DAVID COPPERFIELD by CHARLES DICKENS

house. I'd sooner stand.' And this was succeeded by another
silence, which she broke thus:
'I know, with deep regret, what has brought you here. What do you
want of me? What do you ask me to do?'
He put his hat under his arm, and feeling in his breast for Emily's
letter, took it out, unfolded it, and gave it to her.
'Please to read that, ma'am. That's my niece's hand!'
She read it, in the same stately and impassive way, - untouched by
its contents, as far as I could see, - and returned it to him.
'"Unless he brings me back a lady,"' said Mr. Peggotty, tracing out
that part with his finger. 'I come to know, ma'am, whether he will
keep his wured?'
'No,' she returned.
'Why not?' said Mr. Peggotty.
'It is impossible. He would disgrace himself. You cannot fail to
know that she is far below him.'
'Raise her up!' said Mr. Peggotty.
'She is uneducated and ignorant.'
'Maybe she's not; maybe she is,' said Mr. Peggotty. 'I think not,
ma'am; but I'm no judge of them things. Teach her better!'
'Since you oblige me to speak more plainly, which I am very
unwilling to do, her humble connexions would render such a thing
impossible, if nothing else did.'
'Hark to this, ma'am,' he returned, slowly and quietly. 'You know
what it is to love your child. So do I. If she was a hundred
times my child, I couldn't love her more. You doen't know what it
is to lose your child. I do. All the heaps of riches in the
wureld would be nowt to me (if they was mine) to buy her back!
But, save her from this disgrace, and she shall never be disgraced
by us. Not one of us that she's growed up among, not one of us
that's lived along with her and had her for their all in all, these
many year, will ever look upon her pritty face again. We'll be
content to let her be; we'll be content to think of her, far off,
as if she was underneath another sun and sky; we'll be content to
trust her to her husband, - to her little children, p'raps, - and
bide the time when all of us shall be alike in quality afore our
God!'
The rugged eloquence with which he spoke, was not devoid of all
effect. She still preserved her proud manner, but there was a
touch of softness in her voice, as she answered:
'I justify nothing. I make no counter-accusations. But I am sorry
to repeat, it is impossible. Such a marriage would irretrievably
blight my son's career, and ruin his prospects. Nothing is more
certain than that it never can take place, and never will. If
there is any other compensation -'
'I am looking at the likeness of the face,' interrupted Mr.
Peggotty, with a steady but a kindling eye, 'that has looked at me,
in my home, at my fireside, in my boat - wheer not? - smiling and
friendly, when it was so treacherous, that I go half wild when I
think of it. If the likeness of that face don't turn to burning
fire, at the thought of offering money to me for my child's blight
and ruin, it's as bad. I doen't know, being a lady's, but what
it's worse.'
She changed now, in a moment. An angry flush overspread her
features; and she said, in an intolerant manner, grasping the
arm-chair tightly with her hands:
'What compensation can you make to ME for opening such a pit
between me and my son? What is your love to mine? What is your
separation to ours?'
Miss Dartle softly touched her, and bent down her head to whisper,
but she would not hear a word.
'No, Rosa, not a word! Let the man listen to what I say! My son,
who has been the object of my life, to whom its every thought has
been devoted, whom I have gratified from a child in every wish,
from whom I have had no separate existence since his birth, - to
take up in a moment with a miserable girl, and avoid me! To repay
my confidence with systematic deception, for her sake, and quit me
for her! To set this wretched fancy, against his mother's claims
upon his duty, love, respect, gratitude - claims that every day and
hour of his life should have strengthened into ties that nothing
could be proof against! Is this no injury?'
Again Rosa Dartle tried to soothe her; again ineffectually.
'I say, Rosa, not a word! If he can stake his all upon the
lightest object, I can stake my all upon a greater purpose. Let
him go where he will, with the means that my love has secured to
him! Does he think to reduce me by long absence? He knows his
mother very little if he does. Let him put away his whim now, and
he is welcome back. Let him not put her away now, and he never
shall come near me, living or dying, while I can raise my hand to
make a sign against it, unless, being rid of her for ever, he comes
humbly to me and begs for my forgiveness. This is my right. This
is the acknowledgement I WILL HAVE. This is the separation that
there is between us! And is this,' she added, looking at her
visitor with the proud intolerant air with which she had begun, 'no
injury?'
While I heard and saw the mother as she said these words, I seemed
to hear and see the son, defying them. All that I had ever seen in
him of an unyielding, wilful spirit, I saw in her. All the
understanding that I had now of his misdirected energy, became an
understanding of her character too, and a perception that it was,
in its strongest springs, the same.
She now observed to me, aloud, resuming her former restraint, that
it was useless to hear more, or to say more, and that she begged to
put an end to the interview. She rose with an air of dignity to
leave the room, when Mr. Peggotty signified that it was needless.
'Doen't fear me being any hindrance to you, I have no more to say,
ma'am,' he remarked, as he moved towards the door. 'I come beer
with no hope, and I take away no hope. I have done what I thowt
should be done, but I never looked fur any good to come of my
stan'ning where I do. This has been too evil a house fur me and
mine, fur me to be in my right senses and expect it.'
With this, we departed; leaving her standing by her elbow-chair, a
picture of a noble presence and a handsome face.
We had, on our way out, to cross a paved hall, with glass sides and
roof, over which a vine was trained. Its leaves and shoots were
green then, and the day being sunny, a pair of glass doors leading
to the garden were thrown open. Rosa Dartle, entering this way
with a noiseless step, when we were close to them, addressed
herself to me:
'You do well,' she said, 'indeed, to bring this fellow here!'
Such a concentration of rage and scorn as darkened her face, and
flashed in her jet-black eyes, I could not have thought
compressible even into that face. The scar made by the hammer was,
as usual in this excited state of her features, strongly marked.
When the throbbing I had seen before, came into it as I looked at
her, she absolutely lifted up her hand, and struck it.
'This is a fellow,' she said, 'to champion and bring here, is he
not? You are a true man!'
'Miss Dartle,' I returned, 'you are surely not so unjust as to
condemn ME!'
'Why do you bring division between these two mad creatures?' she
returned. 'Don't you know that they are both mad with their own
self-will and pride?'
'Is it my doing?' I returned.
'Is it your doing!' she retorted. 'Why do you bring this man
here?'
'He is a deeply-injured man, Miss Dartle,' I replied. 'You may not
know it.'
'I know that James Steerforth,' she said, with her hand on her
bosom, as if to prevent the storm that was raging there, from being
loud, 'has a false, corrupt heart, and is a traitor. But what need
I know or care about this fellow, and his common niece?'
'Miss Dartle,' I returned, 'you deepen the injury. It is
sufficient already. I will only say, at parting, that you do him
a great wrong.'
'I do him no wrong,' she returned. 'They are a depraved, worthless
set. I would have her whipped!'
Mr. Peggotty passed on, without a word, and went out at the door.
'Oh, shame, Miss Dartle! shame!' I said indignantly. 'How can you
bear to trample on his undeserved affliction!'
'I would trample on them all,' she answered. 'I would have his
house pulled down. I would have her branded on the face, dressed
in rags, and cast out in the streets to starve. If I had the power
to sit in judgement on her, I would see it done. See it done? I
would do it! I detest her. If I ever could reproach her with her
infamous condition, I would go anywhere to do so. If I could hunt
her to her grave, I would. If there was any word of comfort that
would be a solace to her in her dying hour, and only I possessed
it, I wouldn't part with it for Life itself.'
The mere vehemence of her words can convey, I am sensible, but a
weak impression of the passion by which she was possessed, and
which made itself articulate in her whole figure, though her voice,
instead of being raised, was lower than usual. No description I
could give of her would do justice to my recollection of her, or to
her entire deliverance of herself to her anger. I have seen
passion in many forms, but I have never seen it in such a form as
that.
When I joined Mr. Peggotty, he was walking slowly and thoughtfully
down the hill. He told me, as soon as I came up with him, that
having now discharged his mind of what he had purposed doing in
London, he meant 'to set out on his travels', that night. I asked
him where he meant to go? He only answered, 'I'm a going, sir, to
seek my niece.'
We went back to the little lodging over the chandler's shop, and
there I found an opportunity of repeating to Peggotty what he had
said to me. She informed me, in return, that he had said the same
to her that morning. She knew no more than I did, where he was
going, but she thought he had some project shaped out in his mind.
I did not like to leave him, under such circumstances, and we all
three dined together off a beefsteak pie - which was one of the
many good things for which Peggotty was famous - and which was
curiously flavoured on this occasion, I recollect well, by a
miscellaneous taste of tea, coffee, butter, bacon, cheese, new
loaves, firewood, candles, and walnut ketchup, continually
ascending from the shop. After dinner we sat for an hour or so
near the window, without talking much; and then Mr. Peggotty got
up, and brought his oilskin bag and his stout stick, and laid them
on the table.
He accepted, from his sister's stock of ready money, a small sum on
account of his legacy; barely enough, I should have thought, to
keep him for a month. He promised to communicate with me, when
anything befell him; and he slung his bag about him, took his hat
and stick, and bade us both 'Good-bye!'
'All good attend you, dear old woman,' he said, embracing Peggotty,
'and you too, Mas'r Davy!' shaking hands with me. 'I'm a-going to
seek her, fur and wide. If she should come home while I'm away -
but ah, that ain't like to be! - or if I should bring her back, my
meaning is, that she and me shall live and die where no one can't
reproach her. If any hurt should come to me, remember that the
last words I left for her was, "My unchanged love is with my
darling child, and I forgive her!"'
He said this solemnly, bare-headed; then, putting on his hat, he
went down the stairs, and away. We followed to the door. It was
a warm, dusty evening, just the time when, in the great main
thoroughfare out of which that by-way turned, there was a temporary
lull in the eternal tread of feet upon the pavement, and a strong
red sunshine. He turned, alone, at the corner of our shady street,
into a glow of light, in which we lost him.
Rarely did that hour of the evening come, rarely did I wake at
night, rarely did I look up at the moon, or stars, or watch the
falling rain, or hear the wind, but I thought of his solitary
figure toiling on, poor pilgrim, and recalled the words:
'I'm a going to seek her, fur and wide. If any hurt should come to
me, remember that the last words I left for her was, "My unchanged
love is with my darling child, and I forgive her!"'
CHAPTER 33
BLISSFUL
All this time, I had gone on loving Dora, harder than ever. Her
idea was my refuge in disappointment and distress, and made some
amends to me, even for the loss of my friend. The more I pitied
myself, or pitied others, the more I sought for consolation in the
image of Dora. The greater the accumulation of deceit and trouble
in the world, the brighter and the purer shone the star of Dora
high above the world. I don't think I had any definite idea where
Dora came from, or in what degree she was related to a higher order
of beings; but I am quite sure I should have scouted the notion of
her being simply human, like any other young lady, with indignation
and contempt.
If I may so express it, I was steeped in Dora. I was not merely
over head and ears in love with her, but I was saturated through
and through. Enough love might have been wrung out of me,
metaphorically speaking, to drown anybody in; and yet there would
have remained enough within me, and all over me, to pervade my
entire existence.
The first thing I did, on my own account, when I came back, was to
take a night-walk to Norwood, and, like the subject of a venerable
riddle of my childhood, to go 'round and round the house, without
ever touching the house', thinking about Dora. I believe the theme
of this incomprehensible conundrum was the moon. No matter what it
was, I, the moon-struck slave of Dora, perambulated round and round
the house and garden for two hours, looking through crevices in the
palings, getting my chin by dint of violent exertion above the
rusty nails on the top, blowing kisses at the lights in the
windows, and romantically calling on the night, at intervals, to
shield my Dora - I don't exactly know what from, I suppose from
fire. Perhaps from mice, to which she had a great objection.
My love was so much in my mind and it was so natural to me to
confide in Peggotty, when I found her again by my side of an
evening with the old set of industrial implements, busily making
the tour of my wardrobe, that I imparted to her, in a sufficiently
roundabout way, my great secret. Peggotty was strongly interested,
but I could not get her into my view of the case at all. She was
audaciously prejudiced in my favour, and quite unable to understand
why I should have any misgivings, or be low-spirited about it.
'The young lady might think herself well off,' she observed, 'to
have such a beau. And as to her Pa,' she said, 'what did the
gentleman expect, for gracious sake!'
I observed, however, that Mr. Spenlow's proctorial gown and stiff
cravat took Peggotty down a little, and inspired her with a greater
reverence for the man who was gradually becoming more and more
etherealized in my eyes every day, and about whom a reflected
radiance seemed to me to beam when he sat erect in Court among his
papers, like a little lighthouse in a sea of stationery. And by
the by, it used to be uncommonly strange to me to consider, I
remember, as I sat in Court too, how those dim old judges and
doctors wouldn't have cared for Dora, if they had known her; how
they wouldn't have gone out of their senses with rapture, if
marriage with Dora had been proposed to them; how Dora might have
sung, and played upon that glorified guitar, until she led me to
the verge of madness, yet not have tempted one of those slow-goers
an inch out of his road!
I despised them, to a man. Frozen-out old gardeners in the
flower-beds of the heart, I took a personal offence against them
all. The Bench was nothing to me but an insensible blunderer. The
Bar had no more tenderness or poetry in it, than the bar of a
public-house.
Taking the management of Peggotty's affairs into my own hands, with
no little pride, I proved the will, and came to a settlement with
the Legacy Duty-office, and took her to the Bank, and soon got
everything into an orderly train. We varied the legal character of
these proceedings by going to see some perspiring Wax-work, in
Fleet Street (melted, I should hope, these twenty years); and by
visiting Miss Linwood's Exhibition, which I remember as a Mausoleum
of needlework, favourable to self-examination and repentance; and
by inspecting the Tower of London; and going to the top of St.
Paul's. All these wonders afforded Peggotty as much pleasure as
she was able to enjoy, under existing circumstances: except, I
think, St. Paul's, which, from her long attachment to her work-box,
became a rival of the picture on the lid, and was, in some
particulars, vanquished, she considered, by that work of art.
Peggotty's business, which was what we used to call 'common-form
business' in the Commons (and very light and lucrative the
common-form business was), being settled, I took her down to the
office one morning to pay her bill. Mr. Spenlow had stepped out,
old Tiffey said, to get a gentleman sworn for a marriage licence;
but as I knew he would be back directly, our place lying close to
the Surrogate's, and to the Vicar-General's office too, I told
Peggotty to wait.
We were a little like undertakers, in the Commons, as regarded
Probate transactions; generally making it a rule to look more or
less cut up, when we had to deal with clients in mourning. In a
similar feeling of delicacy, we were always blithe and
light-hearted with the licence clients. Therefore I hinted to
Peggotty that she would find Mr. Spenlow much recovered from the
shock of Mr. Barkis's decease; and indeed he came in like a
bridegroom.
But neither Peggotty nor I had eyes for him, when we saw, in
company with him, Mr. Murdstone. He was very little changed. His
hair looked as thick, and was certainly as black, as ever; and his
glance was as little to be trusted as of old.
'Ah, Copperfield?' said Mr. Spenlow. 'You know this gentleman, I
believe?'
I made my gentleman a distant bow, and Peggotty barely recognized
him. He was, at first, somewhat disconcerted to meet us two
together; but quickly decided what to do, and came up to me.
'I hope,' he said, 'that you are doing well?'
'It can hardly be interesting to you,' said I. 'Yes, if you wish
to know.'
We looked at each other, and he addressed himself to Peggotty.
'And you,' said he. 'I am sorry to observe that you have lost your
husband.'
'It's not the first loss I have had in my life, Mr. Murdstone,'
replied Peggotty, trembling from head to foot. 'I am glad to hope
that there is nobody to blame for this one, - nobody to answer for
it.'
'Ha!' said he; 'that's a comfortable reflection. You have done
your duty?'
'I have not worn anybody's life away,' said Peggotty, 'I am
thankful to think! No, Mr. Murdstone, I have not worrited and
frightened any sweet creetur to an early grave!'
He eyed her gloomily - remorsefully I thought - for an instant; and
said, turning his head towards me, but looking at my feet instead
of my face:
'We are not likely to encounter soon again; - a source of
satisfaction to us both, no doubt, for such meetings as this can
never be agreeable. I do not expect that you, who always rebelled
against my just authority, exerted for your benefit and
reformation, should owe me any good-will now. There is an
antipathy between us -'
'An old one, I believe?' said I, interrupting him.
He smiled, and shot as evil a glance at me as could come from his
dark eyes.
'It rankled in your baby breast,' he said. 'It embittered the life
of your poor mother. You are right. I hope you may do better,
yet; I hope you may correct yourself.'
Here he ended the dialogue, which had been carried on in a low
voice, in a corner of the outer office, by passing into Mr.
Spenlow's room, and saying aloud, in his smoothest manner:
'Gentlemen of Mr. Spenlow's profession are accustomed to family
differences, and know how complicated and difficult they always
are!' With that, he paid the money for his licence; and, receiving
it neatly folded from Mr. Spenlow, together with a shake of the
hand, and a polite wish for his happiness and the lady's, went out
of the office.
I might have had more difficulty in constraining myself to be
silent under his words, if I had had less difficulty in impressing
upon Peggotty (who was only angry on my account, good creature!)
that we were not in a place for recrimination, and that I besought
her to hold her peace. She was so unusually roused, that I was
glad to compound for an affectionate hug, elicited by this revival
in her mind of our old injuries, and to make the best I could of
it, before Mr. Spenlow and the clerks.
Mr. Spenlow did not appear to know what the connexion between Mr.
Murdstone and myself was; which I was glad of, for I could not bear
to acknowledge him, even in my own breast, remembering what I did
of the history of my poor mother. Mr. Spenlow seemed to think, if
he thought anything about the matter, that my aunt was the leader
of the state party in our family, and that there was a rebel party
commanded by somebody else - so I gathered at least from what he
said, while we were waiting for Mr. Tiffey to make out Peggotty's
bill of costs.
'Miss Trotwood,' he remarked, 'is very firm, no doubt, and not
likely to give way to opposition. I have an admiration for her
character, and I may congratulate you, Copperfield, on being on the
right side. Differences between relations are much to be deplored
- but they are extremely general - and the great thing is, to be on
the right side': meaning, I take it, on the side of the moneyed
interest.
'Rather a good marriage this, I believe?' said Mr. Spenlow.
I explained that I knew nothing about it.
'Indeed!' he said. 'Speaking from the few words Mr. Murdstone
dropped - as a man frequently does on these occasions - and from
what Miss Murdstone let fall, I should say it was rather a good
marriage.'
'Do you mean that there is money, sir?' I asked.
'Yes,' said Mr. Spenlow, 'I understand there's money. Beauty too,
I am told.'
'Indeed! Is his new wife young?'
'Just of age,' said Mr. Spenlow. 'So lately, that I should think
they had been waiting for that.'
'Lord deliver her!' said Peggotty. So very emphatically and
unexpectedly, that we were all three discomposed; until Tiffey came
in with the bill.
Old Tiffey soon appeared, however, and handed it to Mr. Spenlow, to
look over. Mr. Spenlow, settling his chin in his cravat and
rubbing it softly, went over the items with a deprecatory air - as
if it were all Jorkins's doing - and handed it back to Tiffey with
a bland sigh.
'Yes,' he said. 'That's right. Quite right. I should have been
extremely happy, Copperfield, to have limited these charges to the
actual expenditure out of pocket, but it is an irksome incident in
my professional life, that I am not at liberty to consult my own
wishes. I have a partner - Mr. Jorkins.'
As he said this with a gentle melancholy, which was the next thing
to making no charge at all, I expressed my acknowledgements on
Peggotty's behalf, and paid Tiffey in banknotes. Peggotty then
retired to her lodging, and Mr. Spenlow and I went into Court,
where we had a divorce-suit coming on, under an ingenious little
statute (repealed now, I believe, but in virtue of which I have
seen several marriages annulled), of which the merits were these.
The husband, whose name was Thomas Benjamin, had taken out his
marriage licence as Thomas only; suppressing the Benjamin, in case
he should not find himself as comfortable as he expected. NOT
finding himself as comfortable as he expected, or being a little
fatigued with his wife, poor fellow, he now came forward, by a
friend, after being married a year or two, and declared that his
name was Thomas Benjamin, and therefore he was not married at all.
Which the Court confirmed, to his great satisfaction.
I must say that I had my doubts about the strict justice of this,
and was not even frightened out of them by the bushel of wheat
which reconciles all anomalies. But Mr. Spenlow argued the matter
with me. He said, Look at the world, there was good and evil in
that; look at the ecclesiastical law, there was good and evil in
THAT. It was all part of a system. Very good. There you were!
I had not the hardihood to suggest to Dora's father that possibly
we might even improve the world a little, if we got up early in the
morning, and took off our coats to the work; but I confessed that
I thought we might improve the Commons. Mr. Spenlow replied that
he would particularly advise me to dismiss that idea from my mind,
as not being worthy of my gentlemanly character; but that he would
be glad to hear from me of what improvement I thought the Commons
susceptible?
Taking that part of the Commons which happened to be nearest to us
- for our man was unmarried by this time, and we were out of Court,
and strolling past the Prerogative Office - I submitted that I
thought the Prerogative Office rather a queerly managed
institution. Mr. Spenlow inquired in what respect? I replied,
with all due deference to his experience (but with more deference,
I am afraid, to his being Dora's father), that perhaps it was a
little nonsensical that the Registry of that Court, containing the
original wills of all persons leaving effects within the immense
province of Canterbury, for three whole centuries, should be an
accidental building, never designed for the purpose, leased by the
registrars for their Own private emolument, unsafe, not even
ascertained to be fire-proof, choked with the important documents
it held, and positively, from the roof to the basement, a mercenary
speculation of the registrars, who took great fees from the public,
and crammed the public's wills away anyhow and anywhere, having no
other object than to get rid of them cheaply. That, perhaps, it
was a little unreasonable that these registrars in the receipt of
profits amounting to eight or nine thousand pounds a year (to say
nothing of the profits of the deputy registrars, and clerks of
seats), should not be obliged to spend a little of that money, in
finding a reasonably safe place for the important documents which
all classes of people were compelled to hand over to them, whether
they would or no. That, perhaps, it was a little unjust, that all
the great offices in this great office should be magnificent
sinecures, while the unfortunate working-clerks in the cold dark
room upstairs were the worst rewarded, and the least considered
men, doing important services, in London. That perhaps it was a
little indecent that the principal registrar of all, whose duty it
was to find the public, constantly resorting to this place, all
needful accommodation, should be an enormous sinecurist in virtue
of that post (and might be, besides, a clergyman, a pluralist, the
holder of a staff in a cathedral, and what not), - while the public
was put to the inconvenience of which we had a specimen every
afternoon when the office was busy, and which we knew to be quite
monstrous. That, perhaps, in short, this Prerogative Office of the
diocese of Canterbury was altogether such a pestilent job, and such
a pernicious absurdity, that but for its being squeezed away in a
corner of St. Paul's Churchyard, which few people knew, it must
have been turned completely inside out, and upside down, long ago.
Mr. Spenlow smiled as I became modestly warm on the subject, and
then argued this question with me as he had argued the other. He
said, what was it after all? It was a question of feeling. If the
public felt that their wills were in safe keeping, and took it for
granted that the office was not to be made better, who was the
worse for it? Nobody. Who was the better for it? All the
Sinecurists. Very well. Then the good predominated. It might not
be a perfect system; nothing was perfect; but what he objected to,
was, the insertion of the wedge. Under the Prerogative Office, the
country had been glorious. Insert the wedge into the Prerogative
Office, and the country would cease to be glorious. He considered
it the principle of a gentleman to take things as he found them;
and he had no doubt the Prerogative Office would last our time. I
deferred to his opinion, though I had great doubts of it myself.
I find he was right, however; for it has not only lasted to the
present moment, but has done so in the teeth of a great
parliamentary report made (not too willingly) eighteen years ago,
when all these objections of mine were set forth in detail, and
when the existing stowage for wills was described as equal to the
accumulation of only two years and a half more. What they have
done with them since; whether they have lost many, or whether they
sell any, now and then, to the butter shops; I don't know. I am
glad mine is not there, and I hope it may not go there, yet awhile.
I have set all this down, in my present blissful chapter, because
here it comes into its natural place. Mr. Spenlow and I falling
into this conversation, prolonged it and our saunter to and fro,
until we diverged into general topics. And so it came about, in
the end, that Mr. Spenlow told me this day week was Dora's
birthday, and he would be glad if I would come down and join a
little picnic on the occasion. I went out of my senses
immediately; became a mere driveller next day, on receipt of a
little lace-edged sheet of note-paper, 'Favoured by papa. To
remind'; and passed the intervening period in a state of dotage.
I think I committed every possible absurdity in the way of
preparation for this blessed event. I turn hot when I remember the
cravat I bought. My boots might be placed in any collection of
instruments of torture. I provided, and sent down by the Norwood
coach the night before, a delicate little hamper, amounting in
itself, I thought, almost to a declaration. There were crackers in
it with the tenderest mottoes that could be got for money. At six
in the morning, I was in Covent Garden Market, buying a bouquet for
Dora. At ten I was on horseback (I hired a gallant grey, for the
occasion), with the bouquet in my hat, to keep it fresh, trotting
down to Norwood.
I suppose that when I saw Dora in the garden and pretended not to
see her, and rode past the house pretending to be anxiously looking
for it, I committed two small fooleries which other young gentlemen
in my circumstances might have committed - because they came so
very natural to me. But oh! when I DID find the house, and DID
dismount at the garden-gate, and drag those stony-hearted boots
across the lawn to Dora sitting on a garden-seat under a lilac
tree, what a spectacle she was, upon that beautiful morning, among
the butterflies, in a white chip bonnet and a dress of celestial
blue! There was a young lady with her - comparatively stricken in
years - almost twenty, I should say. Her name was Miss Mills. and
Dora called her Julia. She was the bosom friend of Dora. Happy
Miss Mills!
Jip was there, and Jip WOULD bark at me again. When I presented my
bouquet, he gnashed his teeth with jealousy. Well he might. If he
had the least idea how I adored his mistress, well he might!
'Oh, thank you, Mr. Copperfield! What dear flowers!' said Dora.
I had had an intention of saying (and had been studying the best
form of words for three miles) that I thought them beautiful before
I saw them so near HER. But I couldn't manage it. She was too
bewildering. To see her lay the flowers against her little dimpled
chin, was to lose all presence of mind and power of language in a
feeble ecstasy. I wonder I didn't say, 'Kill me, if you have a
heart, Miss Mills. Let me die here!'
Then Dora held my flowers to Jip to smell. Then Jip growled, and
wouldn't smell them. Then Dora laughed, and held them a little
closer to Jip, to make him. Then Jip laid hold of a bit of
geranium with his teeth, and worried imaginary cats in it. Then
Dora beat him, and pouted, and said, 'My poor beautiful flowers!'
as compassionately, I thought, as if Jip had laid hold of me. I
wished he had!
'You'll be so glad to hear, Mr. Copperfield,' said Dora, 'that that
cross Miss Murdstone is not here. She has gone to her brother's
marriage, and will be away at least three weeks. Isn't that
delightful?'
I said I was sure it must be delightful to her, and all that was
delightful to her was delightful to me. Miss Mills, with an air of
superior wisdom and benevolence, smiled upon us.
'She is the most disagreeable thing I ever saw,' said Dora. 'You
can't believe how ill-tempered and shocking she is, Julia.'
'Yes, I can, my dear!' said Julia.
'YOU can, perhaps, love,' returned Dora, with her hand on julia's.
'Forgive my not excepting you, my dear, at first.'
I learnt, from this, that Miss Mills had had her trials in the
course of a chequered existence; and that to these, perhaps, I
might refer that wise benignity of manner which I had already
noticed. i found, in the course of the day, that this was the
case: Miss Mills having been unhappy in a misplaced affection, and
being understood to have retired from the world on her awful stock
of experience, but still to take a calm interest in the unblighted
hopes and loves of youth.
But now Mr. Spenlow came out of the house, and Dora went to him,
saying, 'Look, papa, what beautiful flowers!' And Miss Mills smiled
thoughtfully, as who should say, 'Ye Mayflies, enjoy your brief
existence in the bright morning of life!' And we all walked from
the lawn towards the carriage, which was getting ready.
I shall never have such a ride again. I have never had such
another. There were only those three, their hamper, my hamper, and
the guitar-case, in the phaeton; and, of course, the phaeton was
open; and I rode behind it, and Dora sat with her back to the
horses, looking towards me. She kept the bouquet close to her on
the cushion, and wouldn't allow Jip to sit on that side of her at
all, for fear he should crush it. She often carried it in her
hand, often refreshed herself with its fragrance. Our eyes at
those times often met; and my great astonishment is that I didn't
go over the head of my gallant grey into the carriage.
There was dust, I believe. There was a good deal of dust, I
believe. I have a faint impression that Mr. Spenlow remonstrated
with me for riding in it; but I knew of none. I was sensible of a
mist of love and beauty about Dora, but of nothing else. He stood
up sometimes, and asked me what I thought of the prospect. I said
it was delightful, and I dare say it was; but it was all Dora to
me. The sun shone Dora, and the birds sang Dora. The south wind
blew Dora, and the wild flowers in the hedges were all Doras, to a
bud. My comfort is, Miss Mills understood me. Miss Mills alone
could enter into my feelings thoroughly.
I don't know how long we were going, and to this hour I know as
little where we went. Perhaps it was near Guildford. Perhaps some
Arabian-night magician, opened up the place for the day, and shut
it up for ever when we came away. It was a green spot, on a hill,
carpeted with soft turf. There were shady trees, and heather, and,
as far as the eye could see, a rich landscape.
It was a trying thing to find people here, waiting for us; and my
jealousy, even of the ladies, knew no bounds. But all of my own
sex - especially one impostor, three or four years my elder, with
a red whisker, on which he established an amount of presumption not
to be endured - were my mortal foes.
We all unpacked our baskets, and employed ourselves in getting
dinner ready. Red Whisker pretended he could make a salad (which
I don't believe), and obtruded himself on public notice. Some of
the young ladies washed the lettuces for him, and sliced them under
his directions. Dora was among these. I felt that fate had pitted
me against this man, and one of us must fall.
Red Whisker made his salad (I wondered how they could eat it.
Nothing should have induced ME to touch it!) and voted himself into
the charge of the wine-cellar, which he constructed, being an
ingenious beast, in the hollow trunk of a tree. By and by, I saw
him, with the majority of a lobster on his plate, eating his dinner
at the feet of Dora!
I have but an indistinct idea of what happened for some time after
this baleful object presented itself to my view. I was very merry,
I know; but it was hollow merriment. I attached myself to a young
creature in pink, with little eyes, and flirted with her
desperately. She received my attentions with favour; but whether
on my account solely, or because she had any designs on Red
Whisker, I can't say. Dora's health was drunk. When I drank it,
I affected to interrupt my conversation for that purpose, and to
resume it immediately afterwards. I caught Dora's eye as I bowed
to her, and I thought it looked appealing. But it looked at me
over the head of Red Whisker, and I was adamant.
The young creature in pink had a mother in green; and I rather
think the latter separated us from motives of policy. Howbeit,
there was a general breaking up of the party, while the remnants of
the dinner were being put away; and I strolled off by myself among
the trees, in a raging and remorseful state. I was debating
whether I should pretend that I was not well, and fly - I don't
know where - upon my gallant grey, when Dora and Miss Mills met me.
'Mr. Copperfield,' said Miss Mills, 'you are dull.'
I begged her pardon. Not at all.
'And Dora,' said Miss Mills, 'YOU are dull.'
Oh dear no! Not in the least.
'Mr. Copperfield and Dora,' said Miss Mills, with an almost
venerable air. 'Enough of this. Do not allow a trivial
misunderstanding to wither the blossoms of spring, which, once put
forth and blighted, cannot be renewed. I speak,' said Miss Mills,
'from experience of the past - the remote, irrevocable past. The
gushing fountains which sparkle in the sun, must not be stopped in
mere caprice; the oasis in the desert of Sahara must not be plucked
up idly.'
I hardly knew what I did, I was burning all over to that
extraordinary extent; but I took Dora's little hand and kissed it
- and she let me! I kissed Miss Mills's hand; and we all seemed,
to my thinking, to go straight up to the seventh heaven.
We did not come down again. We stayed up there all the evening.
At first we strayed to and fro among the trees: I with Dora's shy
arm drawn through mine: and Heaven knows, folly as it all was, it
would have been a happy fate to have been struck immortal with
those foolish feelings, and have stayed among the trees for ever!
But, much too soon, we heard the others laughing and talking, and
calling 'where's Dora?' So we went back, and they wanted Dora to
sing. Red Whisker would have got the guitar-case out of the
carriage, but Dora told him nobody knew where it was, but I. So
Red Whisker was done for in a moment; and I got it, and I unlocked
it, and I took the guitar out, and I sat by her, and I held her
handkerchief and gloves, and I drank in every note of her dear
voice, and she sang to ME who loved her, and all the others might
applaud as much as they liked, but they had nothing to do with it!
I was intoxicated with joy. I was afraid it was too happy to be
real, and that I should wake in Buckingham Street presently, and
hear Mrs. Crupp clinking the teacups in getting breakfast ready.
But Dora sang, and others sang, and Miss Mills sang - about the
slumbering echoes in the caverns of Memory; as if she were a
hundred years old - and the evening came on; and we had tea, with
the kettle boiling gipsy-fashion; and I was still as happy as ever.
I was happier than ever when the party broke up, and the other
people, defeated Red Whisker and all, went their several ways, and
we went ours through the still evening and the dying light, with
sweet scents rising up around us. Mr. Spenlow being a little
drowsy after the champagne - honour to the soil that grew the
grape, to the grape that made the wine, to the sun that ripened it,
and to the merchant who adulterated it! - and being fast asleep in
a corner of the carriage, I rode by the side and talked to Dora.
She admired my horse and patted him - oh, what a dear little hand
it looked upon a horse! - and her shawl would not keep right, and
now and then I drew it round her with my arm; and I even fancied
that Jip began to see how it was, and to understand that he must
make up his mind to be friends with me.
That sagacious Miss Mills, too; that amiable, though quite used up,
recluse; that little patriarch of something less than twenty, who
had done with the world, and mustn't on any account have the
slumbering echoes in the caverns of Memory awakened; what a kind
thing she did!
'Mr. Copperfield,' said Miss Mills, 'come to this side of the
carriage a moment - if you can spare a moment. I want to speak to
you.'
Behold me, on my gallant grey, bending at the side of Miss Mills,
with my hand upon the carriage door!
'Dora is coming to stay with me. She is coming home with me the
day after tomorrow. If you would like to call, I am sure papa
would be happy to see you.'
What could I do but invoke a silent blessing on Miss Mills's head,
and store Miss Mills's address in the securest corner of my memory!
What could I do but tell Miss Mills, with grateful looks and
fervent words, how much I appreciated her good offices, and what an
inestimable value I set upon her friendship!
Then Miss Mills benignantly dismissed me, saying, 'Go back to
Dora!' and I went; and Dora leaned out of the carriage to talk to
me, and we talked all the rest of the way; and I rode my gallant
grey so close to the wheel that I grazed his near fore leg against
it, and 'took the bark off', as his owner told me, 'to the tune of
three pun' sivin' - which I paid, and thought extremely cheap for
so much joy. What time Miss Mills sat looking at the moon,
murmuring verses- and recalling, I suppose, the ancient days when
she and earth had anything in common.
Norwood was many miles too near, and we reached it many hours too
soon; but Mr. Spenlow came to himself a little short of it, and
said, 'You must come in, Copperfield, and rest!' and I consenting,
we had sandwiches and wine-and-water. In the light room, Dora
blushing looked so lovely, that I could not tear myself away, but
sat there staring, in a dream, until the snoring of Mr. Spenlow
inspired me with sufficient consciousness to take my leave. So we
parted; I riding all the way to London with the farewell touch of
Dora's hand still light on mine, recalling every incident and word
ten thousand times; lying down in my own bed at last, as enraptured
a young noodle as ever was carried out of his five wits by love.
When I awoke next morning, I was resolute to declare my passion to
Dora, and know my fate. Happiness or misery was now the question.
There was no other question that I knew of in the world, and only
Dora could give the answer to it. I passed three days in a luxury
of wretchedness, torturing myself by putting every conceivable
variety of discouraging construction on all that ever had taken
place between Dora and me. At last, arrayed for the purpose at a
vast expense, I went to Miss Mills's, fraught with a declaration.
How many times I went up and down the street, and round the square
- painfully aware of being a much better answer to the old riddle
than the original one - before I could persuade myself to go up the
steps and knock, is no matter now. Even when, at last, I had
knocked, and was waiting at the door, I had some flurried thought
of asking if that were Mr. Blackboy's (in imitation of poor
Barkis), begging pardon, and retreating. But I kept my ground.
Mr. Mills was not at home. I did not expect he would be. Nobody
wanted HIM. Miss Mills was at home. Miss Mills would do.
I was shown into a room upstairs, where Miss Mills and Dora were.
Jip was there. Miss Mills was copying music (I recollect, it was
a new song, called 'Affection's Dirge'), and Dora was painting
flowers. What were my feelings, when I recognized my own flowers;
the identical Covent Garden Market purchase! I cannot say that
they were very like, or that they particularly resembled any
flowers that have ever come under my observation; but I knew from
the paper round them which was accurately copied, what the
composition was.
Miss Mills was very glad to see me, and very sorry her papa was not
at home: though I thought we all bore that with fortitude. Miss
Mills was conversational for a few minutes, and then, laying down
her pen upon 'Affection's Dirge', got up, and left the room.
I began to think I would put it off till tomorrow.
'I hope your poor horse was not tired, when he got home at night,'
said Dora, lifting up her beautiful eyes. 'It was a long way for
him.'
I began to think I would do it today.
'It was a long way for him,' said I, 'for he had nothing to uphold
him on the journey.'
'Wasn't he fed, poor thing?' asked Dora.
I began to think I would put it off till tomorrow.
'Ye-yes,' I said, 'he was well taken care of. I mean he had not
the unutterable happiness that I had in being so near you.'
Dora bent her head over her drawing and said, after a little while
- I had sat, in the interval, in a burning fever, and with my legs
in a very rigid state -
'You didn't seem to be sensible of that happiness yourself, at one
time of the day.'
I saw now that I was in for it, and it must be done on the spot.
'You didn't care for that happiness in the least,' said Dora,
slightly raising her eyebrows, and shaking her head, 'when you were
sitting by Miss Kitt.'
Kitt, I should observe, was the name of the creature in pink, with
the little eyes.
'Though certainly I don't know why you should,' said Dora, or why
you should call it a happiness at all. But of course you don't
mean what you say. And I am sure no one doubts your being at
liberty to do whatever you like. Jip, you naughty boy, come here!'
I don't know how I did it. I did it in a moment. I intercepted
Jip. I had Dora in my arms. I was full of eloquence. I never
stopped for a word. I told her how I loved her. I told her I
should die without her. I told her that I idolized and worshipped
her. Jip barked madly all the time.
When Dora hung her head and cried, and trembled, my eloquence
increased so much the more. If she would like me to die for her,
she had but to say the word, and I was ready. Life without Dora's
love was not a thing to have on any terms. I couldn't bear it, and
I wouldn't. I had loved her every minute, day and night, since I
first saw her. I loved her at that minute to distraction. I
should always love her, every minute, to distraction. Lovers had
loved before, and lovers would love again; but no lover had loved,
might, could, would, or should ever love, as I loved Dora. The
more I raved, the more Jip barked. Each of us, in his own way, got
more mad every moment.
Well, well! Dora and I were sitting on the sofa by and by, quiet
enough, and Jip was lying in her lap, winking peacefully at me. It
was off my mind. I was in a state of perfect rapture. Dora and I
were engaged.
I suppose we had some notion that this was to end in marriage. We
must have had some, because Dora stipulated that we were never to
be married without her papa's consent. But, in our youthful
ecstasy, I don't think that we really looked before us or behind
us; or had any aspiration beyond the ignorant present. We were to
keep our secret from Mr. Spenlow; but I am sure the idea never
entered my head, then, that there was anything dishonourable in
that.
Miss Mills was more than usually pensive when Dora, going to find
her, brought her back; - I apprehend, because there was a tendency
in what had passed to awaken the slumbering echoes in the caverns
of Memory. But she gave us her blessing, and the assurance of her
lasting friendship, and spoke to us, generally, as became a Voice
from the Cloister.
What an idle time it was! What an insubstantial, happy, foolish
time it was!
When I measured Dora's finger for a ring that was to be made of
Forget-me-nots, and when the jeweller, to whom I took the measure,
found me out, and laughed over his order-book, and charged me
anything he liked for the pretty little toy, with its blue stones
- so associated in my remembrance with Dora's hand, that yesterday,
when I saw such another, by chance, on the finger of my own
daughter, there was a momentary stirring in my heart, like pain!
When I walked about, exalted with my secret, and full of my own
interest, and felt the dignity of loving Dora, and of being
beloved, so much, that if I had walked the air, I could not have
been more above the people not so situated, who were creeping on
the earth!
When we had those meetings in the garden of the square, and sat
within the dingy summer-house, so happy, that I love the London
sparrows to this hour, for nothing else, and see the plumage of the
tropics in their smoky feathers!
When we had our first great quarrel (within a week of our
betrothal), and when Dora sent me back the ring, enclosed in a
despairing cocked-hat note, wherein she used the terrible
expression that 'our love had begun in folly, and ended in
madness!' which dreadful words occasioned me to tear my hair, and
cry that all was over!
When, under cover of the night, I flew to Miss Mills, whom I saw by
stealth in a back kitchen where there was a mangle, and implored
Miss Mills to interpose between us and avert insanity. When Miss
Mills undertook the office and returned with Dora, exhorting us,
from the pulpit of her own bitter youth, to mutual concession, and
the avoidance of the Desert of Sahara!
When we cried, and made it up, and were so blest again, that the
back kitchen, mangle and all, changed to Love's own temple, where
we arranged a plan of correspondence through Miss Mills, always to
comprehend at least one letter on each side every day!
What an idle time! What an insubstantial, happy, foolish time! Of
all the times of mine that Time has in his grip, there is none that
in one retrospect I can smile at half so much, and think of half so
tenderly.
CHAPTER 34
MY AUNT ASTONISHES ME
I wrote to Agnes as soon as Dora and I were engaged. I wrote her
a long letter, in which I tried to make her comprehend how blest I
was, and what a darling Dora was. I entreated Agnes not to regard
this as a thoughtless passion which could ever yield to any other,
or had the least resemblance to the boyish fancies that we used to
joke about. I assured her that its profundity was quite
unfathomable, and expressed my belief that nothing like it had ever
been known.
Somehow, as I wrote to Agnes on a fine evening by my open window,
and the remembrance of her clear calm eyes and gentle face came
stealing over me, it shed such a peaceful influence upon the hurry
and agitation in which I had been living lately, and of which my
very happiness partook in some degree, that it soothed me into
tears. I remember that I sat resting my head upon my hand, when
the letter was half done, cherishing a general fancy as if Agnes
were one of the elements of my natural home. As if, in the
retirement of the house made almost sacred to me by her presence,
Dora and I must be happier than anywhere. As if, in love, joy,
sorrow, hope, or disappointment; in all emotions; my heart turned
naturally there, and found its refuge and best friend.
Of Steerforth I said nothing. I only told her there had been sad
grief at Yarmouth, on account of Emily's flight; and that on me it
made a double wound, by reason of the circumstances attending it.
I knew how quick she always was to divine the truth, and that she
would never be the first to breathe his name.
To this letter, I received an answer by return of post. As I read
it, I seemed to hear Agnes speaking to me. It was like her cordial
voice in my ears. What can I say more!
While I had been away from home lately, Traddles had called twice
or thrice. Finding Peggotty within, and being informed by Peggotty
(who always volunteered that information to whomsoever would
receive it), that she was my old nurse, he had established a
good-humoured acquaintance with her, and had stayed to have a
little chat with her about me. So Peggotty said; but I am afraid
the chat was all on her own side, and of immoderate length, as she
was very difficult indeed to stop, God bless her! when she had me
for her theme.
This reminds me, not only that I expected Traddles on a certain
afternoon of his own appointing, which was now come, but that Mrs.
Crupp had resigned everything appertaining to her office (the
salary excepted) until Peggotty should cease to present herself.
Mrs. Crupp, after holding divers conversations respecting Peggotty,
in a very high-pitched voice, on the staircase - with some
invisible Familiar it would appear, for corporeally speaking she
was quite alone at those times - addressed a letter to me,
developing her views. Beginning it with that statement of
universal application, which fitted every occurrence of her life,
namely, that she was a mother herself, she went on to inform me
that she had once seen very different days, but that at all periods
of her existence she had had a constitutional objection to spies,
intruders, and informers. She named no names, she said; let them
the cap fitted, wear it; but spies, intruders, and informers,
especially in widders' weeds (this clause was underlined), she had
ever accustomed herself to look down upon. If a gentleman was the
victim of spies, intruders, and informers (but still naming no
names), that was his own pleasure. He had a right to please
himself; so let him do. All that she, Mrs. Crupp, stipulated for,
was, that she should not be 'brought in contract' with such
persons. Therefore she begged to be excused from any further
attendance on the top set, until things were as they formerly was,
and as they could be wished to be; and further mentioned that her
little book would be found upon the breakfast-table every Saturday
morning, when she requested an immediate settlement of the same,
with the benevolent view of saving trouble 'and an ill-conwenience'
to all parties.
After this, Mrs. Crupp confined herself to making pitfalls on the
stairs, principally with pitchers, and endeavouring to delude
Peggotty into breaking her legs. I found it rather harassing to
live in this state of siege, but was too much afraid of Mrs. Crupp
to see any way out of it.
'My dear Copperfield,' cried Traddles, punctually appearing at my
door, in spite of all these obstacles, 'how do you do?'
'My dear Traddles,' said I, 'I am delighted to see you at last, and
very sorry I have not been at home before. But I have been so much
engaged -'
'Yes, yes, I know,' said Traddles, 'of course. Yours lives in
London, I think.'
'What did you say?'
'She - excuse me - Miss D., you know,' said Traddles, colouring in
his great delicacy, 'lives in London, I believe?'
'Oh yes. Near London.'
'Mine, perhaps you recollect,' said Traddles, with a serious look,
'lives down in Devonshire - one of ten. Consequently, I am not so
much engaged as you - in that sense.'
'I wonder you can bear,' I returned, 'to see her so seldom.'
'Hah!' said Traddles, thoughtfully. 'It does seem a wonder. I
suppose it is, Copperfield, because there is no help for it?'
'I suppose so,' I replied with a smile, and not without a blush.
'And because you have so much constancy and patience, Traddles.'
'Dear me!' said Traddles, considering about it, 'do I strike you in
that way, Copperfield? Really I didn't know that I had. But she
is such an extraordinarily dear girl herself, that it's possible
she may have imparted something of those virtues to me. Now you
mention it, Copperfield, I shouldn't wonder at all. I assure you
she is always forgetting herself, and taking care of the other
nine.'
