her, going in or out. When it warn't Em'ly, I went onagen. By little and little, when I come to a new village or that, amongthe poor people, I found they know'd about me. They would set me down attheir cottage doors, and give me what-not fur to eat and drink, and showme where to sleep; and many a woman, Mas'r Davy, as has had a daughterof about Em'ly's age, I've found a-waiting fur me, at Our Saviour'sCross outside the village, fur to do me sim'lar kindnesses. Some has haddaughters as was dead. And God only knows how good them mothers was tome!'

It was Martha at the door. I saw her haggard, listening face distinctly.My dread was lest he should turn his head, and see her too.

'They would often put their children--particular their little girls,'said Mr. Peggotty, 'upon my knee; and many a time you might have seenme sitting at their doors, when night was coming in, a'most as if they'dbeen my Darling's children. Oh, my Darling!'

Overpowered by sudden grief, he sobbed aloud. I laid my trembling handupon the hand he put before his face. 'Thankee, sir,' he said, 'doen'ttake no notice.'

In a very little while he took his hand away and put it on his breast,and went on with his story. 'They often walked with me,' he said, 'inthe morning, maybe a mile or two upon my road; and when we parted, andI said, "I'm very thankful to you! God bless you!" they always seemed tounderstand, and answered pleasant. At last I come to the sea. It warn'thard, you may suppose, for a seafaring man like me to work his wayover to Italy. When I got theer, I wandered on as I had done afore. Thepeople was just as good to me, and I should have gone from town to town,maybe the country through, but that I got news of her being seen amongthem Swiss mountains yonder. One as know'd his servant see 'em there,all three, and told me how they travelled, and where they was. I madefur them mountains, Mas'r Davy, day and night. Ever so fur as I went,ever so fur the mountains seemed to shift away from me. But I come upwith 'em, and I crossed 'em. When I got nigh the place as I had beentold of, I began to think within my own self, "What shall I do when Isee her?"'

The listening face, insensible to the inclement night, still drooped atthe door, and the hands begged me--prayed me--not to cast it forth.

'I never doubted her,' said Mr. Peggotty. 'No! Not a bit! On'y let hersee my face--on'y let her beer my voice--on'y let my stanning stillafore her bring to her thoughts the home she had fled away from, and thechild she had been--and if she had growed to be a royal lady, she'd havefell down at my feet! I know'd it well! Many a time in my sleep had Iheerd her cry out, "Uncle!" and seen her fall like death afore me. Manya time in my sleep had I raised her up, and whispered to her, "Em'ly, mydear, I am come fur to bring forgiveness, and to take you home!"'

He stopped and shook his head, and went on with a sigh.

'He was nowt to me now. Em'ly was all. I bought a country dress to putupon her; and I know'd that, once found, she would walk beside me overthem stony roads, go where I would, and never, never, leave me more. Toput that dress upon her, and to cast off what she wore--to take her onmy arm again, and wander towards home--to stop sometimes upon the road,and heal her bruised feet and her worse-bruised heart--was all that Ithowt of now. I doen't believe I should have done so much as look athim. But, Mas'r Davy, it warn't to be--not yet! I was too late, and theywas gone. Wheer, I couldn't learn. Some said beer, some said theer.I travelled beer, and I travelled theer, but I found no Em'ly, and Itravelled home.'

'How long ago?' I asked.

'A matter o' fower days,' said Mr. Peggotty. 'I sighted the old boatarter dark, and the light a-shining in the winder. When I come nigh andlooked in through the glass, I see the faithful creetur Missis Gummidgesittin' by the fire, as we had fixed upon, alone. I called out, "Doen'tbe afeerd! It's Dan'l!" and I went in. I never could have thowt the oldboat would have been so strange!' From some pocket in his breast, hetook out, with a very careful hand a small paper bundle containing twoor three letters or little packets, which he laid upon the table.

'This fust one come,' he said, selecting it from the rest, 'afore I hadbeen gone a week. A fifty pound Bank note, in a sheet of paper, directedto me, and put underneath the door in the night. She tried to hide herwriting, but she couldn't hide it from Me!'

He folded up the note again, with great patience and care, in exactlythe same form, and laid it on one side.

'This come to Missis Gummidge,' he said, opening another, 'two or threemonths ago.'After looking at it for some moments, he gave it to me, andadded in a low voice, 'Be so good as read it, sir.'