'Is she the eldest?' I inquired.
'Oh dear, no,' said Traddles. 'The eldest is a Beauty.'
He saw, I suppose, that I could not help smiling at the simplicity
of this reply; and added, with a smile upon his own ingenuous face:
'Not, of course, but that my Sophy - pretty name, Copperfield, I
always think?'
'Very pretty!' said I.
'Not, of course, but that Sophy is beautiful too in my eyes, and
would be one of the dearest girls that ever was, in anybody's eyes
(I should think). But when I say the eldest is a Beauty, I mean
she really is a -' he seemed to be describing clouds about himself,
with both hands: 'Splendid, you know,' said Traddles,
energetically.
'Indeed!' said I.
'Oh, I assure you,' said Traddles, 'something very uncommon,
indeed! Then, you know, being formed for society and admiration,
and not being able to enjoy much of it in consequence of their
limited means, she naturally gets a little irritable and exacting,
sometimes. Sophy puts her in good humour!'
'Is Sophy the youngest?' I hazarded.
'Oh dear, no!' said Traddles, stroking his chin. 'The two youngest
are only nine and ten. Sophy educates 'em.'
'The second daughter, perhaps?' I hazarded.
'No,' said Traddles. 'Sarah's the second. Sarah has something the
matter with her spine, poor girl. The malady will wear out by and
by, the doctors say, but in the meantime she has to lie down for a
twelvemonth. Sophy nurses her. Sophy's the fourth.'
'Is the mother living?' I inquired.
'Oh yes,' said Traddles, 'she is alive. She is a very superior
woman indeed, but the damp country is not adapted to her
constitution, and - in fact, she has lost the use of her limbs.'
'Dear me!' said I.
'Very sad, is it not?' returned Traddles. 'But in a merely
domestic view it is not so bad as it might be, because Sophy takes
her place. She is quite as much a mother to her mother, as she is
to the other nine.'
I felt the greatest admiration for the virtues of this young lady;
and, honestly with the view of doing my best to prevent the
good-nature of Traddles from being imposed upon, to the detriment
of their joint prospects in life, inquired how Mr. Micawber was?
'He is quite well, Copperfield, thank you,' said Traddles. 'I am
not living with him at present.'
'No?'
'No. You see the truth is,' said Traddles, in a whisper, 'he had
changed his name to Mortimer, in consequence of his temporary
embarrassments; and he don't come out till after dark - and then in
spectacles. There was an execution put into our house, for rent.
Mrs. Micawber was in such a dreadful state that I really couldn't
resist giving my name to that second bill we spoke of here. You
may imagine how delightful it was to my feelings, Copperfield, to
see the matter settled with it, and Mrs. Micawber recover her
spirits.'
'Hum!' said I.
'Not that her happiness was of long duration,' pursued Traddles,
'for, unfortunately, within a week another execution came in. It
broke up the establishment. I have been living in a furnished
apartment since then, and the Mortimers have been very private
indeed. I hope you won't think it selfish, Copperfield, if I
mention that the broker carried off my little round table with the
marble top, and Sophy's flower-pot and stand?'
'What a hard thing!' I exclaimed indignantly.
'It was a - it was a pull,' said Traddles, with his usual wince at
that expression. 'I don't mention it reproachfully, however, but
with a motive. The fact is, Copperfield, I was unable to
repurchase them at the time of their seizure; in the first place,
because the broker, having an idea that I wanted them, ran the
price up to an extravagant extent; and, in the second place,
because I - hadn't any money. Now, I have kept my eye since, upon
the broker's shop,' said Traddles, with a great enjoyment of his
mystery, 'which is up at the top of Tottenham Court Road, and, at
last, today I find them put out for sale. I have only noticed them
from over the way, because if the broker saw me, bless you, he'd
ask any price for them! What has occurred to me, having now the
money, is, that perhaps you wouldn't object to ask that good nurse
of yours to come with me to the shop - I can show it her from round
the corner of the next street - and make the best bargain for them,
as if they were for herself, that she can!'
The delight with which Traddles propounded this plan to me, and the
sense he had of its uncommon artfulness, are among the freshest
things in my remembrance.
I told him that my old nurse would be delighted to assist him, and
that we would all three take the field together, but on one
condition. That condition was, that he should make a solemn
resolution to grant no more loans of his name, or anything else, to
Mr. Micawber.
'My dear Copperfield,' said Traddles, 'I have already done so,
because I begin to feel that I have not only been inconsiderate,
but that I have been positively unjust to Sophy. My word being
passed to myself, there is no longer any apprehension; but I pledge
it to you, too, with the greatest readiness. That first unlucky
obligation, I have paid. I have no doubt Mr. Micawber would have
paid it if he could, but he could not. One thing I ought to
mention, which I like very much in Mr. Micawber, Copperfield. It
refers to the second obligation, which is not yet due. He don't
tell me that it is provided for, but he says it WILL BE. Now, I
think there is something very fair and honest about that!'
I was unwilling to damp my good friend's confidence, and therefore
assented. After a little further conversation, we went round to
the chandler's shop, to enlist Peggotty; Traddles declining to pass
the evening with me, both because he endured the liveliest
apprehensions that his property would be bought by somebody else
before he could re-purchase it, and because it was the evening he
always devoted to writing to the dearest girl in the world.
I never shall forget him peeping round the corner of the street in
Tottenham Court Road, while Peggotty was bargaining for the
precious articles; or his agitation when she came slowly towards us
after vainly offering a price, and was hailed by the relenting
broker, and went back again. The end of the negotiation was, that
she bought the property on tolerably easy terms, and Traddles was
transported with pleasure.
'I am very much obliged to you, indeed,' said Traddles, on hearing
it was to be sent to where he lived, that night. 'If I might ask
one other favour, I hope you would not think it absurd,
Copperfield?'
I said beforehand, certainly not.
'Then if you WOULD be good enough,' said Traddles to Peggotty, 'to
get the flower-pot now, I think I should like (it being Sophy's,
Copperfield) to carry it home myself!'
Peggotty was glad to get it for him, and he overwhelmed her with
thanks, and went his way up Tottenham Court Road, carrying the
flower-pot affectionately in his arms, with one of the most
delighted expressions of countenance I ever saw.
We then turned back towards my chambers. As the shops had charms
for Peggotty which I never knew them possess in the same degree for
anybody else, I sauntered easily along, amused by her staring in at
the windows, and waiting for her as often as she chose. We were
thus a good while in getting to the Adelphi.
On our way upstairs, I called her attention to the sudden
disappearance of Mrs. Crupp's pitfalls, and also to the prints of
recent footsteps. We were both very much surprised, coming higher
up, to find my outer door standing open (which I had shut) and to
hear voices inside.
We looked at one another, without knowing what to make of this, and
went into the sitting-room. What was my amazement to find, of all
people upon earth, my aunt there, and Mr. Dick! My aunt sitting on
a quantity of luggage, with her two birds before her, and her cat
on her knee, like a female Robinson Crusoe, drinking tea. Mr. Dick
leaning thoughtfully on a great kite, such as we had often been out
together to fly, with more luggage piled about him!
'My dear aunt!' cried I. 'Why, what an unexpected pleasure!'
We cordially embraced; and Mr. Dick and I cordially shook hands;
and Mrs. Crupp, who was busy making tea, and could not be too
attentive, cordially said she had knowed well as Mr. Copperfull
would have his heart in his mouth, when he see his dear relations.
'Holloa!' said my aunt to Peggotty, who quailed before her awful
presence. 'How are YOU?'
'You remember my aunt, Peggotty?' said I.
'For the love of goodness, child,' exclaimed my aunt, 'don't call
the woman by that South Sea Island name! If she married and got
rid of it, which was the best thing she could do, why don't you
give her the benefit of the change? What's your name now, - P?'
said my aunt, as a compromise for the obnoxious appellation.
'Barkis, ma'am,' said Peggotty, with a curtsey.
'Well! That's human,' said my aunt. 'It sounds less as if you
wanted a missionary. How d'ye do, Barkis? I hope you're well?'
Encouraged by these gracious words, and by my aunt's extending her
hand, Barkis came forward, and took the hand, and curtseyed her
acknowledgements.
'We are older than we were, I see,' said my aunt. 'We have only
met each other once before, you know. A nice business we made of
it then! Trot, my dear, another cup.'
I handed it dutifully to my aunt, who was in her usual inflexible
state of figure; and ventured a remonstrance with her on the
subject of her sitting on a box.
'Let me draw the sofa here, or the easy-chair, aunt,' said I. 'Why
should you be so uncomfortable?'
'Thank you, Trot,' replied my aunt, 'I prefer to sit upon my
property.' Here my aunt looked hard at Mrs. Crupp, and observed,
'We needn't trouble you to wait, ma'am.'
'Shall I put a little more tea in the pot afore I go, ma'am?' said
Mrs. Crupp.
'No, I thank you, ma'am,' replied my aunt.
'Would you let me fetch another pat of butter, ma'am?' said Mrs.
Crupp. 'Or would you be persuaded to try a new-laid hegg? or
should I brile a rasher? Ain't there nothing I could do for your
dear aunt, Mr. Copperfull?'
'Nothing, ma'am,' returned my aunt. 'I shall do very well, I thank
you.'
Mrs. Crupp, who had been incessantly smiling to express sweet
temper, and incessantly holding her head on one side, to express a
general feebleness of constitution, and incessantly rubbing her
hands, to express a desire to be of service to all deserving
objects, gradually smiled herself, one-sided herself, and rubbed
herself, out of the room.
'Dick!' said my aunt. 'You know what I told you about time-servers
and wealth-worshippers?'
Mr. Dick - with rather a scared look, as if he had forgotten it -
returned a hasty answer in the affirmative.
'Mrs. Crupp is one of them,' said my aunt. 'Barkis, I'll trouble
you to look after the tea, and let me have another cup, for I don't
fancy that woman's pouring-out!'
I knew my aunt sufficiently well to know that she had something of
importance on her mind, and that there was far more matter in this
arrival than a stranger might have supposed. I noticed how her eye
lighted on me, when she thought my attention otherwise occupied;
and what a curious process of hesitation appeared to be going on
within her, while she preserved her outward stiffness and
composure. I began to reflect whether I had done anything to
offend her; and my conscience whispered me that I had not yet told
her about Dora. Could it by any means be that, I wondered!
As I knew she would only speak in her own good time, I sat down
near her, and spoke to the birds, and played with the cat, and was
as easy as I could be. But I was very far from being really easy;
and I should still have been so, even if Mr. Dick, leaning over the
great kite behind my aunt, had not taken every secret opportunity
of shaking his head darkly at me, and pointing at her.
'Trot,' said my aunt at last, when she had finished her tea, and
carefully smoothed down her dress, and wiped her lips - 'you
needn't go, Barkis! - Trot, have you got to be firm and
self-reliant?'
'I hope so, aunt.'
'What do you think?' inquired Miss Betsey.
'I think so, aunt.'
'Then why, my love,' said my aunt, looking earnestly at me, 'why do
you think I prefer to sit upon this property of mine tonight?'
I shook my head, unable to guess.
'Because,' said my aunt, 'it's all I have. Because I'm ruined, my
dear!'
If the house, and every one of us, had tumbled out into the river
together, I could hardly have received a greater shock.
'Dick knows it,' said my aunt, laying her hand calmly on my
shoulder. 'I am ruined, my dear Trot! All I have in the world is
in this room, except the cottage; and that I have left Janet to
let. Barkis, I want to get a bed for this gentleman tonight. To
save expense, perhaps you can make up something here for myself.
Anything will do. It's only for tonight. We'll talk about this,
more, tomorrow.'
I was roused from my amazement, and concern for her - I am sure,
for her - by her falling on my neck, for a moment, and crying that
she only grieved for me. In another moment she suppressed this
emotion; and said with an aspect more triumphant than dejected:
'We must meet reverses boldly, and not suffer them to frighten us,
my dear. We must learn to act the play out. We must live
misfortune down, Trot!'
CHAPTER 35
DEPRESSION
As soon as I could recover my presence of mind, which quite
deserted me in the first overpowering shock of my aunt's
intelligence, I proposed to Mr. Dick to come round to the
chandler's shop, and take possession of the bed which Mr. Peggotty
had lately vacated. The chandler's shop being in Hungerford
Market, and Hungerford Market being a very different place in those
days, there was a low wooden colonnade before the door (not very
unlike that before the house where the little man and woman used to
live, in the old weather-glass), which pleased Mr. Dick mightily.
The glory of lodging over this structure would have compensated
him, I dare say, for many inconveniences; but, as there were really
few to bear, beyond the compound of flavours I have already
mentioned, and perhaps the want of a little more elbow-room, he was
perfectly charmed with his accommodation. Mrs. Crupp had
indignantly assured him that there wasn't room to swing a cat
there; but, as Mr. Dick justly observed to me, sitting down on the
foot of the bed, nursing his leg, 'You know, Trotwood, I don't want
to swing a cat. I never do swing a cat. Therefore, what does that
signify to ME!'
I tried to ascertain whether Mr. Dick had any understanding of the
causes of this sudden and great change in my aunt's affairs. As I
might have expected, he had none at all. The only account he could
give of it was, that my aunt had said to him, the day before
yesterday, 'Now, Dick, are you really and truly the philosopher I
take you for?' That then he had said, Yes, he hoped so. That then
my aunt had said, 'Dick, I am ruined.' That then he had said, 'Oh,
indeed!' That then my aunt had praised him highly, which he was
glad of. And that then they had come to me, and had had bottled
porter and sandwiches on the road.
Mr. Dick was so very complacent, sitting on the foot of the bed,
nursing his leg, and telling me this, with his eyes wide open and
a surprised smile, that I am sorry to say I was provoked into
explaining to him that ruin meant distress, want, and starvation;
but I was soon bitterly reproved for this harshness, by seeing his
face turn pale, and tears course down his lengthened cheeks, while
he fixed upon me a look of such unutterable woe, that it might have
softened a far harder heart than mine. I took infinitely greater
pains to cheer him up again than I had taken to depress him; and I
soon understood (as I ought to have known at first) that he had
been so confident, merely because of his faith in the wisest and
most wonderful of women, and his unbounded reliance on my
intellectual resources. The latter, I believe, he considered a
match for any kind of disaster not absolutely mortal.
'What can we do, Trotwood?' said Mr. Dick. 'There's the Memorial
-'
'To be sure there is,' said I. 'But all we can do just now, Mr.
Dick, is to keep a cheerful countenance, and not let my aunt see
that we are thinking about it.'
He assented to this in the most earnest manner; and implored me, if
I should see him wandering an inch out of the right course, to
recall him by some of those superior methods which were always at
my command. But I regret to state that the fright I had given him
proved too much for his best attempts at concealment. All the
evening his eyes wandered to my aunt's face, with an expression of
the most dismal apprehension, as if he saw her growing thin on the
spot. He was conscious of this, and put a constraint upon his
head; but his keeping that immovable, and sitting rolling his eyes
like a piece of machinery, did not mend the matter at all. I saw
him look at the loaf at supper (which happened to be a small one),
as if nothing else stood between us and famine; and when my aunt
insisted on his making his customary repast, I detected him in the
act of pocketing fragments of his bread and cheese; I have no doubt
for the purpose of reviving us with those savings, when we should
have reached an advanced stage of attenuation.
My aunt, on the other hand, was in a composed frame of mind, which
was a lesson to all of us - to me, I am sure. She was extremely
gracious to Peggotty, except when I inadvertently called her by
that name; and, strange as I knew she felt in London, appeared
quite at home. She was to have my bed, and I was to lie in the
sitting-room, to keep guard over her. She made a great point of
being so near the river, in case of a conflagration; and I suppose
really did find some satisfaction in that circumstance.
'Trot, my dear,' said my aunt, when she saw me making preparations
for compounding her usual night-draught, 'No!'
'Nothing, aunt?'
'Not wine, my dear. Ale.'
'But there is wine here, aunt. And you always have it made of
wine.'
'Keep that, in case of sickness,' said my aunt. 'We mustn't use it
carelessly, Trot. Ale for me. Half a pint.'
I thought Mr. Dick would have fallen, insensible. My aunt being
resolute, I went out and got the ale myself. As it was growing
late, Peggotty and Mr. Dick took that opportunity of repairing to
the chandler's shop together. I parted from him, poor fellow, at
the corner of the street, with his great kite at his back, a very
monument of human misery.
My aunt was walking up and down the room when I returned, crimping
the borders of her nightcap with her fingers. I warmed the ale and
made the toast on the usual infallible principles. When it was
ready for her, she was ready for it, with her nightcap on, and the
skirt of her gown turned back on her knees.
'My dear,' said my aunt, after taking a spoonful of it; 'it's a
great deal better than wine. Not half so bilious.'
I suppose I looked doubtful, for she added:
'Tut, tut, child. If nothing worse than Ale happens to us, we are
well off.'
'I should think so myself, aunt, I am sure,' said I.
'Well, then, why DON'T you think so?' said my aunt.
'Because you and I are very different people,' I returned.
'Stuff and nonsense, Trot!' replied my aunt.
MY aunt went on with a quiet enjoyment, in which there was very
little affectation, if any; drinking the warm ale with a tea-spoon,
and soaking her strips of toast in it.
'Trot,' said she, 'I don't care for strange faces in general, but
I rather like that Barkis of yours, do you know!'
'It's better than a hundred pounds to hear you say so!' said I.
'It's a most extraordinary world,' observed my aunt, rubbing her
nose; 'how that woman ever got into it with that name, is
unaccountable to me. It would be much more easy to be born a
Jackson, or something of that sort, one would think.'
'Perhaps she thinks so, too; it's not her fault,' said I.
'I suppose not,' returned my aunt, rather grudging the admission;
'but it's very aggravating. However, she's Barkis now. That's
some comfort. Barkis is uncommonly fond of you, Trot.'
'There is nothing she would leave undone to prove it,' said I.
'Nothing, I believe,' returned my aunt. 'Here, the poor fool has
been begging and praying about handing over some of her money -
because she has got too much of it. A simpleton!'
My aunt's tears of pleasure were positively trickling down into the
warm ale.
'She's the most ridiculous creature that ever was born,' said my
aunt. 'I knew, from the first moment when I saw her with that poor
dear blessed baby of a mother of yours, that she was the most
ridiculous of mortals. But there are good points in Barkis!'
Affecting to laugh, she got an opportunity of putting her hand to
her eyes. Having availed herself of it, she resumed her toast and
her discourse together.
'Ah! Mercy upon us!' sighed my aunt. 'I know all about it, Trot!
Barkis and myself had quite a gossip while you were out with Dick.
I know all about it. I don't know where these wretched girls
expect to go to, for my part. I wonder they don't knock out their
brains against - against mantelpieces,' said my aunt; an idea which
was probably suggested to her by her contemplation of mine.
'Poor Emily!' said I.
'Oh, don't talk to me about poor,' returned my aunt. 'She should
have thought of that, before she caused so much misery! Give me a
kiss, Trot. I am sorry for your early experience.'
As I bent forward, she put her tumbler on my knee to detain me, and
said:
'Oh, Trot, Trot! And so you fancy yourself in love! Do you?'
'Fancy, aunt!' I exclaimed, as red as I could be. 'I adore her
with my whole soul!'
'Dora, indeed!' returned my aunt. 'And you mean to say the little
thing is very fascinating, I suppose?'
'My dear aunt,' I replied, 'no one can form the least idea what she
is!'
'Ah! And not silly?' said my aunt.
'Silly, aunt!'
I seriously believe it had never once entered my head for a single
moment, to consider whether she was or not. I resented the idea,
of course; but I was in a manner struck by it, as a new one
altogether.
'Not light-headed?' said my aunt.
'Light-headed, aunt!' I could only repeat this daring speculation
with the same kind of feeling with which I had repeated the
preceding question.
'Well, well!' said my aunt. 'I only ask. I don't depreciate her.
Poor little couple! And so you think you were formed for one
another, and are to go through a party-supper-table kind of life,
like two pretty pieces of confectionery, do you, Trot?'
She asked me this so kindly, and with such a gentle air, half
playful and half sorrowful, that I was quite touched.
'We are young and inexperienced, aunt, I know,' I replied; 'and I
dare say we say and think a good deal that is rather foolish. But
we love one another truly, I am sure. If I thought Dora could ever
love anybody else, or cease to love me; or that I could ever love
anybody else, or cease to love her; I don't know what I should do
- go out of my mind, I think!'
'Ah, Trot!' said my aunt, shaking her head, and smiling gravely;
'blind, blind, blind!'
'Someone that I know, Trot,' my aunt pursued, after a pause,
'though of a very pliant disposition, has an earnestness of
affection in him that reminds me of poor Baby. Earnestness is what
that Somebody must look for, to sustain him and improve him, Trot.
Deep, downright, faithful earnestness.'
'If you only knew the earnestness of Dora, aunt!' I cried.
'Oh, Trot!' she said again; 'blind, blind!' and without knowing
why, I felt a vague unhappy loss or want of something overshadow me
like a cloud.
'However,' said my aunt, 'I don't want to put two young creatures
out of conceit with themselves, or to make them unhappy; so, though
it is a girl and boy attachment, and girl and boy attachments very
often - mind! I don't say always! - come to nothing, still we'll be
serious about it, and hope for a prosperous issue one of these
days. There's time enough for it to come to anything!'
This was not upon the whole very comforting to a rapturous lover;
but I was glad to have my aunt in my confidence, and I was mindful
of her being fatigued. So I thanked her ardently for this mark of
her affection, and for all her other kindnesses towards me; and
after a tender good night, she took her nightcap into my bedroom.
How miserable I was, when I lay down! How I thought and thought
about my being poor, in Mr. Spenlow's eyes; about my not being what
I thought I was, when I proposed to Dora; about the chivalrous
necessity of telling Dora what my worldly condition was, and
releasing her from her engagement if she thought fit; about how I
should contrive to live, during the long term of my articles, when
I was earning nothing; about doing something to assist my aunt, and
seeing no way of doing anything; about coming down to have no money
in my pocket, and to wear a shabby coat, and to be able to carry
Dora no little presents, and to ride no gallant greys, and to show
myself in no agreeable light! Sordid and selfish as I knew it was,
and as I tortured myself by knowing that it was, to let my mind run
on my own distress so much, I was so devoted to Dora that I could
not help it. I knew that it was base in me not to think more of my
aunt, and less of myself; but, so far, selfishness was inseparable
from Dora, and I could not put Dora on one side for any mortal
creature. How exceedingly miserable I was, that night!
As to sleep, I had dreams of poverty in all sorts of shapes, but I
seemed to dream without the previous ceremony of going to sleep.
Now I was ragged, wanting to sell Dora matches, six bundles for a
halfpenny; now I was at the office in a nightgown and boots,
remonstrated with by Mr. Spenlow on appearing before the clients in
that airy attire; now I was hungrily picking up the crumbs that
fell from old Tiffey's daily biscuit, regularly eaten when St.
Paul's struck one; now I was hopelessly endeavouring to get a
licence to marry Dora, having nothing but one of Uriah Heep's
gloves to offer in exchange, which the whole Commons rejected; and
still, more or less conscious of my own room, I was always tossing
about like a distressed ship in a sea of bed-clothes.
My aunt was restless, too, for I frequently heard her walking to
and fro. Two or,three times in the course of the night, attired in
a long flannel wrapper in which she looked seven feet high, she
appeared, like a disturbed ghost, in my room, and came to the side
of the sofa on which I lay. On the first occasion I started up in
alarm, to learn that she inferred from a particular light in the
sky, that Westminster Abbey was on fire; and to be consulted in
reference to the probability of its igniting Buckingham Street, in
case the wind changed. Lying still, after that, I found that she
sat down near me, whispering to herself 'Poor boy!' And then it
made me twenty times more wretched, to know how unselfishly mindful
she was of me, and how selfishly mindful I was of myself.
It was difficult to believe that a night so long to me, could be
short to anybody else. This consideration set me thinking and
thinking of an imaginary party where people were dancing the hours
away, until that became a dream too, and I heard the music
incessantly playing one tune, and saw Dora incessantly dancing one
dance, without taking the least notice of me. The man who had been
playing the harp all night, was trying in vain to cover it with an
ordinary-sized nightcap, when I awoke; or I should rather say, when
I left off trying to go to sleep, and saw the sun shining in
through the window at last.
There was an old Roman bath in those days at the bottom of one of
the streets out of the Strand - it may be there still - in which I
have had many a cold plunge. Dressing myself as quietly as I
could, and leaving Peggotty to look after my aunt, I tumbled head
foremost into it, and then went for a walk to Hampstead. I had a
hope that this brisk treatment might freshen my wits a little; and
I think it did them good, for I soon came to the conclusion that
the first step I ought to take was, to try if my articles could be
cancelled and the premium recovered. I got some breakfast on the
Heath, and walked back to Doctors' Commons, along the watered roads
and through a pleasant smell of summer flowers, growing in gardens
and carried into town on hucksters' heads, intent on this first
effort to meet our altered circumstances.
I arrived at the office so soon, after all, that I had half an
hour's loitering about the Commons, before old Tiffey, who was
always first, appeared with his key. Then I sat down in my shady
corner, looking up at the sunlight on the opposite chimney-pots,
and thinking about Dora; until Mr. Spenlow came in, crisp and
curly.
'How are you, Copperfield?' said he. 'Fine morning!'
'Beautiful morning, sir,' said I. 'Could I say a word to you
before you go into Court?'
'By all means,' said he. 'Come into my room.'
I followed him into his room, and he began putting on his gown, and
touching himself up before a little glass he had, hanging inside a
closet door.
'I am sorry to say,' said I, 'that I have some rather disheartening
intelligence from my aunt.'
'No!' said he. 'Dear me! Not paralysis, I hope?'
'It has no reference to her health, sir,' I replied. 'She has met
with some large losses. In fact, she has very little left,
indeed.'
'You as-tound me, Copperfield!' cried Mr. Spenlow.
I shook my head. 'Indeed, sir,' said I, 'her affairs are so
changed, that I wished to ask you whether it would be possible - at
a sacrifice on our part of some portion of the premium, of course,'
I put in this, on the spur of the moment, warned by the blank
expression of his face - 'to cancel my articles?'
What it cost me to make this proposal, nobody knows. It was like
asking, as a favour, to be sentenced to transportation from Dora.
'To cancel your articles, Copperfield? Cancel?'
I explained with tolerable firmness, that I really did not know
where my means of subsistence were to come from, unless I could
earn them for myself. I had no fear for the future, I said - and
I laid great emphasis on that, as if to imply that I should still
be decidedly eligible for a son-in-law one of these days - but, for
the present, I was thrown upon my own resources.
'I am extremely sorry to hear this, Copperfield,' said Mr. Spenlow.
'Extremely sorry. It is not usual to cancel articles for any such
reason. It is not a professional course of proceeding. It is not
a convenient precedent at all. Far from it. At the same time -'
'You are very good, sir,' I murmured, anticipating a concession.
'Not at all. Don't mention it,' said Mr. Spenlow. 'At the same
time, I was going to say, if it had been my lot to have my hands
unfettered - if I had not a partner - Mr. Jorkins -'
My hopes were dashed in a moment, but I made another effort.
'Do you think, sir,' said I, 'if I were to mention it to Mr.
Jorkins -'
Mr. Spenlow shook his head discouragingly. 'Heaven forbid,
Copperfield,' he replied, 'that I should do any man an injustice:
still less, Mr. jorkins. But I know my partner, Copperfield. Mr.
jorkins is not a man to respond to a proposition of this peculiar
nature. Mr. jorkins is very difficult to move from the beaten
track. You know what he is!'
I am sure I knew nothing about him, except that he had originally
been alone in the business, and now lived by himself in a house
near Montagu Square, which was fearfully in want of painting; that
he came very late of a day, and went away very early; that he never
appeared to be consulted about anything; and that he had a dingy
little black-hole of his own upstairs, where no business was ever
done, and where there was a yellow old cartridge-paper pad upon his
desk, unsoiled by ink, and reported to be twenty years of age.
'Would you object to my mentioning it to him, sir?' I asked.
'By no means,' said Mr. Spenlow. 'But I have some experience of
Mr. jorkins, Copperfield. I wish it were otherwise, for I should
be happy to meet your views in any respect. I cannot have the
objection to your mentioning it to Mr. jorkins, Copperfield, if you
think it worth while.'
Availing myself of this permission, which was given with a warm
shake of the hand, I sat thinking about Dora, and looking at the
sunlight stealing from the chimney-pots down the wall of the
opposite house, until Mr. jorkins came. I then went up to Mr.
jorkins's room, and evidently astonished Mr. jorkins very much by
making my appearance there.
'Come in, Mr. Copperfield,' said Mr. jorkins. 'Come in!'
I went in, and sat down; and stated my case to Mr. jorkins pretty
much as I had stated it to Mr. Spenlow. Mr. Jorkins was not by any
means the awful creature one might have expected, but a large,
mild, smooth-faced man of sixty, who took so much snuff that there
was a tradition in the Commons that he lived principally on that
stimulant, having little room in his system for any other article
of diet.
'You have mentioned this to Mr. Spenlow, I suppose?' said Mr.
jorkins; when he had heard me, very restlessly, to an end.
I answered Yes, and told him that Mr. Spenlow had introduced his
name.
'He said I should object?' asked Mr. jorkins.
I was obliged to admit that Mr. Spenlow had considered it probable.
'I am sorry to say, Mr. Copperfield, I can't advance your object,'
said Mr. jorkins, nervously. 'The fact is - but I have an
appointment at the Bank, if you'll have the goodness to excuse me.'
With that he rose in a great hurry, and was going out of the room,
when I made bold to say that I feared, then, there was no way of
arranging the matter?
'No!' said Mr. jorkins, stopping at the door to shake his head.
'Oh, no! I object, you know,' which he said very rapidly, and went
out. 'You must be aware, Mr. Copperfield,' he added, looking
restlessly in at the door again, 'if Mr. Spenlow objects -'
'Personally, he does not object, sir,' said I.
'Oh! Personally!' repeated Mr. Jorkins, in an impatient manner.
'I assure you there's an objection, Mr. Copperfield. Hopeless!
What you wish to be done, can't be done. I - I really have got an
appointment at the Bank.' With that he fairly ran away; and to the
best of my knowledge, it was three days before he showed himself in
the Commons again.
Being very anxious to leave no stone unturned, I waited until Mr.
Spenlow came in, and then described what had passed; giving him to
understand that I was not hopeless of his being able to soften the
adamantine jorkins, if he would undertake the task.
'Copperfield,' returned Mr. Spenlow, with a gracious smile, 'you
have not known my partner, Mr. jorkins, as long as I have. Nothing
is farther from my thoughts than to attribute any degree of
artifice to Mr. jorkins. But Mr. jorkins has a way of stating his
objections which often deceives people. No, Copperfield!' shaking
his head. 'Mr. jorkins is not to be moved, believe me!'
I was completely bewildered between Mr. Spenlow and Mr. jorkins, as
to which of them really was the objecting partner; but I saw with
sufficient clearness that there was obduracy somewhere in the firm,
and that the recovery of my aunt's thousand pounds was out of the
question. In a state of despondency, which I remember with
anything but satisfaction, for I know it still had too much
reference to myself (though always in connexion with Dora), I left
the office, and went homeward.
I was trying to familiarize my mind with the worst, and to present
to myself the arrangements we should have to make for the future in
their sternest aspect, when a hackney-chariot coming after me, and
stopping at my very feet, occasioned me to look up. A fair hand
was stretched forth to me from the window; and the face I had never
seen without a feeling of serenity and happiness, from the moment
when it first turned back on the old oak staircase with the great
broad balustrade, and when I associated its softened beauty with
the stained-glass window in the church, was smiling on me.
'Agnes!' I joyfully exclaimed. 'Oh, my dear Agnes, of all people
in the world, what a pleasure to see you!'
'Is it, indeed?' she said, in her cordial voice.
'I want to talk to you so much!' said I. 'It's such a lightening
of my heart, only to look at you! If I had had a conjuror's cap,
there is no one I should have wished for but you!'
'What?' returned Agnes.
'Well! perhaps Dora first,' I admitted, with a blush.
'Certainly, Dora first, I hope,' said Agnes, laughing.
'But you next!' said I. 'Where are you going?'
She was going to my rooms to see my aunt. The day being very fine,
she was glad to come out of the chariot, which smelt (I had my head
in it all this time) like a stable put under a cucumber-frame. I
dismissed the coachman, and she took my arm, and we walked on
together. She was like Hope embodied, to me. How different I felt
in one short minute, having Agnes at my side!
My aunt had written her one of the odd, abrupt notes - very little
longer than a Bank note - to which her epistolary efforts were
usually limited. She had stated therein that she had fallen into
adversity, and was leaving Dover for good, but had quite made up
her mind to it, and was so well that nobody need be uncomfortable
about her. Agnes had come to London to see my aunt, between whom
and herself there had been a mutual liking these many years:
indeed, it dated from the time of my taking up my residence in Mr.
Wickfield's house. She was not alone, she said. Her papa was with
her - and Uriah Heep.
'And now they are partners,' said I. 'Confound him!'
'Yes,' said Agnes. 'They have some business here; and I took
advantage of their coming, to come too. You must not think my
visit all friendly and disinterested, Trotwood, for - I am afraid
I may be cruelly prejudiced - I do not like to let papa go away
alone, with him.'
'Does he exercise the same influence over Mr. Wickfield still,
Agnes?'
Agnes shook her head. 'There is such a change at home,' said she,
'that you would scarcely know the dear old house. They live with
us now.'
'They?' said I.
'Mr. Heep and his mother. He sleeps in your old room,' said Agnes,
looking up into my face.
'I wish I had the ordering of his dreams,' said I. 'He wouldn't
sleep there long.'
'I keep my own little room,' said Agnes, 'where I used to learn my
lessons. How the time goes! You remember? The little panelled
room that opens from the drawing-room?'
'Remember, Agnes? When I saw you, for the first time, coming out
at the door, with your quaint little basket of keys hanging at your
side?'
'It is just the same,' said Agnes, smiling. 'I am glad you think
of it so pleasantly. We were very happy.'
'We were, indeed,' said I.
'I keep that room to myself still; but I cannot always desert Mrs.
Heep, you know. And so,' said Agnes, quietly, 'I feel obliged to
bear her company, when I might prefer to be alone. But I have no
other reason to complain of her. If she tires me, sometimes, by
her praises of her son, it is only natural in a mother. He is a
very good son to her.'
I looked at Agnes when she said these words, without detecting in
her any consciousness of Uriah's design. Her mild but earnest eyes
met mine with their own beautiful frankness, and there was no
change in her gentle face.
'The chief evil of their presence in the house,' said Agnes, 'is
that I cannot be as near papa as I could wish - Uriah Heep being so
much between us - and cannot watch over him, if that is not too
bold a thing to say, as closely as I would. But if any fraud or
treachery is practising against him, I hope that simple love and
truth will be strong in the end. I hope that real love and truth
are stronger in the end than any evil or misfortune in the world.'
A certain bright smile, which I never saw on any other face, died
away, even while I thought how good it was, and how familiar it had
once been to me; and she asked me, with a quick change of
expression (we were drawing very near my street), if I knew how the
reverse in my aunt's circumstances had been brought about. On my
replying no, she had not told me yet, Agnes became thoughtful, and
I fancied I felt her arm tremble in mine.
We found my aunt alone, in a state of some excitement. A
difference of opinion had arisen between herself and Mrs. Crupp, on
an abstract question (the propriety of chambers being inhabited by
the gentler sex); and my aunt, utterly indifferent to spasms on the
part of Mrs. Crupp, had cut the dispute short, by informing that
lady that she smelt of my brandy, and that she would trouble her to
walk out. Both of these expressions Mrs. Crupp considered
actionable, and had expressed her intention of bringing before a
'British Judy' - meaning, it was supposed, the bulwark of our
national liberties.
MY aunt, however, having had time to cool, while Peggotty was out
showing Mr. Dick the soldiers at the Horse Guards - and being,
besides, greatly pleased to see Agnes - rather plumed herself on
the affair than otherwise, and received us with unimpaired good
humour. When Agnes laid her bonnet on the table, and sat down
beside her, I could not but think, looking on her mild eyes and her
radiant forehead, how natural it seemed to have her there; how
trustfully, although she was so young and inexperienced, my aunt
confided in her; how strong she was, indeed, in simple love and
truth.
We began to talk about my aunt's losses, and I told them what I had
tried to do that morning.
'Which was injudicious, Trot,' said my aunt, 'but well meant. You
are a generous boy - I suppose I must say, young man, now - and I
am proud of you, my dear. So far, so good. Now, Trot and Agnes,
let us look the case of Betsey Trotwood in the face, and see how it
stands.'
I observed Agnes turn pale, as she looked very attentively at my
aunt. My aunt, patting her cat, looked very attentively at Agnes.
'Betsey Trotwood,' said my aunt, who had always kept her money
matters to herself. '- I don't mean your sister, Trot, my dear,
but myself - had a certain property. It don't matter how much;
enough to live on. More; for she had saved a little, and added to
it. Betsey funded her property for some time, and then, by the
advice of her man of business, laid it out on landed security.
That did very well, and returned very good interest, till Betsey
was paid off. I am talking of Betsey as if she was a man-of-war.
Well! Then, Betsey had to look about her, for a new investment.
She thought she was wiser, now, than her man of business, who was
not such a good man of business by this time, as he used to be - I
am alluding to your father, Agnes - and she took it into her head
to lay it out for herself. So she took her pigs,' said my aunt,
'to a foreign market; and a very bad market it turned out to be.
First, she lost in the mining way, and then she lost in the diving
way - fishing up treasure, or some such Tom Tiddler nonsense,'
explained my aunt, rubbing her nose; 'and then she lost in the
mining way again, and, last of all, to set the thing entirely to
rights, she lost in the banking way. I don't know what the Bank
shares were worth for a little while,' said my aunt; 'cent per cent
was the lowest of it, I believe; but the Bank was at the other end
of the world, and tumbled into space, for what I know; anyhow, it
fell to pieces, and never will and never can pay sixpence; and
Betsey's sixpences were all there, and there's an end of them.
Least said, soonest mended!'
My aunt concluded this philosophical summary, by fixing her eyes
with a kind of triumph on Agnes, whose colour was gradually
returning.
'Dear Miss Trotwood, is that all the history?' said Agnes.
'I hope it's enough, child,' said my aunt. 'If there had been more
money to lose, it wouldn't have been all, I dare say. Betsey would
have contrived to throw that after the rest, and make another
chapter, I have little doubt. But there was no more money, and
there's no more story.'
Agnes had listened at first with suspended breath. Her colour
still came and went, but she breathed more freely. I thought I
knew why. I thought she had had some fear that her unhappy father
might be in some way to blame for what had happened. My aunt took
her hand in hers, and laughed.
'Is that all?' repeated my aunt. 'Why, yes, that's all, except,
"And she lived happy ever afterwards." Perhaps I may add that of
Betsey yet, one of these days. Now, Agnes, you have a wise head.
So have you, Trot, in some things, though I can't compliment you
always'; and here my aunt shook her own at me, with an energy
peculiar to herself. 'What's to be done? Here's the cottage,
taking one time with another, will produce say seventy pounds a
year. I think we may safely put it down at that. Well! - That's
all we've got,' said my aunt; with whom it was an idiosyncrasy, as
it is with some horses, to stop very short when she appeared to be
in a fair way of going on for a long while.
'Then,' said my aunt, after a rest, 'there's Dick. He's good for
a hundred a-year, but of course that must be expended on himself.
I would sooner send him away, though I know I am the only person
who appreciates him, than have him, and not spend his money on
himself. How can Trot and I do best, upon our means? What do you
say, Agnes?'
'I say, aunt,' I interposed, 'that I must do something!'
'Go for a soldier, do you mean?' returned my aunt, alarmed; 'or go
to sea? I won't hear of it. You are to be a proctor. We're not
going to have any knockings on the head in THIS family, if you
please, sir.'
I was about to explain that I was not desirous of introducing that
mode of provision into the family, when Agnes inquired if my rooms
were held for any long term?
'You come to the point, my dear,' said my aunt. 'They are not to
be got rid of, for six months at least, unless they could be
underlet, and that I don't believe. The last man died here. Five
people out of six would die - of course - of that woman in nankeen
with the flannel petticoat. I have a little ready money; and I
agree with you, the best thing we can do, is, to live the term out
here, and get a bedroom hard by.'
I thought it my duty to hint at the discomfort my aunt would
sustain, from living in a continual state of guerilla warfare with
Mrs. Crupp; but she disposed of that objection summarily by
declaring that, on the first demonstration of hostilities, she was
prepared to astonish Mrs. Crupp for the whole remainder of her
natural life.
'I have been thinking, Trotwood,' said Agnes, diffidently, 'that if
you had time -'
'I have a good deal of time, Agnes. I am always disengaged after
four or five o'clock, and I have time early in the morning. In one
way and another,' said I, conscious of reddening a little as I
thought of the hours and hours I had devoted to fagging about town,
and to and fro upon the Norwood Road, 'I have abundance of time.'
'I know you would not mind,' said Agnes, coming to me, and speaking
in a low voice, so full of sweet and hopeful consideration that I
hear it now, 'the duties of a secretary.'
'Mind, my dear Agnes?'
'Because,' continued Agnes, 'Doctor Strong has acted on his
intention of retiring, and has come to live in London; and he asked
papa, I know, if he could recommend him one. Don't you think he
would rather have his favourite old pupil near him, than anybody
else?'
'Dear Agnes!' said I. 'What should I do without you! You are
always my good angel. I told you so. I never think of you in any
other light.'
Agnes answered with her pleasant laugh, that one good Angel
(meaning Dora) was enough; and went on to remind me that the Doctor
had been used to occupy himself in his study, early in the morning,
and in the evening - and that probably my leisure would suit his
requirements very well. I was scarcely more delighted with the
prospect of earning my own bread, than with the hope of earning it
under my old master; in short, acting on the advice of Agnes, I sat
down and wrote a letter to the Doctor, stating my object, and
appointing to call on him next day at ten in the forenoon. This I
addressed to Highgate - for in that place, so memorable to me, he
lived - and went and posted, myself, without losing a minute.
Wherever Agnes was, some agreeable token of her noiseless presence
seemed inseparable from the place. When I came back, I found my
aunt's birds hanging, just as they had hung so long in the parlour
window of the cottage; and my easy-chair imitating my aunt's much
easier chair in its position at the open window; and even the round
green fan, which my aunt had brought away with her, screwed on to
the window-sill. I knew who had done all this, by its seeming to
have quietly done itself; and I should have known in a moment who
had arranged my neglected books in the old order of my school days,
even if I had supposed Agnes to be miles away, instead of seeing
her busy with them, and smiling at the disorder into which they had
fallen.
My aunt was quite gracious on the subject of the Thames (it really
did look very well with the sun upon it, though not like the sea
before the cottage), but she could not relent towards the London
smoke, which, she said, 'peppered everything'. A complete
revolution, in which Peggotty bore a prominent part, was being
effected in every corner of my rooms, in regard of this pepper; and
I was looking on, thinking how little even Peggotty seemed to do
with a good deal of bustle, and how much Agnes did without any
bustle at all, when a knock came at the door.
'I think,' said Agnes, turning pale, 'it's papa. He promised me
that he would come.'
I opened the door, and admitted, not only Mr. Wickfield, but Uriah
Heep. I had not seen Mr. Wickfield for some time. I was prepared
for a great change in him, after what I had heard from Agnes, but
his appearance shocked me.
It was not that he looked many years older, though still dressed
with the old scrupulous cleanliness; or that there was an
unwholesome ruddiness upon his face; or that his eyes were full and
bloodshot; or that there was a nervous trembling in his hand, the
cause of which I knew, and had for some years seen at work. It was
not that he had lost his good looks, or his old bearing of a
gentleman - for that he had not - but the thing that struck me
most, was, that with the evidences of his native superiority still
upon him, he should submit himself to that crawling impersonation
of meanness, Uriah Heep. The reversal of the two natures, in their
relative positions, Uriah's of power and Mr. Wickfield's of
dependence, was a sight more painful to me than I can express. If
I had seen an Ape taking command of a Man, I should hardly have
thought it a more degrading spectacle.
He appeared to be only too conscious of it himself. When he came
in, he stood still; and with his head bowed, as if he felt it.
This was only for a moment; for Agnes softly said to him, 'Papa!
Here is Miss Trotwood - and Trotwood, whom you have not seen for a
long while!' and then he approached, and constrainedly gave my aunt
his hand, and shook hands more cordially with me. In the moment's
pause I speak of, I saw Uriah's countenance form itself into a most
ill-favoured smile. Agnes saw it too, I think, for she shrank from
him.
What my aunt saw, or did not see, I defy the science of physiognomy
to have made out, without her own consent. I believe there never
was anybody with such an imperturbable countenance when she chose.
Her face might have been a dead-wall on the occasion in question,
for any light it threw upon her thoughts; until she broke silence
with her usual abruptness.
'Well, Wickfield!' said my aunt; and he looked up at her for the
first time. 'I have been telling your daughter how well I have
been disposing of my money for myself, because I couldn't trust it
to you, as you were growing rusty in business matters. We have
been taking counsel together, and getting on very well, all things
considered. Agnes is worth the whole firm, in my opinion.'
'If I may umbly make the remark,' said Uriah Heep, with a writhe,
'I fully agree with Miss Betsey Trotwood, and should be only too
appy if Miss Agnes was a partner.'
'You're a partner yourself, you know,' returned my aunt, 'and
that's about enough for you, I expect. How do you find yourself,
sir?'
In acknowledgement of this question, addressed to him with
extraordinary curtness, Mr. Heep, uncomfortably clutching the blue
bag he carried, replied that he was pretty well, he thanked my
aunt, and hoped she was the same.
'And you, Master - I should say, Mister Copperfield,' pursued
Uriah. 'I hope I see you well! I am rejoiced to see you, Mister
Copperfield, even under present circumstances.' I believed that;
for he seemed to relish them very much. 'Present circumstances is
not what your friends would wish for you, Mister Copperfield, but
it isn't money makes the man: it's - I am really unequal with my
umble powers to express what it is,' said Uriah, with a fawning
jerk, 'but it isn't money!'
Here he shook hands with me: not in the common way, but standing at
a good distance from me, and lifting my hand up and down like a
pump handle, that he was a little afraid of.
'And how do you think we are looking, Master Copperfield, - I
should say, Mister?' fawned Uriah. 'Don't you find Mr. Wickfield
blooming, sir? Years don't tell much in our firm, Master
Copperfield, except in raising up the umble, namely, mother and
self - and in developing,' he added, as an afterthought, 'the
beautiful, namely, Miss Agnes.'
He jerked himself about, after this compliment, in such an
intolerable manner, that my aunt, who had sat looking straight at
him, lost all patience.
'Deuce take the man!' said my aunt, sternly, 'what's he about?
Don't be galvanic, sir!'
'I ask your pardon, Miss Trotwood,' returned Uriah; 'I'm aware
you're nervous.'
'Go along with you, sir!' said my aunt, anything but appeased.
'Don't presume to say so! I am nothing of the sort. If you're an
eel, sir, conduct yourself like one. If you're a man, control your
limbs, sir! Good God!' said my aunt, with great indignation, 'I am
not going to be serpentined and corkscrewed out of my senses!'
Mr. Heep was rather abashed, as most people might have been, by
this explosion; which derived great additional force from the
indignant manner in which my aunt afterwards moved in her chair,
and shook her head as if she were making snaps or bounces at him.
But he said to me aside in a meek voice:
'I am well aware, Master Copperfield, that Miss Trotwood, though an
excellent lady, has a quick temper (indeed I think I had the
pleasure of knowing her, when I was a numble clerk, before you did,
Master Copperfield), and it's only natural, I am sure, that it
should be made quicker by present circumstances. The wonder is,
that it isn't much worse! I only called to say that if there was
anything we could do, in present circumstances, mother or self, or
Wickfield and Heep, -we should be really glad. I may go so far?'
said Uriah, with a sickly smile at his partner.
'Uriah Heep,' said Mr. Wickfield, in a monotonous forced way, 'is
active in the business, Trotwood. What he says, I quite concur in.
You know I had an old interest in you. Apart from that, what Uriah
says I quite concur in!'
'Oh, what a reward it is,' said Uriah, drawing up one leg, at the
risk of bringing down upon himself another visitation from my aunt,
'to be so trusted in! But I hope I am able to do something to
relieve him from the fatigues of business, Master Copperfield!'
'Uriah Heep is a great relief to me,' said Mr. Wickfield, in the
same dull voice. 'It's a load off my mind, Trotwood, to have such
a partner.'
The red fox made him say all this, I knew, to exhibit him to me in
the light he had indicated on the night when he poisoned my rest.
I saw the same ill-favoured smile upon his face again, and saw how
he watched me.
'You are not going, papa?' said Agnes, anxiously. 'Will you not
walk back with Trotwood and me?'
He would have looked to Uriah, I believe, before replying, if that
worthy had not anticipated him.
'I am bespoke myself,' said Uriah, 'on business; otherwise I should
have been appy to have kept with my friends. But I leave my
partner to represent the firm. Miss Agnes, ever yours! I wish you
good-day, Master Copperfield, and leave my umble respects for Miss
Betsey Trotwood.'
With those words, he retired, kissing his great hand, and leering
at us like a mask.
We sat there, talking about our pleasant old Canterbury days, an
hour or two. Mr. Wickfield, left to Agnes, soon became more like
his former self; though there was a settled depression upon him,
which he never shook off. For all that, he brightened; and had an
evident pleasure in hearing us recall the little incidents of our
old life, many of which he remembered very well. He said it was
like those times, to be alone with Agnes and me again; and he
wished to Heaven they had never changed. I am sure there was an
influence in the placid face of Agnes, and in the very touch of her
hand upon his arm, that did wonders for him.
My aunt (who was busy nearly all this while with Peggotty, in the
inner room) would not accompany us to the place where they were
staying, but insisted on my going; and I went. We dined together.
After dinner, Agnes sat beside him, as of old, and poured out his
wine. He took what she gave him, and no more - like a child - and
we all three sat together at a window as the evening gathered in.
When it was almost dark, he lay down on a sofa, Agnes pillowing his
head and bending over him a little while; and when she came back to
the window, it was not so dark but I could see tears glittering in
her eyes.
I pray Heaven that I never may forget the dear girl in her love and
truth, at that time of my life; for if I should, I must be drawing
near the end, and then I would desire to remember her best! She
filled my heart with such good resolutions, strengthened my
weakness so, by her example, so directed - I know not how, she was
too modest and gentle to advise me in many words - the wandering
ardour and unsettled purpose within me, that all the little good I
have done, and all the harm I have forborne, I solemnly believe I
may refer to her.
And how she spoke to me of Dora, sitting at the window in the dark;
listened to my praises of her; praised again; and round the little
fairy-figure shed some glimpses of her own pure light, that made it
yet more precious and more innocent to me! Oh, Agnes, sister of my
boyhood, if I had known then, what I knew long afterwards! -
There was a beggar in the street, when I went down; and as I turned
my head towards the window, thinking of her calm seraphic eyes, he
made me start by muttering, as if he were an echo of the morning:
'Blind! Blind! Blind!'
CHAPTER 36
ENTHUSIASM
I began the next day with another dive into the Roman bath, and
then started for Highgate. I was not dispirited now. I was not
afraid of the shabby coat, and had no yearnings after gallant
greys. My whole manner of thinking of our late misfortune was
changed. What I had to do, was, to show my aunt that her past
goodness to me had not been thrown away on an insensible,
ungrateful object. What I had to do, was, to turn the painful
discipline of my younger days to account, by going to work with a
resolute and steady heart. What I had to do, was, to take my
woodman's axe in my hand, and clear my own way through the forest
of difficulty, by cutting down the trees until I came to Dora. And
I went on at a mighty rate, as if it could be done by walking.
When I found myself on the familiar Highgate road, pursuing such a
different errand from that old one of pleasure, with which it was
associated, it seemed as if a complete change had come on my whole
life. But that did not discourage me. With the new life, came new
purpose, new intention. Great was the labour; priceless the
reward. Dora was the reward, and Dora must be won.
I got into such a transport, that I felt quite sorry my coat was
not a little shabby already. I wanted to be cutting at those trees
in the forest of difficulty, under circumstances that should prove
my strength. I had a good mind to ask an old man, in wire
spectacles, who was breaking stones upon the road, to lend me his
hammer for a little while, and let me begin to beat a path to Dora
out of granite. I stimulated myself into such a heat, and got so
out of breath, that I felt as if I had been earning I don't know
how much.
In this state, I went into a cottage that I saw was to let, and
examined it narrowly, - for I felt it necessary to be practical.
It would do for me and Dora admirably: with a little front garden
for Jip to run about in, and bark at the tradespeople through the
railings, and a capital room upstairs for my aunt. I came out
again, hotter and faster than ever, and dashed up to Highgate, at
such a rate that I was there an hour too early; and, though I had
not been, should have been obliged to stroll about to cool myself,
before I was at all presentable.
My first care, after putting myself under this necessary course of
preparation, was to find the Doctor's house. It was not in that
part of Highgate where Mrs. Steerforth lived, but quite on the
opposite side of the little town. When I had made this discovery,
I went back, in an attraction I could not resist, to a lane by Mrs.
Steerforth's, and looked over the corner of the garden wall. His
room was shut up close. The conservatory doors were standing open,
and Rosa Dartle was walking, bareheaded, with a quick, impetuous
step, up and down a gravel walk on one side of the lawn. She gave
me the idea of some fierce thing, that was dragging the length of
its chain to and fro upon a beaten track, and wearing its heart
out.
I came softly away from my place of observation, and avoiding that
part of the neighbourhood, and wishing I had not gone near it,
strolled about until it was ten o'clock. The church with the
slender spire, that stands on the top of the hill now, was not
there then to tell me the time. An old red-brick mansion, used as
a school, was in its place; and a fine old house it must have been
to go to school at, as I recollect it.
When I approached the Doctor's cottage - a pretty old place, on
which he seemed to have expended some money, if I might judge from
the embellishments and repairs that had the look of being just
completed - I saw him walking in the garden at the side, gaiters
and all, as if he had never left off walking since the days of my
pupilage. He had his old companions about him, too; for there were
plenty of high trees in the neighbourhood, and two or three rooks
were on the grass, looking after him, as if they had been written
to about him by the Canterbury rooks, and were observing him
closely in consequence.
Knowing the utter hopelessness of attracting his attention from
that distance, I made bold to open the gate, and walk after him, so
as to meet him when he should turn round. When he did, and came
towards me, he looked at me thoughtfully for a few moments,
evidently without thinking about me at all; and then his benevolent
face expressed extraordinary pleasure, and he took me by both
hands.
'Why, my dear Copperfield,' said the Doctor, 'you are a man! How
do you do? I am delighted to see you. My dear Copperfield, how
very much you have improved! You are quite - yes - dear me!'
I hoped he was well, and Mrs. Strong too.
'Oh dear, yes!' said the Doctor; 'Annie's quite well, and she'll be
delighted to see you. You were always her favourite. She said so,
last night, when I showed her your letter. And - yes, to be sure
- you recollect Mr. Jack Maldon, Copperfield?'
'Perfectly, sir.'
'Of course,' said the Doctor. 'To be sure. He's pretty well,
too.'
'Has he come home, sir?' I inquired.
'From India?' said the Doctor. 'Yes. Mr. Jack Maldon couldn't
bear the climate, my dear. Mrs. Markleham - you have not forgotten
Mrs. Markleham?'
Forgotten the Old Soldier! And in that short time!
'Mrs. Markleham,' said the Doctor, 'was quite vexed about him, poor
thing; so we have got him at home again; and we have bought him a
little Patent place, which agrees with him much better.'
I knew enough of Mr. Jack Maldon to suspect from this account that
it was a place where there was not much to do, and which was pretty
well paid. The Doctor, walking up and down with his hand on my
shoulder, and his kind face turned encouragingly to mine, went on:
'Now, my dear Copperfield, in reference to this proposal of yours.
It's very gratifying and agreeable to me, I am sure; but don't you
think you could do better? You achieved distinction, you know,
when you were with us. You are qualified for many good things.
You have laid a foundation that any edifice may be raised upon; and
is it not a pity that you should devote the spring-time of your
life to such a poor pursuit as I can offer?'
I became very glowing again, and, expressing myself in a
rhapsodical style, I am afraid, urged my request strongly;
reminding the Doctor that I had already a profession.
'Well, well,' said the Doctor, 'that's true. Certainly, your
having a profession, and being actually engaged in studying it,
makes a difference. But, my good young friend, what's seventy
pounds a year?'
'It doubles our income, Doctor Strong,' said I.
'Dear me!' replied the Doctor. 'To think of that! Not that I mean
to say it's rigidly limited to seventy pounds a-year, because I
have always contemplated making any young friend I might thus
employ, a present too. Undoubtedly,' said the Doctor, still
walking me up and down with his hand on my shoulder. 'I have
always taken an annual present into account.'
'My dear tutor,' said I (now, really, without any nonsense), 'to
whom I owe more obligations already than I ever can acknowledge -'
'No, no,' interposed the Doctor. 'Pardon me!'
'If you will take such time as I have, and that is my mornings and
evenings, and can think it worth seventy pounds a year, you will do
me such a service as I cannot express.'
'Dear me!' said the Doctor, innocently. 'To think that so little
should go for so much! Dear, dear! And when you can do better,
you will? On your word, now?' said the Doctor, - which he had
always made a very grave appeal to the honour of us boys.
'On my word, sir!' I returned, answering in our old school manner.
'Then be it so,' said the Doctor, clapping me on the shoulder, and
still keeping his hand there, as we still walked up and down.
'And I shall be twenty times happier, sir,' said I, with a little
- I hope innocent - flattery, 'if my employment is to be on the
Dictionary.'
The Doctor stopped, smilingly clapped me on the shoulder again, and
exclaimed, with a triumph most delightful to behold, as if I had
penetrated to the profoundest depths of mortal sagacity, 'My dear
young friend, you have hit it. It IS the Dictionary!'
How could it be anything else! His pockets were as full of it as
his head. It was sticking out of him in all directions. He told
me that since his retirement from scholastic life, he had been
advancing with it wonderfully; and that nothing could suit him
better than the proposed arrangements for morning and evening work,
as it was his custom to walk about in the daytime with his
considering cap on. His papers were in a little confusion, in
consequence of Mr. Jack Maldon having lately proffered his
occasional services as an amanuensis, and not being accustomed to
that occupation; but we should soon put right what was amiss, and
go on swimmingly. Afterwards, when we were fairly at our work, I
found Mr. Jack Maldon's efforts more troublesome to me than I had
expected, as he had not confined himself to making numerous
mistakes, but had sketched so many soldiers, and ladies' heads,
over the Doctor's manuscript, that I often became involved in
labyrinths of obscurity.
The Doctor was quite happy in the prospect of our going to work
together on that wonderful performance, and we settled to begin
next morning at seven o'clock. We were to work two hours every
morning, and two or three hours every night, except on Saturdays,
when I was to rest. On Sundays, of course, I was to rest also, and
I considered these very easy terms.
Our plans being thus arranged to our mutual satisfaction, the
Doctor took me into the house to present me to Mrs. Strong, whom we
found in the Doctor's new study, dusting his books, - a freedom
which he never permitted anybody else to take with those sacred
favourites.
They had postponed their breakfast on my account, and we sat down
to table together. We had not been seated long, when I saw an
approaching arrival in Mrs. Strong's face, before I heard any sound
of it. A gentleman on horseback came to the gate, and leading his
horse into the little court, with the bridle over his arm, as if he
were quite at home, tied him to a ring in the empty coach-house
wall, and came into the breakfast parlour, whip in hand. It was
Mr. Jack Maldon; and Mr. Jack Maldon was not at all improved by
India, I thought. I was in a state of ferocious virtue, however,
as to young men who were not cutting down trees in the forest of
difficulty; and my impression must be received with due allowance.
'Mr. Jack!' said the Doctor. 'Copperfield!'
Mr. Jack Maldon shook hands with me; but not very warmly, I
believed; and with an air of languid patronage, at which I secretly
took great umbrage. But his languor altogether was quite a
wonderful sight; except when he addressed himself to his cousin
Annie.
'Have you breakfasted this morning, Mr. Jack?' said the Doctor.
'I hardly ever take breakfast, sir,' he replied, with his head
thrown back in an easy-chair. 'I find it bores me.'
'Is there any news today?' inquired the Doctor.
'Nothing at all, sir,' replied Mr. Maldon. 'There's an account
about the people being hungry and discontented down in the North,
but they are always being hungry and discontented somewhere.'
The Doctor looked grave, and said, as though he wished to change
the subject, 'Then there's no news at all; and no news, they say,
is good news.'
'There's a long statement in the papers, sir, about a murder,'
observed Mr. Maldon. 'But somebody is always being murdered, and
I didn't read it.'
A display of indifference to all the actions and passions of
mankind was not supposed to be such a distinguished quality at that
time, I think, as I have observed it to be considered since. I
have known it very fashionable indeed. I have seen it displayed
with such success, that I have encountered some fine ladies and
gentlemen who might as well have been born caterpillars. Perhaps
it impressed me the more then, because it was new to me, but it
certainly did not tend to exalt my opinion of, or to strengthen my
confidence in, Mr. Jack Maldon.
'I came out to inquire whether Annie would like to go to the opera
tonight,' said Mr. Maldon, turning to her. 'It's the last good
night there will be, this season; and there's a singer there, whom
she really ought to hear. She is perfectly exquisite. Besides
which, she is so charmingly ugly,' relapsing into languor.
The Doctor, ever pleased with what was likely to please his young
wife, turned to her and said:
'You must go, Annie. You must go.'
'I would rather not,' she said to the Doctor. 'I prefer to remain
at home. I would much rather remain at home.'
Without looking at her cousin, she then addressed me, and asked me
about Agnes, and whether she should see her, and whether she was
not likely to come that day; and was so much disturbed, that I
wondered how even the Doctor, buttering his toast, could be blind
to what was so obvious.
But he saw nothing. He told her, good-naturedly, that she was
young and ought to be amused and entertained, and must not allow
herself to be made dull by a dull old fellow. Moreover, he said,
he wanted to hear her sing all the new singer's songs to him; and
how could she do that well, unless she went? So the Doctor
persisted in making the engagement for her, and Mr. Jack Maldon was
to come back to dinner. This concluded, he went to his Patent
place, I suppose; but at all events went away on his horse, looking
very idle.
I was curious to find out next morning, whether she had been. She
had not, but had sent into London to put her cousin off; and had
gone out in the afternoon to see Agnes, and had prevailed upon the
Doctor to go with her; and they had walked home by the fields, the
Doctor told me, the evening being delightful. I wondered then,
whether she would have gone if Agnes had not been in town, and
whether Agnes had some good influence over her too!
She did not look very happy, I thought; but it was a good face, or
a very false one. I often glanced at it, for she sat in the window
all the time we were at work; and made our breakfast, which we took
by snatches as we were employed. When I left, at nine o'clock, she
was kneeling on the ground at the Doctor's feet, putting on his
shoes and gaiters for him. There was a softened shade upon her
face, thrown from some green leaves overhanging the open window of
the low room; and I thought all the way to Doctors' Commons, of the
night when I had seen it looking at him as he read.
I was pretty busy now; up at five in the morning, and home at nine
or ten at night. But I had infinite satisfaction in being so
closely engaged, and never walked slowly on any account, and felt
enthusiastically that the more I tired myself, the more I was doing
to deserve Dora. I had not revealed myself in my altered character
to Dora yet, because she was coming to see Miss Mills in a few
days, and I deferred all I had to tell her until then; merely
informing her in my letters (all our communications were secretly
forwarded through Miss Mills), that I had much to tell her. In the
meantime, I put myself on a short allowance of bear's grease,
wholly abandoned scented soap and lavender water, and sold off
three waistcoats at a prodigious sacrifice, as being too luxurious
for my stern career.
Not satisfied with all these proceedings, but burning with
impatience to do something more, I went to see Traddles, now
lodging up behind the parapet of a house in Castle Street, Holborn.
Mr. Dick, who had been with me to Highgate twice already, and had
resumed his companionship with the Doctor, I took with me.
I took Mr. Dick with me, because, acutely sensitive to my aunt's
reverses, and sincerely believing that no galley-slave or convict
worked as I did, he had begun to fret and worry himself out of
spirits and appetite, as having nothing useful to do. In this
condition, he felt more incapable of finishing the Memorial than
ever; and the harder he worked at it, the oftener that unlucky head
of King Charles the First got into it. Seriously apprehending that
his malady would increase, unless we put some innocent deception
upon him and caused him to believe that he was useful, or unless we
could put him in the way of being really useful (which would be
better), I made up my mind to try if Traddles could help us.
Before we went, I wrote Traddles a full statement of all that had
happened, and Traddles wrote me back a capital answer, expressive
of his sympathy and friendship.
We found him hard at work with his inkstand and papers, refreshed
by the sight of the flower-pot stand and the little round table in
a corner of the small apartment. He received us cordially, and
made friends with Mr. Dick in a moment. Mr. Dick professed an
absolute certainty of having seen him before, and we both said,
'Very likely.'
The first subject on which I had to consult Traddles was this, - I
had heard that many men distinguished in various pursuits had begun
life by reporting the debates in Parliament. Traddles having
mentioned newspapers to me, as one of his hopes, I had put the two
things together, and told Traddles in my letter that I wished to
know how I could qualify myself for this pursuit. Traddles now
informed me, as the result of his inquiries, that the mere
mechanical acquisition necessary, except in rare cases, for
thorough excellence in it, that is to say, a perfect and entire
command of the mystery of short-hand writing and reading, was about
equal in difficulty to the mastery of six languages; and that it
might perhaps be attained, by dint of perseverance, in the course
of a few years. Traddles reasonably supposed that this would
settle the business; but I, only feeling that here indeed were a
few tall trees to be hewn down, immediately resolved to work my way
on to Dora through this thicket, axe in hand.
'I am very much obliged to you, my dear Traddles!' said I. 'I'll
begin tomorrow.'
Traddles looked astonished, as he well might; but he had no notion
as yet of my rapturous condition.
'I'll buy a book,' said I, 'with a good scheme of this art in it;
I'll work at it at the Commons, where I haven't half enough to do;
I'll take down the speeches in our court for practice - Traddles,
my dear fellow, I'll master it!'
'Dear me,' said Traddles, opening his eyes, 'I had no idea you were
such a determined character, Copperfield!'
I don't know how he should have had, for it was new enough to me.
I passed that off, and brought Mr. Dick on the carpet.
'You see,' said Mr. Dick, wistfully, 'if I could exert myself, Mr.
Traddles - if I could beat a drum- or blow anything!'
Poor fellow! I have little doubt he would have preferred such an
employment in his heart to all others. Traddles, who would not
have smiled for the world, replied composedly:
'But you are a very good penman, sir. You told me so,
Copperfield?'
'Excellent!' said I. And indeed he was. He wrote with
extraordinary neatness.
'Don't you think,' said Traddles, 'you could copy writings, sir, if
I got them for you?'
Mr. Dick looked doubtfully at me. 'Eh, Trotwood?'
I shook my head. Mr. Dick shook his, and sighed. 'Tell him about
the Memorial,' said Mr. Dick.
I explained to Traddles that there was a difficulty in keeping King
Charles the First out of Mr. Dick's manuscripts; Mr. Dick in the
meanwhile looking very deferentially and seriously at Traddles, and
sucking his thumb.
'But these writings, you know, that I speak of, are already drawn
up and finished,' said Traddles after a little consideration. 'Mr.
Dick has nothing to do with them. Wouldn't that make a difference,
Copperfield? At all events, wouldn't it be well to try?'
This gave us new hope. Traddles and I laying our heads together
apart, while Mr. Dick anxiously watched us from his chair, we
concocted a scheme in virtue of which we got him to work next day,
with triumphant success.
On a table by the window in Buckingham Street, we set out the work
Traddles procured for him - which was to make, I forget how many
copies of a legal document about some right of way - and on another
table we spread the last unfinished original of the great Memorial.
Our instructions to Mr. Dick were that he should copy exactly what
he had before him, without the least departure from the original;
and that when he felt it necessary to make the slightest allusion
to King Charles the First, he should fly to the Memorial. We
exhorted him to be resolute in this, and left my aunt to observe
him. My aunt reported to us, afterwards, that, at first, he was
like a man playing the kettle-drums, and constantly divided his
attentions between the two; but that, finding this confuse and
fatigue him, and having his copy there, plainly before his eyes, he
soon sat at it in an orderly business-like manner, and postponed
the Memorial to a more convenient time. In a word, although we
took great care that he should have no more to do than was good for
him, and although he did not begin with the beginning of a week, he
earned by the following Saturday night ten shillings and
nine-pence; and never, while I live, shall I forget his going about
to all the shops in the neighbourhood to change this treasure into
sixpences, or his bringing them to my aunt arranged in the form of
a heart upon a waiter, with tears of joy and pride in his eyes. He
was like one under the propitious influence of a charm, from the
moment of his being usefully employed; and if there were a happy
man in the world, that Saturday night, it was the grateful creature
who thought my aunt the most wonderful woman in existence, and me
the most wonderful young man.
'No starving now, Trotwood,' said Mr. Dick, shaking hands with me
in a corner. 'I'll provide for her, Sir!' and he flourished his
ten fingers in the air, as if they were ten banks.
I hardly know which was the better pleased, Traddles or I. 'It
really,' said Traddles, suddenly, taking a letter out of his
pocket, and giving it to me, 'put Mr. Micawber quite out of my
head!'
The letter (Mr. Micawber never missed any possible opportunity of
writing a letter) was addressed to me, 'By the kindness of T.
Traddles, Esquire, of the Inner Temple.' It ran thus: -
'MY DEAR COPPERFIELD,
'You may possibly not be unprepared to receive the intimation that
something has turned up. I may have mentioned to you on a former
occasion that I was in expectation of such an event.
'I am about to establish myself in one of the provincial towns of
our favoured island (where the society may be described as a happy
admixture of the agricultural and the clerical), in immediate
connexion with one of the learned professions. Mrs. Micawber and
our offspring will accompany me. Our ashes, at a future period,
will probably be found commingled in the cemetery attached to a
venerable pile, for which the spot to which I refer has acquired a
reputation, shall I say from China to Peru?
'In bidding adieu to the modern Babylon, where we have undergone
many vicissitudes, I trust not ignobly, Mrs. Micawber and myself
cannot disguise from our minds that we part, it may be for years
and it may be for ever, with an individual linked by strong
associations to the altar of our domestic life. If, on the eve of
such a departure, you will accompany our mutual friend, Mr. Thomas
Traddles, to our present abode, and there reciprocate the wishes
natural to the occasion, you will confer a Boon
'On
'One
'Who
'Is
'Ever yours,
'WILKINS MICAWBER.'
I was glad to find that Mr. Micawber had got rid of his dust and
ashes, and that something really had turned up at last. Learning
from Traddles that the invitation referred to the evening then
wearing away, I expressed my readiness to do honour to it; and we
went off together to the lodging which Mr. Micawber occupied as Mr.
Mortimer, and which was situated near the top of the Gray's Inn
Road.
The resources of this lodging were so limited, that we found the
twins, now some eight or nine years old, reposing in a turn-up
bedstead in the family sitting-room, where Mr. Micawber had
prepared, in a wash-hand-stand jug, what he called 'a Brew' of the
agreeable beverage for which he was famous. I had the pleasure, on
this occasion, of renewing the acquaintance of Master Micawber,
whom I found a promising boy of about twelve or thirteen, very
subject to that restlessness of limb which is not an unfrequent
phenomenon in youths of his age. I also became once more known to
his sister, Miss Micawber, in whom, as Mr. Micawber told us, 'her
mother renewed her youth, like the Phoenix'.
'My dear Copperfield,' said Mr. Micawber, 'yourself and Mr.
Traddles find us on the brink of migration, and will excuse any
little discomforts incidental to that position.'
Glancing round as I made a suitable reply, I observed that the
family effects were already packed, and that the amount of luggage
was by no means overwhelming. I congratulated Mrs. Micawber on the
approaching change.
'My dear Mr. Copperfield,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'of your friendly
interest in all our affairs, I am well assured. My family may
consider it banishment, if they please; but I am a wife and mother,
and I never will desert Mr. Micawber.'
Traddles, appealed to by Mrs. Micawber's eye, feelingly acquiesced.
'That,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'that, at least, is my view, my dear
Mr. Copperfield and Mr. Traddles, of the obligation which I took
upon myself when I repeated the irrevocable words, "I, Emma, take
thee, Wilkins." I read the service over with a flat-candle on the
previous night, and the conclusion I derived from it was, that I
never could desert Mr. Micawber. And,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'though
it is possible I may be mistaken in my view of the ceremony, I
never will!'
'My dear,' said Mr. Micawber, a little impatiently, 'I am not
conscious that you are expected to do anything of the sort.'
'I am aware, my dear Mr. Copperfield,' pursued Mrs. Micawber, 'that
I am now about to cast my lot among strangers; and I am also aware
that the various members of my family, to whom Mr. Micawber has
written in the most gentlemanly terms, announcing that fact, have
not taken the least notice of Mr. Micawber's communication. Indeed
I may be superstitious,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'but it appears to me
that Mr. Micawber is destined never to receive any answers whatever
to the great majority of the communications he writes. I may
augur, from the silence of my family, that they object to the
resolution I have taken; but I should not allow myself to be
swerved from the path of duty, Mr. Copperfield, even by my papa and
mama, were they still living.'
I expressed my opinion that this was going in the right direction.
'It may be a sacrifice,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'to immure one's-self
in a Cathedral town; but surely, Mr. Copperfield, if it is a
sacrifice in me, it is much more a sacrifice in a man of Mr.
Micawber's abilities.'
'Oh! You are going to a Cathedral town?' said I.
Mr. Micawber, who had been helping us all, out of the
wash-hand-stand jug, replied:
'To Canterbury. In fact, my dear Copperfield, I have entered into
arrangements, by virtue of which I stand pledged and contracted to
our friend Heep, to assist and serve him in the capacity of - and
to be - his confidential clerk.'
I stared at Mr. Micawber, who greatly enjoyed my surprise.
'I am bound to state to you,' he said, with an official air, 'that
the business habits, and the prudent suggestions, of Mrs. Micawber,
have in a great measure conduced to this result. The gauntlet, to
which Mrs. Micawber referred upon a former occasion, being thrown
down in the form of an advertisement, was taken up by my friend
Heep, and led to a mutual recognition. Of my friend Heep,' said
Mr. Micawber, 'who is a man of remarkable shrewdness, I desire to
speak with all possible respect. My friend Heep has not fixed the
positive remuneration at too high a figure, but he has made a great
deal, in the way of extrication from the pressure of pecuniary
difficulties, contingent on the value of my services; and on the
value of those services I pin my faith. Such address and
intelligence as I chance to possess,' said Mr. Micawber, boastfully
disparaging himself, with the old genteel air, 'will be devoted to
my friend Heep's service. I have already some acquaintance with
the law - as a defendant on civil process - and I shall immediately
apply myself to the Commentaries of one of the most eminent and
remarkable of our English jurists. I believe it is unnecessary to
add that I allude to Mr. justice Blackstone.'
These observations, and indeed the greater part of the observations
made that evening, were interrupted by Mrs. Micawber's discovering
that Master Micawber was sitting on his boots, or holding his head
on with both arms as if he felt it loose, or accidentally kicking
Traddles under the table, or shuffling his feet over one another,
or producing them at distances from himself apparently outrageous
to nature, or lying sideways with his hair among the wine-glasses,
or developing his restlessness of limb in some other form
incompatible with the general interests of society; and by Master
Micawber's receiving those discoveries in a resentful spirit. I
sat all the while, amazed by Mr. Micawber's disclosure, and
wondering what it meant; until Mrs. Micawber resumed the thread of
the discourse, and claimed my attention.
'What I particularly request Mr. Micawber to be careful of, is,'
said Mrs. Micawber, 'that he does not, my dear Mr. Copperfield, in
applying himself to this subordinate branch of the law, place it
out of his power to rise, ultimately, to the top of the tree. I am
convinced that Mr. Micawber, giving his mind to a profession so
adapted to his fertile resources, and his flow of language, must
distinguish himself. Now, for example, Mr. Traddles,' said Mrs.
Micawber, assuming a profound air, 'a judge, or even say a
Chancellor. Does an individual place himself beyond the pale of
those preferments by entering on such an office as Mr. Micawber has
accepted?'
'My dear,' observed Mr. Micawber - but glancing inquisitively at
Traddles, too; 'we have time enough before us, for the
consideration of those questions.'
'Micawber,' she returned, 'no! Your mistake in life is, that you
do not look forward far enough. You are bound, in justice to your
family, if not to yourself, to take in at a comprehensive glance
the extremest point in the horizon to which your abilities may lead
you.'
Mr. Micawber coughed, and drank his punch with an air of exceeding
satisfaction - still glancing at Traddles, as if he desired to have
his opinion.
'Why, the plain state of the case, Mrs. Micawber,' said Traddles,
mildly breaking the truth to her. 'I mean the real prosaic fact,
you know -'
'Just so,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'my dear Mr. Traddles, I wish to be
as prosaic and literal as possible on a subject of so much
importance.'
'- Is,' said Traddles, 'that this branch of the law, even if Mr.
Micawber were a regular solicitor -'
'Exactly so,' returned Mrs. Micawber. ('Wilkins, you are
squinting, and will not be able to get your eyes back.')
'- Has nothing,' pursued Traddles, 'to do with that. Only a
barrister is eligible for such preferments; and Mr. Micawber could
not be a barrister, without being entered at an inn of court as a
student, for five years.'
'Do I follow you?' said Mrs. Micawber, with her most affable air of
business. 'Do I understand, my dear Mr. Traddles, that, at the
expiration of that period, Mr. Micawber would be eligible as a
Judge or Chancellor?'
'He would be ELIGIBLE,' returned Traddles, with a strong emphasis
on that word.
'Thank you,' said Mrs. Micawber. 'That is quite sufficient. If
such is the case, and Mr. Micawber forfeits no privilege by
entering on these duties, my anxiety is set at rest. I speak,'
said Mrs. Micawber, 'as a female, necessarily; but I have always
been of opinion that Mr. Micawber possesses what I have heard my
papa call, when I lived at home, the judicial mind; and I hope Mr.
Micawber is now entering on a field where that mind will develop
itself, and take a commanding station.'
I quite believe that Mr. Micawber saw himself, in his judicial
mind's eye, on the woolsack. He passed his hand complacently over
his bald head, and said with ostentatious resignation:
'My dear, we will not anticipate the decrees of fortune. If I am
reserved to wear a wig, I am at least prepared, externally,' in
allusion to his baldness, 'for that distinction. I do not,' said
Mr. Micawber, 'regret my hair, and I may have been deprived of it
for a specific purpose. I cannot say. It is my intention, my dear
Copperfield, to educate my son for the Church; I will not deny that
I should be happy, on his account, to attain to eminence.'
'For the Church?' said I, still pondering, between whiles, on Uriah
Heep.
'Yes,' said Mr. Micawber. 'He has a remarkable head-voice, and
will commence as a chorister. Our residence at Canterbury, and our
local connexion, will, no doubt, enable him to take advantage of
any vacancy that may arise in the Cathedral corps.'
On looking at Master Micawber again, I saw that he had a certain
expression of face, as if his voice were behind his eyebrows; where
it presently appeared to be, on his singing us (as an alternative
between that and bed) 'The Wood-Pecker tapping'. After many
compliments on this performance, we fell into some general
conversation; and as I was too full of my desperate intentions to
keep my altered circumstances to myself, I made them known to Mr.
and Mrs. Micawber. I cannot express how extremely delighted they
both were, by the idea of my aunt's being in difficulties; and how
comfortable and friendly it made them.
When we were nearly come to the last round of the punch, I
addressed myself to Traddles, and reminded him that we must not
separate, without wishing our friends health, happiness, and
success in their new career. I begged Mr. Micawber to fill us
bumpers, and proposed the toast in due form: shaking hands with him
across the table, and kissing Mrs. Micawber, to commemorate that
eventful occasion. Traddles imitated me in the first particular,
but did not consider himself a sufficiently old friend to venture
on the second.
'My dear Copperfield,' said Mr. Micawber, rising with one of his
thumbs in each of his waistcoat pockets, 'the companion of my
youth: if I may be allowed the expression - and my esteemed friend
Traddles: if I may be permitted to call him so - will allow me, on
the part of Mrs. Micawber, myself, and our offspring, to thank them
in the warmest and most uncompromising terms for their good wishes.
It may be expected that on the eve of a migration which will
consign us to a perfectly new existence,' Mr. Micawber spoke as if
they were going five hundred thousand miles, 'I should offer a few
valedictory remarks to two such friends as I see before me. But
all that I have to say in this way, I have said. Whatever station
in society I may attain, through the medium of the learned
profession of which I am about to become an unworthy member, I
shall endeavour not to disgrace, and Mrs. Micawber will be safe to
adorn. Under the temporary pressure of pecuniary liabilities,
contracted with a view to their immediate liquidation, but
remaining unliquidated through a combination of circumstances, I
have been under the necessity of assuming a garb from which my
natural instincts recoil - I allude to spectacles - and possessing
myself of a cognomen, to which I can establish no legitimate
pretensions. All I have to say on that score is, that the cloud
has passed from the dreary scene, and the God of Day is once more
high upon the mountain tops. On Monday next, on the arrival of the
four o'clock afternoon coach at Canterbury, my foot will be on my
native heath - my name, Micawber!'
Mr. Micawber resumed his seat on the close of these remarks, and
drank two glasses of punch in grave succession. He then said with
much solemnity:
'One thing more I have to do, before this separation is complete,
and that is to perform an act of justice. My friend Mr. Thomas
Traddles has, on two several occasions, "put his name", if I may
use a common expression, to bills of exchange for my accommodation.
On the first occasion Mr. Thomas Traddles was left - let me say, in
short, in the lurch. The fulfilment of the second has not yet
arrived. The amount of the first obligation,' here Mr. Micawber
carefully referred to papers, 'was, I believe, twenty-three, four,
nine and a half, of the second, according to my entry of that
transaction, eighteen, six, two. These sums, united, make a total,
if my calculation is correct, amounting to forty-one, ten, eleven
and a half. My friend Copperfield will perhaps do me the favour to
check that total?'
I did so and found it correct.
'To leave this metropolis,' said Mr. Micawber, 'and my friend Mr.
Thomas Traddles, without acquitting myself of the pecuniary part of
this obligation, would weigh upon my mind to an insupportable
extent. I have, therefore, prepared for my friend Mr. Thomas
Traddles, and I now hold in my hand, a document, which accomplishes
the desired object. I beg to hand to my friend Mr. Thomas Traddles
my I.O.U. for forty-one, ten, eleven and a half, and I am happy to
recover my moral dignity, and to know that I can once more walk
erect before my fellow man!'
With this introduction (which greatly affected him), Mr. Micawber
placed his I.O.U. in the hands of Traddles, and said he wished him
well in every relation of life. I am persuaded, not only that this
was quite the same to Mr. Micawber as paying the money, but that
Traddles himself hardly knew the difference until he had had time
to think about it.
Mr. Micawber walked so erect before his fellow man, on the strength
of this virtuous action, that his chest looked half as broad again
when he lighted us downstairs. We parted with great heartiness on
both sides; and when I had seen Traddles to his own door, and was
going home alone, I thought, among the other odd and contradictory
things I mused upon, that, slippery as Mr. Micawber was, I was
probably indebted to some compassionate recollection he retained of
me as his boy-lodger, for never having been asked by him for money.
I certainly should not have had the moral courage to refuse it; and
I have no doubt he knew that (to his credit be it written), quite
as well as I did.
CHAPTER 37
A LITTLE COLD WATER
My new life had lasted for more than a week, and I was stronger
than ever in those tremendous practical resolutions that I felt the
crisis required. I continued to walk extremely fast, and to have
a general idea that I was getting on. I made it a rule to take as
much out of myself as I possibly could, in my way of doing
everything to which I applied my energies. I made a perfect victim
of myself. I even entertained some idea of putting myself on a
vegetable diet, vaguely conceiving that, in becoming a
graminivorous animal, I should sacrifice to Dora.
As yet, little Dora was quite unconscious of my desperate firmness,
otherwise than as my letters darkly shadowed it forth. But another
Saturday came, and on that Saturday evening she was to be at Miss
Mills's; and when Mr. Mills had gone to his whist-club (telegraphed
to me in the street, by a bird-cage in the drawing-room middle
window), I was to go there to tea.
By this time, we were quite settled down in Buckingham Street,
where Mr. Dick continued his copying in a state of absolute
felicity. My aunt had obtained a signal victory over Mrs. Crupp,
by paying her off, throwing the first pitcher she planted on the
stairs out of window, and protecting in person, up and down the
staircase, a supernumerary whom she engaged from the outer world.
These vigorous measures struck such terror to the breast of Mrs.
Crupp, that she subsided into her own kitchen, under the impression
that my aunt was mad. My aunt being supremely indifferent to Mrs.
Crupp's opinion and everybody else's, and rather favouring than
discouraging the idea, Mrs. Crupp, of late the bold, became within
a few days so faint-hearted, that rather than encounter my aunt
upon the staircase, she would endeavour to hide her portly form
behind doors - leaving visible, however, a wide margin of flannel
petticoat - or would shrink into dark corners. This gave my aunt
such unspeakable satisfaction, that I believe she took a delight in
prowling up and down, with her bonnet insanely perched on the top
of her head, at times when Mrs. Crupp was likely to be in the way.
My aunt, being uncommonly neat and ingenious, made so many little
improvements in our domestic arrangements, that I seemed to be
richer instead of poorer. Among the rest, she converted the pantry
into a dressing-room for me; and purchased and embellished a
bedstead for my occupation, which looked as like a bookcase in the
daytime as a bedstead could. I was the object of her constant
solicitude; and my poor mother herself could not have loved me
better, or studied more how to make me happy.
Peggotty had considered herself highly privileged in being allowed
to participate in these labours; and, although she still retained
something of her old sentiment of awe in reference to my aunt, had
received so many marks of encouragement and confidence, that they
were the best friends possible. But the time had now come (I am
speaking of the Saturday when I was to take tea at Miss Mills's)
when it was necessary for her to return home, and enter on the
discharge of the duties she had undertaken in behalf of Ham. 'So
good-bye, Barkis,' said my aunt, 'and take care of yourself! I am
sure I never thought I could be sorry to lose you!'
I took Peggotty to the coach office and saw her off. She cried at
parting, and confided her brother to my friendship as Ham had done.
We had heard nothing of him since he went away, that sunny
afternoon.
'And now, my own dear Davy,' said Peggotty, 'if, while you're a
prentice, you should want any money to spend; or if, when you're
out of your time, my dear, you should want any to set you up (and
you must do one or other, or both, my darling); who has such a good
right to ask leave to lend it you, as my sweet girl's own old
stupid me!'
I was not so savagely independent as to say anything in reply, but
that if ever I borrowed money of anyone, I would borrow it of her.
Next to accepting a large sum on the spot, I believe this gave
Peggotty more comfort than anything I could have done.
'And, my dear!' whispered Peggotty, 'tell the pretty little angel
that I should so have liked to see her, only for a minute! And
tell her that before she marries my boy, I'll come and make your
house so beautiful for you, if you'll let me!'
I declared that nobody else should touch it; and this gave Peggotty
such delight that she went away in good spirits.
I fatigued myself as much as I possibly could in the Commons all
day, by a variety of devices, and at the appointed time in the
evening repaired to Mr. Mills's street. Mr. Mills, who was a
terrible fellow to fall asleep after dinner, had not yet gone out,
and there was no bird-cage in the middle window.
He kept me waiting so long, that I fervently hoped the Club would
fine him for being late. At last he came out; and then I saw my
own Dora hang up the bird-cage, and peep into the balcony to look
for me, and run in again when she saw I was there, while Jip
remained behind, to bark injuriously at an immense butcher's dog in
the street, who could have taken him like a pill.
Dora came to the drawing-room door to meet me; and Jip came
scrambling out, tumbling over his own growls, under the impression
that I was a Bandit; and we all three went in, as happy and loving
as could be. I soon carried desolation into the bosom of our joys
- not that I meant to do it, but that I was so full of the subject
- by asking Dora, without the smallest preparation, if she could
love a beggar?
My pretty, little, startled Dora! Her only association with the
word was a yellow face and a nightcap, or a pair of crutches, or a
wooden leg, or a dog with a decanter-stand in his mouth, or
something of that kind; and she stared at me with the most
delightful wonder.
'How can you ask me anything so foolish?' pouted Dora. 'Love a
beggar!'
'Dora, my own dearest!' said I. 'I am a beggar!'
'How can you be such a silly thing,' replied Dora, slapping my
hand, 'as to sit there, telling such stories? I'll make Jip bite
you!'
Her childish way was the most delicious way in the world to me, but
it was necessary to be explicit, and I solemnly repeated:
'Dora, my own life, I am your ruined David!'
'I declare I'll make Jip bite you!' said Dora, shaking her curls,
'if you are so ridiculous.'
But I looked so serious, that Dora left off shaking her curls, and
laid her trembling little hand upon my shoulder, and first looked
scared and anxious, then began to cry. That was dreadful. I fell
upon my knees before the sofa, caressing her, and imploring her not
to rend my heart; but, for some time, poor little Dora did nothing
but exclaim Oh dear! Oh dear! And oh, she was so frightened! And
where was Julia Mills! And oh, take her to Julia Mills, and go
away, please! until I was almost beside myself.
At last, after an agony of supplication and protestation, I got
Dora to look at me, with a horrified expression of face, which I
gradually soothed until it was only loving, and her soft, pretty
cheek was lying against mine. Then I told her, with my arms
clasped round her, how I loved her, so dearly, and so dearly; how
I felt it right to offer to release her from her engagement,
because now I was poor; how I never could bear it, or recover it,
if I lost her; how I had no fears of poverty, if she had none, my
arm being nerved and my heart inspired by her; how I was already
working with a courage such as none but lovers knew; how I had
begun to be practical, and look into the future; how a crust well
earned was sweeter far than a feast inherited; and much more to the
same purpose, which I delivered in a burst of passionate eloquence
quite surprising to myself, though I had been thinking about it,
day and night, ever since my aunt had astonished me.
'Is your heart mine still, dear Dora?' said I, rapturously, for I
knew by her clinging to me that it was.
'Oh, yes!' cried Dora. 'Oh, yes, it's all yours. Oh, don't be
dreadful!'
I dreadful! To Dora!
'Don't talk about being poor, and working hard!' said Dora,
nestling closer to me. 'Oh, don't, don't!'
'My dearest love,' said I, 'the crust well-earned -'
'Oh, yes; but I don't want to hear any more about crusts!' said
Dora. 'And Jip must have a mutton-chop every day at twelve, or
he'll die.'
I was charmed with her childish, winning way. I fondly explained
to Dora that Jip should have his mutton-chop with his accustomed
regularity. I drew a picture of our frugal home, made independent
by my labour - sketching in the little house I had seen at
Highgate, and my aunt in her room upstairs.
'I am not dreadful now, Dora?' said I, tenderly.
'Oh, no, no!' cried Dora. 'But I hope your aunt will keep in her
own room a good deal. And I hope she's not a scolding old thing!'
If it were possible for me to love Dora more than ever, I am sure
I did. But I felt she was a little impracticable. It damped my
new-born ardour, to find that ardour so difficult of communication
to her. I made another trial. When she was quite herself again,
and was curling Jip's ears, as he lay upon her lap, I became grave,
and said:
'My own! May I mention something?'
'Oh, please don't be practical!' said Dora, coaxingly. 'Because it
frightens me so!'
'Sweetheart!' I returned; 'there is nothing to alarm you in all
this. I want you to think of it quite differently. I want to make
it nerve you, and inspire you, Dora!'
'Oh, but that's so shocking!' cried Dora.
'My love, no. Perseverance and strength of character will enable
us to bear much worse things.'
'But I haven't got any strength at all,' said Dora, shaking her
curls. 'Have I, Jip? Oh, do kiss Jip, and be agreeable!'
It was impossible to resist kissing Jip, when she held him up to me
for that purpose, putting her own bright, rosy little mouth into
kissing form, as she directed the operation, which she insisted
should be performed symmetrically, on the centre of his nose. I
did as she bade me - rewarding myself afterwards for my obedience
- and she charmed me out of my graver character for I don't know
how long.
'But, Dora, my beloved!' said I, at last resuming it; 'I was going
to mention something.'
The judge of the Prerogative Court might have fallen in love with
her, to see her fold her little hands and hold them up, begging and
praying me not to be dreadful any more.
'Indeed I am not going to be, my darling!' I assured her. 'But,
Dora, my love, if you will sometimes think, - not despondingly, you
know; far from that! - but if you will sometimes think - just to
encourage yourself - that you are engaged to a poor man -'
'Don't, don't! Pray don't!' cried Dora. 'It's so very dreadful!'
'My soul, not at all!' said I, cheerfully. 'If you will sometimes
think of that, and look about now and then at your papa's
housekeeping, and endeavour to acquire a little habit - of
accounts, for instance -'
Poor little Dora received this suggestion with something that was
half a sob and half a scream.
'- It would be so useful to us afterwards,' I went on. 'And if you
would promise me to read a little - a little Cookery Book that I
would send you, it would be so excellent for both of us. For our
path in life, my Dora,' said I, warming with the subject, 'is stony
and rugged now, and it rests with us to smooth it. We must fight
our way onward. We must be brave. There are obstacles to be met,
and we must meet, and crush them!'
I was going on at a great rate, with a clenched hand, and a most
enthusiastic countenance; but it was quite unnecessary to proceed.