I read as follows:

'Oh what will you feel when you see this writing, and know it comes frommy wicked hand! But try, try--not for my sake, but for uncle's goodness,try to let your heart soften to me, only for a little little time! Try,pray do, to relent towards a miserable girl, and write down on a bit ofpaper whether he is well, and what he said about me before you left offever naming me among yourselves--and whether, of a night, when it is myold time of coming home, you ever see him look as if he thought of onehe used to love so dear. Oh, my heart is breaking when I think aboutit! I am kneeling down to you, begging and praying you not to be ashard with me as I deserve--as I well, well, know I deserve--but to be sogentle and so good, as to write down something of him, and to send it tome. You need not call me Little, you need not call me by the name I havedisgraced; but oh, listen to my agony, and have mercy on me so far as towrite me some word of uncle, never, never to be seen in this world by myeyes again!

'Dear, if your heart is hard towards me--justly hard, I know--but,listen, if it is hard, dear, ask him I have wronged the most--him whosewife I was to have been--before you quite decide against my poor poorprayer! If he should be so compassionate as to say that you might writesomething for me to read--I think he would, oh, I think he would, if youwould only ask him, for he always was so brave and so forgiving--tellhim then (but not else), that when I hear the wind blowing at night,I feel as if it was passing angrily from seeing him and uncle, and wasgoing up to God against me. Tell him that if I was to die tomorrow (andoh, if I was fit, I would be so glad to die!) I would bless him anduncle with my last words, and pray for his happy home with my lastbreath!'

Some money was enclosed in this letter also. Five pounds. It wasuntouched like the previous sum, and he refolded it in the same way.Detailed instructions were added relative to the address of a reply,which, although they betrayed the intervention of several hands, andmade it difficult to arrive at any very probable conclusion in referenceto her place of concealment, made it at least not unlikely that she hadwritten from that spot where she was stated to have been seen.

'What answer was sent?' I inquired of Mr. Peggotty.

'Missis Gummidge,' he returned, 'not being a good scholar, sir, Hamkindly drawed it out, and she made a copy on it. They told her I wasgone to seek her, and what my parting words was.'

'Is that another letter in your hand?' said I.

'It's money, sir,' said Mr. Peggotty, unfolding it a little way. 'Tenpound, you see. And wrote inside, "From a true friend," like the fust.But the fust was put underneath the door, and this come by the post, dayafore yesterday. I'm a-going to seek her at the post-mark.'

He showed it to me. It was a town on the Upper Rhine. He had found out,at Yarmouth, some foreign dealers who knew that country, and they haddrawn him a rude map on paper, which he could very well understand. Helaid it between us on the table; and, with his chin resting on one hand,tracked his course upon it with the other.

I asked him how Ham was? He shook his head.

'He works,' he said, 'as bold as a man can. His name's as good, in allthat part, as any man's is, anywheres in the wureld. Anyone's hand isready to help him, you understand, and his is ready to help them. He'snever been heerd fur to complain. But my sister's belief is ('twixtourselves) as it has cut him deep.'

'Poor fellow, I can believe it!'

'He ain't no care, Mas'r Davy,' said Mr. Peggotty in a solemnwhisper--'kinder no care no-how for his life. When a man's wanted forrough sarvice in rough weather, he's theer. When there's hard duty tobe done with danger in it, he steps for'ard afore all his mates. And yethe's as gentle as any child. There ain't a child in Yarmouth that doen'tknow him.'

He gathered up the letters thoughtfully, smoothing them with his hand;put them into their little bundle; and placed it tenderly in his breastagain. The face was gone from the door. I still saw the snow driftingin; but nothing else was there.

'Well!' he said, looking to his bag, 'having seen you tonight, Mas'rDavy (and that doos me good!), I shall away betimes tomorrow morning.You have seen what I've got heer'; putting his hand on where the littlepacket lay; 'all that troubles me is, to think that any harm might cometo me, afore that money was give back. If I was to die, and it was lost,or stole, or elseways made away with, and it was never know'd by himbut what I'd took it, I believe the t'other wureld wouldn't hold me! Ibelieve I must come back!'

He rose, and I rose too; we grasped each other by the hand again, beforegoing out.

'I'd go ten thousand mile,' he said, 'I'd go till I dropped dead, to laythat money down afore him. If I do that, and find my Em'ly, I'm content.If I doen't find her, maybe she'll come to hear, sometime, as her lovinguncle only ended his search for her when he ended his life; and if Iknow her, even that will turn her home at last!'

As he went out into the rigorous night, I saw the lonely figure flitaway before us. I turned him hastily on some pretence, and held him inconversation until it was gone.

He spoke of a traveller's house on the Dover Road, where he knew hecould find a clean, plain lodging for the night. I went with him overWestminster Bridge, and parted from him on the Surrey shore. Everythingseemed, to my imagination, to be hushed in reverence for him, as heresumed his solitary journey through the snow.

I returned to the inn yard, and, impressed by my remembrance of theface, looked awfully around for it. It was not there. The snow hadcovered our late footprints; my new track was the only one to be seen;and even that began to die away (it snowed so fast) as I looked backover my shoulder.