I had said enough. I had done it again. Oh, she was so
frightened! Oh, where was Julia Mills! Oh, take her to Julia
Mills, and go away, please! So that, in short, I was quite
distracted, and raved about the drawing-room.
I thought I had killed her, this time. I sprinkled water on her
face. I went down on my knees. I plucked at my hair. I denounced
myself as a remorseless brute and a ruthless beast. I implored her
forgiveness. I besought her to look up. I ravaged Miss Mills's
work-box for a smelling-bottle, and in my agony of mind applied an
ivory needle-case instead, and dropped all the needles over Dora.
I shook my fists at Jip, who was as frantic as myself. I did every
wild extravagance that could be done, and was a long way beyond the
end of my wits when Miss Mills came into the room.
'Who has done this?' exclaimed Miss Mills, succouring her friend.
I replied, 'I, Miss Mills! I have done it! Behold the destroyer!'
- or words to that effect - and hid my face from the light, in the
sofa cushion.
At first Miss Mills thought it was a quarrel, and that we were
verging on the Desert of Sahara; but she soon found out how matters
stood, for my dear affectionate little Dora, embracing her, began
exclaiming that I was 'a poor labourer'; and then cried for me, and
embraced me, and asked me would I let her give me all her money to
keep, and then fell on Miss Mills's neck, sobbing as if her tender
heart were broken.
Miss Mills must have been born to be a blessing to us. She
ascertained from me in a few words what it was all about, comforted
Dora, and gradually convinced her that I was not a labourer - from
my manner of stating the case I believe Dora concluded that I was
a navigator, and went balancing myself up and down a plank all day
with a wheelbarrow - and so brought us together in peace. When we
were quite composed, and Dora had gone up-stairs to put some
rose-water to her eyes, Miss Mills rang for tea. In the ensuing
interval, I told Miss Mills that she was evermore my friend, and
that my heart must cease to vibrate ere I could forget her
sympathy.
I then expounded to Miss Mills what I had endeavoured, so very
unsuccessfully, to expound to Dora. Miss Mills replied, on general
principles, that the Cottage of content was better than the Palace
of cold splendour, and that where love was, all was.
I said to Miss Mills that this was very true, and who should know
it better than I, who loved Dora with a love that never mortal had
experienced yet? But on Miss Mills observing, with despondency,
that it were well indeed for some hearts if this were so, I
explained that I begged leave to restrict the observation to
mortals of the masculine gender.
I then put it to Miss Mills, to say whether she considered that
there was or was not any practical merit in the suggestion I had
been anxious to make, concerning the accounts, the housekeeping,
and the Cookery Book?
Miss Mills, after some consideration, thus replied:
'Mr. Copperfield, I will be plain with you. Mental suffering and
trial supply, in some natures, the place of years, and I will be as
plain with you as if I were a Lady Abbess. No. The suggestion is
not appropriate to our Dora. Our dearest Dora is a favourite child
of nature. She is a thing of light, and airiness, and joy. I am
free to confess that if it could be done, it might be well, but -'
And Miss Mills shook her head.
I was encouraged by this closing admission on the part of Miss
Mills to ask her, whether, for Dora's sake, if she had any
opportunity of luring her attention to such preparations for an
earnest life, she would avail herself of it? Miss Mills replied in
the affirmative so readily, that I further asked her if she would
take charge of the Cookery Book; and, if she ever could insinuate
it upon Dora's acceptance, without frightening her, undertake to do
me that crowning service. Miss Mills accepted this trust, too; but
was not sanguine.
And Dora returned, looking such a lovely little creature, that I
really doubted whether she ought to be troubled with anything so
ordinary. And she loved me so much, and was so captivating
(particularly when she made Jip stand on his hind legs for toast,
and when she pretended to hold that nose of his against the hot
teapot for punishment because he wouldn't), that I felt like a sort
of Monster who had got into a Fairy's bower, when I thought of
having frightened her, and made her cry.
After tea we had the guitar; and Dora sang those same dear old
French songs about the impossibility of ever on any account leaving
off dancing, La ra la, La ra la, until I felt a much greater
Monster than before.
We had only one check to our pleasure, and that happened a little
while before I took my leave, when, Miss Mills chancing to make
some allusion to tomorrow morning, I unluckily let out that, being
obliged to exert myself now, I got up at five o'clock. Whether
Dora had any idea that I was a Private Watchman, I am unable to
say; but it made a great impression on her, and she neither played
nor sang any more.
It was still on her mind when I bade her adieu; and she said to me,
in her pretty coaxing way - as if I were a doll, I used to think:
'Now don't get up at five o'clock, you naughty boy. It's so
nonsensical!'
'My love,' said I, 'I have work to do.'
'But don't do it!' returned Dora. 'Why should you?'
It was impossible to say to that sweet little surprised face,
otherwise than lightly and playfully, that we must work to live.
'Oh! How ridiculous!' cried Dora.
'How shall we live without, Dora?' said I.
'How? Any how!' said Dora.
She seemed to think she had quite settled the question, and gave me
such a triumphant little kiss, direct from her innocent heart, that
I would hardly have put her out of conceit with her answer, for a
fortune.
Well! I loved her, and I went on loving her, most absorbingly,
entirely, and completely. But going on, too, working pretty hard,
and busily keeping red-hot all the irons I now had in the fire, I
would sit sometimes of a night, opposite my aunt, thinking how I
had frightened Dora that time, and how I could best make my way
with a guitar-case through the forest of difficulty, until I used
to fancy that my head was turning quite grey.
CHAPTER 38
A DISSOLUTION OF PARTNERSHIP
I did not allow my resolution, with respect to the Parliamentary
Debates, to cool. It was one of the irons I began to heat
immediately, and one of the irons I kept hot, and hammered at, with
a perseverance I may honestly admire. I bought an approved scheme
of the noble art and mystery of stenography (which cost me ten and
sixpence); and plunged into a sea of perplexity that brought me, in
a few weeks, to the confines of distraction. The changes that were
rung upon dots, which in such a position meant such a thing, and in
such another position something else, entirely different; the
wonderful vagaries that were played by circles; the unaccountable
consequences that resulted from marks like flies' legs; the
tremendous effects of a curve in a wrong place; not only troubled
my waking hours, but reappeared before me in my sleep. When I had
groped my way, blindly, through these difficulties, and had
mastered the alphabet, which was an Egyptian Temple in itself,
there then appeared a procession of new horrors, called arbitrary
characters; the most despotic characters I have ever known; who
insisted, for instance, that a thing like the beginning of a
cobweb, meant expectation, and that a pen-and-ink sky-rocket, stood
for disadvantageous. When I had fixed these wretches in my mind,
I found that they had driven everything else out of it; then,
beginning again, I forgot them; while I was picking them up, I
dropped the other fragments of the system; in short, it was almost
heart-breaking.
It might have been quite heart-breaking, but for Dora, who was the
stay and anchor of my tempest-driven bark. Every scratch in the
scheme was a gnarled oak in the forest of difficulty, and I went on
cutting them down, one after another, with such vigour, that in
three or four months I was in a condition to make an experiment on
one of our crack speakers in the Commons. Shall I ever forget how
the crack speaker walked off from me before I began, and left my
imbecile pencil staggering about the paper as if it were in a fit!
This would not do, it was quite clear. I was flying too high, and
should never get on, so. I resorted to Traddles for advice; who
suggested that he should dictate speeches to me, at a pace, and
with occasional stoppages, adapted to my weakness. Very grateful
for this friendly aid, I accepted the proposal; and night after
night, almost every night, for a long time, we had a sort of
Private Parliament in Buckingham Street, after I came home from the
Doctor's.
I should like to see such a Parliament anywhere else! My aunt and
Mr. Dick represented the Government or the Opposition (as the case
might be), and Traddles, with the assistance of Enfield's Speakers,
or a volume of parliamentary orations, thundered astonishing
invectives against them. Standing by the table, with his finger in
the page to keep the place, and his right arm flourishing above his
head, Traddles, as Mr. Pitt, Mr. Fox, Mr. Sheridan, Mr. Burke, Lord
Castlereagh, Viscount Sidmouth, or Mr. Canning, would work himself
into the most violent heats, and deliver the most withering
denunciations of the profligacy and corruption of my aunt and Mr.
Dick; while I used to sit, at a little distance, with my notebook
on my knee, fagging after him with all my might and main. The
inconsistency and recklessness of Traddles were not to be exceeded
by any real politician. He was for any description of policy, in
the compass of a week; and nailed all sorts of colours to every
denomination of mast. My aunt, looking very like an immovable
Chancellor of the Exchequer, would occasionally throw in an
interruption or two, as 'Hear!' or 'No!' or 'Oh!' when the text
seemed to require it: which was always a signal to Mr. Dick (a
perfect country gentleman) to follow lustily with the same cry.
But Mr. Dick got taxed with such things in the course of his
Parliamentary career, and was made responsible for such awful
consequences, that he became uncomfortable in his mind sometimes.
I believe he actually began to be afraid he really had been doing
something, tending to the annihilation of the British constitution,
and the ruin of the country.
Often and often we pursued these debates until the clock pointed to
midnight, and the candles were burning down. The result of so much
good practice was, that by and by I began to keep pace with
Traddles pretty well, and should have been quite triumphant if I
had had the least idea what my notes were about. But, as to
reading them after I had got them, I might as well have copied the
Chinese inscriptions of an immense collection of tea-chests, or the
golden characters on all the great red and green bottles in the
chemists' shops!
There was nothing for it, but to turn back and begin all over
again. It was very hard, but I turned back, though with a heavy
heart, and began laboriously and methodically to plod over the same
tedious ground at a snail's pace; stopping to examine minutely
every speck in the way, on all sides, and making the most desperate
efforts to know these elusive characters by sight wherever I met
them. I was always punctual at the office; at the Doctor's too:
and I really did work, as the common expression is, like a
cart-horse.
One day, when I went to the Commons as usual, I found Mr. Spenlow
in the doorway looking extremely grave, and talking to himself. As
he was in the habit of complaining of pains in his head - he had
naturally a short throat, and I do seriously believe he
over-starched himself - I was at first alarmed by the idea that he
was not quite right in that direction; but he soon relieved my
uneasiness.
Instead of returning my 'Good morning' with his usual affability,
he looked at me in a distant, ceremonious manner, and coldly
requested me to accompany him to a certain coffee-house, which, in
those days, had a door opening into the Commons, just within the
little archway in St. Paul's Churchyard. I complied, in a very
uncomfortable state, and with a warm shooting all over me, as if my
apprehensions were breaking out into buds. When I allowed him to
go on a little before, on account of the narrowness of the way, I
observed that he carried his head with a lofty air that was
particularly unpromising; and my mind misgave me that he had found
out about my darling Dora.
If I had not guessed this, on the way to the coffee-house, I could
hardly have failed to know what was the matter when I followed him
into an upstairs room, and found Miss Murdstone there, supported by
a background of sideboard, on which were several inverted tumblers
sustaining lemons, and two of those extraordinary boxes, all
corners and flutings, for sticking knives and forks in, which,
happily for mankind, are now obsolete.
Miss Murdstone gave me her chilly finger-nails, and sat severely
rigid. Mr. Spenlow shut the door, motioned me to a chair, and
stood on the hearth-rug in front of the fireplace.
'Have the goodness to show Mr. Copperfield,' said Mr. Spenlow, what
you have in your reticule, Miss Murdstone.'
I believe it was the old identical steel-clasped reticule of my
childhood, that shut up like a bite. Compressing her lips, in
sympathy with the snap, Miss Murdstone opened it - opening her
mouth a little at the same time - and produced my last letter to
Dora, teeming with expressions of devoted affection.
'I believe that is your writing, Mr. Copperfield?' said Mr.
Spenlow.
I was very hot, and the voice I heard was very unlike mine, when I
said, 'It is, sir!'
'If I am not mistaken,' said Mr. Spenlow, as Miss Murdstone brought
a parcel of letters out of her reticule, tied round with the
dearest bit of blue ribbon, 'those are also from your pen, Mr.
Copperfield?'
I took them from her with a most desolate sensation; and, glancing
at such phrases at the top, as 'My ever dearest and own Dora,' 'My
best beloved angel,' 'My blessed one for ever,' and the like,
blushed deeply, and inclined my head.
'No, thank you!' said Mr. Spenlow, coldly, as I mechanically
offered them back to him. 'I will not deprive you of them. Miss
Murdstone, be so good as to proceed!'
That gentle creature, after a moment's thoughtful survey of the
carpet, delivered herself with much dry unction as follows.
'I must confess to having entertained my suspicions of Miss
Spenlow, in reference to David Copperfield, for some time. I
observed Miss Spenlow and David Copperfield, when they first met;
and the impression made upon me then was not agreeable. The
depravity of the human heart is such -'
'You will oblige me, ma'am,' interrupted Mr. Spenlow, 'by confining
yourself to facts.'
Miss Murdstone cast down her eyes, shook her head as if protesting
against this unseemly interruption, and with frowning dignity
resumed:
'Since I am to confine myself to facts, I will state them as dryly
as I can. Perhaps that will be considered an acceptable course of
proceeding. I have already said, sir, that I have had my
suspicions of Miss Spenlow, in reference to David Copperfield, for
some time. I have frequently endeavoured to find decisive
corroboration of those suspicions, but without effect. I have
therefore forborne to mention them to Miss Spenlow's father';
looking severely at him- 'knowing how little disposition there
usually is in such cases, to acknowledge the conscientious
discharge of duty.'
Mr. Spenlow seemed quite cowed by the gentlemanly sternness of Miss
Murdstone's manner, and deprecated her severity with a conciliatory
little wave of his hand.
'On my return to Norwood, after the period of absence occasioned by
my brother's marriage,' pursued Miss Murdstone in a disdainful
voice, 'and on the return of Miss Spenlow from her visit to her
friend Miss Mills, I imagined that the manner of Miss Spenlow gave
me greater occasion for suspicion than before. Therefore I watched
Miss Spenlow closely.'
Dear, tender little Dora, so unconscious of this Dragon's eye!
'Still,' resumed Miss Murdstone, 'I found no proof until last
night. It appeared to me that Miss Spenlow received too many
letters from her friend Miss Mills; but Miss Mills being her friend
with her father's full concurrence,' another telling blow at Mr.
Spenlow, 'it was not for me to interfere. If I may not be
permitted to allude to the natural depravity of the human heart, at
least I may - I must - be permitted, so far to refer to misplaced
confidence.'
Mr. Spenlow apologetically murmured his assent.
'Last evening after tea,' pursued Miss Murdstone, 'I observed the
little dog starting, rolling, and growling about the drawing-room,
worrying something. I said to Miss Spenlow, "Dora, what is that
the dog has in his mouth? It's paper." Miss Spenlow immediately
put her hand to her frock, gave a sudden cry, and ran to the dog.
I interposed, and said, "Dora, my love, you must permit me." '
Oh Jip, miserable Spaniel, this wretchedness, then, was your work!
'Miss Spenlow endeavoured,' said Miss Murdstone, 'to bribe me with
kisses, work-boxes, and small articles of jewellery - that, of
course, I pass over. The little dog retreated under the sofa on my
approaching him, and was with great difficulty dislodged by the
fire-irons. Even when dislodged, he still kept the letter in his
mouth; and on my endeavouring to take it from him, at the imminent
risk of being bitten, he kept it between his teeth so
pertinaciously as to suffer himself to be held suspended in the air
by means of the document. At length I obtained possession of it.
After perusing it, I taxed Miss Spenlow with having many such
letters in her possession; and ultimately obtained from her the
packet which is now in David Copperfield's hand.'
Here she ceased; and snapping her reticule again, and shutting her
mouth, looked as if she might be broken, but could never be bent.
'You have heard Miss Murdstone,' said Mr. Spenlow, turning to me.
'I beg to ask, Mr. Copperfield, if you have anything to say in
reply?'
The picture I had before me, of the beautiful little treasure of my
heart, sobbing and crying all night - of her being alone,
frightened, and wretched, then - of her having so piteously begged
and prayed that stony-hearted woman to forgive her - of her having
vainly offered her those kisses, work-boxes, and trinkets - of her
being in such grievous distress, and all for me - very much
impaired the little dignity I had been able to muster. I am afraid
I was in a tremulous state for a minute or so, though I did my best
to disguise it.
'There is nothing I can say, sir,' I returned, 'except that all the
blame is mine. Dora -'
'Miss Spenlow, if you please,' said her father, majestically.
'- was induced and persuaded by me,' I went on, swallowing that
colder designation, 'to consent to this concealment, and I bitterly
regret it.'
'You are very much to blame, sir,' said Mr. Spenlow, walking to and
fro upon the hearth-rug, and emphasizing what he said with his
whole body instead of his head, on account of the stiffness of his
cravat and spine. 'You have done a stealthy and unbecoming action,
Mr. Copperfield. When I take a gentleman to my house, no matter
whether he is nineteen, twenty-nine, or ninety, I take him there in
a spirit of confidence. If he abuses my confidence, he commits a
dishonourable action, Mr. Copperfield.'
'I feel it, sir, I assure you,' I returned. 'But I never thought
so, before. Sincerely, honestly, indeed, Mr. Spenlow, I never
thought so, before. I love Miss Spenlow to that extent -'
'Pooh! nonsense!' said Mr. Spenlow, reddening. 'Pray don't tell me
to my face that you love my daughter, Mr. Copperfield!'
'Could I defend my conduct if I did not, sir?' I returned, with all
humility.
'Can you defend your conduct if you do, sir?' said Mr. Spenlow,
stopping short upon the hearth-rug. 'Have you considered your
years, and my daughter's years, Mr. Copperfield? Have you
considered what it is to undermine the confidence that should
subsist between my daughter and myself? Have you considered my
daughter's station in life, the projects I may contemplate for her
advancement, the testamentary intentions I may have with reference
to her? Have you considered anything, Mr. Copperfield?'
'Very little, sir, I am afraid;' I answered, speaking to him as
respectfully and sorrowfully as I felt; 'but pray believe me, I
have considered my own worldly position. When I explained it to
you, we were already engaged -'
'I BEG,' said Mr. Spenlow, more like Punch than I had ever seen
him, as he energetically struck one hand upon the other - I could
not help noticing that even in my despair; 'that YOU Will NOT talk
to me of engagements, Mr. Copperfield!'
The otherwise immovable Miss Murdstone laughed contemptuously in
one short syllable.
'When I explained my altered position to you, sir,' I began again,
substituting a new form of expression for what was so unpalatable
to him, 'this concealment, into which I am so unhappy as to have
led Miss Spenlow, had begun. Since I have been in that altered
position, I have strained every nerve, I have exerted every energy,
to improve it. I am sure I shall improve it in time. Will you
grant me time - any length of time? We are both so young, sir, -'
'You are right,' interrupted Mr. Spenlow, nodding his head a great
many times, and frowning very much, 'you are both very young. It's
all nonsense. Let there be an end of the nonsense. Take away
those letters, and throw them in the fire. Give me Miss Spenlow's
letters to throw in the fire; and although our future intercourse
must, you are aware, be restricted to the Commons here, we will
agree to make no further mention of the past. Come, Mr.
Copperfield, you don't want sense; and this is the sensible
course.'
No. I couldn't think of agreeing to it. I was very sorry, but
there was a higher consideration than sense. Love was above all
earthly considerations, and I loved Dora to idolatry, and Dora
loved me. I didn't exactly say so; I softened it down as much as
I could; but I implied it, and I was resolute upon it. I don't
think I made myself very ridiculous, but I know I was resolute.
'Very well, Mr. Copperfield,' said Mr. Spenlow, 'I must try my
influence with my daughter.'
Miss Murdstone, by an expressive sound, a long drawn respiration,
which was neither a sigh nor a moan, but was like both, gave it as
her opinion that he should have done this at first.
'I must try,' said Mr. Spenlow, confirmed by this support, 'my
influence with my daughter. Do you decline to take those letters,
Mr. Copperfield?' For I had laid them on the table.
Yes. I told him I hoped he would not think it wrong, but I
couldn't possibly take them from Miss Murdstone.
'Nor from me?' said Mr. Spenlow.
No, I replied with the profoundest respect; nor from him.
'Very well!' said Mr. Spenlow.
A silence succeeding, I was undecided whether to go or stay. At
length I was moving quietly towards the door, with the intention of
saying that perhaps I should consult his feelings best by
withdrawing: when he said, with his hands in his coat pockets, into
which it was as much as he could do to get them; and with what I
should call, upon the whole, a decidedly pious air:
'You are probably aware, Mr. Copperfield, that I am not altogether
destitute of worldly possessions, and that my daughter is my
nearest and dearest relative?'
I hurriedly made him a reply to the effect, that I hoped the error
into which I had been betrayed by the desperate nature of my love,
did not induce him to think me mercenary too?
'I don't allude to the matter in that light,' said Mr. Spenlow.
'It would be better for yourself, and all of us, if you WERE
mercenary, Mr. Copperfield - I mean, if you were more discreet and
less influenced by all this youthful nonsense. No. I merely say,
with quite another view, you are probably aware I have some
property to bequeath to my child?'
I certainly supposed so.
'And you can hardly think,' said Mr. Spenlow, 'having experience of
what we see, in the Commons here, every day, of the various
unaccountable and negligent proceedings of men, in respect of their
testamentary arrangements - of all subjects, the one on which
perhaps the strangest revelations of human inconsistency are to be
met with - but that mine are made?'
I inclined my head in acquiescence.
'I should not allow,' said Mr. Spenlow, with an evident increase of
pious sentiment, and slowly shaking his head as he poised himself
upon his toes and heels alternately, 'my suitable provision for my
child to be influenced by a piece of youthful folly like the
present. It is mere folly. Mere nonsense. In a little while, it
will weigh lighter than any feather. But I might - I might - if
this silly business were not completely relinquished altogether, be
induced in some anxious moment to guard her from, and surround her
with protections against, the consequences of any foolish step in
the way of marriage. Now, Mr. Copperfield, I hope that you will
not render it necessary for me to open, even for a quarter of an
hour, that closed page in the book of life, and unsettle, even for
a quarter of an hour, grave affairs long since composed.'
There was a serenity, a tranquillity, a calm sunset air about him,
which quite affected me. He was so peaceful and resigned - clearly
had his affairs in such perfect train, and so systematically wound
up - that he was a man to feel touched in the contemplation of. I
really think I saw tears rise to his eyes, from the depth of his
own feeling of all this.
But what could I do? I could not deny Dora and my own heart. When
he told me I had better take a week to consider of what he had
said, how could I say I wouldn't take a week, yet how could I fail
to know that no amount of weeks could influence such love as mine?
'In the meantime, confer with Miss Trotwood, or with any person
with any knowledge of life,' said Mr. Spenlow, adjusting his cravat
with both hands. 'Take a week, Mr. Copperfield.'
I submitted; and, with a countenance as expressive as I was able to
make it of dejected and despairing constancy, came out of the room.
Miss Murdstone's heavy eyebrows followed me to the door - I say her
eyebrows rather than her eyes, because they were much more
important in her face - and she looked so exactly as she used to
look, at about that hour of the morning, in our parlour at
Blunderstone, that I could have fancied I had been breaking down in
my lessons again, and that the dead weight on my mind was that
horrible old spelling-book, with oval woodcuts, shaped, to my
youthful fancy, like the glasses out of spectacles.
When I got to the office, and, shutting out old Tiffey and the rest
of them with my hands, sat at my desk, in my own particular nook,
thinking of this earthquake that had taken place so unexpectedly,
and in the bitterness of my spirit cursing Jip, I fell into such a
state of torment about Dora, that I wonder I did not take up my hat
and rush insanely to Norwood. The idea of their frightening her,
and making her cry, and of my not being there to comfort her, was
so excruciating, that it impelled me to write a wild letter to Mr.
Spenlow, beseeching him not to visit upon her the consequences of
my awful destiny. I implored him to spare her gentle nature - not
to crush a fragile flower - and addressed him generally, to the
best of my remembrance, as if, instead of being her father, he had
been an Ogre, or the Dragon of Wantley.3 This letter I sealed and
laid upon his desk before he returned; and when he came in, I saw
him, through the half-opened door of his room, take it up and read
it.
He said nothing about it all the morning; but before he went away
in the afternoon he called me in, and told me that I need not make
myself at all uneasy about his daughter's happiness. He had
assured her, he said, that it was all nonsense; and he had nothing
more to say to her. He believed he was an indulgent father (as
indeed he was), and I might spare myself any solicitude on her
account.
'You may make it necessary, if you are foolish or obstinate, Mr.
Copperfield,' he observed, 'for me to send my daughter abroad
again, for a term; but I have a better opinion of you. I hope you
will be wiser than that, in a few days. As to Miss Murdstone,' for
I had alluded to her in the letter, 'I respect that lady's
vigilance, and feel obliged to her; but she has strict charge to
avoid the subject. All I desire, Mr. Copperfield, is, that it
should be forgotten. All you have got to do, Mr. Copperfield, is
to forget it.'
All! In the note I wrote to Miss Mills, I bitterly quoted this
sentiment. All I had to do, I said, with gloomy sarcasm, was to
forget Dora. That was all, and what was that! I entreated Miss
Mills to see me, that evening. If it could not be done with Mr.
Mills's sanction and concurrence, I besought a clandestine
interview in the back kitchen where the Mangle was. I informed her
that my reason was tottering on its throne, and only she, Miss
Mills, could prevent its being deposed. I signed myself, hers
distractedly; and I couldn't help feeling, while I read this
composition over, before sending it by a porter, that it was
something in the style of Mr. Micawber.
However, I sent it. At night I repaired to Miss Mills's street,
and walked up and down, until I was stealthily fetched in by Miss
Mills's maid, and taken the area way to the back kitchen. I have
since seen reason to believe that there was nothing on earth to
prevent my going in at the front door, and being shown up into the
drawing-room, except Miss Mills's love of the romantic and
mysterious.
In the back kitchen, I raved as became me. I went there, I
suppose, to make a fool of myself, and I am quite sure I did it.
Miss Mills had received a hasty note from Dora, telling her that
all was discovered, and saying. 'Oh pray come to me, Julia, do,
do!' But Miss Mills, mistrusting the acceptability of her presence
to the higher powers, had not yet gone; and we were all benighted
in the Desert of Sahara.
Miss Mills had a wonderful flow of words, and liked to pour them
out. I could not help feeling, though she mingled her tears with
mine, that she had a dreadful luxury in our afflictions. She
petted them, as I may say, and made the most of them. A deep gulf,
she observed, had opened between Dora and me, and Love could only
span it with its rainbow. Love must suffer in this stern world; it
ever had been so, it ever would be so. No matter, Miss Mills
remarked. Hearts confined by cobwebs would burst at last, and then
Love was avenged.
This was small consolation, but Miss Mills wouldn't encourage
fallacious hopes. She made me much more wretched than I was
before, and I felt (and told her with the deepest gratitude) that
she was indeed a friend. We resolved that she should go to Dora
the first thing in the morning, and find some means of assuring
her, either by looks or words, of my devotion and misery. We
parted, overwhelmed with grief; and I think Miss Mills enjoyed
herself completely.
I confided all to my aunt when I got home; and in spite of all she
could say to me, went to bed despairing. I got up despairing, and
went out despairing. It was Saturday morning, and I went straight
to the Commons.
I was surprised, when I came within sight of our office-door, to
see the ticket-porters standing outside talking together, and some
half-dozen stragglers gazing at the windows which were shut up. I
quickened my pace, and, passing among them, wondering at their
looks, went hurriedly in.
The clerks were there, but nobody was doing anything. Old Tiffey,
for the first time in his life I should think, was sitting on
somebody else's stool, and had not hung up his hat.
'This is a dreadful calamity, Mr. Copperfield,' said he, as I
entered.
'What is?' I exclaimed. 'What's the matter?'
'Don't you know?' cried Tiffey, and all the rest of them, coming
round me.
'No!' said I, looking from face to face.
'Mr. Spenlow,' said Tiffey.
'What about him!'
'Dead!'
I thought it was the office reeling, and not I, as one of the
clerks caught hold of me. They sat me down in a chair, untied my
neck-cloth, and brought me some water. I have no idea whether this
took any time.
'Dead?' said I.
'He dined in town yesterday, and drove down in the phaeton by
himself,' said Tiffey, 'having sent his own groom home by the
coach, as he sometimes did, you know -'
'Well?'
'The phaeton went home without him. The horses stopped at the
stable-gate. The man went out with a lantern. Nobody in the
carriage.'
'Had they run away?'
'They were not hot,' said Tiffey, putting on his glasses; 'no
hotter, I understand, than they would have been, going down at the
usual pace. The reins were broken, but they had been dragging on
the ground. The house was roused up directly, and three of them
went out along the road. They found him a mile off.'
'More than a mile off, Mr. Tiffey,' interposed a junior.
'Was it? I believe you are right,' said Tiffey, - 'more than a
mile off - not far from the church - lying partly on the roadside,
and partly on the path, upon his face. Whether he fell out in a
fit, or got out, feeling ill before the fit came on - or even
whether he was quite dead then, though there is no doubt he was
quite insensible - no one appears to know. If he breathed,
certainly he never spoke. Medical assistance was got as soon as
possible, but it was quite useless.'
I cannot describe the state of mind into which I was thrown by this
intelligence. The shock of such an event happening so suddenly,
and happening to one with whom I had been in any respect at
variance - the appalling vacancy in the room he had occupied so
lately, where his chair and table seemed to wait for him, and his
handwriting of yesterday was like a ghost - the in- definable
impossibility of separating him from the place, and feeling, when
the door opened, as if he might come in - the lazy hush and rest
there was in the office, and the insatiable relish with which our
people talked about it, and other people came in and out all day,
and gorged themselves with the subject - this is easily
intelligible to anyone. What I cannot describe is, how, in the
innermost recesses of my own heart, I had a lurking jealousy even
of Death. How I felt as if its might would push me from my ground
in Dora's thoughts. How I was, in a grudging way I have no words
for, envious of her grief. How it made me restless to think of her
weeping to others, or being consoled by others. How I had a
grasping, avaricious wish to shut out everybody from her but
myself, and to be all in all to her, at that unseasonable time of
all times.
In the trouble of this state of mind - not exclusively my own, I
hope, but known to others - I went down to Norwood that night; and
finding from one of the servants, when I made my inquiries at the
door, that Miss Mills was there, got my aunt to direct a letter to
her, which I wrote. I deplored the untimely death of Mr. Spenlow,
most sincerely, and shed tears in doing so. I entreated her to
tell Dora, if Dora were in a state to hear it, that he had spoken
to me with the utmost kindness and consideration; and had coupled
nothing but tenderness, not a single or reproachful word, with her
name. I know I did this selfishly, to have my name brought before
her; but I tried to believe it was an act of justice to his memory.
Perhaps I did believe it.
My aunt received a few lines next day in reply; addressed, outside,
to her; within, to me. Dora was overcome by grief; and when her
friend had asked her should she send her love to me, had only
cried, as she was always crying, 'Oh, dear papa! oh, poor papa!'
But she had not said No, and that I made the most of.
Mr. jorkins, who had been at Norwood since the occurrence, came to
the office a few days afterwards. He and Tiffey were closeted
together for some few moments, and then Tiffey looked out at the
door and beckoned me in.
'Oh!' said Mr. jorkins. 'Mr. Tiffey and myself, Mr. Copperfield,
are about to examine the desks, the drawers, and other such
repositories of the deceased, with the view of sealing up his
private papers, and searching for a Will. There is no trace of
any, elsewhere. It may be as well for you to assist us, if you
please.'
I had been in agony to obtain some knowledge of the circumstances
in which my Dora would be placed - as, in whose guardianship, and
so forth - and this was something towards it. We began the search
at once; Mr. jorkins unlocking the drawers and desks, and we all
taking out the papers. The office-papers we placed on one side,
and the private papers (which were not numerous) on the other. We
were very grave; and when we came to a stray seal, or pencil-case,
or ring, or any little article of that kind which we associated
personally with him, we spoke very low.
We had sealed up several packets; and were still going on dustily
and quietly, when Mr. jorkins said to us, applying exactly the same
words to his late partner as his late partner had applied to him:
'Mr. Spenlow was very difficult to move from the beaten track. You
know what he was! I am disposed to think he had made no will.'
'Oh, I know he had!' said I.
They both stopped and looked at me.
'On the very day when I last saw him,' said I, 'he told me that he
had, and that his affairs were long since settled.'
Mr. jorkins and old Tiffey shook their heads with one accord.
'That looks unpromising,' said Tiffey.
'Very unpromising,' said Mr. jorkins.
'Surely you don't doubt -' I began.
'My good Mr. Copperfield!' said Tiffey, laying his hand upon my
arm, and shutting up both his eyes as he shook his head: 'if you
had been in the Commons as long as I have, you would know that
there is no subject on which men are so inconsistent, and so little
to be trusted.'
'Why, bless my soul, he made that very remark!' I replied
persistently.
'I should call that almost final,' observed Tiffey. 'My opinion is
- no will.'
It appeared a wonderful thing to me, but it turned out that there
was no will. He had never so much as thought of making one, so far
as his papers afforded any evidence; for there was no kind of hint,
sketch, or memorandum, of any testamentary intention whatever.
What was scarcely less astonishing to me, was, that his affairs
were in a most disordered state. It was extremely difficult, I
heard, to make out what he owed, or what he had paid, or of what he
died possessed. It was considered likely that for years he could
have had no clear opinion on these subjects himself. By little and
little it came out, that, in the competition on all points of
appearance and gentility then running high in the Commons, he had
spent more than his professional income, which was not a very large
one, and had reduced his private means, if they ever had been great
(which was exceedingly doubtful), to a very low ebb indeed. There
was a sale of the furniture and lease, at Norwood; and Tiffey told
me, little thinking how interested I was in the story, that, paying
all the just debts of the deceased, and deducting his share of
outstanding bad and doubtful debts due to the firm, he wouldn't
give a thousand pounds for all the assets remaining.
This was at the expiration of about six weeks. I had suffered
tortures all the time; and thought I really must have laid violent
hands upon myself, when Miss Mills still reported to me, that my
broken-hearted little Dora would say nothing, when I was mentioned,
but 'Oh, poor papa! Oh, dear papa!' Also, that she had no other
relations than two aunts, maiden sisters of Mr. Spenlow, who lived
at Putney, and who had not held any other than chance communication
with their brother for many years. Not that they had ever
quarrelled (Miss Mills informed me); but that having been, on the
occasion of Dora's christening, invited to tea, when they
considered themselves privileged to be invited to dinner, they had
expressed their opinion in writing, that it was 'better for the
happiness of all parties' that they should stay away. Since which
they had gone their road, and their brother had gone his.
These two ladies now emerged from their retirement, and proposed to
take Dora to live at Putney. Dora, clinging to them both, and
weeping, exclaimed, 'O yes, aunts! Please take Julia Mills and me
and Jip to Putney!' So they went, very soon after the funeral.
How I found time to haunt Putney, I am sure I don't know; but I
contrived, by some means or other, to prowl about the neighbourhood
pretty often. Miss Mills, for the more exact discharge of the
duties of friendship, kept a journal; and she used to meet me
sometimes, on the Common, and read it, or (if she had not time to
do that) lend it to me. How I treasured up the entries, of which
I subjoin a sample! -
'Monday. My sweet D. still much depressed. Headache. Called
attention to J. as being beautifully sleek. D. fondled J.
Associations thus awakened, opened floodgates of sorrow. Rush of
grief admitted. (Are tears the dewdrops of the heart? J. M.)
'Tuesday. D. weak and nervous. Beautiful in pallor. (Do we not
remark this in moon likewise? J. M.) D., J. M. and J. took airing
in carriage. J. looking out of window, and barking violently at
dustman, occasioned smile to overspread features of D. (Of such
slight links is chain of life composed! J. M.)
'Wednesday. D. comparatively cheerful. Sang to her, as congenial
melody, "Evening Bells". Effect not soothing, but reverse. D.
inexpressibly affected. Found sobbing afterwards, in own room.
Quoted verses respecting self and young Gazelle. Ineffectually.
Also referred to Patience on Monument. (Qy. Why on monument? J.
M.)
'Thursday. D. certainly improved. Better night. Slight tinge of
damask revisiting cheek. Resolved to mention name of D. C.
Introduced same, cautiously, in course of airing. D. immediately
overcome. "Oh, dear, dear Julia! Oh, I have been a naughty and
undutiful child!" Soothed and caressed. Drew ideal picture of D.
C. on verge of tomb. D. again overcome. "Oh, what shall I do,
what shall I do? Oh, take me somewhere!" Much alarmed. Fainting
of D. and glass of water from public-house. (Poetical affinity.
Chequered sign on door-post; chequered human life. Alas! J. M.)
'Friday. Day of incident. Man appears in kitchen, with blue bag,
"for lady's boots left out to heel". Cook replies, "No such
orders." Man argues point. Cook withdraws to inquire, leaving man
alone with J. On Cook's return, man still argues point, but
ultimately goes. J. missing. D. distracted. Information sent to
police. Man to be identified by broad nose, and legs like
balustrades of bridge. Search made in every direction. No J. D.
weeping bitterly, and inconsolable. Renewed reference to young
Gazelle. Appropriate, but unavailing. Towards evening, strange
boy calls. Brought into parlour. Broad nose, but no balustrades.
Says he wants a pound, and knows a dog. Declines to explain
further, though much pressed. Pound being produced by D. takes
Cook to little house, where J. alone tied up to leg of table. joy
of D. who dances round J. while he eats his supper. Emboldened by
this happy change, mention D. C. upstairs. D. weeps afresh, cries
piteously, "Oh, don't, don't, don't! It is so wicked to think of
anything but poor papa!" - embraces J. and sobs herself to sleep.
(Must not D. C. confine himself to the broad pinions of Time? J.
M.)'
Miss Mills and her journal were my sole consolation at this period.
To see her, who had seen Dora but a little while before - to trace
the initial letter of Dora's name through her sympathetic pages -
to be made more and more miserable by her - were my only comforts.
I felt as if I had been living in a palace of cards, which had
tumbled down, leaving only Miss Mills and me among the ruins; I
felt as if some grim enchanter had drawn a magic circle round the
innocent goddess of my heart, which nothing indeed but those same
strong pinions, capable of carrying so many people over so much,
would enable me to enter!
CHAPTER 39
WICKFIELD AND HEEP
My aunt, beginning, I imagine, to be made seriously uncomfortable
by my prolonged dejection, made a pretence of being anxious that I
should go to Dover, to see that all was working well at the
cottage, which was let; and to conclude an agreement, with the same
tenant, for a longer term of occupation. Janet was drafted into
the service of Mrs. Strong, where I saw her every day. She had
been undecided, on leaving Dover, whether or no to give the
finishing touch to that renunciation of mankind in which she had
been educated, by marrying a pilot; but she decided against that
venture. Not so much for the sake of principle, I believe, as
because she happened not to like him.
Although it required an effort to leave Miss Mills, I fell rather
willingly into my aunt's pretence, as a means of enabling me to
pass a few tranquil hours with Agnes. I consulted the good Doctor
relative to an absence of three days; and the Doctor wishing me to
take that relaxation, - he wished me to take more; but my energy
could not bear that, - I made up my mind to go.
As to the Commons, I had no great occasion to be particular about
my duties in that quarter. To say the truth, we were getting in no
very good odour among the tip-top proctors, and were rapidly
sliding down to but a doubtful position. The business had been
indifferent under Mr. jorkins, before Mr. Spenlow's time; and
although it had been quickened by the infusion of new blood, and by
the display which Mr. Spenlow made, still it was not established on
a sufficiently strong basis to bear, without being shaken, such a
blow as the sudden loss of its active manager. It fell off very
much. Mr. jorkins, notwithstanding his reputation in the firm, was
an easy-going, incapable sort of man, whose reputation out of doors
was not calculated to back it up. I was turned over to him now,
and when I saw him take his snuff and let the business go, I
regretted my aunt's thousand pounds more than ever.
But this was not the worst of it. There were a number of
hangers-on and outsiders about the Commons, who, without being
proctors themselves, dabbled in common-form business, and got it
done by real proctors, who lent their names in consideration of a
share in the spoil; - and there were a good many of these too. As
our house now wanted business on any terms, we joined this noble
band; and threw out lures to the hangers-on and outsiders, to bring
their business to us. Marriage licences and small probates were
what we all looked for, and what paid us best; and the competition
for these ran very high indeed. Kidnappers and inveiglers were
planted in all the avenues of entrance to the Commons, with
instructions to do their utmost to cut off all persons in mourning,
and all gentlemen with anything bashful in their appearance, and
entice them to the offices in which their respective employers were
interested; which instructions were so well observed, that I
myself, before I was known by sight, was twice hustled into the
premises of our principal opponent. The conflicting interests of
these touting gentlemen being of a nature to irritate their
feelings, personal collisions took place; and the Commons was even
scandalized by our principal inveigler (who had formerly been in
the wine trade, and afterwards in the sworn brokery line) walking
about for some days with a black eye. Any one of these scouts used
to think nothing of politely assisting an old lady in black out of
a vehicle, killing any proctor whom she inquired for, representing
his employer as the lawful successor and representative of that
proctor, and bearing the old lady off (sometimes greatly affected)
to his employer's office. Many captives were brought to me in this
way. As to marriage licences, the competition rose to such a
pitch, that a shy gentleman in want of one, had nothing to do but
submit himself to the first inveigler, or be fought for, and become
the prey of the strongest. One of our clerks, who was an outsider,
used, in the height of this contest, to sit with his hat on, that
he might be ready to rush out and swear before a surrogate any
victim who was brought in. The system of inveigling continues, I
believe, to this day. The last time I was in the Commons, a civil
able-bodied person in a white apron pounced out upon me from a
doorway, and whispering the word 'Marriage-licence' in my ear, was
with great difficulty prevented from taking me up in his arms and
lifting me into a proctor's. From this digression, let me proceed
to Dover.
I found everything in a satisfactory state at the cottage; and was
enabled to gratify my aunt exceedingly by reporting that the tenant
inherited her feud, and waged incessant war against donkeys.
Having settled the little business I had to transact there, and
slept there one night, I walked on to Canterbury early in the
morning. It was now winter again; and the fresh, cold windy day,
and the sweeping downland, brightened up my hopes a little.
Coming into Canterbury, I loitered through the old streets with a
sober pleasure that calmed my spirits, and eased my heart. There
were the old signs, the old names over the shops, the old people
serving in them. It appeared so long, since I had been a schoolboy
there, that I wondered the place was so little changed, until I
reflected how little I was changed myself. Strange to say, that
quiet influence which was inseparable in my mind from Agnes, seemed
to pervade even the city where she dwelt. The venerable cathedral
towers, and the old jackdaws and rooks whose airy voices made them
more retired than perfect silence would have done; the battered
gateways, one stuck full with statues, long thrown down, and
crumbled away, like the reverential pilgrims who had gazed upon
them; the still nooks, where the ivied growth of centuries crept
over gabled ends and ruined walls; the ancient houses, the pastoral
landscape of field, orchard, and garden; everywhere - on everything
- I felt the same serener air, the same calm, thoughtful, softening
spirit.
Arrived at Mr. Wickfield's house, I found, in the little lower room
on the ground floor, where Uriah Heep had been of old accustomed to
sit, Mr. Micawber plying his pen with great assiduity. He was
dressed in a legal-looking suit of black, and loomed, burly and
large, in that small office.
Mr. Micawber was extremely glad to see me, but a little confused
too. He would have conducted me immediately into the presence of
Uriah, but I declined.
'I know the house of old, you recollect,' said I, 'and will find my
way upstairs. How do you like the law, Mr. Micawber?'
'My dear Copperfield,' he replied. 'To a man possessed of the
higher imaginative powers, the objection to legal studies is the
amount of detail which they involve. Even in our professional
correspondence,' said Mr. Micawber, glancing at some letters he was
writing, 'the mind is not at liberty to soar to any exalted form of
expression. Still, it is a great pursuit. A great pursuit!'
He then told me that he had become the tenant of Uriah Heep's old
house; and that Mrs. Micawber would be delighted to receive me,
once more, under her own roof.
'It is humble,' said Mr. Micawber, '- to quote a favourite
expression of my friend Heep; but it may prove the stepping-stone
to more ambitious domiciliary accommodation.'
I asked him whether he had reason, so far, to be satisfied with his
friend Heep's treatment of him? He got up to ascertain if the door
were close shut, before he replied, in a lower voice:
'My dear Copperfield, a man who labours under the pressure of
pecuniary embarrassments, is, with the generality of people, at a
disadvantage. That disadvantage is not diminished, when that
pressure necessitates the drawing of stipendiary emoluments, before
those emoluments are strictly due and payable. All I can say is,
that my friend Heep has responded to appeals to which I need not
more particularly refer, in a manner calculated to redound equally
to the honour of his head, and of his heart.'
'I should not have supposed him to be very free with his money
either,' I observed.
'Pardon me!' said Mr. Micawber, with an air of constraint, 'I speak
of my friend Heep as I have experience.'
'I am glad your experience is so favourable,' I returned.
'You are very obliging, my dear Copperfield,' said Mr. Micawber;
and hummed a tune.
'Do you see much of Mr. Wickfield?' I asked, to change the subject.
'Not much,' said Mr. Micawber, slightingly. 'Mr. Wickfield is, I
dare say, a man of very excellent intentions; but he is - in short,
he is obsolete.'
'I am afraid his partner seeks to make him so,' said I.
'My dear Copperfield!' returned Mr. Micawber, after some uneasy
evolutions on his stool, 'allow me to offer a remark! I am here,
in a capacity of confidence. I am here, in a position of trust.
The discussion of some topics, even with Mrs. Micawber herself (so
long the partner of my various vicissitudes, and a woman of a
remarkable lucidity of intellect), is, I am led to consider,
incompatible with the functions now devolving on me. I would
therefore take the liberty of suggesting that in our friendly
intercourse - which I trust will never be disturbed! - we draw a
line. On one side of this line,' said Mr. Micawber, representing
it on the desk with the office ruler, 'is the whole range of the
human intellect, with a trifling exception; on the other, IS that
exception; that is to say, the affairs of Messrs Wickfield and
Heep, with all belonging and appertaining thereunto. I trust I
give no offence to the companion of my youth, in submitting this
proposition to his cooler judgement?'
Though I saw an uneasy change in Mr. Micawber, which sat tightly on
him, as if his new duties were a misfit, I felt I had no right to
be offended. My telling him so, appeared to relieve him; and he
shook hands with me.
'I am charmed, Copperfield,' said Mr. Micawber, 'let me assure you,
with Miss Wickfield. She is a very superior young lady, of very
remarkable attractions, graces, and virtues. Upon my honour,' said
Mr. Micawber, indefinitely kissing his hand and bowing with his
genteelest air, 'I do Homage to Miss Wickfield! Hem!'
'I am glad of that, at least,' said I.
'If you had not assured us, my dear Copperfield, on the occasion of
that agreeable afternoon we had the happiness of passing with you,
that D. was your favourite letter,' said Mr. Micawber, 'I should
unquestionably have supposed that A. had been so.'
We have all some experience of a feeling, that comes over us
occasionally, of what we are saying and doing having been said and
done before, in a remote time - of our having been surrounded, dim
ages ago, by the same faces, objects, and circumstances - of our
knowing perfectly what will be said next, as if we suddenly
remembered it! I never had this mysterious impression more
strongly in my life, than before he uttered those words.
I took my leave of Mr. Micawber, for the time, charging him with my
best remembrances to all at home. As I left him, resuming his
stool and his pen, and rolling his head in his stock, to get it
into easier writing order, I clearly perceived that there was
something interposed between him and me, since he had come into his
new functions, which prevented our getting at each other as we used
to do, and quite altered the character of our intercourse.
There was no one in the quaint old drawing-room, though it
presented tokens of Mrs. Heep's whereabouts. I looked into the
room still belonging to Agnes, and saw her sitting by the fire, at
a pretty old-fashioned desk she had, writing.
My darkening the light made her look up. What a pleasure to be the
cause of that bright change in her attentive face, and the object
of that sweet regard and welcome!
'Ah, Agnes!' said I, when we were sitting together, side by side;
'I have missed you so much, lately!'
'Indeed?' she replied. 'Again! And so soon?'
I shook my head.
'I don't know how it is, Agnes; I seem to want some faculty of mind
that I ought to have. You were so much in the habit of thinking
for me, in the happy old days here, and I came so naturally to you
for counsel and support, that I really think I have missed
acquiring it.'
'And what is it?' said Agnes, cheerfully.
'I don't know what to call it,' I replied. 'I think I am earnest
and persevering?'
'I am sure of it,' said Agnes.
'And patient, Agnes?' I inquired, with a little hesitation.
'Yes,' returned Agnes, laughing. 'Pretty well.'
'And yet,' said I, 'I get so miserable and worried, and am so
unsteady and irresolute in my power of assuring myself, that I know
I must want - shall I call it - reliance, of some kind?'
'Call it so, if you will,' said Agnes.
'Well!' I returned. 'See here! You come to London, I rely on you,
and I have an object and a course at once. I am driven out of it,
I come here, and in a moment I feel an altered person. The
circumstances that distressed me are not changed, since I came into
this room; but an influence comes over me in that short interval
that alters me, oh, how much for the better! What is it? What is
your secret, Agnes?'
Her head was bent down, looking at the fire.
'It's the old story,' said I. 'Don't laugh, when I say it was
always the same in little things as it is in greater ones. My old
troubles were nonsense, and now they are serious; but whenever I
have gone away from my adopted sister -'
Agnes looked up - with such a Heavenly face! - and gave me her
hand, which I kissed.
'Whenever I have not had you, Agnes, to advise and approve in the
beginning, I have seemed to go wild, and to get into all sorts of
difficulty. When I have come to you, at last (as I have always
done), I have come to peace and happiness. I come home, now, like
a tired traveller, and find such a blessed sense of rest!'
I felt so deeply what I said, it affected me so sincerely, that my
voice failed, and I covered my face with my hand, and broke into
tears. I write the truth. Whatever contradictions and
inconsistencies there were within me, as there are within so many
of us; whatever might have been so different, and so much better;
whatever I had done, in which I had perversely wandered away from
the voice of my own heart; I knew nothing of. I only knew that I
was fervently in earnest, when I felt the rest and peace of having
Agnes near me.
In her placid sisterly manner; with her beaming eyes; with her
tender voice; and with that sweet composure, which had long ago
made the house that held her quite a sacred place to me; she soon
won me from this weakness, and led me on to tell all that had
happened since our last meeting.
'And there is not another word to tell, Agnes,' said I, when I had
made an end of my confidence. 'Now, my reliance is on you.'
'But it must not be on me, Trotwood,' returned Agnes, with a
pleasant smile. 'It must be on someone else.'
'On Dora?' said I.
'Assuredly.'
'Why, I have not mentioned, Agnes,' said I, a little embarrassed,
'that Dora is rather difficult to - I would not, for the world,
say, to rely upon, because she is the soul of purity and truth -
but rather difficult to - I hardly know how to express it, really,
Agnes. She is a timid little thing, and easily disturbed and
frightened. Some time ago, before her father's death, when I
thought it right to mention to her - but I'll tell you, if you will
bear with me, how it was.'
Accordingly, I told Agnes about my declaration of poverty, about
the cookery-book, the housekeeping accounts, and all the rest of
it.
'Oh, Trotwood!' she remonstrated, with a smile. 'Just your old
headlong way! You might have been in earnest in striving to get on
in the world, without being so very sudden with a timid, loving,
inexperienced girl. Poor Dora!'
I never heard such sweet forbearing kindness expressed in a voice,
as she expressed in making this reply. It was as if I had seen her
admiringly and tenderly embracing Dora, and tacitly reproving me,
by her considerate protection, for my hot haste in fluttering that
little heart. It was as if I had seen Dora, in all her fascinating
artlessness, caressing Agnes, and thanking her, and coaxingly
appealing against me, and loving me with all her childish
innocence.
I felt so grateful to Agnes, and admired her so! I saw those two
together, in a bright perspective, such well-associated friends,
each adorning the other so much!
'What ought I to do then, Agnes?' I inquired, after looking at the
fire a little while. 'What would it be right to do?'
'I think,' said Agnes, 'that the honourable course to take, would
be to write to those two ladies. Don't you think that any secret
course is an unworthy one?'
'Yes. If YOU think so,' said I.
'I am poorly qualified to judge of such matters,' replied Agnes,
with a modest hesitation, 'but I certainly feel - in short, I feel
that your being secret and clandestine, is not being like
yourself.'
'Like myself, in the too high opinion you have of me, Agnes, I am
afraid,' said I.
'Like yourself, in the candour of your nature,' she returned; 'and
therefore I would write to those two ladies. I would relate, as
plainly and as openly as possible, all that has taken place; and I
would ask their permission to visit sometimes, at their house.
Considering that you are young, and striving for a place in life,
I think it would be well to say that you would readily abide by any
conditions they might impose upon you. I would entreat them not to
dismiss your request, without a reference to Dora; and to discuss
it with her when they should think the time suitable. I would not
be too vehement,' said Agnes, gently, 'or propose too much. I
would trust to my fidelity and perseverance - and to Dora.'
'But if they were to frighten Dora again, Agnes, by speaking to
her,' said I. 'And if Dora were to cry, and say nothing about me!'
'Is that likely?' inquired Agnes, with the same sweet consideration
in her face.
'God bless her, she is as easily scared as a bird,' said I. 'It
might be! Or if the two Miss Spenlows (elderly ladies of that sort
are odd characters sometimes) should not be likely persons to
address in that way!'
'I don't think, Trotwood,' returned Agnes, raising her soft eyes to
mine, 'I would consider that. Perhaps it would be better only to
consider whether it is right to do this; and, if it is, to do it.'
I had no longer any doubt on the subject. With a lightened heart,
though with a profound sense of the weighty importance of my task,
I devoted the whole afternoon to the composition of the draft of
this letter; for which great purpose, Agnes relinquished her desk
to me. But first I went downstairs to see Mr. Wickfield and Uriah
Heep.
I found Uriah in possession of a new, plaster-smelling office,
built out in the garden; looking extraordinarily mean, in the midst
of a quantity of books and papers. He received me in his usual
fawning way, and pretended not to have heard of my arrival from Mr.
Micawber; a pretence I took the liberty of disbelieving. He
accompanied me into Mr. Wickfield's room, which was the shadow of
its former self - having been divested of a variety of
conveniences, for the accommodation of the new partner - and stood
before the fire, warming his back, and shaving his chin with his
bony hand, while Mr. Wickfield and I exchanged greetings.
'You stay with us, Trotwood, while you remain in Canterbury?' said
Mr. Wickfield, not without a glance at Uriah for his approval.
'Is there room for me?' said I.
'I am sure, Master Copperfield - I should say Mister, but the other
comes so natural,' said Uriah, -'I would turn out of your old room
with pleasure, if it would be agreeable.'
'No, no,' said Mr. Wickfield. 'Why should you be inconvenienced?
There's another room. There's another room.'
'Oh, but you know,' returned Uriah, with a grin, 'I should really
be delighted!'
To cut the matter short, I said I would have the other room or none
at all; so it was settled that I should have the other room; and,
taking my leave of the firm until dinner, I went upstairs again.
I had hoped to have no other companion than Agnes. But Mrs. Heep
had asked permission to bring herself and her knitting near the
fire, in that room; on pretence of its having an aspect more
favourable for her rheumatics, as the wind then was, than the
drawing-room or dining-parlour. Though I could almost have
consigned her to the mercies of the wind on the topmost pinnacle of
the Cathedral, without remorse, I made a virtue of necessity, and
gave her a friendly salutation.
'I'm umbly thankful to you, sir,' said Mrs. Heep, in
acknowledgement of my inquiries concerning her health, 'but I'm
only pretty well. I haven't much to boast of. If I could see my
Uriah well settled in life, I couldn't expect much more I think.
How do you think my Ury looking, sir?'
I thought him looking as villainous as ever, and I replied that I
saw no change in him.
'Oh, don't you think he's changed?' said Mrs. Heep. 'There I must
umbly beg leave to differ from you. Don't you see a thinness in
him?'
'Not more than usual,' I replied.
'Don't you though!' said Mrs. Heep. 'But you don't take notice of
him with a mother's eye!'
His mother's eye was an evil eye to the rest of the world, I
thought as it met mine, howsoever affectionate to him; and I
believe she and her son were devoted to one another. It passed me,
and went on to Agnes.
'Don't YOU see a wasting and a wearing in him, Miss Wickfield?'
inquired Mrs. Heep.
'No,' said Agnes, quietly pursuing the work on which she was
engaged. 'You are too solicitous about him. He is very well.'
Mrs. Heep, with a prodigious sniff, resumed her knitting.
She never left off, or left us for a moment. I had arrived early
in the day, and we had still three or four hours before dinner; but
she sat there, plying her knitting-needles as monotonously as an
hour-glass might have poured out its sands. She sat on one side of
the fire; I sat at the desk in front of it; a little beyond me, on
the other side, sat Agnes. Whensoever, slowly pondering over my
letter, I lifted up my eyes, and meeting the thoughtful face of
Agnes, saw it clear, and beam encouragement upon me, with its own
angelic expression, I was conscious presently of the evil eye
passing me, and going on to her, and coming back to me again, and
dropping furtively upon the knitting. What the knitting was, I
don't know, not being learned in that art; but it looked like a
net; and as she worked away with those Chinese chopsticks of
knitting-needles, she showed in the firelight like an ill-looking
enchantress, baulked as yet by the radiant goodness opposite, but
getting ready for a cast of her net by and by.
At dinner she maintained her watch, with the same unwinking eyes.
After dinner, her son took his turn; and when Mr. Wickfield,
himself, and I were left alone together, leered at me, and writhed
until I could hardly bear it. In the drawing-room, there was the
mother knitting and watching again. All the time that Agnes sang
and played, the mother sat at the piano. Once she asked for a
particular ballad, which she said her Ury (who was yawning in a
great chair) doted on; and at intervals she looked round at him,
and reported to Agnes that he was in raptures with the music. But
she hardly ever spoke - I question if she ever did - without making
some mention of him. It was evident to me that this was the duty
assigned to her.
This lasted until bedtime. To have seen the mother and son, like
two great bats hanging over the whole house, and darkening it with
their ugly forms, made me so uncomfortable, that I would rather
have remained downstairs, knitting and all, than gone to bed. I
hardly got any sleep. Next day the knitting and watching began
again, and lasted all day.
I had not an opportunity of speaking to Agnes, for ten minutes. I
could barely show her my letter. I proposed to her to walk out
with me; but Mrs. Heep repeatedly complaining that she was worse,
Agnes charitably remained within, to bear her company. Towards the
twilight I went out by myself, musing on what I ought to do, and
whether I was justified in withholding from Agnes, any longer, what
Uriah Heep had told me in London; for that began to trouble me
again, very much.
I had not walked out far enough to be quite clear of the town, upon
the Ramsgate road, where there was a good path, when I was hailed,
through the dust, by somebody behind me. The shambling figure, and
the scanty great-coat, were not to be mistaken. I stopped, and
Uriah Heep came up.
'Well?' said I.
'How fast you walk!' said he. 'My legs are pretty long, but you've
given 'em quite a job.'
'Where are you going?' said I.
'I am going with you, Master Copperfield, if you'll allow me the
pleasure of a walk with an old acquaintance.' Saying this, with a
jerk of his body, which might have been either propitiatory or
derisive, he fell into step beside me.
'Uriah!' said I, as civilly as I could, after a silence.
'Master Copperfield!' said Uriah.
'To tell you the truth (at which you will not be offended), I came
Out to walk alone, because I have had so much company.'
He looked at me sideways, and said with his hardest grin, 'You mean
mother.'
'Why yes, I do,' said I.
'Ah! But you know we're so very umble,' he returned. 'And having
such a knowledge of our own umbleness, we must really take care
that we're not pushed to the wall by them as isn't umble. All
stratagems are fair in love, sir.'
Raising his great hands until they touched his chin, he rubbed them
softly, and softly chuckled; looking as like a malevolent baboon,
I thought, as anything human could look.
'You see,' he said, still hugging himself in that unpleasant way,
and shaking his head at me, 'you're quite a dangerous rival, Master
Copperfield. You always was, you know.'
'Do you set a watch upon Miss Wickfield, and make her home no home,
because of me?' said I.
'Oh! Master Copperfield! Those are very arsh words,' he replied.
'Put my meaning into any words you like,' said I. 'You know what
it is, Uriah, as well as I do.'
'Oh no! You must put it into words,' he said. 'Oh, really! I
couldn't myself.'
'Do you suppose,' said I, constraining myself to be very temperate
and quiet with him, on account of Agnes, 'that I regard Miss
Wickfield otherwise than as a very dear sister?'
'Well, Master Copperfield,' he replied, 'you perceive I am not
bound to answer that question. You may not, you know. But then,
you see, you may!'
Anything to equal the low cunning of his visage, and of his
shadowless eyes without the ghost of an eyelash, I never saw.
'Come then!' said I. 'For the sake of Miss Wickfield -'
'My Agnes!' he exclaimed, with a sickly, angular contortion of
himself. 'Would you be so good as call her Agnes, Master
Copperfield!'
'For the sake of Agnes Wickfield - Heaven bless her!'
'Thank you for that blessing, Master Copperfield!'he interposed.
'I will tell you what I should, under any other circumstances, as
soon have thought of telling to - Jack Ketch.'
'To who, sir?' said Uriah, stretching out his neck, and shading his
ear with his hand.
'To the hangman,' I returned. 'The most unlikely person I could
think of,' - though his own face had suggested the allusion quite
as a natural sequence. 'I am engaged to another young lady. I
hope that contents you.'
'Upon your soul?' said Uriah.
I was about indignantly to give my assertion the confirmation he
required, when he caught hold of my hand, and gave it a squeeze.
'Oh, Master Copperfield!' he said. 'If you had only had the
condescension to return my confidence when I poured out the fulness
of my art, the night I put you so much out of the way by sleeping
before your sitting-room fire, I never should have doubted you. As
it is, I'm sure I'll take off mother directly, and only too appy.
I know you'll excuse the precautions of affection, won't you? What
a pity, Master Copperfield, that you didn't condescend to return my
confidence! I'm sure I gave you every opportunity. But you never
have condescended to me, as much as I could have wished. I know
you have never liked me, as I have liked you!'
All this time he was squeezing my hand with his damp fishy fingers,
while I made every effort I decently could to get it away. But I
was quite unsuccessful. He drew it under the sleeve of his
mulberry-coloured great-coat, and I walked on, almost upon
compulsion, arm-in-arm with him.
'Shall we turn?' said Uriah, by and by wheeling me face about
towards the town, on which the early moon was now shining,
silvering the distant windows.
'Before we leave the subject, you ought to understand,' said I,
breaking a pretty long silence, 'that I believe Agnes Wickfield to
be as far above you, and as far removed from all your aspirations,
as that moon herself!'
'Peaceful! Ain't she!' said Uriah. 'Very! Now confess, Master
Copperfield, that you haven't liked me quite as I have liked you.
All along you've thought me too umble now, I shouldn't wonder?'
'I am not fond of professions of humility,' I returned, 'or
professions of anything else.'
'There now!' said Uriah, looking flabby and lead-coloured in the
moonlight. 'Didn't I know it! But how little you think of the
rightful umbleness of a person in my station, Master Copperfield!
Father and me was both brought up at a foundation school for boys;
and mother, she was likewise brought up at a public, sort of
charitable, establishment. They taught us all a deal of umbleness
- not much else that I know of, from morning to night. We was to
be umble to this person, and umble to that; and to pull off our
caps here, and to make bows there; and always to know our place,
and abase ourselves before our betters. And we had such a lot of
betters! Father got the monitor-medal by being umble. So did I.
Father got made a sexton by being umble. He had the character,
among the gentlefolks, of being such a well-behaved man, that they
were determined to bring him in. "Be umble, Uriah," says father to
me, "and you'll get on. It was what was always being dinned into
you and me at school; it's what goes down best. Be umble," says
father," and you'll do!" And really it ain't done bad!'
It was the first time it had ever occurred to me, that this
detestable cant of false humility might have originated out of the
Heep family. I had seen the harvest, but had never thought of the
seed.
'When I was quite a young boy,' said Uriah, 'I got to know what
umbleness did, and I took to it. I ate umble pie with an appetite.
I stopped at the umble point of my learning, and says I, "Hold
hard!" When you offered to teach me Latin, I knew better. "People
like to be above you," says father, "keep yourself down." I am very
umble to the present moment, Master Copperfield, but I've got a
little power!'
And he said all this - I knew, as I saw his face in the moonlight
- that I might understand he was resolved to recompense himself by
using his power. I had never doubted his meanness, his craft and
malice; but I fully comprehended now, for the first time, what a
base, unrelenting, and revengeful spirit, must have been engendered
by this early, and this long, suppression.
His account of himself was so far attended with an agreeable
result, that it led to his withdrawing his hand in order that he
might have another hug of himself under the chin. Once apart from
him, I was determined to keep apart; and we walked back, side by
side, saying very little more by the way. Whether his spirits were
elevated by the communication I had made to him, or by his having
indulged in this retrospect, I don't know; but they were raised by
some influence. He talked more at dinner than was usual with him;
asked his mother (off duty, from the moment of our re-entering the
house) whether he was not growing too old for a bachelor; and once
looked at Agnes so, that I would have given all I had, for leave to
knock him down.
When we three males were left alone after dinner, he got into a
more adventurous state. He had taken little or no wine; and I
presume it was the mere insolence of triumph that was upon him,
flushed perhaps by the temptation my presence furnished to its
exhibition.
I had observed yesterday, that he tried to entice Mr. Wickfield to
drink; and, interpreting the look which Agnes had given me as she
went out, had limited myself to one glass, and then proposed that
we should follow her. I would have done so again today; but Uriah
was too quick for me.
'We seldom see our present visitor, sir,' he said, addressing Mr.
Wickfield, sitting, such a contrast to him, at the end of the
table, 'and I should propose to give him welcome in another glass
or two of wine, if you have no objections. Mr. Copperfield, your
elth and appiness!'
I was obliged to make a show of taking the hand he stretched across
to me; and then, with very different emotions, I took the hand of
the broken gentleman, his partner.
'Come, fellow-partner,' said Uriah, 'if I may take the liberty, -
now, suppose you give us something or another appropriate to
Copperfield!'
I pass over Mr. Wickfield's proposing my aunt, his proposing Mr.
Dick, his proposing Doctors' Commons, his proposing Uriah, his
drinking everything twice; his consciousness of his own weakness,
the ineffectual effort that he made against it; the struggle
between his shame in Uriah's deportment, and his desire to
conciliate him; the manifest exultation with which Uriah twisted
and turned, and held him up before me. It made me sick at heart to
see, and my hand recoils from writing it.
'Come, fellow-partner!' said Uriah, at last, 'I'll give you another
one, and I umbly ask for bumpers, seeing I intend to make it the
divinest of her sex.'
Her father had his empty glass in his hand. I saw him set it down,
look at the picture she was so like, put his hand to his forehead,
and shrink back in his elbow-chair.
'I'm an umble individual to give you her elth,' proceeded Uriah,
'but I admire - adore her.'
No physical pain that her father's grey head could have borne, I
think, could have been more terrible to me, than the mental
endurance I saw compressed now within both his hands.
'Agnes,' said Uriah, either not regarding him, or not knowing what
the nature of his action was, 'Agnes Wickfield is, I am safe to
say, the divinest of her sex. May I speak out, among friends? To
be her father is a proud distinction, but to be her usband -'
Spare me from ever again hearing such a cry, as that with which her
father rose up from the table!
'What's the matter?' said Uriah, turning of a deadly colour. 'You
are not gone mad, after all, Mr. Wickfield, I hope? If I say I've
an ambition to make your Agnes my Agnes, I have as good a right to
it as another man. I have a better right to it than any other
man!'
I had my arms round Mr. Wickfield, imploring him by everything that
I could think of, oftenest of all by his love for Agnes, to calm
himself a little. He was mad for the moment; tearing out his hair,
beating his head, trying to force me from him, and to force himself
from me, not answering a word, not looking at or seeing anyone;
blindly striving for he knew not what, his face all staring and
distorted - a frightful spectacle.
I conjured him, incoherently, but in the most impassioned manner,
not to abandon himself to this wildness, but to hear me. I
besought him to think of Agnes, to connect me with Agnes, to
recollect how Agnes and I had grown up together, how I honoured her
and loved her, how she was his pride and joy. I tried to bring her
idea before him in any form; I even reproached him with not having
firmness to spare her the knowledge of such a scene as this. I may
have effected something, or his wildness may have spent itself; but
by degrees he struggled less, and began to look at me - strangely
at first, then with recognition in his eyes. At length he said, 'I
know, Trotwood! My darling child and you - I know! But look at
him!'
He pointed to Uriah, pale and glowering in a corner, evidently very
much out in his calculations, and taken by surprise.
'Look at my torturer,' he replied. 'Before him I have step by step
abandoned name and reputation, peace and quiet, house and home.'
'I have kept your name and reputation for you, and your peace and
quiet, and your house and home too,' said Uriah, with a sulky,
hurried, defeated air of compromise. 'Don't be foolish, Mr.
Wickfield. If I have gone a little beyond what you were prepared
for, I can go back, I suppose? There's no harm done.'
'I looked for single motives in everyone,' said Mr. Wickfield, and
I was satisfied I had bound him to me by motives of interest. But
see what he is - oh, see what he is!'
'You had better stop him, Copperfield, if you can,' cried Uriah,
with his long forefinger pointing towards me. 'He'll say something
presently - mind you! - he'll be sorry to have said afterwards, and
you'll be sorry to have heard!'
'I'll say anything!' cried Mr. Wickfield, with a desperate air.
'Why should I not be in all the world's power if I am in yours?'
'Mind! I tell you!' said Uriah, continuing to warn me. 'If you
don't stop his mouth, you're not his friend! Why shouldn't you be
in all the world's power, Mr. Wickfield? Because you have got a
daughter. You and me know what we know, don't we? Let sleeping
dogs lie - who wants to rouse 'em? I don't. Can't you see I am as
umble as I can be? I tell you, if I've gone too far, I'm sorry.
What would you have, sir?'
'Oh, Trotwood, Trotwood!'exclaimed Mr. Wickfield, wringing his
hands. 'What I have come down to be, since I first saw you in this
house! I was on my downward way then, but the dreary, dreary road
I have traversed since! Weak indulgence has ruined me. Indulgence
in remembrance, and indulgence in forgetfulness. My natural grief
for my child's mother turned to disease; my natural love for my
child turned to disease. I have infected everything I touched. I
have brought misery on what I dearly love, I know -you know! I
thought it possible that I could truly love one creature in the
world, and not love the rest; I thought it possible that I could
truly mourn for one creature gone out of the world, and not have
some part in the grief of all who mourned. Thus the lessons of my
life have been perverted! I have preyed on my own morbid coward
heart, and it has preyed on me. Sordid in my grief, sordid in my
love, sordid in my miserable escape from the darker side of both,
oh see the ruin I am, and hate me, shun me!'
He dropped into a chair, and weakly sobbed. The excitement into
which he had been roused was leaving him. Uriah came out of his
corner.
'I don't know all I have done, in my fatuity,' said Mr. Wickfield,
putting out his hands, as if to deprecate my condemnation. 'He
knows best,' meaning Uriah Heep, 'for he has always been at my
elbow, whispering me. You see the millstone that he is about my
neck. You find him in my house, you find him in my business. You
heard him, but a little time ago. What need have I to say more!'
'You haven't need to say so much, nor half so much, nor anything at
all,' observed Uriah, half defiant, and half fawning. 'You
wouldn't have took it up so, if it hadn't been for the wine.
You'll think better of it tomorrow, sir. If I have said too much,
or more than I meant, what of it? I haven't stood by it!'
The door opened, and Agnes, gliding in, without a vestige of colour
in her face, put her arm round his neck, and steadily said, 'Papa,
you are not well. Come with me!'
He laid his head upon her shoulder, as if he were oppressed with
heavy shame, and went out with her. Her eyes met mine for but an
instant, yet I saw how much she knew of what had passed.
'I didn't expect he'd cut up so rough, Master Copperfield,' said
Uriah. 'But it's nothing. I'll be friends with him tomorrow.
It's for his good. I'm umbly anxious for his good.'
I gave him no answer, and went upstairs into the quiet room where
Agnes had so often sat beside me at my books. Nobody came near me
until late at night. I took up a book, and tried to read. I heard
the clocks strike twelve, and was still reading, without knowing
what I read, when Agnes touched me.
'You will be going early in the morning, Trotwood! Let us say
good-bye, now!'
She had been weeping, but her face then was so calm and beautiful!
'Heaven bless you!' she said, giving me her hand.
'Dearest Agnes!' I returned, 'I see you ask me not to speak of
tonight - but is there nothing to be done?'
'There is God to trust in!' she replied.
'Can I do nothing- I, who come to you with my poor sorrows?'
'And make mine so much lighter,' she replied. 'Dear Trotwood, no!'
'Dear Agnes,' I said, 'it is presumptuous for me, who am so poor in
all in which you are so rich - goodness, resolution, all noble
qualities - to doubt or direct you; but you know how much I love
you, and how much I owe you. You will never sacrifice yourself to
a mistaken sense of duty, Agnes?'
More agitated for a moment than I had ever seen her, she took her
hands from me, and moved a step back.
'Say you have no such thought, dear Agnes! Much more than sister!
Think of the priceless gift of such a heart as yours, of such a
love as yours!'
Oh! long, long afterwards, I saw that face rise up before me, with
its momentary look, not wondering, not accusing, not regretting.
Oh, long, long afterwards, I saw that look subside, as it did now,
into the lovely smile, with which she told me she had no fear for
herself - I need have none for her - and parted from me by the name
of Brother, and was gone!
It was dark in the morning, when I got upon the coach at the inn
door. The day was just breaking when we were about to start, and
then, as I sat thinking of her, came struggling up the coach side,
through the mingled day and night, Uriah's head.
'Copperfield!' said he, in a croaking whisper, as he hung by the
iron on the roof, 'I thought you'd be glad to hear before you went
off, that there are no squares broke between us. I've been into
his room already, and we've made it all smooth. Why, though I'm
umble, I'm useful to him, you know; and he understands his interest
when he isn't in liquor! What an agreeable man he is, after all,
Master Copperfield!'
I obliged myself to say that I was glad he had made his apology.
'Oh, to be sure!' said Uriah. 'When a person's umble, you know,
what's an apology? So easy! I say! I suppose,' with a jerk, 'you
have sometimes plucked a pear before it was ripe, Master
Copperfield?'
'I suppose I have,' I replied.
'I did that last night,' said Uriah; 'but it'll ripen yet! It only
wants attending to. I can wait!'
Profuse in his farewells, he got down again as the coachman got up.
For anything I know, he was eating something to keep the raw
morning air out; but he made motions with his mouth as if the pear
were ripe already, and he were smacking his lips over it.
CHAPTER 40
THE WANDERER
We had a very serious conversation in Buckingham Street that night,
about the domestic occurrences I have detailed in the last chapter.
My aunt was deeply interested in them, and walked up and down the
room with her arms folded, for more than two hours afterwards.
Whenever she was particularly discomposed, she always performed one
of these pedestrian feats; and the amount of her discomposure might
always be estimated by the duration of her walk. On this occasion
she was so much disturbed in mind as to find it necessary to open
the bedroom door, and make a course for herself, comprising the
full extent of the bedrooms from wall to wall; and while Mr. Dick
and I sat quietly by the fire, she kept passing in and out, along
this measured track, at an unchanging pace, with the regularity of
a clock-pendulum.
When my aunt and I were left to ourselves by Mr. Dick's going out
to bed, I sat down to write my letter to the two old ladies. By
that time she was tired of walking, and sat by the fire with her
dress tucked up as usual. But instead of sitting in her usual
manner, holding her glass upon 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 left hand, looked thoughtfully at
me. As often as I raised my eyes from what I 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,
that she had left her night-mixture, as she always called it,
untasted on the chimney-piece. She came to her door, with even
more than her usual affection of manner, when I knocked to acquaint
her with this discovery; but only said, 'I have not the heart to
take it, Trot, tonight,' and shook her head, and went in again.
She read my letter to the two old ladies, in the morning, and
approved of it. I posted it, and had nothing to do then, but wait,
as patiently as I could, for the reply. I was still in this state
of expectation, and had 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
for some time. The wind had gone down with the light, and so the
snow had come on. It was a heavy, settled fall, I recollect, in
great flakes; and it lay thick. The noise of wheels and tread of
people were as hushed, as if the streets had been strewn that depth
with feathers.
My shortest way home, - and I naturally took the shortest way on
such a night - was through St. Martin's Lane. Now, the church
which gives its name to the lane, stood in a less free situation at
that time; there being 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 not remember where. I had some
association with it, that struck upon my heart directly; but I was
thinking of anything else when it came upon me, and was confused.
On the steps of the church, there was the stooping figure of a man,
who had put down some burden on the smooth snow, to adjust it; my
seeing the face, and my seeing him, were simultaneous. I don't
think I had stopped in my surprise; but, in any case, as I went on,
he rose, turned, and came down towards me. I stood face to face
with Mr. Peggotty!
Then I remembered the woman. It was Martha, to whom Emily had
given the money 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 the treasures 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've been down yonder - Yarmouth way - I was afeerd it
was too late. I should have 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 was
a-going to turn in somewheers.'
In those days there was a side-entrance to the stable-yard of the
Golden Cross, the inn so memorable to me in connexion with his
misfortune, nearly opposite to where we stood. I pointed out the
gateway, put my arm through his, and we went across. Two or three
public-rooms opened out of the stable-yard; and looking into one of
them, and finding it empty, and a good fire burning, I took him in
there.
When I saw him in the light, I observed, not only that his hair was
long and 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 every appearance of having toiled and wandered through all
varieties of weather; but he looked very strong, and like a man
upheld by steadfastness of purpose, whom nothing could tire out.
He shook the snow from his hat and clothes, and brushed it away
from his face, while I was inwardly 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 rough hand again, and grasped
mine warmly.
'I'll tell you, Mas'r Davy,' he said, - 'wheer all I've been, and
what-all we've heerd. I've been fur, and we've heerd little; but
I'll tell you!'
I rang the bell for something hot to drink. He would have nothing
stronger than ale; and while it was being brought, and being warmed
at the fire, he sat thinking. There was a fine, massive gravity in
his face, I did not venture to disturb.
'When she was a child,' he said, lifting up his head soon after we
were left alone, 'she used to talk to me a deal about the sea, and
about them coasts where the sea got to be dark blue, and to lay
a-shining and a-shining in the sun. I thowt, odd times, as her
father being drownded made her think on it so much. I doen't know,
you see, but maybe she believed - or hoped - he had drifted out to
them parts, where the flowers is 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
he would take her to them countries. I know'd in my mind, as he'd
have told her wonders of 'em, and how she was to be a lady theer,
and how he got her 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, and landed 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
them papers as I wanted fur to carry me through - I doen't rightly
know how they're called - and he would have give me money, but that
I was thankful to have no need on. I thank him kind, for all he
done, I'm sure! "I've wrote afore you," he says to me, "and I
shall speak to many as will come that way, and many will know you,
fur distant from here, when you're a-travelling alone." I told him,
best as I was able, what my gratitoode was, and went away through
France.'
'Alone, and on foot?' said I.
'Mostly a-foot,' he rejoined; 'sometimes in carts along with people
going to market; sometimes in empty coaches. Many mile a day
a-foot, and often 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 was company 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 waited
about the yard till someone turned up (someone mostly did) as
know'd English. Then I told how that I was on my way to seek my
niece, and they told me what manner of gentlefolks was in the
house, and I waited to see any as seemed like her, going in or out.
When it warn't Em'ly, I went on agen. By little and little, when
I come to a new village or that, among the poor people, I found
they know'd about me. They would set me down at their cottage
doors, and give me what-not fur to eat and drink, and show me where
to sleep; and many a woman, Mas'r Davy, as has had a daughter of
about Em'ly's age, I've found a-waiting fur me, at Our Saviour's
Cross outside the village, fur to do me sim'lar kindnesses. Some
has had daughters as was dead. And God only knows how good them
mothers was to me!'
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 seen me sitting at their doors, when night was coming in,
a'most as if they'd been my Darling's children. Oh, my Darling!'
Overpowered by sudden grief, he sobbed aloud. I laid my trembling
hand upon the hand he put before his face. 'Thankee, sir,' he
said, 'doen't take 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, 'in the morning, maybe a mile
or two upon my road; and when we parted, and I said, "I'm very
thankful to you! God bless you!" they always seemed to understand,
and answered pleasant. At last I come to the sea. It warn't hard,
you may suppose, for a seafaring man like me to work his way over
to Italy. When I got theer, I wandered on as I had done afore.
The people 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 among them 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 made fur 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 up with 'em, and I crossed 'em.
When I got nigh the place as I had been told of, I began to think
within my own self, "What shall I do when I see her?"'
The listening face, insensible to the inclement night, still
drooped at the 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 her see my face - on'y let her beer my voice - on'y let my
stanning still afore her bring to her thoughts the home she had
fled away from, and the child she had been - and if she had growed
to be a royal lady, she'd have fell down at my feet! I know'd it
well! Many a time in my sleep had I heerd her cry out, "Uncle!"
and seen her fall like death afore me. Many a time in my sleep had
I raised her up, and whispered to her, "Em'ly, my dear, 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 put upon her; and I know'd that, once found, she would walk
beside me over them stony roads, go where I would, and never,
never, leave me more. To put that dress upon her, and to cast off
what she wore - to take her on my 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 I thowt of now. I
doen't believe I should have done so much as look at him. But,
Mas'r Davy, it warn't to be - not yet! I was too late, and they
was 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 I travelled home.'
'How long ago?' I asked.
'A matter o' fower days,' said Mr. Peggotty. 'I sighted the old
boat arter dark, and the light a-shining in the winder. When I
come nigh and looked in through the glass, I see the faithful
creetur Missis Gummidge sittin' by the fire, as we had fixed upon,
alone. I called out, "Doen't be afeerd! It's Dan'l!" and I went
in. I never could have thowt the old boat would have been so
strange!'
From some pocket in his breast, he took out, with a very careful
hand a small paper bundle containing two or three letters or little
packets, which he laid upon the table.
'This fust one come,' he said, selecting it from the rest, 'afore
I had been gone a week. A fifty pound Bank note, in a sheet of
paper, directed to me, and put underneath the door in the night.
She tried to hide her writing, but she couldn't hide it from Me!'
He folded up the note again, with great patience and care, in
exactly the same form, and laid it on one side.
'This come to Missis Gummidge,' he said, opening another, 'two or
three months ago.'After looking at it for some moments, he gave it
to me, and added 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
from my 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 of paper whether he is well, and what
he said about me before you left off ever naming me among
yourselves - and whether, of a night, when it is my old time of
coming home, you ever see him look as if he thought of one he used
to love so dear. Oh, my heart is breaking when I think about it!
I am kneeling down to you, begging and praying you not to be as
hard with me as I deserve - as I well, well, know I deserve - but
to be so gentle and so good, as to write down something of him, and
to send it to me. You need not call me Little, you need not call
me by the name I have disgraced; but oh, listen to my agony, and
have mercy on me so far as to write me some word of uncle, never,
never to be seen in this world by my eyes 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 whose wife I was to have been - before you quite decide
against my poor poor prayer! If he should be so compassionate as
to say that you might write something for me to read - I think he
would, oh, I think he would, if you would only ask him, for he
always was so brave and so forgiving - tell him 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 was going up to
God against me. Tell him that if I was to die tomorrow (and oh, if
I was fit, I would be so glad to die!) I would bless him and uncle
with my last words, and pray for his happy home with my last
breath!'
Some money was enclosed in this letter also. Five pounds. It was
untouched 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, and made it difficult to arrive at any very probable
conclusion in reference to her place of concealment, made it at
least not unlikely that she had written 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, Ham
kindly drawed it out, and she made a copy on it. They told her I
was gone 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.
'Ten pound, 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, day afore 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 had drawn him a rude map on paper, which he could very
well understand. He laid 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
all that part, as any man's is, anywheres in the wureld. Anyone's
hand is ready to help him, you understand, and his is ready to help
them. He's never been heerd fur to complain. But my sister's
belief is ('twixt ourselves) 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 solemn
whisper - 'kinder no care no-how for his life. When a man's wanted
for rough sarvice in rough weather, he's theer. When there's hard
duty to be done with danger in it, he steps for'ard afore all his
mates. And yet he's as gentle as any child. There ain't a child
in Yarmouth that doen't know him.'
He gathered up the letters thoughtfully, smoothing them with his
hand; put them into their little bundle; and placed it tenderly in
his breast again. The face was gone from the door. I still saw
the snow drifting in; but nothing else was there.
'Well!' he said, looking to his bag, 'having seen you tonight,
Mas'r Davy (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 little packet lay; 'all that troubles me is, to think
that any harm might come to 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 him but what I'd took it, I
believe the t'other wureld wouldn't hold me! I believe I must come
back!'
He rose, and I rose too; we grasped each other by the hand again,
before going out.
'I'd go ten thousand mile,' he said, 'I'd go till I dropped dead,
to lay that 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 loving uncle only ended his search for her when he
ended his life; and if I know her, even that will turn her home at
last!'
As he went out into the rigorous night, I saw the lonely figure
flit away before us. I turned him hastily on some pretence, and
held him in conversation until it was gone.
He spoke of a traveller's house on the Dover Road, where he knew he
could find a clean, plain lodging for the night. I went with him
over Westminster Bridge, and parted from him on the Surrey shore.
Everything seemed, to my imagination, to be hushed in reverence for
him, as he resumed his solitary journey through the snow.
I returned to the inn yard, and, impressed by my remembrance of the
face, looked awfully around for it. It was not there. The snow
had covered 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 back over my shoulder.
CHAPTER 41
DORA'S AUNTS
At last, an answer came from the two old ladies. They presented
their compliments to Mr. Copperfield, and informed him that they
had given his letter their best consideration, 'with a view to the
happiness of both parties' - which I thought rather an alarming
expression, not only because of the use they had made of it in
relation to the family difference before-mentioned, but because I
had (and have all my life) observed that conventional phrases are
a sort of fireworks, easily let off, and liable to take a great
variety of shapes and colours not at all suggested by their
original form. The Misses Spenlow added that they begged to
forbear expressing, 'through the medium of correspondence', an
opinion on the subject of Mr. Copperfield's communication; but that
if Mr. Copperfield would do them the favour to call, upon a certain
day (accompanied, if he thought proper, by a confidential friend),
they would be happy to hold some conversation on the subject.
To this favour, Mr. Copperfield immediately replied, with his
respectful compliments, that he would have the honour of waiting on
the Misses Spenlow, at the time appointed; accompanied, in
accordance with their kind permission, by his friend Mr. Thomas
Traddles of the Inner Temple. Having dispatched which missive, Mr.
Copperfield fell into a condition of strong nervous agitation; and
so remained until the day arrived.
It was a great augmentation of my uneasiness to be bereaved, at
this eventful crisis, of the inestimable services of Miss Mills.
But Mr. Mills, who was always doing something or other to annoy me
- or I felt as if he were, which was the same thing - had brought
his conduct to a climax, by taking it into his head that he would
go to India. Why should he go to India, except to harass me? To
be sure he had nothing to do with any other part of the world, and
had a good deal to do with that part; being entirely in the India
trade, whatever that was (I had floating dreams myself concerning
golden shawls and elephants' teeth); having been at Calcutta in his
youth; and designing now to go out there again, in the capacity of
resident partner. But this was nothing to me. However, it was so
much to him that for India he was bound, and Julia with him; and
Julia went into the country to take leave of her relations; and the
house was put into a perfect suit of bills, announcing that it was
to be let or sold, and that the furniture (Mangle and all) was to
be taken at a valuation. So, here was another earthquake of which
I became the sport, before I had recovered from the shock of its
predecessor!
I was in several minds how to dress myself on the important day;
being divided between my desire to appear to advantage, and my
apprehensions of putting on anything that might impair my severely
practical character in the eyes of the Misses Spenlow. I
endeavoured to hit a happy medium between these two extremes; my
aunt approved the result; and Mr. Dick threw one of his shoes after
Traddles and me, for luck, as we went downstairs.
Excellent fellow as I knew Traddles to be, and warmly attached to
him as I was, I could not help wishing, on that delicate occasion,
that he had never contracted the habit of brushing his hair so very
upright. It gave him a surprised look - not to say a hearth-broomy
kind of expression - which, my apprehensions whispered, might be
fatal to us.
I took the liberty of mentioning it to Traddles, as we were walking
to Putney; and saying that if he WOULD smooth it down a little -
'My dear Copperfield,' said Traddles, lifting off his hat, and
rubbing his hair all kinds of ways, 'nothing would give me greater
pleasure. But it won't.'
'Won't be smoothed down?' said I.
'No,' said Traddles. 'Nothing will induce it. If I was to carry
a half-hundred-weight upon it, all the way to Putney, it would be
up again the moment the weight was taken off. You have no idea
what obstinate hair mine is, Copperfield. I am quite a fretful
porcupine.'
I was a little disappointed, I must confess, but thoroughly charmed
by his good-nature too. I told him how I esteemed his good-nature;
and said that his hair must have taken all the obstinacy out of his
character, for he had none.
'Oh!' returned Traddles, laughing. 'I assure you, it's quite an
old story, my unfortunate hair. My uncle's wife couldn't bear it.
She said it exasperated her. It stood very much in my way, too,
when I first fell in love with Sophy. Very much!'
'Did she object to it?'
'SHE didn't,' rejoined Traddles; 'but her eldest sister - the one
that's the Beauty - quite made game of it, I understand. In fact,
all the sisters laugh at it.'
'Agreeable!' said I.
'Yes,' returned Traddles with perfect innocence, 'it's a joke for
us. They pretend that Sophy has a lock of it in her desk, and is
obliged to shut it in a clasped book, to keep it down. We laugh
about it.'
'By the by, my dear Traddles,' said I, 'your experience may suggest
something to me. When you became engaged to the young lady whom
you have just mentioned, did you make a regular proposal to her
family? Was there anything like - what we are going through today,
for instance?' I added, nervously.
'Why,' replied Traddles, on whose attentive face a thoughtful shade
had stolen, 'it was rather a painful transaction, Copperfield, in
my case. You see, Sophy being of so much use in the family, none
of them could endure the thought of her ever being married.
Indeed, they had quite settled among themselves that she never was
to be married, and they called her the old maid. Accordingly, when
I mentioned it, with the greatest precaution, to Mrs. Crewler -'
'The mama?' said I.
'The mama,' said Traddles - 'Reverend Horace Crewler - when I
mentioned it with every possible precaution to Mrs. Crewler, the
effect upon her was such that she gave a scream and became
insensible. I couldn't approach the subject again, for months.'
'You did at last?' said I.
'Well, the Reverend Horace did,' said Traddles. 'He is an
excellent man, most exemplary in every way; and he pointed out to
her that she ought, as a Christian, to reconcile herself to the
sacrifice (especially as it was so uncertain), and to bear no
uncharitable feeling towards me. As to myself, Copperfield, I give
you my word, I felt a perfect bird of prey towards the family.'
'The sisters took your part, I hope, Traddles?'
'Why, I can't say they did,' he returned. 'When we had
comparatively reconciled Mrs. Crewler to it, we had to break it to
Sarah. You recollect my mentioning Sarah, as the one that has
something the matter with her spine?'
'Perfectly!'
'She clenched both her hands,' said Traddles, looking at me in
dismay; 'shut her eyes; turned lead-colour; became perfectly stiff;
and took nothing for two days but toast-and-water, administered
with a tea-spoon.'
'What a very unpleasant girl, Traddles!' I remarked.
'Oh, I beg your pardon, Copperfield!' said Traddles. 'She is a
very charming girl, but she has a great deal of feeling. In fact,
they all have. Sophy told me afterwards, that the self-reproach
she underwent while she was in attendance upon Sarah, no words
could describe. I know it must have been severe, by my own
feelings, Copperfield; which were like a criminal's. After Sarah
was restored, we still had to break it to the other eight; and it
produced various effects upon them of a most pathetic nature. The
two little ones, whom Sophy educates, have only just left off
de-testing me.'
'At any rate, they are all reconciled to it now, I hope?' said I.
'Ye-yes, I should say they were, on the whole, resigned to it,'
said Traddles, doubtfully. 'The fact is, we avoid mentioning the
subject; and my unsettled prospects and indifferent circumstances
are a great consolation to them. There will be a deplorable scene,
whenever we are married. It will be much more like a funeral, than
a wedding. And they'll all hate me for taking her away!'
His honest face, as he looked at me with a serio-comic shake of his
head, impresses me more in the remembrance than it did in the
reality, for I was by this time in a state of such excessive
trepidation and wandering of mind, as to be quite unable to fix my
attention on anything. On our approaching the house where the
Misses Spenlow lived, I was at such a discount in respect of my
personal looks and presence of mind, that Traddles proposed a
gentle stimulant in the form of a glass of ale. This having been
administered at a neighbouring public-house, he conducted me, with
tottering steps, to the Misses Spenlow's door.
I had a vague sensation of being, as it were, on view, when the
maid opened it; and of wavering, somehow, across a hall with a
weather-glass in it, into a quiet little drawing-room on the
ground-floor, commanding a neat garden. Also of sitting down here,
on a sofa, and seeing Traddles's hair start up, now his hat was
removed, like one of those obtrusive little figures made of
springs, that fly out of fictitious snuff-boxes when the lid is
taken off. Also of hearing an old-fashioned clock ticking away on
the chimney-piece, and trying to make it keep time to the jerking
of my heart, - which it wouldn't. Also of looking round the room
for any sign of Dora, and seeing none. Also of thinking that Jip
once barked in the distance, and was instantly choked by somebody.
Ultimately I found myself backing Traddles into the fireplace, and
bowing in great confusion to two dry little elderly ladies, dressed
in black, and each looking wonderfully like a preparation in chip
or tan of the late Mr. Spenlow.
'Pray,' said one of the two little ladies, 'be seated.'
When I had done tumbling over Traddles, and had sat upon something
which was not a cat - my first seat was - I so far recovered my
sight, as to perceive that Mr. Spenlow had evidently been the
youngest of the family; that there was a disparity of six or eight
years between the two sisters; and that the younger appeared to be
the manager of the conference, inasmuch as she had my letter in her
hand - so familiar as it looked to me, and yet so odd! - and was
referring to it through an eye-glass. They were dressed alike, but
this sister wore her dress with a more youthful air than the other;
and perhaps had a trifle more frill, or tucker, or brooch, or
bracelet, or some little thing of that kind, which made her look
more lively. They were both upright in their carriage, formal,
precise, composed, and quiet. The sister who had not my letter,
had her arms crossed on her breast, and resting on each other, like
an Idol.
'Mr. Copperfield, I believe,' said the sister who had got my
letter, addressing herself to Traddles.
This was a frightful beginning. Traddles had to indicate that I
was Mr. Copperfield, and I had to lay claim to myself, and they had
to divest themselves of a preconceived opinion that Traddles was
Mr. Copperfield, and altogether we were in a nice condition. To
improve it, we all distinctly heard Jip give two short barks, and
receive another choke.
'Mr. Copperfield!' said the sister with the letter.
I did something - bowed, I suppose - and was all attention, when
the other sister struck in.
'My sister Lavinia,' said she 'being conversant with matters of
this nature, will state what we consider most calculated to promote
the happiness of both parties.'
I discovered afterwards that Miss Lavinia was an authority in
affairs of the heart, by reason of there having anciently existed
a certain Mr. Pidger, who played short whist, and was supposed to
have been enamoured of her. My private opinion is, that this was
entirely a gratuitous assumption, and that Pidger was altogether
innocent of any such sentiments - to which he had never given any
sort of expression that I could ever hear of. Both Miss Lavinia
and Miss Clarissa had a superstition, however, that he would have
declared his passion, if he had not been cut short in his youth (at
about sixty) by over-drinking his constitution, and over-doing an
attempt to set it right again by swilling Bath water. They had a
lurking suspicion even, that he died of secret love; though I must
say there was a picture of him in the house with a damask nose,
which concealment did not appear to have ever preyed upon.
'We will not,' said Miss Lavinia, 'enter on the past history of
this matter. Our poor brother Francis's death has cancelled that.'
'We had not,' said Miss Clarissa, 'been in the habit of frequent
association with our brother Francis; but there was no decided
division or disunion between us. Francis took his road; we took
ours. We considered it conducive to the happiness of all parties
that it should be so. And it was so.'
Each of the sisters leaned a little forward to speak, shook her
head after speaking, and became upright again when silent. Miss
Clarissa never moved her arms. She sometimes played tunes upon
them with her fingers - minuets and marches I should think - but
never moved them.
'Our niece's position, or supposed position, is much changed by our
brother Francis's death,' said Miss Lavinia; 'and therefore we
consider our brother's opinions as regarded her position as being
changed too. We have no reason to doubt, Mr. Copperfield, that you
are a young gentleman possessed of good qualities and honourable
character; or that you have an affection - or are fully persuaded
that you have an affection - for our niece.'
I replied, as I usually did whenever I had a chance, that nobody
had ever loved anybody else as I loved Dora. Traddles came to my
assistance with a confirmatory murmur.
Miss Lavinia was going on to make some rejoinder, when Miss
Clarissa, who appeared to be incessantly beset by a desire to refer
to her brother Francis, struck in again:
'If Dora's mama,' she said, 'when she married our brother Francis,
had at once said that there was not room for the family at the
dinner-table, it would have been better for the happiness of all
parties.'
'Sister Clarissa,' said Miss Lavinia. 'Perhaps we needn't mind
that now.'
'Sister Lavinia,' said Miss Clarissa, 'it belongs to the subject.
With your branch of the subject, on which alone you are competent
to speak, I should not think of interfering. On this branch of the
subject I have a voice and an opinion. It would have been better
for the happiness of all parties, if Dora's mama, when she married
our brother Francis, had mentioned plainly what her intentions
were. We should then have known what we had to expect. We should
have said "Pray do not invite us, at any time"; and all possibility
of misunderstanding would have been avoided.'
When Miss Clarissa had shaken her head, Miss Lavinia resumed: again
referring to my letter through her eye-glass. They both had little
bright round twinkling eyes, by the way, which were like birds'
eyes. They were not unlike birds, altogether; having a sharp,
brisk, sudden manner, and a little short, spruce way of adjusting
themselves, like canaries.
Miss Lavinia, as I have said, resumed:
'You ask permission of my sister Clarissa and myself, Mr.
Copperfield, to visit here, as the accepted suitor of our niece.'
'If our brother Francis,' said Miss Clarissa, breaking out again,
if I may call anything so calm a breaking out, 'wished to surround
himself with an atmosphere of Doctors' Commons, and of Doctors'
Commons only, what right or desire had we to object? None, I am
sure. We have ever been far from wishing to obtrude ourselves on
anyone. But why not say so? Let our brother Francis and his wife
have their society. Let my sister Lavinia and myself have our
society. We can find it for ourselves, I hope.'
As this appeared to be addressed to Traddles and me, both Traddles
and I made some sort of reply. Traddles was inaudible. I think I
observed, myself, that it was highly creditable to all concerned.
I don't in the least know what I meant.
'Sister Lavinia,' said Miss Clarissa, having now relieved her mind,
'you can go on, my dear.'
Miss Lavinia proceeded:
'Mr. Copperfield, my sister Clarissa and I have been very careful
indeed in considering this letter; and we have not considered it
without finally showing it to our niece, and discussing it with our
niece. We have no doubt that you think you like her very much.'
'Think, ma'am,' I rapturously began, 'oh! -'
But Miss Clarissa giving me a look (just like a sharp canary), as
requesting that I would not interrupt the oracle, I begged pardon.
'Affection,' said Miss Lavinia, glancing at her sister for
corroboration, which she gave in the form of a little nod to every
clause, 'mature affection, homage, devotion, does not easily
express itself. Its voice is low. It is modest and retiring, it
lies in ambush, waits and waits. Such is the mature fruit.
Sometimes a life glides away, and finds it still ripening in the
shade.'
Of course I did not understand then that this was an allusion to
her supposed experience of the stricken Pidger; but I saw, from the
gravity with which Miss Clarissa nodded her head, that great weight
was attached to these words.
'The light - for I call them, in comparison with such sentiments,
the light - inclinations of very young people,' pursued Miss
Lavinia, 'are dust, compared to rocks. It is owing to the
difficulty of knowing whether they are likely to endure or have any
real foundation, that my sister Clarissa and myself have been very
undecided how to act, Mr. Copperfield, and Mr. -'
'Traddles,' said my friend, finding himself looked at.
'I beg pardon. Of the Inner Temple, I believe?' said Miss
Clarissa, again glancing at my letter.
Traddles said 'Exactly so,' and became pretty red in the face.
Now, although I had not received any express encouragement as yet,
I fancied that I saw in the two little sisters, and particularly in
Miss Lavinia, an intensified enjoyment of this new and fruitful
subject of domestic interest, a settling down to make the most of
it, a disposition to pet it, in which there was a good bright ray
of hope. I thought I perceived that Miss Lavinia would have
uncommon satisfaction in superintending two young lovers, like Dora
and me; and that Miss Clarissa would have hardly less satisfaction
in seeing her superintend us, and in chiming in with her own
particular department of the subject whenever that impulse was
strong upon her. This gave me courage to protest most vehemently
that I loved Dora better than I could tell, or anyone believe; that
all my friends knew how I loved her; that my aunt, Agnes, Traddles,
everyone who knew me, knew how I loved her, and how earnest my love
had made me. For the truth of this, I appealed to Traddles. And
Traddles, firing up as if he were plunging into a Parliamentary
Debate, really did come out nobly: confirming me in good round
terms, and in a plain sensible practical manner, that evidently
made a favourable impression.
'I speak, if I may presume to say so, as one who has some little
experience of such things,' said Traddles, 'being myself engaged to
a young lady - one of ten, down in Devonshire - and seeing no
probability, at present, of our engagement coming to a
termination.'
'You may be able to confirm what I have said, Mr. Traddles,'
observed Miss Lavinia, evidently taking a new interest in him, 'of
the affection that is modest and retiring; that waits and waits?'
'Entirely, ma'am,' said Traddles.
Miss Clarissa looked at Miss Lavinia, and shook her head gravely.
Miss Lavinia looked consciously at Miss Clarissa, and heaved a
little sigh.
'Sister Lavinia,' said Miss Clarissa, 'take my smelling-bottle.'
Miss Lavinia revived herself with a few whiffs of aromatic vinegar
- Traddles and I looking on with great solicitude the while; and
then went on to say, rather faintly:
'My sister and myself have been in great doubt, Mr. Traddles, what
course we ought to take in reference to the likings, or imaginary
likings, of such very young people as your friend Mr. Copperfield
and our niece.'
'Our brother Francis's child,' remarked Miss Clarissa. 'If our
brother Francis's wife had found it convenient in her lifetime
(though she had an unquestionable right to act as she thought best)
to invite the family to her dinner-table, we might have known our
brother Francis's child better at the present moment. Sister
Lavinia, proceed.'
Miss Lavinia turned my letter, so as to bring the superscription
towards herself, and referred through her eye-glass to some
orderly-looking notes she had made on that part of it.
'It seems to us,' said she, 'prudent, Mr. Traddles, to bring these
feelings to the test of our own observation. At present we know
nothing of them, and are not in a situation to judge how much
reality there may be in them. Therefore we are inclined so far to
accede to Mr. Copperfield's proposal, as to admit his visits here.'
'I shall never, dear ladies,' I exclaimed, relieved of an immense
load of apprehension, 'forget your kindness!'
'But,' pursued Miss Lavinia, - 'but, we would prefer to regard
those visits, Mr. Traddles, as made, at present, to us. We must
guard ourselves from recognizing any positive engagement between
Mr. Copperfield and our niece, until we have had an opportunity -'
'Until YOU have had an opportunity, sister Lavinia,' said Miss
Clarissa.
'Be it so,' assented Miss Lavinia, with a sigh - 'until I have had
an opportunity of observing them.'
'Copperfield,' said Traddles, turning to me, 'you feel, I am sure,
that nothing could be more reasonable or considerate.'
'Nothing!' cried I. 'I am deeply sensible of it.'
'In this position of affairs,' said Miss Lavinia, again referring
to her notes, 'and admitting his visits on this understanding only,
we must require from Mr. Copperfield a distinct assurance, on his
word of honour, that no communication of any kind shall take place
between him and our niece without our knowledge. That no project
whatever shall be entertained with regard to our niece, without
being first submitted to us -'
'To you, sister Lavinia,' Miss Clarissa interposed.
'Be it so, Clarissa!' assented Miss Lavinia resignedly - 'to me -
and receiving our concurrence. We must make this a most express
and serious stipulation, not to be broken on any account. We
wished Mr. Copperfield to be accompanied by some confidential
friend today,' with an inclination of her head towards Traddles,
who bowed, 'in order that there might be no doubt or misconception
on this subject. If Mr. Copperfield, or if you, Mr. Traddles, feel
the least scruple, in giving this promise, I beg you to take time
to consider it.'
I exclaimed, in a state of high ecstatic fervour, that not a
moment's consideration could be necessary. I bound myself by the
required promise, in a most impassioned manner; called upon
Traddles to witness it; and denounced myself as the most atrocious
of characters if I ever swerved from it in the least degree.
'Stay!' said Miss Lavinia, holding up her hand; 'we resolved,
before we had the pleasure of receiving you two gentlemen, to leave
you alone for a quarter of an hour, to consider this point. You
will allow us to retire.'
It was in vain for me to say that no consideration was necessary.
They persisted in withdrawing for the specified time. Accordingly,
these little birds hopped out with great dignity; leaving me to
receive the congratulations of Traddles, and to feel as if I were
translated to regions of exquisite happiness. Exactly at the
expiration of the quarter of an hour, they reappeared with no less
dignity than they had disappeared. They had gone rustling away as
if their little dresses were made of autumn-leaves: and they came
rustling back, in like manner.
I then bound myself once more to the prescribed conditions.
'Sister Clarissa,' said Miss Lavinia, 'the rest is with you.'
Miss Clarissa, unfolding her arms for the first time, took the
notes and glanced at them.
'We shall be happy,' said Miss Clarissa, 'to see Mr. Copperfield to
dinner, every Sunday, if it should suit his convenience. Our hour
is three.'
I bowed.
'In the course of the week,' said Miss Clarissa, 'we shall be happy
to see Mr. Copperfield to tea. Our hour is half-past six.'
I bowed again.
'Twice in the week,' said Miss Clarissa, 'but, as a rule, not
oftener.'
I bowed again.
'Miss Trotwood,' said Miss Clarissa, 'mentioned in Mr.
Copperfield's letter, will perhaps call upon us. When visiting is
better for the happiness of all parties, we are glad to receive
visits, and return them. When it is better for the happiness of
all parties that no visiting should take place, (as in the case of
our brother Francis, and his establishment) that is quite
different.'
I intimated that my aunt would be proud and delighted to make their
acquaintance; though I must say I was not quite sure of their
getting on very satisfactorily together. The conditions being now
closed, I expressed my acknowledgements in the warmest manner; and,
taking the hand, first of Miss Clarissa, and then of Miss Lavinia,
pressed it, in each case, to my lips.
Miss Lavinia then arose, and begging Mr. Traddles to excuse us for
a minute, requested me to follow her. I obeyed, all in a tremble,
and was conducted into another room. There I found my blessed
darling stopping her ears behind the door, with her dear little
face against the wall; and Jip in the plate-warmer with his head
tied up in a towel.
Oh! How beautiful she was in her black frock, and how she sobbed
and cried at first, and wouldn't come out from behind the door!
How fond we were of one another, when she did come out at last; and
what a state of bliss I was in, when we took Jip out of the
plate-warmer, and restored him to the light, sneezing very much,
and were all three reunited!
'My dearest Dora! Now, indeed, my own for ever!'
'Oh, DON'T!' pleaded Dora. 'Please!'
'Are you not my own for ever, Dora?'
'Oh yes, of course I am!' cried Dora, 'but I am so frightened!'
'Frightened, my own?'
'Oh yes! I don't like him,' said Dora. 'Why don't he go?'
'Who, my life?'
'Your friend,' said Dora. 'It isn't any business of his. What a
stupid he must be!'
'My love!' (There never was anything so coaxing as her childish
ways.) 'He is the best creature!'
'Oh, but we don't want any best creatures!' pouted Dora.
'My dear,' I argued, 'you will soon know him well, and like him of
all things. And here is my aunt coming soon; and you'll like her
of all things too, when you know her.'
'No, please don't bring her!' said Dora, giving me a horrified
little kiss, and folding her hands. 'Don't. I know she's a
naughty, mischief-making old thing! Don't let her come here,
Doady!' which was a corruption of David.
Remonstrance was of no use, then; so I laughed, and admired, and
was very much in love and very happy; and she showed me Jip's new
trick of standing on his hind legs in a corner - which he did for
about the space of a flash of lightning, and then fell down - and
I don't know how long I should have stayed there, oblivious of
Traddles, if Miss Lavinia had not come in to take me away. Miss
Lavinia was very fond of Dora (she told me Dora was exactly like
what she had been herself at her age - she must have altered a good
deal), and she treated Dora just as if she had been a toy. I
wanted to persuade Dora to come and see Traddles, but on my
proposing it she ran off to her own room and locked herself in; so
I went to Traddles without her, and walked away with him on air.
'Nothing could be more satisfactory,' said Traddles; 'and they are
very agreeable old ladies, I am sure. I shouldn't be at all
surprised if you were to be married years before me, Copperfield.'
'Does your Sophy play on any instrument, Traddles?' I inquired, in
the pride of my heart.
'She knows enough of the piano to teach it to her little sisters,'
said Traddles.
'Does she sing at all?' I asked.
'Why, she sings ballads, sometimes, to freshen up the others a
little when they're out of spirits,' said Traddles. 'Nothing
scientific.'
'She doesn't sing to the guitar?' said I.
'Oh dear no!' said Traddles.
'Paint at all?'
'Not at all,' said Traddles.
I promised Traddles that he should hear Dora sing, and see some of
her flower-painting. He said he should like it very much, and we
went home arm in arm in great good humour and delight. I
encouraged him to talk about Sophy, on the way; which he did with
a loving reliance on her that I very much admired. I compared her
in my mind with Dora, with considerable inward satisfaction; but I
candidly admitted to myself that she seemed to be an excellent kind
of girl for Traddles, too.
Of course my aunt was immediately made acquainted with the
successful issue of the conference, and with all that had been said
and done in the course of it. She was happy to see me so happy,
and promised to call on Dora's aunts without loss of time. But she
took such a long walk up and down our rooms that night, while I was
writing to Agnes, that I began to think she meant to walk till
morning.
My letter to Agnes was a fervent and grateful one, narrating all
the good effects that had resulted from my following her advice.
She wrote, by return of post, to me. Her letter was hopeful,
earnest, and cheerful. She was always cheerful from that time.
I had my hands more full than ever, now. My daily journeys to
Highgate considered, Putney was a long way off; and I naturally
wanted to go there as often as I could. The proposed tea-drinkings
being quite impracticable, I compounded with Miss Lavinia for
permission to visit every Saturday afternoon, without detriment to
my privileged Sundays. So, the close of every week was a delicious
time for me; and I got through the rest of the week by looking
forward to it.
I was wonderfully relieved to find that my aunt and Dora's aunts
rubbed on, all things considered, much more smoothly than I could
have expected. My aunt made her promised visit within a few days
of the conference; and within a few more days, Dora's aunts called
upon her, in due state and form. Similar but more friendly
exchanges took place afterwards, usually at intervals of three or
four weeks. I know that my aunt distressed Dora's aunts very much,
by utterly setting at naught the dignity of fly-conveyance, and
walking out to Putney at extraordinary times, as shortly after
breakfast or just before tea; likewise by wearing her bonnet in any
manner that happened to be comfortable to her head, without at all
deferring to the prejudices of civilization on that subject. But
Dora's aunts soon agreed to regard my aunt as an eccentric and
somewhat masculine lady, with a strong understanding; and although
my aunt occasionally ruffled the feathers of Dora's aunts, by
expressing heretical opinions on various points of ceremony, she
loved me too well not to sacrifice some of her little peculiarities
to the general harmony.
The only member of our small society who positively refused to
adapt himself to circumstances, was Jip. He never saw my aunt
without immediately displaying every tooth in his head, retiring
under a chair, and growling incessantly: with now and then a
doleful howl, as if she really were too much for his feelings. All
kinds of treatment were tried with him, coaxing, scolding,
slapping, bringing him to Buckingham Street (where he instantly
dashed at the two cats, to the terror of all beholders); but he
never could prevail upon himself to bear my aunt's society. He
would sometimes think he had got the better of his objection, and
be amiable for a few minutes; and then would put up his snub nose,
and howl to that extent, that there was nothing for it but to blind
him and put him in the plate-warmer. At length, Dora regularly
muffled him in a towel and shut him up there, whenever my aunt was
reported at the door.
One thing troubled me much, after we had fallen into this quiet
train. It was, that Dora seemed by one consent to be regarded like
a pretty toy or plaything. My aunt, with whom she gradually became
familiar, always called her Little Blossom; and the pleasure of
Miss Lavinia's life was to wait upon her, curl her hair, make
ornaments for her, and treat her like a pet child. What Miss
Lavinia did, her sister did as a matter of course. It was very odd
to me; but they all seemed to treat Dora, in her degree, much as
Dora treated Jip in his.
I made up my mind to speak to Dora about this; and one day when we
were out walking (for we were licensed by Miss Lavinia, after a
while, to go out walking by ourselves), I said to her that I wished
she could get them to behave towards her differently.
'Because you know, my darling,' I remonstrated, 'you are not a
child.'
'There!' said Dora. 'Now you're going to be cross!'
'Cross, my love?'
'I am sure they're very kind to me,' said Dora, 'and I am very
happy -'
'Well! But my dearest life!' said I, 'you might be very happy, and
yet be treated rationally.'
Dora gave me a reproachful look - the prettiest look! - and then
began to sob, saying, if I didn't like her, why had I ever wanted
so much to be engaged to her? And why didn't I go away, now, if I
couldn't bear her?
What could I do, but kiss away her tears, and tell her how I doted
on her, after that!
'I am sure I am very affectionate,' said Dora; 'you oughtn't to be
cruel to me, Doady!'
'Cruel, my precious love! As if I would - or could - be cruel to
you, for the world!'
'Then don't find fault with me,' said Dora, making a rosebud of her
mouth; 'and I'll be good.'
I was charmed by her presently asking me, of her own accord, to
give her that cookery-book I had once spoken of, and to show her
how to keep accounts as I had once promised I would. I brought the
volume with me on my next visit (I got it prettily bound, first, to
make it look less dry and more inviting); and as we strolled about
the Common, I showed her an old housekeeping-book of my aunt's, and
gave her a set of tablets, and a pretty little pencil-case and box
of leads, to practise housekeeping with.
But the cookery-book made Dora's head ache, and the figures made
her cry. They wouldn't add up, she said. So she rubbed them out,
and drew little nosegays and likenesses of me and Jip, all over the
tablets.
Then I playfully tried verbal instruction in domestic matters, as
we walked about on a Saturday afternoon. Sometimes, for example,
when we passed a butcher's shop, I would say:
'Now suppose, my pet, that we were married, and you were going to
buy a shoulder of mutton for dinner, would you know how to buy it?'
My pretty little Dora's face would fall, and she would make her
mouth into a bud again, as if she would very much prefer to shut
mine with a kiss.
'Would you know how to buy it, my darling?' I would repeat,
perhaps, if I were very inflexible.
Dora would think a little, and then reply, perhaps, with great
triumph:
'Why, the butcher would know how to sell it, and what need I know?
Oh, you silly boy!'
So, when I once asked Dora, with an eye to the cookery-book, what
she would do, if we were married, and I were to say I should like
a nice Irish stew, she replied that she would tell the servant to
make it; and then clapped her little hands together across my arm,
and laughed in such a charming manner that she was more delightful
than ever.
Consequently, the principal use to which the cookery-book was
devoted, was being put down in the corner for Jip to stand upon.
But Dora was so pleased, when she had trained him to stand upon it
without offering to come off, and at the same time to hold the
pencil-case in his mouth, that I was very glad I had bought it.
And we fell back on the guitar-case, and the flower-painting, and
the songs about never leaving off dancing, Ta ra la! and were as
happy as the week was long. I occasionally wished I could venture
to hint to Miss Lavinia, that she treated the darling of my heart
a little too much like a plaything; and I sometimes awoke, as it
were, wondering to find that I had fallen into the general fault,
and treated her like a plaything too - but not often.
CHAPTER 42
MISCHIEF
I feel as if it were not for me to record, even though this
manuscript is intended for no eyes but mine, how hard I worked at
that tremendous short-hand, and all improvement appertaining to it,
in my sense of responsibility to Dora and her aunts. I will only
add, to what I have already written of my perseverance at this time
of my life, and of a patient and continuous energy which then began
to be matured within me, and which I know to be the strong part of
my character, if it have any strength at all, that there, on
looking back, I find the source of my success. I have been very
fortunate in worldly matters; many men have worked much harder, and
not succeeded half so well; but I never could have done what I have
done, without the habits of punctuality, order, and diligence,
without the determination to concentrate myself on one object at a
time, no matter how quickly its successor should come upon its
heels, which I then formed. Heaven knows I write this, in no
spirit of self-laudation. The man who reviews his own life, as I
do mine, in going on here, from page to page, had need to have been
a good man indeed, if he would be spared the sharp consciousness of
many talents neglected, many opportunities wasted, many erratic and
perverted feelings constantly at war within his breast, and
defeating him. I do not hold one natural gift, I dare say, that I
have not abused. My meaning simply is, that whatever I have tried
to do in life, I have tried with all my heart to do well; that
whatever I have devoted myself to, I have devoted myself to
completely; that in great aims and in small, I have always been
thoroughly in earnest. I have never believed it possible that any
natural or improved ability can claim immunity from the
companionship of the steady, plain, hard-working qualities, and
hope to gain its end. There is no such thing as such fulfilment on
this earth. Some happy talent, and some fortunate opportunity, may
form the two sides of the ladder on which some men mount, but the
rounds of that ladder must be made of stuff to stand wear and tear;
and there is no substitute for thorough-going, ardent, and sincere
earnestness. Never to put one hand to anything, on which I could
throw my whole self; and never to affect depreciation of my work,
whatever it was; I find, now, to have been my golden rules.
How much of the practice I have just reduced to precept, I owe to
Agnes, I will not repeat here. My narrative proceeds to Agnes,
with a thankful love.
She came on a visit of a fortnight to the Doctor's. Mr. Wickfield
was the Doctor's old friend, and the Doctor wished to talk with
him, and do him good. It had been matter of conversation with
Agnes when she was last in town, and this visit was the result.
She and her father came together. I was not much surprised to hear
from her that she had engaged to find a lodging in the
neighbourhood for Mrs. Heep, whose rheumatic complaint required
change of air, and who would be charmed to have it in such company.
Neither was I surprised when, on the very next day, Uriah, like a
dutiful son, brought his worthy mother to take possession.
'You see, Master Copperfield,' said he, as he forced himself upon
my company for a turn in the Doctor's garden, 'where a person
loves, a person is a little jealous - leastways, anxious to keep an
eye on the beloved one.'
'Of whom are you jealous, now?' said I.
'Thanks to you, Master Copperfield,' he returned, 'of no one in
particular just at present - no male person, at least.'
'Do you mean that you are jealous of a female person?'
He gave me a sidelong glance out of his sinister red eyes, and
laughed.
'Really, Master Copperfield,' he said, '- I should say Mister, but
I know you'll excuse the abit I've got into - you're so
insinuating, that you draw me like a corkscrew! Well, I don't mind
telling you,' putting his fish-like hand on mine, 'I'm not a lady's
man in general, sir, and I never was, with Mrs. Strong.'
His eyes looked green now, as they watched mine with a rascally
cunning.
'What do you mean?' said I.
'Why, though I am a lawyer, Master Copperfield,' he replied, with
a dry grin, 'I mean, just at present, what I say.'
'And what do you mean by your look?' I retorted, quietly.
'By my look? Dear me, Copperfield, that's sharp practice! What do
I mean by my look?'
'Yes,' said I. 'By your look.'
He seemed very much amused, and laughed as heartily as it was in
his nature to laugh. After some scraping of his chin with his
hand, he went on to say, with his eyes cast downward - still
scraping, very slowly:
'When I was but an umble clerk, she always looked down upon me.
She was for ever having my Agnes backwards and forwards at her
ouse, and she was for ever being a friend to you, Master
Copperfield; but I was too far beneath her, myself, to be noticed.'
'Well?' said I; 'suppose you were!'
'- And beneath him too,' pursued Uriah, very distinctly, and in a
meditative tone of voice, as he continued to scrape his chin.
'Don't you know the Doctor better,' said I, 'than to suppose him
conscious of your existence, when you were not before him?'
He directed his eyes at me in that sidelong glance again, and he
made his face very lantern-jawed, for the greater convenience of
scraping, as he answered:
'Oh dear, I am not referring to the Doctor! Oh no, poor man! I
mean Mr. Maldon!'
My heart quite died within me. All my old doubts and apprehensions
on that subject, all the Doctor's happiness and peace, all the
mingled possibilities of innocence and compromise, that I could not
unravel, I saw, in a moment, at the mercy of this fellow's
twisting.
'He never could come into the office, without ordering and shoving
me about,' said Uriah. 'One of your fine gentlemen he was! I was
very meek and umble - and I am. But I didn't like that sort of
thing - and I don't!'
He left off scraping his chin, and sucked in his cheeks until they
seemed to meet inside; keeping his sidelong glance upon me all the
while.
'She is one of your lovely women, she is,' he pursued, when he had
slowly restored his face to its natural form; 'and ready to be no
friend to such as me, I know. She's just the person as would put
my Agnes up to higher sort of game. Now, I ain't one of your
lady's men, Master Copperfield; but I've had eyes in my ed, a
pretty long time back. We umble ones have got eyes, mostly
speaking - and we look out of 'em.'
I endeavoured to appear unconscious and not disquieted, but, I saw
in his face, with poor success.
'Now, I'm not a-going to let myself be run down, Copperfield,' he
continued, raising that part of his countenance, where his red
eyebrows would have been if he had had any, with malignant triumph,
'and I shall do what I can to put a stop to this friendship. I
don't approve of it. I don't mind acknowledging to you that I've
got rather a grudging disposition, and want to keep off all
intruders. I ain't a-going, if I know it, to run the risk of being
plotted against.'
'You are always plotting, and delude yourself into the belief that
everybody else is doing the like, I think,' said I.
'Perhaps so, Master Copperfield,' he replied. 'But I've got a
motive, as my fellow-partner used to say; and I go at it tooth and
nail. I mustn't be put upon, as a numble person, too much. I
can't allow people in my way. Really they must come out of the
cart, Master Copperfield!'
'I don't understand you,' said I.
'Don't you, though?' he returned, with one of his jerks. 'I'm
astonished at that, Master Copperfield, you being usually so quick!
I'll try to be plainer, another time. - Is that Mr. Maldon
a-norseback, ringing at the gate, sir?'
'It looks like him,' I replied, as carelessly as I could.
Uriah stopped short, put his hands between his great knobs of
knees, and doubled himself up with laughter. With perfectly silent
laughter. Not a sound escaped from him. I was so repelled by his
odious behaviour, particularly by this concluding instance, that I
turned away without any ceremony; and left him doubled up in the
middle of the garden, like a scarecrow in want of support.
It was not on that evening; but, as I well remember, on the next
evening but one, which was a Sunday; that I took Agnes to see Dora.
I had arranged the visit, beforehand, with Miss Lavinia; and Agnes
was expected to tea.
I was in a flutter of pride and anxiety; pride in my dear little
betrothed, and anxiety that Agnes should like her. All the way to
Putney, Agnes being inside the stage-coach, and I outside, I
pictured Dora to myself in every one of the pretty looks I knew so
well; now making up my mind that I should like her to look exactly
as she looked at such a time, and then doubting whether I should
not prefer her looking as she looked at such another time; and
almost worrying myself into a fever about it.
I was troubled by no doubt of her being very pretty, in any case;
but it fell out that I had never seen her look so well. She was
not in the drawing-room when I presented Agnes to her little aunts,
but was shyly keeping out of the way. I knew where to look for
her, now; and sure enough I found her stopping her ears again,
behind the same dull old door.
At first she wouldn't come at all; and then she pleaded for five
minutes by my watch. When at length she put her arm through mine,
to be taken to the drawing-room, her charming little face was
flushed, and had never been so pretty. But, when we went into the
room, and it turned pale, she was ten thousand times prettier yet.
Dora was afraid of Agnes. She had told me that she knew Agnes was
'too clever'. But when she saw her looking at once so cheerful and
so earnest, and so thoughtful, and so good, she gave a faint little
cry of pleased surprise, and just put her affectionate arms round
Agnes's neck, and laid her innocent cheek against her face.
I never was so happy. I never was so pleased as when I saw those
two sit down together, side by side. As when I saw my little
darling looking up so naturally to those cordial eyes. As when I
saw the tender, beautiful regard which Agnes cast upon her.
Miss Lavinia and Miss Clarissa partook, in their way, of my joy.
It was the pleasantest tea-table in the world. Miss Clarissa
presided. I cut and handed the sweet seed-cake - the little
sisters had a bird-like fondness for picking up seeds and pecking
at sugar; Miss Lavinia looked on with benignant patronage, as if
our happy love were all her work; and we were perfectly contented
with ourselves and one another.
The gentle cheerfulness of Agnes went to all their hearts. Her
quiet interest in everything that interested Dora; her manner of
making acquaintance with Jip (who responded instantly); her
pleasant way, when Dora was ashamed to come over to her usual seat
by me; her modest grace and ease, eliciting a crowd of blushing
little marks of confidence from Dora; seemed to make our circle
quite complete.
'I am so glad,' said Dora, after tea, 'that you like me. I didn't
think you would; and I want, more than ever, to be liked, now Julia
Mills is gone.'
I have omitted to mention it, by the by. Miss Mills had sailed,
and Dora and I had gone aboard a great East Indiaman at Gravesend
to see her; and we had had preserved ginger, and guava, and other
delicacies of that sort for lunch; and we had left Miss Mills
weeping on a camp-stool on the quarter-deck, with a large new diary
under her arm, in which the original reflections awakened by the
contemplation of Ocean were to be recorded under lock and key.
Agnes said she was afraid I must have given her an unpromising
character; but Dora corrected that directly.
'Oh no!' she said, shaking her curls at me; 'it was all praise. He
thinks so much of your opinion, that I was quite afraid of it.'
'My good opinion cannot strengthen his attachment to some people
whom he knows,' said Agnes, with a smile; 'it is not worth their
having.'
'But please let me have it,' said Dora, in her coaxing way, 'if you
can!'
We made merry about Dora's wanting to be liked, and Dora said I was
a goose, and she didn't like me at any rate, and the short evening
flew away on gossamer-wings. The time was at hand when the coach
was to call for us. I was standing alone before the fire, when
Dora came stealing softly in, to give me that usual precious little
kiss before I went.
'Don't you think, if I had had her for a friend a long time ago,
Doady,' said Dora, her bright eyes shining very brightly, and her
little right hand idly busying itself with one of the buttons of my
coat, 'I might have been more clever perhaps?'
'My love!' said I, 'what nonsense!'
'Do you think it is nonsense?' returned Dora, without looking at
me. 'Are you sure it is?'
'Of course I am!'
'I have forgotten,' said Dora, still turning the button round and
round, 'what relation Agnes is to you, you dear bad boy.'
'No blood-relation,' I replied; 'but we were brought up together,
like brother and sister.'
'I wonder why you ever fell in love with me?' said Dora, beginning
on another button of my coat.
'Perhaps because I couldn't see you, and not love you, Dora!'
'Suppose you had never seen me at all,' said Dora, going to another
button.
'Suppose we had never been born!' said I, gaily.
I wondered what she was thinking about, as I glanced in admiring
silence at the little soft hand travelling up the row of buttons on
my coat, and at the clustering hair that lay against my breast, and
at the lashes of her downcast eyes, slightly rising as they
followed her idle fingers. At length her eyes were lifted up to
mine, and she stood on tiptoe to give me, more thoughtfully than
usual, that precious little kiss - once, twice, three times - and
went out of the room.
They all came back together within five minutes afterwards, and
Dora's unusual thoughtfulness was quite gone then. She was
laughingly resolved to put Jip through the whole of his
performances, before the coach came. They took some time (not so
much on account of their variety, as Jip's reluctance), and were
still unfinished when it was heard at the door. There was a
hurried but affectionate parting between Agnes and herself; and
Dora was to write to Agnes (who was not to mind her letters being
foolish, she said), and Agnes was to write to Dora; and they had a
second parting at the coach door, and a third when Dora, in spite
of the remonstrances of Miss Lavinia, would come running out once
more to remind Agnes at the coach window about writing, and to
shake her curls at me on the box.
The stage-coach was to put us down near Covent Garden, where we
were to take another stage-coach for Highgate. I was impatient for
the short walk in the interval, that Agnes might praise Dora to me.
Ah! what praise it was! How lovingly and fervently did it commend
the pretty creature I had won, with all her artless graces best
displayed, to my most gentle care! How thoughtfully remind me, yet
with no pretence of doing so, of the trust in which I held the
orphan child!
Never, never, had I loved Dora so deeply and truly, as I loved her
that night. When we had again alighted, and were walking in the
starlight along the quiet road that led to the Doctor's house, I
told Agnes it was her doing.
'When you were sitting by her,' said I, 'you seemed to be no less
her guardian angel than mine; and you seem so now, Agnes.'
'A poor angel,' she returned, 'but faithful.'
The clear tone of her voice, going straight to my heart, made it
natural to me to say:
'The cheerfulness that belongs to you, Agnes (and to no one else
that ever I have seen), is so restored, I have observed today, that
I have begun to hope you are happier at home?'
'I am happier in myself,' she said; 'I am quite cheerful and
light-hearted.'
I glanced at the serene face looking upward, and thought it was the
stars that made it seem so noble.
'There has been no change at home,' said Agnes, after a few
moments.
'No fresh reference,' said I, 'to - I wouldn't distress you, Agnes,
but I cannot help asking - to what we spoke of, when we parted
last?'
'No, none,' she answered.
'I have thought so much about it.'
'You must think less about it. Remember that I confide in simple
love and truth at last. Have no apprehensions for me, Trotwood,'
she added, after a moment; 'the step you dread my taking, I shall
never take.'
Although I think I had never really feared it, in any season of
cool reflection, it was an unspeakable relief to me to have this
assurance from her own truthful lips. I told her so, earnestly.
'And when this visit is over,' said I, - 'for we may not be alone
another time, - how long is it likely to be, my dear Agnes, before
you come to London again?'
'Probably a long time,' she replied; 'I think it will be best - for
papa's sake - to remain at home. We are not likely to meet often,
for some time to come; but I shall be a good correspondent of
Dora's, and we shall frequently hear of one another that way.'
We were now within the little courtyard of the Doctor's cottage.
It was growing late. There was a light in the window of Mrs.
Strong's chamber, and Agnes, pointing to it, bade me good night.
'Do not be troubled,' she said, giving me her hand, 'by our
misfortunes and anxieties. I can be happier in nothing than in
your happiness. If you can ever give me help, rely upon it I will
ask you for it. God bless you always!'
In her beaming smile, and in these last tones of her cheerful
voice, I seemed again to see and hear my little Dora in her
company. I stood awhile, looking through the porch at the stars,
with a heart full of love and gratitude, and then walked slowly
forth. I had engaged a bed at a decent alehouse close by, and was
going out at the gate, when, happening to turn my head, I saw a
light in the Doctor's study. A half-reproachful fancy came into my
mind, that he had been working at the Dictionary without my help.
With the view of seeing if this were so, and, in any case, of
bidding him good night, if he were yet sitting among his books, I
turned back, and going softly across the hall, and gently opening
the door, looked in.
The first person whom I saw, to my surprise, by the sober light of
the shaded lamp, was Uriah. He was standing close beside it, with
one of his skeleton hands over his mouth, and the other resting on
the Doctor's table. The Doctor sat in his study chair, covering
his face with his hands. Mr. Wickfield, sorely troubled and
distressed, was leaning forward, irresolutely touching the Doctor's
arm.
For an instant, I supposed that the Doctor was ill. I hastily
advanced a step under that impression, when I met Uriah's eye, and
saw what was the matter. I would have withdrawn, but the Doctor
made a gesture to detain me, and I remained.
'At any rate,' observed Uriah, with a writhe of his ungainly
person, 'we may keep the door shut. We needn't make it known to
ALL the town.'
Saying which, he went on his toes to the door, which I had left
open, and carefully closed it. He then came back, and took up his
former position. There was an obtrusive show of compassionate zeal
in his voice and manner, more intolerable - at least to me - than
any demeanour he could have assumed.
'I have felt it incumbent upon me, Master Copperfield,' said Uriah,
'to point out to Doctor Strong what you and me have already talked
about. You didn't exactly understand me, though?'
I gave him a look, but no other answer; and, going to my good old
master, said a few words that I meant to be words of comfort and
encouragement. He put his hand upon my shoulder, as it had been
his custom to do when I was quite a little fellow, but did not lift
his grey head.
'As you didn't understand me, Master Copperfield,' resumed Uriah in
the same officious manner, 'I may take the liberty of umbly
mentioning, being among friends, that I have called Doctor Strong's
attention to the goings-on of Mrs. Strong. It's much against the
grain with me, I assure you, Copperfield, to be concerned in
anything so unpleasant; but really, as it is, we're all mixing
ourselves up with what oughtn't to be. That was what my meaning
was, sir, when you didn't understand me.'
I wonder now, when I recall his leer, that I did not collar him,
and try to shake the breath out of his body.
'I dare say I didn't make myself very clear,' he went on, 'nor you
neither. Naturally, we was both of us inclined to give such a
subject a wide berth. Hows'ever, at last I have made up my mind to
speak plain; and I have mentioned to Doctor Strong that - did you
speak, sir?'
This was to the Doctor, who had moaned. The sound might have
touched any heart, I thought, but it had no effect upon Uriah's.
'- mentioned to Doctor Strong,' he proceeded, 'that anyone may see
that Mr. Maldon, and the lovely and agreeable lady as is Doctor
Strong's wife, are too sweet on one another. Really the time is
come (we being at present all mixing ourselves up with what
oughtn't to be), when Doctor Strong must be told that this was full
as plain to everybody as the sun, before Mr. Maldon went to India;
that Mr. Maldon made excuses to come back, for nothing else; and
that he's always here, for nothing else. When you come in, sir, I
was just putting it to my fellow-partner,' towards whom he turned,
'to say to Doctor Strong upon his word and honour, whether he'd
ever been of this opinion long ago, or not. Come, Mr. Wickfield,
sir! Would you be so good as tell us? Yes or no, sir? Come,
partner!'
'For God's sake, my dear Doctor,' said Mr. Wickfield again laying
his irresolute hand upon the Doctor's arm, 'don't attach too much
weight to any suspicions I may have entertained.'
'There!' cried Uriah, shaking his head. 'What a melancholy
confirmation: ain't it? Him! Such an old friend! Bless your
soul, when I was nothing but a clerk in his office, Copperfield,
I've seen him twenty times, if I've seen him once, quite in a
taking about it - quite put out, you know (and very proper in him
as a father; I'm sure I can't blame him), to think that Miss Agnes
was mixing herself up with what oughtn't to be.'
'My dear Strong,' said Mr. Wickfield in a tremulous voice, 'my good
friend, I needn't tell you that it has been my vice to look for
some one master motive in everybody, and to try all actions by one
narrow test. I may have fallen into such doubts as I have had,
through this mistake.'
'You have had doubts, Wickfield,' said the Doctor, without lifting
up his head. 'You have had doubts.'
'Speak up, fellow-partner,' urged Uriah.
'I had, at one time, certainly,' said Mr. Wickfield. 'I - God
forgive me - I thought YOU had.'
'No, no, no!' returned the Doctor, in a tone of most pathetic
grief.
'I thought, at one time,' said Mr. Wickfield, 'that you wished to
send Maldon abroad to effect a desirable separation.'
'No, no, no!' returned the Doctor. 'To give Annie pleasure, by
making some provision for the companion of her childhood. Nothing
else.'
'So I found,' said Mr. Wickfield. 'I couldn't doubt it, when you
told me so. But I thought - I implore you to remember the narrow
construction which has been my besetting sin - that, in a case
where there was so much disparity in point of years -'
'That's the way to put it, you see, Master Copperfield!' observed
Uriah, with fawning and offensive pity.
'- a lady of such youth, and such attractions, however real her
respect for you, might have been influenced in marrying, by worldly
considerations only. I make no allowance for innumerable feelings
and circumstances that may have all tended to good. For Heaven's
sake remember that!'
'How kind he puts it!' said Uriah, shaking his head.
'Always observing her from one point of view,' said Mr. Wickfield;
'but by all that is dear to you, my old friend, I entreat you to
consider what it was; I am forced to confess now, having no escape
-'
'No! There's no way out of it, Mr. Wickfield, sir,' observed
Uriah, 'when it's got to this.'
'- that I did,' said Mr. Wickfield, glancing helplessly and
distractedly at his partner, 'that I did doubt her, and think her
wanting in her duty to you; and that I did sometimes, if I must say
all, feel averse to Agnes being in such a familiar relation towards
her, as to see what I saw, or in my diseased theory fancied that I
saw. I never mentioned this to anyone. I never meant it to be
known to anyone. And though it is terrible to you to hear,' said
Mr. Wickfield, quite subdued, 'if you knew how terrible it is for
me to tell, you would feel compassion for me!'
The Doctor, in the perfect goodness of his nature, put out his
hand. Mr. Wickfield held it for a little while in his, with his
head bowed down.
'I am sure,' said Uriah, writhing himself into the silence like a
Conger-eel, 'that this is a subject full of unpleasantness to
everybody. But since we have got so far, I ought to take the
liberty of mentioning that Copperfield has noticed it too.'
I turned upon him, and asked him how he dared refer to me!
'Oh! it's very kind of you, Copperfield,' returned Uriah,
undulating all over, 'and we all know what an amiable character
yours is; but you know that the moment I spoke to you the other
night, you knew what I meant. You know you knew what I meant,
Copperfield. Don't deny it! You deny it with the best intentions;
but don't do it, Copperfield.'
I saw the mild eye of the good old Doctor turned upon me for a
moment, and I felt that the confession of my old misgivings and
remembrances was too plainly written in my face to be overlooked.
It was of no use raging. I could not undo that. Say what I would,
I could not unsay it.
We were silent again, and remained so, until the Doctor rose and
walked twice or thrice across the room. Presently he returned to
where his chair stood; and, leaning on the back of it, and
occasionally putting his handkerchief to his eyes, with a simple
honesty that did him more honour, to my thinking, than any disguise
he could have effected, said:
'I have been much to blame. I believe I have been very much to
blame. I have exposed one whom I hold in my heart, to trials and
aspersions - I call them aspersions, even to have been conceived in
anybody's inmost mind - of which she never, but for me, could have
been the object.'
Uriah Heep gave a kind of snivel. I think to express sympathy.
'Of which my Annie,' said the Doctor, 'never, but for me, could
have been the object. Gentlemen, I am old now, as you know; I do
not feel, tonight, that I have much to live for. But my life - my
Life - upon the truth and honour of the dear lady who has been the
subject of this conversation!'
I do not think that the best embodiment of chivalry, the
realization of the handsomest and most romantic figure ever
imagined by painter, could have said this, with a more impressive
and affecting dignity than the plain old Doctor did.
'But I am not prepared,' he went on, 'to deny - perhaps I may have
been, without knowing it, in some degree prepared to admit - that
I may have unwittingly ensnared that lady into an unhappy marriage.
I am a man quite unaccustomed to observe; and I cannot but believe
that the observation of several people, of different ages and
positions, all too plainly tending in one direction (and that so
natural), is better than mine.'
I had often admired, as I have elsewhere described, his benignant
manner towards his youthful wife; but the respectful tenderness he
manifested in every reference to her on this occasion, and the
almost reverential manner in which he put away from him the
lightest doubt of her integrity, exalted him, in my eyes, beyond
description.
'I married that lady,' said the Doctor, 'when she was extremely
young. I took her to myself when her character was scarcely
formed. So far as it was developed, it had been my happiness to
form it. I knew her father well. I knew her well. I had taught
her what I could, for the love of all her beautiful and virtuous
qualities. If I did her wrong; as I fear I did, in taking
advantage (but I never meant it) of her gratitude and her
affection; I ask pardon of that lady, in my heart!'
He walked across the room, and came back to the same place; holding
the chair with a grasp that trembled, like his subdued voice, in
its earnestness.
'I regarded myself as a refuge, for her, from the dangers and
vicissitudes of life. I persuaded myself that, unequal though we
were in years, she would live tranquilly and contentedly with me.
I did not shut out of my consideration the time when I should leave
her free, and still young and still beautiful, but with her
judgement more matured - no, gentlemen - upon my truth!'
His homely figure seemed to be lightened up by his fidelity and
generosity. Every word he uttered had a force that no other grace
could have imparted to it.
'My life with this lady has been very happy. Until tonight, I have
had uninterrupted occasion to bless the day on which I did her
great injustice.'
His voice, more and more faltering in the utterance of these words,
stopped for a few moments; then he went on:
'Once awakened from my dream - I have been a poor dreamer, in one
way or other, all my life - I see how natural it is that she should
have some regretful feeling towards her old companion and her
equal. That she does regard him with some innocent regret, with
some blameless thoughts of what might have been, but for me, is, I
fear, too true. Much that I have seen, but not noted, has come
back upon me with new meaning, during this last trying hour. But,
beyond this, gentlemen, the dear lady's name never must be coupled
with a word, a breath, of doubt.'
For a little while, his eye kindled and his voice was firm; for a
little while he was again silent. Presently, he proceeded as
before:
'It only remains for me, to bear the knowledge of the unhappiness
I have occasioned, as submissively as I can. It is she who should
reproach; not I. To save her from misconstruction, cruel
misconstruction, that even my friends have not been able to avoid,
becomes my duty. The more retired we live, the better I shall
discharge it. And when the time comes - may it come soon, if it be
His merciful pleasure! - when my death shall release her from
constraint, I shall close my eyes upon her honoured face, with
unbounded confidence and love; and leave her, with no sorrow then,
to happier and brighter days.'
I could not see him for the tears which his earnestness and
goodness, so adorned by, and so adorning, the perfect simplicity of
his manner, brought into my eyes. He had moved to the door, when
he added:
'Gentlemen, I have shown you my heart. I am sure you will respect
it. What we have said tonight is never to be said more.
Wickfield, give me an old friend's arm upstairs!'
Mr. Wickfield hastened to him. Without interchanging a word they
went slowly out of the room together, Uriah looking after them.
'Well, Master Copperfield!' said Uriah, meekly turning to me. 'The
thing hasn't took quite the turn that might have been expected, for
the old Scholar - what an excellent man! - is as blind as a
brickbat; but this family's out of the cart, I think!'
I needed but the sound of his voice to be so madly enraged as I
never was before, and never have been since.
'You villain,' said I, 'what do you mean by entrapping me into your
schemes? How dare you appeal to me just now, you false rascal, as
if we had been in discussion together?'
As we stood, front to front, I saw so plainly, in the stealthy
exultation of his face, what I already so plainly knew; I mean that
he forced his confidence upon me, expressly to make me miserable,
and had set a deliberate trap for me in this very matter; that I
couldn't bear it. The whole of his lank cheek was invitingly
before me, and I struck it with my open hand with that force that
my fingers tingled as if I had burnt them.
He caught the hand in his, and we stood in that connexion, looking
at each other. We stood so, a long time; long enough for me to see
the white marks of my fingers die out of the deep red of his cheek,
and leave it a deeper red.
'Copperfield,' he said at length, in a breathless voice, 'have you
taken leave of your senses?'
'I have taken leave of you,' said I, wresting my hand away. 'You
dog, I'll know no more of you.'
'Won't you?' said he, constrained by the pain of his cheek to put
his hand there. 'Perhaps you won't be able to help it. Isn't this
ungrateful of you, now?'
'I have shown you often enough,' said I, 'that I despise you. I
have shown you now, more plainly, that I do. Why should I dread
your doing your worst to all about you? What else do you ever do?'
He perfectly understood this allusion to the considerations that
had hitherto restrained me in my communications with him. I rather
think that neither the blow, nor the allusion, would have escaped
me, but for the assurance I had had from Agnes that night. It is
no matter.
There was another long pause. His eyes, as he looked at me, seemed
to take every shade of colour that could make eyes ugly.
'Copperfield,' he said, removing his hand from his cheek, 'you have
always gone against me. I know you always used to be against me at
Mr. Wickfield's.'
'You may think what you like,' said I, still in a towering rage.
'If it is not true, so much the worthier you.'
'And yet I always liked you, Copperfield!' he rejoined.
I deigned to make him no reply; and, taking up my hat, was going
out to bed, when he came between me and the door.
'Copperfield,' he said, 'there must be two parties to a quarrel.
I won't be one.'
'You may go to the devil!' said I.
'Don't say that!' he replied. 'I know you'll be sorry afterwards.
How can you make yourself so inferior to me, as to show such a bad
spirit? But I forgive you.'
'You forgive me!' I repeated disdainfully.
'I do, and you can't help yourself,' replied Uriah. 'To think of
your going and attacking me, that have always been a friend to you!
But there can't be a quarrel without two parties, and I won't be
one. I will be a friend to you, in spite of you. So now you know
what you've got to expect.'
The necessity of carrying on this dialogue (his part in which was
very slow; mine very quick) in a low tone, that the house might not
be disturbed at an unseasonable hour, did not improve my temper;
though my passion was cooling down. Merely telling him that I
should expect from him what I always had expected, and had never
yet been disappointed in, I opened the door upon him, as if he had
been a great walnut put there to be cracked, and went out of the
house. But he slept out of the house too, at his mother's lodging;
and before I had gone many hundred yards, came up with me.
'You know, Copperfield,' he said, in my ear (I did not turn my
head), 'you're in quite a wrong position'; which I felt to be true,
and that made me chafe the more; 'you can't make this a brave
thing, and you can't help being forgiven. I don't intend to
mention it to mother, nor to any living soul. I'm determined to
forgive you. But I do wonder that you should lift your hand
against a person that you knew to be so umble!'
I felt only less mean than he. He knew me better than I knew
myself. If he had retorted or openly exasperated me, it would have
been a relief and a justification; but he had put me on a slow
fire, on which I lay tormented half the night.
In the morning, when I came out, the early church-bell was ringing,
and he was walking up and down with his mother. He addressed me as
if nothing had happened, and I could do no less than reply. I had
struck him hard enough to give him the toothache, I suppose. At
all events his face was tied up in a black silk handkerchief,
which, with his hat perched on the top of it, was far from
improving his appearance. I heard that he went to a dentist's in
London on the Monday morning, and had a tooth out. I hope it was
a double one.
The Doctor gave out that he was not quite well; and remained alone,
for a considerable part of every day, during the remainder of the
visit. Agnes and her father had been gone a week, before we
resumed our usual work. On the day preceding its resumption, the
Doctor gave me with his own hands a folded note not sealed. It was
addressed to myself; and laid an injunction on me, in a few
affectionate words, never to refer to the subject of that evening.
I had confided it to my aunt, but to no one else. It was not a
subject I could discuss with Agnes, and Agnes certainly had not the
least suspicion of what had passed.
Neither, I felt convinced, had Mrs. Strong then. Several weeks
elapsed before I saw the least change in her. It came on slowly,
like a cloud when there is no wind. At first, she seemed to wonder
at the gentle compassion with which the Doctor spoke to her, and at
his wish that she should have her mother with her, to relieve the
dull monotony of her life. Often, when we were at work, and she
was sitting by, I would see her pausing and looking at him with
that memorable face. Afterwards, I sometimes observed her rise,
with her eyes full of tears, and go out of the room. Gradually, an
unhappy shadow fell upon her beauty, and deepened every day. Mrs.
Markleham was a regular inmate of the cottage then; but she talked
and talked, and saw nothing.
As this change stole on Annie, once like sunshine in the Doctor's
house, the Doctor became older in appearance, and more grave; but
the sweetness of his temper, the placid kindness of his manner, and
his benevolent solicitude for her, if they were capable of any
increase, were increased. I saw him once, early on the morning of
her birthday, when she came to sit in the window while we were at
work (which she had always done, but now began to do with a timid
and uncertain air that I thought very touching), take her forehead
between his hands, kiss it, and go hurriedly away, too much moved
to remain. I saw her stand where he had left her, like a statue;
and then bend down her head, and clasp her hands, and weep, I
cannot say how sorrowfully.
Sometimes, after that, I fancied that she tried to speak even to
me, in intervals when we were left alone. But she never uttered a
word. The Doctor always had some new project for her participating
in amusements away from home, with her mother; and Mrs. Markleham,
who was very fond of amusements, and very easily dissatisfied with
anything else, entered into them with great good-will, and was loud
in her commendations. But Annie, in a spiritless unhappy way, only
went whither she was led, and seemed to have no care for anything.
I did not know what to think. Neither did my aunt; who must have
walked, at various times, a hundred miles in her uncertainty. What
was strangest of all was, that the only real relief which seemed to
make its way into the secret region of this domestic unhappiness,
made its way there in the person of Mr. Dick.
What his thoughts were on the subject, or what his observation was,
I am as unable to explain, as I dare say he would have been to
assist me in the task. But, as I have recorded in the narrative of
my school days, his veneration for the Doctor was unbounded; and
there is a subtlety of perception in real attachment, even when it
is borne towards man by one of the lower animals, which leaves the
highest intellect behind. To this mind of the heart, if I may call
it so, in Mr. Dick, some bright ray of the truth shot straight.
He had proudly resumed his privilege, in many of his spare hours,
of walking up and down the garden with the Doctor; as he had been
accustomed to pace up and down The Doctor's Walk at Canterbury.
But matters were no sooner in this state, than he devoted all his
spare time (and got up earlier to make it more) to these
perambulations. If he had never been so happy as when the Doctor
read that marvellous performance, the Dictionary, to him; he was
now quite miserable unless the Doctor pulled it out of his pocket,
and began. When the Doctor and I were engaged, he now fell into
the custom of walking up and down with Mrs. Strong, and helping her
to trim her favourite flowers, or weed the beds. I dare say he
rarely spoke a dozen words in an hour: but his quiet interest, and
his wistful face, found immediate response in both their breasts;
each knew that the other liked him, and that he loved both; and he
became what no one else could be - a link between them.
When I think of him, with his impenetrably wise face, walking up
and down with the Doctor, delighted to be battered by the hard
words in the Dictionary; when I think of him carrying huge
watering-pots after Annie; kneeling down, in very paws of gloves,
at patient microscopic work among the little leaves; expressing as
no philosopher could have expressed, in everything he did, a
delicate desire to be her friend; showering sympathy, trustfulness,
and affection, out of every hole in the watering-pot; when I think
of him never wandering in that better mind of his to which
unhappiness addressed itself, never bringing the unfortunate King
Charles into the garden, never wavering in his grateful service,
never diverted from his knowledge that there was something wrong,
or from his wish to set it right- I really feel almost ashamed of
having known that he was not quite in his wits, taking account of
the utmost I have done with mine.
'Nobody but myself, Trot, knows what that man is!' my aunt would
proudly remark, when we conversed about it. 'Dick will distinguish
himself yet!'
I must refer to one other topic before I close this chapter. While
the visit at the Doctor's was still in progress, I observed that
the postman brought two or three letters every morning for Uriah
Heep, who remained at Highgate until the rest went back, it being
a leisure time; and that these were always directed in a
business-like manner by Mr. Micawber, who now assumed a round legal
hand. I was glad to infer, from these slight premises, that Mr.
Micawber was doing well; and consequently was much surprised to
receive, about this time, the following letter from his amiable
wife.
'CANTERBURY, Monday Evening.
'You will doubtless be surprised, my dear Mr. Copperfield, to
receive this communication. Still more so, by its contents. Still
more so, by the stipulation of implicit confidence which I beg to
impose. But my feelings as a wife and mother require relief; and
as I do not wish to consult my family (already obnoxious to the
feelings of Mr. Micawber), I know no one of whom I can better ask
advice than my friend and former lodger.
'You may be aware, my dear Mr. Copperfield, that between myself and
Mr. Micawber (whom I will never desert), there has always been
preserved a spirit of mutual confidence. Mr. Micawber may have
occasionally given a bill without consulting me, or he may have
misled me as to the period when that obligation would become due.
This has actually happened. But, in general, Mr. Micawber has had
no secrets from the bosom of affection - I allude to his wife - and
has invariably, on our retirement to rest, recalled the events of
the day.
'You will picture to yourself, my dear Mr. Copperfield, what the
poignancy of my feelings must be, when I inform you that Mr.
Micawber is entirely changed. He is reserved. He is secret. His
life is a mystery to the partner of his joys and sorrows - I again
allude to his wife - and if I should assure you that beyond knowing
that it is passed from morning to night at the office, I now know
less of it than I do of the man in the south, connected with whose
mouth the thoughtless children repeat an idle tale respecting cold
plum porridge, I should adopt a popular fallacy to express an
actual fact.
'But this is not all. Mr. Micawber is morose. He is severe. He
is estranged from our eldest son and daughter, he has no pride in
his twins, he looks with an eye of coldness even on the unoffending
stranger who last became a member of our circle. The pecuniary
means of meeting our expenses, kept down to the utmost farthing,
are obtained from him with great difficulty, and even under fearful
threats that he will Settle himself (the exact expression); and he
inexorably refuses to give any explanation whatever of this
distracting policy.
'This is hard to bear. This is heart-breaking. If you will advise
me, knowing my feeble powers such as they are, how you think it
will be best to exert them in a dilemma so unwonted, you will add
another friendly obligation to the many you have already rendered
me. With loves from the children, and a smile from the
happily-unconscious stranger, I remain, dear Mr. Copperfield,
Your afflicted,
'EMMA MICAWBER.'
I did not feel justified in giving a wife of Mrs. Micawber's
experience any other recommendation, than that she should try to
reclaim Mr. Micawber by patience and kindness (as I knew she would
in any case); but the letter set me thinking about him very much.
CHAPTER 43
ANOTHER RETROSPECT
Once again, let me pause upon a memorable period of my life. Let
me stand aside, to see the phantoms of those days go by me,
accompanying the shadow of myself, in dim procession.
Weeks, months, seasons, pass along. They seem little more than a
summer day and a winter evening. Now, the Common where I walk with
Dora is all in bloom, a field of bright gold; and now the unseen
heather lies in mounds and bunches underneath a covering of snow.
In a breath, the river that flows through our Sunday walks is
sparkling in the summer sun, is ruffled by the winter wind, or
thickened with drifting heaps of ice. Faster than ever river ran
towards the sea, it flashes, darkens, and rolls away.
Not a thread changes, in the house of the two little bird-like
ladies. The clock ticks over the fireplace, the weather-glass
hangs in the hall. Neither clock nor weather-glass is ever right;
but we believe in both, devoutly.
I have come legally to man's estate. I have attained the dignity
of twenty-one. But this is a sort of dignity that may be thrust
upon one. Let me think what I have achieved.
I have tamed that savage stenographic mystery. I make a
respectable income by it. I am in high repute for my
accomplishment in all pertaining to the art, and am joined with
eleven others in reporting the debates in Parliament for a Morning
Newspaper. Night after night, I record predictions that never come
to pass, professions that are never fulfilled, explanations that
are only meant to mystify. I wallow in words. Britannia, that
unfortunate female, is always before me, like a trussed fowl:
skewered through and through with office-pens, and bound hand and
foot with red tape. I am sufficiently behind the scenes to know
the worth of political life. I am quite an Infidel about it, and
shall never be converted.
My dear old Traddles has tried his hand at the same pursuit, but it
is not in Traddles's way. He is perfectly good-humoured respecting
his failure, and reminds me that he always did consider himself
slow. He has occasional employment on the same newspaper, in
getting up the facts of dry subjects, to be written about and
embellished by more fertile minds. He is called to the bar; and
with admirable industry and self-denial has scraped another hundred
pounds together, to fee a Conveyancer whose chambers he attends.
A great deal of very hot port wine was consumed at his call; and,
considering the figure, I should think the Inner Temple must have
made a profit by it.
I have come out in another way. I have taken with fear and
trembling to authorship. I wrote a little something, in secret,
and sent it to a magazine, and it was published in the magazine.
Since then, I have taken heart to write a good many trifling
pieces. Now, I am regularly paid for them. Altogether, I am well
off, when I tell my income on the fingers of my left hand, I pass
the third finger and take in the fourth to the middle joint.
We have removed, from Buckingham Street, to a pleasant little
cottage very near the one I looked at, when my enthusiasm first
came on. My aunt, however (who has sold the house at Dover, to
good advantage), is not going to remain here, but intends removing
herself to a still more tiny cottage close at hand. What does this
portend? My marriage? Yes!
Yes! I am going to be married to Dora! Miss Lavinia and Miss
Clarissa have given their consent; and if ever canary birds were in
a flutter, they are. Miss Lavinia, self-charged with the
superintendence of my darling's wardrobe, is constantly cutting out
brown-paper cuirasses, and differing in opinion from a highly
respectable young man, with a long bundle, and a yard measure under
his arm. A dressmaker, always stabbed in the breast with a needle
and thread, boards and lodges in the house; and seems to me,
eating, drinking, or sleeping, never to take her thimble off. They
make a lay-figure of my dear. They are always sending for her to
come and try something on. We can't be happy together for five
minutes in the evening, but some intrusive female knocks at the
door, and says, 'Oh, if you please, Miss Dora, would you step
upstairs!'
Miss Clarissa and my aunt roam all over London, to find out
articles of furniture for Dora and me to look at. It would be
better for them to buy the goods at once, without this ceremony of
inspection; for, when we go to see a kitchen fender and
meat-screen, Dora sees a Chinese house for Jip, with little bells
on the top, and prefers that. And it takes a long time to accustom
Jip to his new residence, after we have bought it; whenever he goes
in or out, he makes all the little bells ring, and is horribly
frightened.
Peggotty comes up to make herself useful, and falls to work
immediately. Her department appears to be, to clean everything
over and over again. She rubs everything that can be rubbed, until
it shines, like her own honest forehead, with perpetual friction.
And now it is, that I begin to see her solitary brother passing
through the dark streets at night, and looking, as he goes, among
the wandering faces. I never speak to him at such an hour. I know
too well, as his grave figure passes onward, what he seeks, and
what he dreads.
Why does Traddles look so important when he calls upon me this
afternoon in the Commons - where I still occasionally attend, for
form's sake, when I have time? The realization of my boyish
day-dreams is at hand. I am going to take out the licence.
It is a little document to do so much; and Traddles contemplates
it, as it lies upon my desk, half in admiration, half in awe.
There are the names, in the sweet old visionary connexion, David
Copperfield and Dora Spenlow; and there, in the corner, is that
Parental Institution, the Stamp Office, which is so benignantly
interested in the various transactions of human life, looking down
upon our Union; and there is the Archbishop of Canterbury invoking
a blessing on us in print, and doing it as cheap as could possibly
be expected.
Nevertheless, I am in a dream, a flustered, happy, hurried dream.
I can't believe that it is going to be; and yet I can't believe but
that everyone I pass in the street, must have some kind of
perception, that I am to be married the day after tomorrow. The
Surrogate knows me, when I go down to be sworn; and disposes of me
easily, as if there were a Masonic understanding between us.
Traddles is not at all wanted, but is in attendance as my general
backer.
'I hope the next time you come here, my dear fellow,' I say to
Traddles, 'it will be on the same errand for yourself. And I hope
it will be soon.'
'Thank you for your good wishes, my dear Copperfield,' he replies.
'I hope so too. It's a satisfaction to know that she'll wait for
me any length of time, and that she really is the dearest girl -'
'When are you to meet her at the coach?' I ask.
'At seven,' says Traddles, looking at his plain old silver watch -
the very watch he once took a wheel out of, at school, to make a
water-mill. 'That is about Miss Wickfield's time, is it not?'
'A little earlier. Her time is half past eight.'
'I assure you, my dear boy,' says Traddles, 'I am almost as pleased
as if I were going to be married myself, to think that this event
is coming to such a happy termination. And really the great
friendship and consideration of personally associating Sophy with
the joyful occasion, and inviting her to be a bridesmaid in
conjunction with Miss Wickfield, demands my warmest thanks. I am
extremely sensible of it.'
I hear him, and shake hands with him; and we talk, and walk, and
dine, and so on; but I don't believe it. Nothing is real.
Sophy arrives at the house of Dora's aunts, in due course. She has
the most agreeable of faces, - not absolutely beautiful, but
extraordinarily pleasant, - and is one of the most genial,
unaffected, frank, engaging creatures I have ever seen. Traddles
presents her to us with great pride; and rubs his hands for ten
minutes by the clock, with every individual hair upon his head
standing on tiptoe, when I congratulate him in a corner on his
choice.
I have brought Agnes from the Canterbury coach, and her cheerful
and beautiful face is among us for the second time. Agnes has a
great liking for Traddles, and it is capital to see them meet, and
to observe the glory of Traddles as he commends the dearest girl in
the world to her acquaintance.
Still I don't believe it. We have a delightful evening, and are
supremely happy; but I don't believe it yet. I can't collect
myself. I can't check off my happiness as it takes place. I feel
in a misty and unsettled kind of state; as if I had got up very
early in the morning a week or two ago, and had never been to bed
since. I can't make out when yesterday was. I seem to have been
carrying the licence about, in my pocket, many months.
Next day, too, when we all go in a flock to see the house - our
house - Dora's and mine - I am quite unable to regard myself as its
master. I seem to be there, by permission of somebody else. I
half expect the real master to come home presently, and say he is
glad to see me. Such a beautiful little house as it is, with
everything so bright and new; with the flowers on the carpets
looking as if freshly gathered, and the green leaves on the paper
as if they had just come out; with the spotless muslin curtains,
and the blushing rose-coloured furniture, and Dora's garden hat
with the blue ribbon - do I remember, now, how I loved her in such
another hat when I first knew her! - already hanging on its little
peg; the guitar-case quite at home on its heels in a corner; and
everybody tumbling over Jip's pagoda, which is much too big for the
establishment. Another happy evening, quite as unreal as all the
rest of it, and I steal into the usual room before going away.
Dora is not there. I suppose they have not done trying on yet.
Miss Lavinia peeps in, and tells me mysteriously that she will not
be long. She is rather long, notwithstanding; but by and by I hear
a rustling at the door, and someone taps.
I say, 'Come in!' but someone taps again.
I go to the door, wondering who it is; there, I meet a pair of
bright eyes, and a blushing face; they are Dora's eyes and face,
and Miss Lavinia has dressed her in tomorrow's dress, bonnet and
all, for me to see. I take my little wife to my heart; and Miss
Lavinia gives a little scream because I tumble the bonnet, and Dora
laughs and cries at once, because I am so pleased; and I believe it
less than ever.
'Do you think it pretty, Doady?' says Dora.
Pretty! I should rather think I did.
'And are you sure you like me very much?' says Dora.
The topic is fraught with such danger to the bonnet, that Miss
Lavinia gives another little scream, and begs me to understand that
Dora is only to be looked at, and on no account to be touched. So
Dora stands in a delightful state of confusion for a minute or two,
to be admired; and then takes off her bonnet - looking so natural
without it! - and runs away with it in her hand; and comes dancing
down again in her own familiar dress, and asks Jip if I have got a
beautiful little wife, and whether he'll forgive her for being
married, and kneels down to make him stand upon the cookery-book,
for the last time in her single life.
I go home, more incredulous than ever, to a lodging that I have
hard by; and get up very early in the morning, to ride to the
Highgate road and fetch my aunt.
I have never seen my aunt in such state. She is dressed in
lavender-coloured silk, and has a white bonnet on, and is amazing.
Janet has dressed her, and is there to look at me. Peggotty is
ready to go to church, intending to behold the ceremony from the
gallery. Mr. Dick, who is to give my darling to me at the altar,
has had his hair curled. Traddles, whom I have taken up by
appointment at the turnpike, presents a dazzling combination of
cream colour and light blue; and both he and Mr. Dick have a
general effect about them of being all gloves.
No doubt I see this, because I know it is so; but I am astray, and
seem to see nothing. Nor do I believe anything whatever. Still,
as we drive along in an open carriage, this fairy marriage is real
enough to fill me with a sort of wondering pity for the unfortunate
people who have no part in it, but are sweeping out the shops, and
going to their daily occupations.
My aunt sits with my hand in hers all the way. When we stop a
little way short of the church, to put down Peggotty, whom we have
brought on the box, she gives it a squeeze, and me a kiss.
'God bless you, Trot! My own boy never could be dearer. I think
of poor dear Baby this morning.'
'So do I. And of all I owe to you, dear aunt.'
'Tut, child!' says my aunt; and gives her hand in overflowing
cordiality to Traddles, who then gives his to Mr. Dick, who then
gives his to me, who then gives mine to Traddles, and then we come
to the church door.
The church is calm enough, I am sure; but it might be a steam-power
loom in full action, for any sedative effect it has on me. I am
too far gone for that.
The rest is all a more or less incoherent dream.
A dream of their coming in with Dora; of the pew-opener arranging
us, like a drill-sergeant, before the altar rails; of my wondering,
even then, why pew-openers must always be the most disagreeable
females procurable, and whether there is any religious dread of a
disastrous infection of good-humour which renders it indispensable
to set those vessels of vinegar upon the road to Heaven.
Of the clergyman and clerk appearing; of a few boatmen and some
other people strolling in; of an ancient mariner behind me,
strongly flavouring the church with rum; of the service beginning
in a deep voice, and our all being very attentive.
Of Miss Lavinia, who acts as a semi-auxiliary bridesmaid, being the
first to cry, and of her doing homage (as I take it) to the memory
of Pidger, in sobs; of Miss Clarissa applying a smelling-bottle; of
Agnes taking care of Dora; of my aunt endeavouring to represent
herself as a model of sternness, with tears rolling down her face;
of little Dora trembling very much, and making her responses in
faint whispers.
Of our kneeling down together, side by side; of Dora's trembling
less and less, but always clasping Agnes by the hand; of the
service being got through, quietly and gravely; of our all looking
at each other in an April state of smiles and tears, when it is
over; of my young wife being hysterical in the vestry, and crying
for her poor papa, her dear papa.
Of her soon cheering up again, and our signing the register all
round. Of my going into the gallery for Peggotty to bring her to
sign it; of Peggotty's hugging me in a corner, and telling me she
saw my own dear mother married; of its being over, and our going
away.
Of my walking so proudly and lovingly down the aisle with my sweet
wife upon my arm, through a mist of half-seen people, pulpits,
monuments, pews, fonts, organs, and church windows, in which there
flutter faint airs of association with my childish church at home,
so long ago.
Of their whispering, as we pass, what a youthful couple we are, and
what a pretty little wife she is. Of our all being so merry and
talkative in the carriage going back. Of Sophy telling us that
when she saw Traddles (whom I had entrusted with the licence) asked
for it, she almost fainted, having been convinced that he would
contrive to lose it, or to have his pocket picked. Of Agnes
laughing gaily; and of Dora being so fond of Agnes that she will
not be separated from her, but still keeps her hand.
Of there being a breakfast, with abundance of things, pretty and
substantial, to eat and drink, whereof I partake, as I should do in
any other dream, without the least perception of their flavour;
eating and drinking, as I may say, nothing but love and marriage,
and no more believing in the viands than in anything else.
Of my making a speech in the same dreamy fashion, without having an
idea of what I want to say, beyond such as may be comprehended in
the full conviction that I haven't said it. Of our being very
sociably and simply happy (always in a dream though); and of Jip's
having wedding cake, and its not agreeing with him afterwards.
Of the pair of hired post-horses being ready, and of Dora's going
away to change her dress. Of my aunt and Miss Clarissa remaining
with us; and our walking in the garden; and my aunt, who has made
quite a speech at breakfast touching Dora's aunts, being mightily
amused with herself, but a little proud of it too.
Of Dora's being ready, and of Miss Lavinia's hovering about her,
loth to lose the pretty toy that has given her so much pleasant
occupation. Of Dora's making a long series of surprised
discoveries that she has forgotten all sorts of little things; and
of everybody's running everywhere to fetch them.
Of their all closing about Dora, when at last she begins to say
good-bye, looking, with their bright colours and ribbons, like a
bed of flowers. Of my darling being almost smothered among the
flowers, and coming out, laughing and crying both together, to my
jealous arms.
Of my wanting to carry Jip (who is to go along with us), and Dora's
saying no, that she must carry him, or else he'll think she don't
like him any more, now she is married, and will break his heart.
Of our going, arm in arm, and Dora stopping and looking back, and
saying, 'If I have ever been cross or ungrateful to anybody, don't
remember it!' and bursting into tears.
Of her waving her little hand, and our going away once more. Of
her once more stopping, and looking back, and hurrying to Agnes,
and giving Agnes, above all the others, her last kisses and
farewells.
We drive away together, and I awake from the dream. I believe it
at last. It is my dear, dear, little wife beside me, whom I love
so well!
'Are you happy now, you foolish boy?' says Dora, 'and sure you
don't repent?'
I have stood aside to see the phantoms of those days go by me.
They are gone, and I resume the journey of my story.
CHAPTER 44
OUR HOUSEKEEPING
It was a strange condition of things, the honeymoon being over, and
the bridesmaids gone home, when I found myself sitting down in my
own small house with Dora; quite thrown out of employment, as I may
say, in respect of the delicious old occupation of making love.
It seemed such an extraordinary thing to have Dora always there.
It was so unaccountable not to be obliged to go out to see her, not
to have any occasion to be tormenting myself about her, not to have
to write to her, not to be scheming and devising opportunities of
being alone with her. Sometimes of an evening, when I looked up
from my writing, and saw her seated opposite, I would lean back in
my chair, and think how queer it was that there we were, alone
together as a matter of course - nobody's business any more - all
the romance of our engagement put away upon a shelf, to rust - no
one to please but one another - one another to please, for life.
When there was a debate, and I was kept out very late, it seemed so
strange to me, as I was walking home, to think that Dora was at
home! It was such a wonderful thing, at first, to have her coming
softly down to talk to me as I ate my supper. It was such a
stupendous thing to know for certain that she put her hair in
papers. It was altogether such an astonishing event to see her do
it!
I doubt whether two young birds could have known less about keeping
house, than I and my pretty Dora did. We had a servant, of course.
She kept house for us. I have still a latent belief that she must
have been Mrs. Crupp's daughter in disguise, we had such an awful
time of it with Mary Anne.
Her name was Paragon. Her nature was represented to us, when we
engaged her, as being feebly expressed in her name. She had a
written character, as large as a proclamation; and, according to
this document, could do everything of a domestic nature that ever
I heard of, and a great many things that I never did hear of. She
was a woman in the prime of life; of a severe countenance; and
subject (particularly in the arms) to a sort of perpetual measles
or fiery rash. She had a cousin in the Life-Guards, with such long
legs that he looked like the afternoon shadow of somebody else.
His shell-jacket was as much too little for him as he was too big
for the premises. He made the cottage smaller than it need have
been, by being so very much out of proportion to it. Besides
which, the walls were not thick, and, whenever he passed the
evening at our house, we always knew of it by hearing one continual
growl in the kitchen.
Our treasure was warranted sober and honest. I am therefore
willing to believe that she was in a fit when we found her under
the boiler; and that the deficient tea-spoons were attributable to
the dustman.
But she preyed upon our minds dreadfully. We felt our
inexperience, and were unable to help ourselves. We should have
been at her mercy, if she had had any; but she was a remorseless
woman, and had none. She was the cause of our first little
quarrel.
'My dearest life,' I said one day to Dora, 'do you think Mary Anne
has any idea of time?'
'Why, Doady?' inquired Dora, looking up, innocently, from her
drawing.
'My love, because it's five, and we were to have dined at four.'
Dora glanced wistfully at the clock, and hinted that she thought it
was too fast.
'On the contrary, my love,' said I, referring to my watch, 'it's a
few minutes too slow.'
My little wife came and sat upon my knee, to coax me to be quiet,
and drew a line with her pencil down the middle of my nose; but I
couldn't dine off that, though it was very agreeable.
'Don't you think, my dear,' said I, 'it would be better for you to
remonstrate with Mary Anne?'
'Oh no, please! I couldn't, Doady!' said Dora.
'Why not, my love?' I gently asked.
'Oh, because I am such a little goose,' said Dora, 'and she knows
I am!'
I thought this sentiment so incompatible with the establishment of
any system of check on Mary Anne, that I frowned a little.
'Oh, what ugly wrinkles in my bad boy's forehead!' said Dora, and
still being on my knee, she traced them with her pencil; putting it
to her rosy lips to make it mark blacker, and working at my
forehead with a quaint little mockery of being industrious, that
quite delighted me in spite of myself.
'There's a good child,' said Dora, 'it makes its face so much
prettier to laugh.'
'But, my love,' said I.
'No, no! please!' cried Dora, with a kiss, 'don't be a naughty Blue
Beard! Don't be serious!'
'my precious wife,' said I, 'we must be serious sometimes. Come!
Sit down on this chair, close beside me! Give me the pencil!
There! Now let us talk sensibly. You know, dear'; what a little
hand it was to hold, and what a tiny wedding-ring it was to see!
'You know, my love, it is not exactly comfortable to have to go out
without one's dinner. Now, is it?'
'N-n-no!' replied Dora, faintly.
'My love, how you tremble!'
'Because I KNOW you're going to scold me,' exclaimed Dora, in a
piteous voice.
'My sweet, I am only going to reason.'
'Oh, but reasoning is worse than scolding!' exclaimed Dora, in
despair. 'I didn't marry to be reasoned with. If you meant to
reason with such a poor little thing as I am, you ought to have
told me so, you cruel boy!'
I tried to pacify Dora, but she turned away her face, and shook her
curls from side to side, and said, 'You cruel, cruel boy!' so many
times, that I really did not exactly know what to do: so I took a
few turns up and down the room in my uncertainty, and came back
again.
'Dora, my darling!'
'No, I am not your darling. Because you must be sorry that you
married me, or else you wouldn't reason with me!' returned Dora.
I felt so injured by the inconsequential nature of this charge,
that it gave me courage to be grave.
'Now, my own Dora,' said I, 'you are very childish, and are talking
nonsense. You must remember, I am sure, that I was obliged to go
out yesterday when dinner was half over; and that, the day before,
I was made quite unwell by being obliged to eat underdone veal in
a hurry; today, I don't dine at all - and I am afraid to say how
long we waited for breakfast - and then the water didn't boil. I
don't mean to reproach you, my dear, but this is not comfortable.'
'Oh, you cruel, cruel boy, to say I am a disagreeable wife!' cried
Dora.
'Now, my dear Dora, you must know that I never said that!'
'You said, I wasn't comfortable!' cried Dora.
'I said the housekeeping was not comfortable!'
'It's exactly the same thing!' cried Dora. And she evidently
thought so, for she wept most grievously.
I took another turn across the room, full of love for my pretty
wife, and distracted by self-accusatory inclinations to knock my
head against the door. I sat down again, and said:
'I am not blaming you, Dora. We have both a great deal to learn.
I am only trying to show you, my dear, that you must - you really
must' (I was resolved not to give this up) - 'accustom yourself to
look after Mary Anne. Likewise to act a little for yourself, and
me.'
'I wonder, I do, at your making such ungrateful speeches,' sobbed
Dora. 'When you know that the other day, when you said you would
like a little bit of fish, I went out myself, miles and miles, and
ordered it, to surprise you.'
'And it was very kind of you, my own darling,' said I. 'I felt it
so much that I wouldn't on any account have even mentioned that you
bought a Salmon - which was too much for two. Or that it cost one
pound six - which was more than we can afford.'
'You enjoyed it very much,' sobbed Dora. 'And you said I was a
Mouse.'
'And I'll say so again, my love,' I returned, 'a thousand times!'
But I had wounded Dora's soft little heart, and she was not to be
comforted. She was so pathetic in her sobbing and bewailing, that
I felt as if I had said I don't know what to hurt her. I was
obliged to hurry away; I was kept out late; and I felt all night
such pangs of remorse as made me miserable. I had the conscience
of an assassin, and was haunted by a vague sense of enormous
wickedness.
It was two or three hours past midnight when I got home. I found
my aunt, in our house, sitting up for me.
'Is anything the matter, aunt?' said I, alarmed.
'Nothing, Trot,' she replied. 'Sit down, sit down. Little Blossom
has been rather out of spirits, and I have been keeping her
company. That's all.'
I leaned my head upon my hand; and felt more sorry and downcast, as
I sat looking at the fire, than I could have supposed possible so
soon after the fulfilment of my brightest hopes. As I sat
thinking, I happened to meet my aunt's eyes, which were resting on
my face. There was an anxious expression in them, but it cleared
directly.
'I assure you, aunt,' said I, 'I have been quite unhappy myself all
night, to think of Dora's being so. But I had no other intention
than to speak to her tenderly and lovingly about our home-affairs.'
MY aunt nodded encouragement.
'You must have patience, Trot,' said she.
'Of course. Heaven knows I don't mean to be unreasonable, aunt!'
'No, no,' said my aunt. 'But Little Blossom is a very tender
little blossom, and the wind must be gentle with her.'
I thanked my good aunt, in my heart, for her tenderness towards my
wife; and I was sure that she knew I did.
'Don't you think, aunt,' said I, after some further contemplation
of the fire, 'that you could advise and counsel Dora a little, for
our mutual advantage, now and then?'
'Trot,' returned my aunt, with some emotion, 'no! Don't ask me
such a thing.'
Her tone was so very earnest that I raised my eyes in surprise.
'I look back on my life, child,' said my aunt, 'and I think of some
who are in their graves, with whom I might have been on kinder
terms. If I judged harshly of other people's mistakes in marriage,
it may have been because I had bitter reason to judge harshly of my
own. Let that pass. I have been a grumpy, frumpy, wayward sort of
a woman, a good many years. I am still, and I always shall be.
But you and I have done one another some good, Trot, - at all
events, you have done me good, my dear; and division must not come
between us, at this time of day.'
'Division between us!' cried I.
'Child, child!' said my aunt, smoothing her dress, 'how soon it
might come between us, or how unhappy I might make our Little
Blossom, if I meddled in anything, a prophet couldn't say. I want
our pet to like me, and be as gay as a butterfly. Remember your
own home, in that second marriage; and never do both me and her the
injury you have hinted at!'
I comprehended, at once, that my aunt was right; and I comprehended
the full extent of her generous feeling towards my dear wife.
'These are early days, Trot,' she pursued, 'and Rome was not built
in a day, nor in a year. You have chosen freely for yourself'; a
cloud passed over her face for a moment, I thought; 'and you have
chosen a very pretty and a very affectionate creature. It will be
your duty, and it will be your pleasure too - of course I know
that; I am not delivering a lecture - to estimate her (as you chose
her) by the qualities she has, and not by the qualities she may not
have. The latter you must develop in her, if you can. And if you
cannot, child,' here my aunt rubbed her nose, 'you must just
accustom yourself to do without 'em. But remember, my dear, your
future is between you two. No one can assist you; you are to work
it out for yourselves. This is marriage, Trot; and Heaven bless
you both, in it, for a pair of babes in the wood as you are!'
My aunt said this in a sprightly way, and gave me a kiss to ratify
the blessing.
'Now,' said she, 'light my little lantern, and see me into my
bandbox by the garden path'; for there was a communication between
our cottages in that direction. 'Give Betsey Trotwood's love to
Blossom, when you come back; and whatever you do, Trot, never dream
of setting Betsey up as a scarecrow, for if I ever saw her in the
glass, she's quite grim enough and gaunt enough in her private
capacity!'
With this my aunt tied her head up in a handkerchief, with which
she was accustomed to make a bundle of it on such occasions; and I
escorted her home. As she stood in her garden, holding up her
little lantern to light me back, I thought her observation of me
had an anxious air again; but I was too much occupied in pondering
on what she had said, and too much impressed - for the first time,
in reality - by the conviction that Dora and I had indeed to work
out our future for ourselves, and that no one could assist us, to
take much notice of it.
Dora came stealing down in her little slippers, to meet me, now
that I was alone; and cried upon my shoulder, and said I had been
hard-hearted and she had been naughty; and I said much the same
thing in effect, I believe; and we made it up, and agreed that our
first little difference was to be our last, and that we were never
to have another if we lived a hundred years.
The next domestic trial we went through, was the Ordeal of
Servants. Mary Anne's cousin deserted into our coal-hole, and was
brought out, to our great amazement, by a piquet of his companions
in arms, who took him away handcuffed in a procession that covered
our front-garden with ignominy. This nerved me to get rid of Mary
Anne, who went so mildly, on receipt of wages, that I was
surprised, until I found out about the tea-spoons, and also about
the little sums she had borrowed in my name of the tradespeople
without authority. After an interval of Mrs. Kidgerbury - the
oldest inhabitant of Kentish Town, I believe, who went out charing,
but was too feeble to execute her conceptions of that art - we
found another treasure, who was one of the most amiable of women,
but who generally made a point of falling either up or down the
kitchen stairs with the tray, and almost plunged into the parlour,
as into a bath, with the tea-things. The ravages committed by this
unfortunate, rendering her dismissal necessary, she was succeeded
(with intervals of Mrs. Kidgerbury) by a long line of Incapables;
terminating in a young person of genteel appearance, who went to
Greenwich Fair in Dora's bonnet. After whom I remember nothing but
an average equality of failure.
Everybody we had anything to do with seemed to cheat us. Our
appearance in a shop was a signal for the damaged goods to be
brought out immediately. If we bought a lobster, it was full of
water. All our meat turned out to be tough, and there was hardly
any crust to our loaves. In search of the principle on which
joints ought to be roasted, to be roasted enough, and not too much,
I myself referred to the Cookery Book, and found it there
established as the allowance of a quarter of an hour to every
pound, and say a quarter over. But the principle always failed us
by some curious fatality, and we never could hit any medium between
redness and cinders.
I had reason to believe that in accomplishing these failures we
incurred a far greater expense than if we had achieved a series of
triumphs. It appeared to me, on looking over the tradesmen's
books, as if we might have kept the basement storey paved with
butter, such was the extensive scale of our consumption of that
article. I don't know whether the Excise returns of the period may
have exhibited any increase in the demand for pepper; but if our
performances did not affect the market, I should say several
families must have left off using it. And the most wonderful fact
of all was, that we never had anything in the house.
As to the washerwoman pawning the clothes, and coming in a state of
penitent intoxication to apologize, I suppose that might have
happened several times to anybody. Also the chimney on fire, the
parish engine, and perjury on the part of the Beadle. But I
apprehend that we were personally fortunate in engaging a servant
with a taste for cordials, who swelled our running account for
porter at the public-house by such inexplicable items as 'quartern
rum shrub (Mrs. C.)'; 'Half-quartern gin and cloves (Mrs. C.)';
'Glass rum and peppermint (Mrs. C.)' - the parentheses always
referring to Dora, who was supposed, it appeared on explanation, to
have imbibed the whole of these refreshments.
One of our first feats in the housekeeping way was a little dinner
to Traddles. I met him in town, and asked him to walk out with me
that afternoon. He readily consenting, I wrote to Dora, saying I
would bring him home. It was pleasant weather, and on the road we
made my domestic happiness the theme of conversation. Traddles was
very full of it; and said, that, picturing himself with such a
home, and Sophy waiting and preparing for him, he could think of
nothing wanting to complete his bliss.
I could not have wished for a prettier little wife at the opposite
end of the table, but I certainly could have wished, when we sat
down, for a little more room. I did not know how it was, but
though there were only two of us, we were at once always cramped
for room, and yet had always room enough to lose everything in. I
suspect it may have been because nothing had a place of its own,
except Jip's pagoda, which invariably blocked up the main
thoroughfare. On the present occasion, Traddles was so hemmed in
by the pagoda and the guitar-case, and Dora's flower-painting, and
my writing-table, that I had serious doubts of the possibility of
his using his knife and fork; but he protested, with his own
good-humour, 'Oceans of room, Copperfield! I assure you, Oceans!'
There was another thing I could have wished, namely, that Jip had
never been encouraged to walk about the tablecloth during dinner.
I began to think there was something disorderly in his being there
at all, even if he had not been in the habit of putting his foot in
the salt or the melted butter. On this occasion he seemed to think
he was introduced expressly to keep Traddles at bay; and he barked
at my old friend, and made short runs at his plate, with such
undaunted pertinacity, that he may be said to have engrossed the
conversation.
However, as I knew how tender-hearted my dear Dora was, and how
sensitive she would be to any slight upon her favourite, I hinted
no objection. For similar reasons I made no allusion to the
skirmishing plates upon the floor; or to the disreputable
appearance of the castors, which were all at sixes and sevens, and
looked drunk; or to the further blockade of Traddles by wandering
vegetable dishes and jugs. I could not help wondering in my own
mind, as I contemplated the boiled leg of mutton before me,
previous to carving it, how it came to pass that our joints of meat
were of such extraordinary shapes - and whether our butcher
contracted for all the deformed sheep that came into the world; but
I kept my reflections to myself.
'My love,' said I to Dora, 'what have you got in that dish?'
I could not imagine why Dora had been making tempting little faces
at me, as if she wanted to kiss me.
'Oysters, dear,' said Dora, timidly.
'Was that YOUR thought?' said I, delighted.
'Ye-yes, Doady,' said Dora.
'There never was a happier one!' I exclaimed, laying down the
carving-knife and fork. 'There is nothing Traddles likes so much!'
'Ye-yes, Doady,' said Dora, 'and so I bought a beautiful little
barrel of them, and the man said they were very good. But I - I am
afraid there's something the matter with them. They don't seem
right.' Here Dora shook her head, and diamonds twinkled in her
eyes.
'They are only opened in both shells,' said I. 'Take the top one
off, my love.'
'But it won't come off!' said Dora, trying very hard, and looking
very much distressed.
'Do you know, Copperfield,' said Traddles, cheerfully examining the
dish, 'I think it is in consequence - they are capital oysters, but
I think it is in consequence - of their never having been opened.'
They never had been opened; and we had no oyster-knives - and
couldn't have used them if we had; so we looked at the oysters and
ate the mutton. At least we ate as much of it as was done, and
made up with capers. If I had permitted him, I am satisfied that
Traddles would have made a perfect savage of himself, and eaten a
plateful of raw meat, to express enjoyment of the repast; but I
would hear of no such immolation on the altar of friendship, and we
had a course of bacon instead; there happening, by good fortune, to
be cold bacon in the larder.
My poor little wife was in such affliction when she thought I
should be annoyed, and in such a state of joy when she found I was
not, that the discomfiture I had subdued, very soon vanished, and
we passed a happy evening; Dora sitting with her arm on my chair
while Traddles and I discussed a glass of wine, and taking every
opportunity of whispering in my ear that it was so good of me not
to be a cruel, cross old boy. By and by she made tea for us; which
it was so pretty to see her do, as if she was busying herself with
a set of doll's tea-things, that I was not particular about the
quality of the beverage. Then Traddles and I played a game or two
at cribbage; and Dora singing to the guitar the while, it seemed to
me as if our courtship and marriage were a tender dream of mine,
and the night when I first listened to her voice were not yet over.
When Traddles went away, and I came back into the parlour from
seeing him out, my wife planted her chair close to mine, and sat
down by my side. 'I am very sorry,' she said. 'Will you try to
teach me, Doady?'
'I must teach myself first, Dora,' said I. 'I am as bad as you,
love.'
'Ah! But you can learn,' she returned; 'and you are a clever,
clever man!'
'Nonsense, mouse!' said I.
'I wish,' resumed my wife, after a long silence, 'that I could have
gone down into the country for a whole year, and lived with Agnes!'
Her hands were clasped upon my shoulder, and her chin rested on
them, and her blue eyes looked quietly into mine.
'Why so?' I asked.
'I think she might have improved me, and I think I might have
learned from her,' said Dora.
'All in good time, my love. Agnes has had her father to take care
of for these many years, you should remember. Even when she was
quite a child, she was the Agnes whom we know,' said I.
'Will you call me a name I want you to call me?' inquired Dora,
without moving.
'What is it?' I asked with a smile.
'It's a stupid name,' she said, shaking her curls for a moment.
'Child-wife.'
I laughingly asked my child-wife what her fancy was in desiring to
be so called. She answered without moving, otherwise than as the
arm I twined about her may have brought her blue eyes nearer to me:
'I don't mean, you silly fellow, that you should use the name
instead of Dora. I only mean that you should think of me that way.
When you are going to be angry with me, say to yourself, "it's only
my child-wife!" When I am very disappointing, say, "I knew, a long
time ago, that she would make but a child-wife!" When you miss what
I should like to be, and I think can never be, say, "still my
foolish child-wife loves me!" For indeed I do.'
I had not been serious with her; having no idea until now, that she
was serious herself. But her affectionate nature was so happy in
what I now said to her with my whole heart, that her face became a
laughing one before her glittering eyes were dry. She was soon my
child-wife indeed; sitting down on the floor outside the Chinese
House, ringing all the little bells one after another, to punish
Jip for his recent bad behaviour; while Jip lay blinking in the
doorway with his head out, even too lazy to be teased.
This appeal of Dora's made a strong impression on me. I look back
on the time I write of; I invoke the innocent figure that I dearly
loved, to come out from the mists and shadows of the past, and turn
its gentle head towards me once again; and I can still declare that
this one little speech was constantly in my memory. I may not have
used it to the best account; I was young and inexperienced; but I
never turned a deaf ear to its artless pleading.
Dora told me, shortly afterwards, that she was going to be a
wonderful housekeeper. Accordingly, she polished the tablets,
pointed the pencil, bought an immense account-book, carefully
stitched up with a needle and thread all the leaves of the Cookery
Book which Jip had torn, and made quite a desperate little attempt
'to be good', as she called it. But the figures had the old
obstinate propensity - they WOULD NOT add up. When she had entered
two or three laborious items in the account-book, Jip would walk
over the page, wagging his tail, and smear them all out. Her own
little right-hand middle finger got steeped to the very bone in
ink; and I think that was the only decided result obtained.
Sometimes, of an evening, when I was at home and at work - for I
wrote a good deal now, and was beginning in a small way to be known
as a writer - I would lay down my pen, and watch my child-wife
trying to be good. First of all, she would bring out the immense
account-book, and lay it down upon the table, with a deep sigh.
Then she would open it at the place where Jip had made it illegible
last night, and call Jip up, to look at his misdeeds. This would
occasion a diversion in Jip's favour, and some inking of his nose,
perhaps, as a penalty. Then she would tell Jip to lie down on the
table instantly, 'like a lion' - which was one of his tricks,
though I cannot say the likeness was striking - and, if he were in
an obedient humour, he would obey. Then she would take up a pen,
and begin to write, and find a hair in it. Then she would take up
another pen, and begin to write, and find that it spluttered. Then
she would take up another pen, and begin to write, and say in a low
voice, 'Oh, it's a talking pen, and will disturb Doady!' And then
she would give it up as a bad job, and put the account-book away,
after pretending to crush the lion with it.
Or, if she were in a very sedate and serious state of mind, she
would sit down with the tablets, and a little basket of bills and
other documents, which looked more like curl-papers than anything
else, and endeavour to get some result out of them. After severely
comparing one with another, and making entries on the tablets, and
blotting them out, and counting all the fingers of her left hand
over and over again, backwards and forwards, she would be so vexed
and discouraged, and would look so unhappy, that it gave me pain to
see her bright face clouded - and for me! - and I would go softly
to her, and say:
'What's the matter, Dora?'
Dora would look up hopelessly, and reply, 'They won't come right.
They make my head ache so. And they won't do anything I want!'
Then I would say, 'Now let us try together. Let me show you,
Dora.'
Then I would commence a practical demonstration, to which Dora
would pay profound attention, perhaps for five minutes; when she
would begin to be dreadfully tired, and would lighten the subject
by curling my hair, or trying the effect of my face with my
shirt-collar turned down. If I tacitly checked this playfulness,
and persisted, she would look so scared and disconsolate, as she
became more and more bewildered, that the remembrance of her
natural gaiety when I first strayed into her path, and of her being
my child-wife, would come reproachfully upon me; and I would lay
the pencil down, and call for the guitar.
I had a great deal of work to do, and had many anxieties, but the
same considerations made me keep them to myself. I am far from
sure, now, that it was right to do this, but I did it for my
child-wife's sake. I search my breast, and I commit its secrets,
if I know them, without any reservation to this paper. The old
unhappy loss or want of something had, I am conscious, some place
in my heart; but not to the embitterment of my life. When I walked
alone in the fine weather, and thought of the summer days when all
the air had been filled with my boyish enchantment, I did miss
something of the realization of my dreams; but I thought it was a
softened glory of the Past, which nothing could have thrown upon
the present time. I did feel, sometimes, for a little while, that
I could have wished my wife had been my counsellor; had had more
character and purpose, to sustain me and improve me by; had been
endowed with power to fill up the void which somewhere seemed to be
about me; but I felt as if this were an unearthly consummation of
my happiness, that never had been meant to be, and never could have
been.
I was a boyish husband as to years. I had known the softening
influence of no other sorrows or experiences than those recorded in
these leaves. If I did any wrong, as I may have done much, I did
it in mistaken love, and in my want of wisdom. I write the exact
truth. It would avail me nothing to extenuate it now.
Thus it was that I took upon myself the toils and cares of our
life, and had no partner in them. We lived much as before, in
reference to our scrambling household arrangements; but I had got
used to those, and Dora I was pleased to see was seldom vexed now.
She was bright and cheerful in the old childish way, loved me
dearly, and was happy with her old trifles.
When the debates were heavy - I mean as to length, not quality, for
in the last respect they were not often otherwise - and I went home
late, Dora would never rest when she heard my footsteps, but would
always come downstairs to meet me. When my evenings were
unoccupied by the pursuit for which I had qualified myself with so
much pains, and I was engaged in writing at home, she would sit
quietly near me, however late the hour, and be so mute, that I
would often think she had dropped asleep. But generally, when I
raised my head, I saw her blue eyes looking at me with the quiet
attention of which I have already spoken.
'Oh, what a weary boy!' said Dora one night, when I met her eyes as
I was shutting up my desk.
'What a weary girl!' said I. 'That's more to the purpose. You
must go to bed another time, my love. It's far too late for you.'
'No, don't send me to bed!' pleaded Dora, coming to my side.
'Pray, don't do that!'
'Dora!' To my amazement she was sobbing on my neck. 'Not well, my
dear! not happy!'
'Yes! quite well, and very happy!' said Dora. 'But say you'll let
me stop, and see you write.'
'Why, what a sight for such bright eyes at midnight!' I replied.
'Are they bright, though?' returned Dora, laughing. 'I'm so glad
they're bright.'
'Little Vanity!' said I.
But it was not vanity; it was only harmless delight in my
admiration. I knew that very well, before she told me so.
'If you think them pretty, say I may always stop, and see you
write!' said Dora. 'Do you think them pretty?'
'Very pretty.'
'Then let me always stop and see you write.'
'I am afraid that won't improve their brightness, Dora.'
'Yes, it will! Because, you clever boy, you'll not forget me then,
while you are full of silent fancies. Will you mind it, if I say
something very, very silly? - more than usual?' inquired Dora,
peeping over my shoulder into my face.
'What wonderful thing is that?' said I.
'Please let me hold the pens,' said Dora. 'I want to have
something to do with all those many hours when you are so
industrious. May I hold the pens?'
The remembrance of her pretty joy when I said yes, brings tears
into my eyes. The next time I sat down to write, and regularly
afterwards, she sat in her old place, with a spare bundle of pens
at her side. Her triumph in this connexion with my work, and her
delight when I wanted a new pen - which I very often feigned to do
- suggested to me a new way of pleasing my child-wife. I
occasionally made a pretence of wanting a page or two of manuscript
copied. Then Dora was in her glory. The preparations she made for
this great work, the aprons she put on, the bibs she borrowed from
the kitchen to keep off the ink, the time she took, the innumerable
stoppages she made to have a laugh with Jip as if he understood it
all, her conviction that her work was incomplete unless she signed
her name at the end, and the way in which she would bring it to me,
like a school-copy, and then, when I praised it, clasp me round the
neck, are touching recollections to me, simple as they might appear
to other men.
She took possession of the keys soon after this, and went jingling
about the house with the whole bunch in a little basket, tied to
her slender waist. I seldom found that the places to which they
belonged were locked, or that they were of any use except as a
plaything for Jip - but Dora was pleased, and that pleased me. She
was quite satisfied that a good deal was effected by this
make-belief of housekeeping; and was as merry as if we had been
keeping a baby-house, for a joke.
So we went on. Dora was hardly less affectionate to my aunt than
to me, and often told her of the time when she was afraid she was
'a cross old thing'. I never saw my aunt unbend more
systematically to anyone. She courted Jip, though Jip never
responded; listened, day after day, to the guitar, though I am
afraid she had no taste for music; never attacked the Incapables,
though the temptation must have been severe; went wonderful
distances on foot to purchase, as surprises, any trifles that she
found out Dora wanted; and never came in by the garden, and missed
her from the room, but she would call out, at the foot of the
stairs, in a voice that sounded cheerfully all over the house:
'Where's Little Blossom?'
CHAPTER 45
Mr. Dick fulfils my aunt's Predictions
It was some time now, since I had left the Doctor. Living in his
neighbourhood, I saw him frequently; and we all went to his house
on two or three occasions to dinner or tea. The Old Soldier was in
permanent quarters under the Doctor's roof. She was exactly the
same as ever, and the same immortal butterflies hovered over her
cap.
Like some other mothers, whom I have known in the course of my
life, Mrs. Markleham was far more fond of pleasure than her
daughter was. She required a great deal of amusement, and, like a
deep old soldier, pretended, in consulting her own inclinations, to
be devoting herself to her child. The Doctor's desire that Annie
should be entertained, was therefore particularly acceptable to
this excellent parent; who expressed unqualified approval of his
discretion.
I have no doubt, indeed, that she probed the Doctor's wound without
knowing it. Meaning nothing but a certain matured frivolity and
selfishness, not always inseparable from full-blown years, I think
she confirmed him in his fear that he was a constraint upon his
young wife, and that there was no congeniality of feeling between
them, by so strongly commending his design of lightening the load
of her life.
'My dear soul,' she said to him one day when I was present, 'you
know there is no doubt it would be a little pokey for Annie to be
always shut up here.'
The Doctor nodded his benevolent head. 'When she comes to her
mother's age,' said Mrs. Markleham, with a flourish of her fan,
'then it'll be another thing. You might put ME into a Jail, with
genteel society and a rubber, and I should never care to come out.
But I am not Annie, you know; and Annie is not her mother.'
'Surely, surely,' said the Doctor.
'You are the best of creatures - no, I beg your pardon!' for the
Doctor made a gesture of deprecation, 'I must say before your face,
as I always say behind your back, you are the best of creatures;
but of course you don't - now do you? - enter into the same
pursuits and fancies as Annie?'
'No,' said the Doctor, in a sorrowful tone.
'No, of course not,' retorted the Old Soldier. 'Take your
Dictionary, for example. What a useful work a Dictionary is! What
a necessary work! The meanings of words! Without Doctor Johnson,
or somebody of that sort, we might have been at this present moment
calling an Italian-iron, a bedstead. But we can't expect a
Dictionary - especially when it's making - to interest Annie, can
we?'
The Doctor shook his head.
'And that's why I so much approve,' said Mrs. Markleham, tapping
him on the shoulder with her shut-up fan, 'of your thoughtfulness.
It shows that you don't expect, as many elderly people do expect,
old heads on young shoulders. You have studied Annie's character,
and you understand it. That's what I find so charming!'
Even the calm and patient face of Doctor Strong expressed some
little sense of pain, I thought, under the infliction of these
compliments.
'Therefore, my dear Doctor,' said the Old Soldier, giving him
several affectionate taps, 'you may command me, at all times and
seasons. Now, do understand that I am entirely at your service.
I am ready to go with Annie to operas, concerts, exhibitions, all
kinds of places; and you shall never find that I am tired. Duty,
my dear Doctor, before every consideration in the universe!'
She was as good as her word. She was one of those people who can
bear a great deal of pleasure, and she never flinched in her
perseverance in the cause. She seldom got hold of the newspaper
(which she settled herself down in the softest chair in the house
to read through an eye-glass, every day, for two hours), but she
found out something that she was certain Annie would like to see.
It was in vain for Annie to protest that she was weary of such
things. Her mother's remonstrance always was, 'Now, my dear Annie,
I am sure you know better; and I must tell you, my love, that you
are not making a proper return for the kindness of Doctor Strong.'
This was usually said in the Doctor's presence, and appeared to me
to constitute Annie's principal inducement for withdrawing her
objections when she made any. But in general she resigned herself
to her mother, and went where the Old Soldier would.
It rarely happened now that Mr. Maldon accompanied them. Sometimes
my aunt and Dora were invited to do so, and accepted the
invitation. Sometimes Dora only was asked. The time had been,
when I should have been uneasy in her going; but reflection on what
had passed that former night in the Doctor's study, had made a
change in my mistrust. I believed that the Doctor was right, and
I had no worse suspicions.
My aunt rubbed her nose sometimes when she happened to be alone
with me, and said she couldn't make it out; she wished they were
happier; she didn't think our military friend (so she always called
the Old Soldier) mended the matter at all. My aunt further
expressed her opinion, 'that if our military friend would cut off
those butterflies, and give 'em to the chimney-sweepers for
May-day, it would look like the beginning of something sensible on
her part.'
But her abiding reliance was on Mr. Dick. That man had evidently
an idea in his head, she said; and if he could only once pen it up
into a corner, which was his great difficulty, he would distinguish
himself in some extraordinary manner.
Unconscious of this prediction, Mr. Dick continued to occupy
precisely the same ground in reference to the Doctor and to Mrs.
Strong. He seemed neither to advance nor to recede. He appeared
to have settled into his original foundation, like a building; and
I must confess that my faith in his ever Moving, was not much
greater than if he had been a building.
But one night, when I had been married some months, Mr. Dick put
his head into the parlour, where I was writing alone (Dora having
gone out with my aunt to take tea with the two little birds), and
said, with a significant cough:
'You couldn't speak to me without inconveniencing yourself,
Trotwood, I am afraid?'
'Certainly, Mr. Dick,' said I; 'come in!'
'Trotwood,' said Mr. Dick, laying his finger on the side of his
nose, after he had shaken hands with me. 'Before I sit down, I
wish to make an observation. You know your aunt?'
'A little,' I replied.
'She is the most wonderful woman in the world, sir!'
After the delivery of this communication, which he shot out of
himself as if he were loaded with it, Mr. Dick sat down with
greater gravity than usual, and looked at me.
'Now, boy,' said Mr. Dick, 'I am going to put a question to you.'
'As many as you please,' said I.
'What do you consider me, sir?' asked Mr. Dick, folding his arms.
'A dear old friend,' said I.
'Thank you, Trotwood,' returned Mr. Dick, laughing, and reaching
across in high glee to shake hands with me. 'But I mean, boy,'
resuming his gravity, 'what do you consider me in this respect?'
touching his forehead.
I was puzzled how to answer, but he helped me with a word.
'Weak?' said Mr. Dick.
'Well,' I replied, dubiously. 'Rather so.'
'Exactly!' cried Mr. Dick, who seemed quite enchanted by my reply.
'That is, Trotwood, when they took some of the trouble out of
you-know-who's head, and put it you know where, there was a -' Mr.
Dick made his two hands revolve very fast about each other a great
number of times, and then brought them into collision, and rolled
them over and over one another, to express confusion. 'There was
that sort of thing done to me somehow. Eh?'
I nodded at him, and he nodded back again.
'In short, boy,' said Mr. Dick, dropping his voice to a whisper, 'I
am simple.'
I would have qualified that conclusion, but he stopped me.
'Yes, I am! She pretends I am not. She won't hear of it; but I
am. I know I am. If she hadn't stood my friend, sir, I should
have been shut up, to lead a dismal life these many years. But
I'll provide for her! I never spend the copying money. I put it
in a box. I have made a will. I'll leave it all to her. She
shall be rich - noble!'
Mr. Dick took out his pocket-handkerchief, and wiped his eyes. He
then folded it up with great care, pressed it smooth between his
two hands, put it in his pocket, and seemed to put my aunt away
with it.
'Now you are a scholar, Trotwood,' said Mr. Dick. 'You are a fine
scholar. You know what a learned man, what a great man, the Doctor
is. You know what honour he has always done me. Not proud in his
wisdom. Humble, humble - condescending even to poor Dick, who is
simple and knows nothing. I have sent his name up, on a scrap of
paper, to the kite, along the string, when it has been in the sky,
among the larks. The kite has been glad to receive it, sir, and
the sky has been brighter with it.'
I delighted him by saying, most heartily, that the Doctor was
deserving of our best respect and highest esteem.
'And his beautiful wife is a star,' said Mr. Dick. 'A shining
star. I have seen her shine, sir. But,' bringing his chair
nearer, and laying one hand upon my knee - 'clouds, sir - clouds.'
I answered the solicitude which his face expressed, by conveying
the same expression into my own, and shaking my head.
'What clouds?' said Mr. Dick.
He looked so wistfully into my face, and was so anxious to
understand, that I took great pains to answer him slowly and
distinctly, as I might have entered on an explanation to a child.
'There is some unfortunate division between them,' I replied.
'Some unhappy cause of separation. A secret. It may be
inseparable from the discrepancy in their years. It may have grown
up out of almost nothing.'
Mr. Dick, who had told off every sentence with a thoughtful nod,
paused when I had done, and sat considering, with his eyes upon my
face, and his hand upon my knee.
'Doctor not angry with her, Trotwood?' he said, after some time.
'No. Devoted to her.'
'Then, I have got it, boy!' said Mr. Dick.
The sudden exultation with which he slapped me on the knee, and
leaned back in his chair, with his eyebrows lifted up as high as he
could possibly lift them, made me think him farther out of his wits
than ever. He became as suddenly grave again, and leaning forward
as before, said - first respectfully taking out his
pocket-handkerchief, as if it really did represent my aunt:
'Most wonderful woman in the world, Trotwood. Why has she done
nothing to set things right?'
'Too delicate and difficult a subject for such interference,' I
replied.
'Fine scholar,' said Mr. Dick, touching me with his finger. 'Why
has HE done nothing?'
'For the same reason,' I returned.
'Then, I have got it, boy!' said Mr. Dick. And he stood up before
me, more exultingly than before, nodding his head, and striking
himself repeatedly upon the breast, until one might have supposed
that he had nearly nodded and struck all the breath out of his
body.
'A poor fellow with a craze, sir,' said Mr. Dick, 'a simpleton, a
weak-minded person - present company, you know!' striking himself
again, 'may do what wonderful people may not do. I'll bring them
together, boy. I'll try. They'll not blame me. They'll not
object to me. They'll not mind what I do, if it's wrong. I'm only
Mr. Dick. And who minds Dick? Dick's nobody! Whoo!' He blew a
slight, contemptuous breath, as if he blew himself away.
It was fortunate he had proceeded so far with his mystery, for we
heard the coach stop at the little garden gate, which brought my
aunt and Dora home.
'Not a word, boy!' he pursued in a whisper; 'leave all the blame
with Dick - simple Dick - mad Dick. I have been thinking, sir, for
some time, that I was getting it, and now I have got it. After
what you have said to me, I am sure I have got it. All right!' Not
another word did Mr. Dick utter on the subject; but he made a very
telegraph of himself for the next half-hour (to the great
disturbance of my aunt's mind), to enjoin inviolable secrecy on me.
To my surprise, I heard no more about it for some two or three
weeks, though I was sufficiently interested in the result of his
endeavours; descrying a strange gleam of good sense - I say nothing
of good feeling, for that he always exhibited - in the conclusion
to which he had come. At last I began to believe, that, in the
flighty and unsettled state of his mind, he had either forgotten
his intention or abandoned it.
One fair evening, when Dora was not inclined to go out, my aunt and
I strolled up to the Doctor's cottage. It was autumn, when there
were no debates to vex the evening air; and I remember how the
leaves smelt like our garden at Blunderstone as we trod them under
foot, and how the old, unhappy feeling, seemed to go by, on the
sighing wind.
It was twilight when we reached the cottage. Mrs. Strong was just
coming out of the garden, where Mr. Dick yet lingered, busy with
his knife, helping the gardener to point some stakes. The Doctor
was engaged with someone in his study; but the visitor would be
gone directly, Mrs. Strong said, and begged us to remain and see
him. We went into the drawing-room with her, and sat down by the
darkening window. There was never any ceremony about the visits of
such old friends and neighbours as we were.
We had not sat here many minutes, when Mrs. Markleham, who usually
contrived to be in a fuss about something, came bustling in, with
her newspaper in her hand, and said, out of breath, 'My goodness
gracious, Annie, why didn't you tell me there was someone in the
Study!'
'My dear mama,' she quietly returned, 'how could I know that you
desired the information?'
'Desired the information!' said Mrs. Markleham, sinking on the
sofa. 'I never had such a turn in all my life!'
'Have you been to the Study, then, mama?' asked Annie.
'BEEN to the Study, my dear!' she returned emphatically. 'Indeed
I have! I came upon the amiable creature - if you'll imagine my
feelings, Miss Trotwood and David - in the act of making his will.'
Her daughter looked round from the window quickly.
'In the act, my dear Annie,' repeated Mrs. Markleham, spreading the
newspaper on her lap like a table-cloth, and patting her hands upon
it, 'of making his last Will and Testament. The foresight and
affection of the dear! I must tell you how it was. I really must,
in justice to the darling - for he is nothing less! - tell you how
it was. Perhaps you know, Miss Trotwood, that there is never a
candle lighted in this house, until one's eyes are literally
falling out of one's head with being stretched to read the paper.
And that there is not a chair in this house, in which a paper can
be what I call, read, except one in the Study. This took me to the
Study, where I saw a light. I opened the door. In company with
the dear Doctor were two professional people, evidently connected
with the law, and they were all three standing at the table: the
darling Doctor pen in hand. "This simply expresses then," said the
Doctor - Annie, my love, attend to the very words - "this simply
expresses then, gentlemen, the confidence I have in Mrs. Strong,
and gives her all unconditionally?" One of the professional people
replied, "And gives her all unconditionally." Upon that, with the
natural feelings of a mother, I said, "Good God, I beg your
pardon!" fell over the door-step, and came away through the little
back passage where the pantry is.'
Mrs. Strong opened the window, and went out into the verandah,
where she stood leaning against a pillar.
'But now isn't it, Miss Trotwood, isn't it, David, invigorating,'
said Mrs. Markleham, mechanically following her with her eyes, 'to
find a man at Doctor Strong's time of life, with the strength of
mind to do this kind of thing? It only shows how right I was. I
said to Annie, when Doctor Strong paid a very flattering visit to
myself, and made her the subject of a declaration and an offer, I
said, "My dear, there is no doubt whatever, in my opinion, with
reference to a suitable provision for you, that Doctor Strong will
do more than he binds himself to do."'
Here the bell rang, and we heard the sound of the visitors' feet as
they went out.
'It's all over, no doubt,' said the Old Soldier, after listening;
'the dear creature has signed, sealed, and delivered, and his
mind's at rest. Well it may be! What a mind! Annie, my love, I
am going to the Study with my paper, for I am a poor creature
without news. Miss Trotwood, David, pray come and see the Doctor.'
I was conscious of Mr. Dick's standing in the shadow of the room,
shutting up his knife, when we accompanied her to the Study; and of
my aunt's rubbing her nose violently, by the way, as a mild vent
for her intolerance of our military friend; but who got first into
the Study, or how Mrs. Markleham settled herself in a moment in her
easy-chair, or how my aunt and I came to be left together near the
door (unless her eyes were quicker than mine, and she held me
back), I have forgotten, if I ever knew. But this I know, - that
we saw the Doctor before he saw us, sitting at his table, among the
folio volumes in which he delighted, resting his head calmly on his
hand. That, in the same moment, we saw Mrs. Strong glide in, pale
and trembling. That Mr. Dick supported her on his arm. That he
laid his other hand upon the Doctor's arm, causing him to look up
with an abstracted air. That, as the Doctor moved his head, his
wife dropped down on one knee at his feet, and, with her hands
imploringly lifted, fixed upon his face the memorable look I had
never forgotten. That at this sight Mrs. Markleham dropped the
newspaper, and stared more like a figure-head intended for a ship
to be called The Astonishment, than anything else I can think of.
The gentleness of the Doctor's manner and surprise, the dignity
that mingled with the supplicating attitude of his wife, the
amiable concern of Mr. Dick, and the earnestness with which my aunt
said to herself, 'That man mad!' (triumphantly expressive of the
misery from which she had saved him) - I see and hear, rather than
remember, as I write about it.
'Doctor!' said Mr. Dick. 'What is it that's amiss? Look here!'
'Annie!' cried the Doctor. 'Not at my feet, my dear!'
'Yes!' she said. 'I beg and pray that no one will leave the room!
Oh, my husband and father, break this long silence. Let us both
know what it is that has come between us!'
Mrs. Markleham, by this time recovering the power of speech, and
seeming to swell with family pride and motherly indignation, here
exclaimed, 'Annie, get up immediately, and don't disgrace everybody
belonging to you by humbling yourself like that, unless you wish to
see me go out of my mind on the spot!'
'Mama!' returned Annie. 'Waste no words on me, for my appeal is to
my husband, and even you are nothing here.'
'Nothing!' exclaimed Mrs. Markleham. 'Me, nothing! The child has
taken leave of her senses. Please to get me a glass of water!'
I was too attentive to the Doctor and his wife, to give any heed to
this request; and it made no impression on anybody else; so Mrs.
Markleham panted, stared, and fanned herself.
'Annie!' said the Doctor, tenderly taking her in his hands. 'My
dear! If any unavoidable change has come, in the sequence of time,
upon our married life, you are not to blame. The fault is mine,
and only mine. There is no change in my affection, admiration, and
respect. I wish to make you happy. I truly love and honour you.
Rise, Annie, pray!'
But she did not rise. After looking at him for a little while, she
sank down closer to him, laid her arm across his knee, and dropping
her head upon it, said:
'If I have any friend here, who can speak one word for me, or for
my husband in this matter; if I have any friend here, who can give
a voice to any suspicion that my heart has sometimes whispered to
me; if I have any friend here, who honours my husband, or has ever
cared for me, and has anything within his knowledge, no matter what
it is, that may help to mediate between us, I implore that friend
to speak!'
There was a profound silence. After a few moments of painful
hesitation, I broke the silence.
'Mrs. Strong,' I said, 'there is something within my knowledge,
which I have been earnestly entreated by Doctor Strong to conceal,
and have concealed until tonight. But, I believe the time has come
when it would be mistaken faith and delicacy to conceal it any
longer, and when your appeal absolves me from his injunction.'
She turned her face towards me for a moment, and I knew that I was
right. I could not have resisted its entreaty, if the assurance
that it gave me had been less convincing.
'Our future peace,' she said, 'may be in your hands. I trust it
confidently to your not suppressing anything. I know beforehand
that nothing you, or anyone, can tell me, will show my husband's
noble heart in any other light than one. Howsoever it may seem to
you to touch me, disregard that. I will speak for myself, before
him, and before God afterwards.'
Thus earnestly besought, I made no reference to the Doctor for his
permission, but, without any other compromise of the truth than a
little softening of the coarseness of Uriah Heep, related plainly
what had passed in that same room that night. The staring of Mrs.
Markleham during the whole narration, and the shrill, sharp
interjections with which she occasionally interrupted it, defy
description.
When I had finished, Annie remained, for some few moments, silent,
with her head bent down, as I have described. Then, she took the
Doctor's hand (he was sitting in the same attitude as when we had
entered the room), and pressed it to her breast, and kissed it.
Mr. Dick softly raised her; and she stood, when she began to speak,
leaning on him, and looking down upon her husband - from whom she
never turned her eyes.
'All that has ever been in my mind, since I was married,' she said
in a low, submissive, tender voice, 'I will lay bare before you.
I could not live and have one reservation, knowing what I know
now.'
'Nay, Annie,' said the Doctor, mildly, 'I have never doubted you,
my child. There is no need; indeed there is no need, my dear.'
'There is great need,' she answered, in the same way, 'that I
should open my whole heart before the soul of generosity and truth,
whom, year by year, and day by day, I have loved and venerated more
and more, as Heaven knows!'
'Really,' interrupted Mrs. Markleham, 'if I have any discretion at
all -'
('Which you haven't, you Marplot,' observed my aunt, in an
indignant whisper.)
- 'I must be permitted to observe that it cannot be requisite to
enter into these details.'
'No one but my husband can judge of that, mama,' said Annie without
removing her eyes from his face, 'and he will hear me. If I say
anything to give you pain, mama, forgive me. I have borne pain
first, often and long, myself.'
'Upon my word!' gasped Mrs. Markleham.
'When I was very young,' said Annie, 'quite a little child, my
first associations with knowledge of any kind were inseparable from
a patient friend and teacher - the friend of my dead father - who
was always dear to me. I can remember nothing that I know, without
remembering him. He stored my mind with its first treasures, and
stamped his character upon them all. They never could have been,
I think, as good as they have been to me, if I had taken them from
any other hands.'
'Makes her mother nothing!' exclaimed Mrs. Markleham.
'Not so mama,' said Annie; 'but I make him what he was. I must do
that. As I grew up, he occupied the same place still. I was proud
of his interest: deeply, fondly, gratefully attached to him. I
looked up to him, I can hardly describe how - as a father, as a
guide, as one whose praise was different from all other praise, as
one in whom I could have trusted and confided, if I had doubted all
the world. You know, mama, how young and inexperienced I was, when
you presented him before me, of a sudden, as a lover.'
'I have mentioned the fact, fifty times at least, to everybody
here!' said Mrs. Markleham.
('Then hold your tongue, for the Lord's sake, and don't mention it
any more!' muttered my aunt.)
'It was so great a change: so great a loss, I felt it, at first,'
said Annie, still preserving the same look and tone, 'that I was
agitated and distressed. I was but a girl; and when so great a
change came in the character in which I had so long looked up to
him, I think I was sorry. But nothing could have made him what he
used to be again; and I was proud that he should think me so
worthy, and we were married.'
'- At Saint Alphage, Canterbury,' observed Mrs. Markleham.
('Confound the woman!' said my aunt, 'she WON'T be quiet!')
'I never thought,' proceeded Annie, with a heightened colour, 'of
any worldly gain that my husband would bring to me. My young heart
had no room in its homage for any such poor reference. Mama,
forgive me when I say that it was you who first presented to my
mind the thought that anyone could wrong me, and wrong him, by such
a cruel suspicion.'
'Me!' cried Mrs. Markleham.
('Ah! You, to be sure!' observed my aunt, 'and you can't fan it
away, my military friend!')
'It was the first unhappiness of my new life,' said Annie. 'It was
the first occasion of every unhappy moment I have known. These
moments have been more, of late, than I can count; but not - my
generous husband! - not for the reason you suppose; for in my heart
there is not a thought, a recollection, or a hope, that any power
could separate from you!'
She raised her eyes, and clasped her hands, and looked as beautiful
and true, I thought, as any Spirit. The Doctor looked on her,
henceforth, as steadfastly as she on him.
'Mama is blameless,' she went on, 'of having ever urged you for
herself, and she is blameless in intention every way, I am sure, -
but when I saw how many importunate claims were pressed upon you in
my name; how you were traded on in my name; how generous you were,
and how Mr. Wickfield, who had your welfare very much at heart,
resented it; the first sense of my exposure to the mean suspicion
that my tenderness was bought - and sold to you, of all men on
earth - fell upon me like unmerited disgrace, in which I forced you
to participate. I cannot tell you what it was - mama cannot
imagine what it was - to have this dread and trouble always on my
mind, yet know in my own soul that on my marriage-day I crowned the
love and honour of my life!'
'A specimen of the thanks one gets,' cried Mrs. Markleham, in
tears, 'for taking care of one's family! I wish I was a Turk!'
('I wish you were, with all my heart - and in your native country!'
said my aunt.)
'It was at that time that mama was most solicitous about my Cousin
Maldon. I had liked him': she spoke softly, but without any
hesitation: 'very much. We had been little lovers once. If
circumstances had not happened otherwise, I might have come to
persuade myself that I really loved him, and might have married
him, and been most wretched. There can be no disparity in marriage
like unsuitability of mind and purpose.'
I pondered on those words, even while I was studiously attending to
what followed, as if they had some particular interest, or some
strange application that I could not divine. 'There can be no
disparity in marriage like unsuitability of mind and purpose' -'no
disparity in marriage like unsuitability of mind and purpose.'
'There is nothing,' said Annie, 'that we have in common. I have
long found that there is nothing. If I were thankful to my husband
for no more, instead of for so much, I should be thankful to him
for having saved me from the first mistaken impulse of my
undisciplined heart.'
She stood quite still, before the Doctor, and spoke with an
earnestness that thrilled me. Yet her voice was just as quiet as
before.
'When he was waiting to be the object of your munificence, so
freely bestowed for my sake, and when I was unhappy in the
mercenary shape I was made to wear, I thought it would have become
him better to have worked his own way on. I thought that if I had
been he, I would have tried to do it, at the cost of almost any
hardship. But I thought no worse of him, until the night of his
departure for India. That night I knew he had a false and
thankless heart. I saw a double meaning, then, in Mr. Wickfield's
scrutiny of me. I perceived, for the first time, the dark
suspicion that shadowed my life.'
'Suspicion, Annie!' said the Doctor. 'No, no, no!'
'In your mind there was none, I know, my husband!' she returned.
'And when I came to you, that night, to lay down all my load of
shame and grief, and knew that I had to tell that, underneath your
roof, one of my own kindred, to whom you had been a benefactor, for
the love of me, had spoken to me words that should have found no
utterance, even if I had been the weak and mercenary wretch he
thought me - my mind revolted from the taint the very tale
conveyed. It died upon my lips, and from that hour till now has
never passed them.'
Mrs. Markleham, with a short groan, leaned back in her easy-chair;
and retired behind her fan, as if she were never coming out any
more.
'I have never, but in your presence, interchanged a word with him
from that time; then, only when it has been necessary for the
avoidance of this explanation. Years have passed since he knew,
from me, what his situation here was. The kindnesses you have
secretly done for his advancement, and then disclosed to me, for my
surprise and pleasure, have been, you will believe, but
aggravations of the unhappiness and burden of my secret.'
She sunk down gently at the Doctor's feet, though he did his utmost
to prevent her; and said, looking up, tearfully, into his face:
'Do not speak to me yet! Let me say a little more! Right or
wrong, if this were to be done again, I think I should do just the
same. You never can know what it was to be devoted to you, with
those old associations; to find that anyone could be so hard as to
suppose that the truth of my heart was bartered away, and to be
surrounded by appearances confirming that belief. I was very
young, and had no adviser. Between mama and me, in all relating to
you, there was a wide division. If I shrunk into myself, hiding
the disrespect I had undergone, it was because I honoured you so
much, and so much wished that you should honour me!'
'Annie, my pure heart!' said the Doctor, 'my dear girl!'
'A little more! a very few words more! I used to think there were
so many whom you might have married, who would not have brought
such charge and trouble on you, and who would have made your home
a worthier home. I used to be afraid that I had better have
remained your pupil, and almost your child. I used to fear that I
was so unsuited to your learning and wisdom. If all this made me
shrink within myself (as indeed it did), when I had that to tell,
it was still because I honoured you so much, and hoped that you
might one day honour me.'
'That day has shone this long time, Annie,' said the Doctor, and
can have but one long night, my dear.'
'Another word! I afterwards meant - steadfastly meant, and
purposed to myself - to bear the whole weight of knowing the
unworthiness of one to whom you had been so good. And now a last
word, dearest and best of friends! The cause of the late change in
you, which I have seen with so much pain and sorrow, and have
sometimes referred to my old apprehension - at other times to
lingering suppositions nearer to the truth - has been made clear
tonight; and by an accident I have also come to know, tonight, the
full measure of your noble trust in me, even under that mistake.
I do not hope that any love and duty I may render in return, will
ever make me worthy of your priceless confidence; but with all this
knowledge fresh upon me, I can lift my eyes to this dear face,
revered as a father's, loved as a husband's, sacred to me in my
childhood as a friend's, and solemnly declare that in my lightest
thought I have never wronged you; never wavered in the love and the
fidelity I owe you!'
She had her arms around the Doctor's neck, and he leant his head
down over her, mingling his grey hair with her dark brown tresses.
'Oh, hold me to your heart, my husband! Never cast me out! Do not
think or speak of disparity between us, for there is none, except
in all my many imperfections. Every succeeding year I have known
this better, as I have esteemed you more and more. Oh, take me to
your heart, my husband, for my love was founded on a rock, and it
endures!'
In the silence that ensued, my aunt walked gravely up to Mr. Dick,
without at all hurrying herself, and gave him a hug and a sounding
kiss. And it was very fortunate, with a view to his credit, that
she did so; for I am confident that I detected him at that moment
in the act of making preparations to stand on one leg, as an
appropriate expression of delight.
'You are a very remarkable man, Dick!' said my aunt, with an air of
unqualified approbation; 'and never pretend to be anything else,
for I know better!'
With that, my aunt pulled him by the sleeve, and nodded to me; and
we three stole quietly out of the room, and came away.
'That's a settler for our military friend, at any rate,' said my
aunt, on the way home. 'I should sleep the better for that, if
there was nothing else to be glad of!'
'She was quite overcome, I am afraid,' said Mr. Dick, with great
commiseration.
'What! Did you ever see a crocodile overcome?' inquired my aunt.
'I don't think I ever saw a crocodile,' returned Mr. Dick, mildly.
'There never would have been anything the matter, if it hadn't been
for that old Animal,' said my aunt, with strong emphasis. 'It's
very much to be wished that some mothers would leave their
daughters alone after marriage, and not be so violently
affectionate. They seem to think the only return that can be made
them for bringing an unfortunate young woman into the world - God
bless my soul, as if she asked to be brought, or wanted to come! -
is full liberty to worry her out of it again. What are you
thinking of, Trot?'
I was thinking of all that had been said. My mind was still
running on some of the expressions used. 'There can be no
disparity in marriage like unsuitability of mind and purpose.'
'The first mistaken impulse of an undisciplined heart.' 'My love
was founded on a rock.' But we were at home; and the trodden
leaves were lying under-foot, and the autumn wind was blowing.
CHAPTER 46
Intelligence
I must have been married, if I may trust to my imperfect memory for
dates, about a year or so, when one evening, as I was returning
from a solitary walk, thinking of the book I was then writing - for
my success had steadily increased with my steady application, and
I was engaged at that time upon my first work of fiction - I came
past Mrs. Steerforth's house. I had often passed it before, during
my residence in that neighbourhood, though never when I could
choose another road. Howbeit, it did sometimes happen that it was
not easy to find another, without making a long circuit; and so I
had passed that way, upon the whole, pretty often.
I had never done more than glance at the house, as I went by with
a quickened step. It had been uniformly gloomy and dull. None of
the best rooms abutted on the road; and the narrow, heavily-framed
old-fashioned windows, never cheerful under any circumstances,
looked very dismal, close shut, and with their blinds always drawn
down. There was a covered way across a little paved court, to an
entrance that was never used; and there was one round staircase
window, at odds with all the rest, and the only one unshaded by a
blind, which had the same unoccupied blank look. I do not remember
that I ever saw a light in all the house. If I had been a casual
passer-by, I should have probably supposed that some childless
person lay dead in it. If I had happily possessed no knowledge of
the place, and had seen it often in that changeless state, I should
have pleased my fancy with many ingenious speculations, I dare say.
As it was, I thought as little of it as I might. But my mind could
not go by it and leave it, as my body did; and it usually awakened
a long train of meditations. Coming before me, on this particular
evening that I mention, mingled with the childish recollections and
later fancies, the ghosts of half-formed hopes, the broken shadows
of disappointments dimly seen and understood, the blending of
experience and imagination, incidental to the occupation with which
my thoughts had been busy, it was more than commonly suggestive.
I fell into a brown study as I walked on, and a voice at my side
made me start.
It was a woman's voice, too. I was not long in recollecting Mrs.
Steerforth's little parlour-maid, who had formerly worn blue
ribbons in her cap. She had taken them out now, to adapt herself,
I suppose, to the altered character of the house; and wore but one
or two disconsolate bows of sober brown.
'If you please, sir, would you have the goodness to walk in, and
speak to Miss Dartle?'
'Has Miss Dartle sent you for me?' I inquired.
'Not tonight, sir, but it's just the same. Miss Dartle saw you
pass
a night or two ago; and I was to sit at work on the staircase, and
when I saw you pass again, to ask you to step in and speak to her.'
I turned back, and inquired of my conductor, as we went along, how
Mrs. Steerforth was. She said her lady was but poorly, and kept
her own room a good deal.
When we arrived at the house, I was directed to Miss Dartle in the
garden, and left to make my presence known to her myself. She was
sitting on a seat at one end of a kind of terrace, overlooking the
great city. It was a sombre evening, with a lurid light in the
sky; and as I saw the prospect scowling in the distance, with here
and there some larger object starting up into the sullen glare, I
fancied it was no inapt companion to the memory of this fierce
woman.
She saw me as I advanced, and rose for a moment to receive me. I
thought her, then, still more colourless and thin than when I had
seen her last; the flashing eyes still brighter, and the scar still
plainer.
Our meeting was not cordial. We had parted angrily on the last
occasion; and there was an air of disdain about her, which she took
no pains to conceal.
'I am told you wish to speak to me, Miss Dartle,' said I, standing
near her, with my hand upon the back of the seat, and declining her
gesture of invitation to sit down.
'If you please,' said she. 'Pray has this girl been found?'
'No.'
'And yet she has run away!'
I saw her thin lips working while she looked at me, as if they were
eager to load her with reproaches.
'Run away?' I repeated.
'Yes! From him,' she said, with a laugh. 'If she is not found,
perhaps she never will be found. She may be dead!'
The vaunting cruelty with which she met my glance, I never saw
expressed in any other face that ever I have seen.
'To wish her dead,' said I, 'may be the kindest wish that one of
her own sex could bestow upon her. I am glad that time has
softened you so much, Miss Dartle.'
She condescended to make no reply, but, turning on me with another
scornful laugh, said:
'The friends of this excellent and much-injured young lady are
friends of yours. You are their champion, and assert their rights.
Do you wish to know what is known of her?'
'Yes,' said I.
She rose with an ill-favoured smile, and taking a few steps towards
a wall of holly that was near at hand, dividing the lawn from a
kitchen-garden, said, in a louder voice, 'Come here!' - as if she
were calling to some unclean beast.
'You will restrain any demonstrative championship or vengeance in
this place, of course, Mr. Copperfield?' said she, looking over her
shoulder at me with the same expression.
I inclined my head, without knowing what she meant; and she said,
'Come here!' again; and returned, followed by the respectable Mr.
Littimer, who, with undiminished respectability, made me a bow, and
took up his position behind her. The air of wicked grace: of
triumph, in which, strange to say, there was yet something feminine
and alluring: with which she reclined upon the seat between us, and
looked at me, was worthy of a cruel Princess in a Legend.
'Now,' said she, imperiously, without glancing at him, and touching
the old wound as it throbbed: perhaps, in this instance, with
pleasure rather than pain. 'Tell Mr. Copperfield about the
flight.'
'Mr. James and myself, ma'am -'
'Don't address yourself to me!' she interrupted with a frown.
'Mr. James and myself, sir -'
'Nor to me, if you please,' said I.
Mr. Littimer, without being at all discomposed, signified by a
slight obeisance, that anything that was most agreeable to us was
most agreeable to him; and began again.
'Mr. James and myself have been abroad with the young woman, ever
since she left Yarmouth under Mr. james's protection. We have been
in a variety of places, and seen a deal of foreign country. We
have been in France, Switzerland, Italy, in fact, almost all
parts.'
He looked at the back of the seat, as if he were addressing himself
to that; and softly played upon it with his hands, as if he were
striking chords upon a dumb piano.
'Mr. James took quite uncommonly to the young woman; and was more
settled, for a length of time, than I have known him to be since I
have been in his service. The young woman was very improvable, and
spoke the languages; and wouldn't have been known for the same
country-person. I noticed that she was much admired wherever we
went.'
Miss Dartle put her hand upon her side. I saw him steal a glance
at her, and slightly smile to himself.
'Very much admired, indeed, the young woman was. What with her
dress; what with the air and sun; what with being made so much of;
what with this, that, and the other; her merits really attracted
general notice.'
He made a short pause. Her eyes wandered restlessly over the
distant prospect, and she bit her nether lip to stop that busy
mouth.
Taking his hands from the seat, and placing one of them within the
other, as he settled himself on one leg, Mr. Littimer proceeded,
with his eyes cast down, and his respectable head a little
advanced, and a little on one side:
'The young woman went on in this manner for some time, being
occasionally low in her spirits, until I think she began to weary
Mr. James by giving way to her low spirits and tempers of that
kind; and things were not so comfortable. Mr. James he began to be
restless again. The more restless he got, the worse she got; and
I must say, for myself, that I had a very difficult time of it
indeed between the two. Still matters were patched up here, and
made good there, over and over again; and altogether lasted, I am
sure, for a longer time than anybody could have expected.'
Recalling her eyes from the distance, she looked at me again now,
with her former air. Mr. Littimer, clearing his throat behind his
hand with a respectable short cough, changed legs, and went on:
'At last, when there had been, upon the whole, a good many words
and reproaches, Mr. James he set off one morning, from the
neighbourhood of Naples, where we had a villa (the young woman
being very partial to the sea), and, under pretence of coming back
in a day or so, left it in charge with me to break it out, that,
for the general happiness of all concerned, he was' - here an
interruption of the short cough - 'gone. But Mr. James, I must
say, certainly did behave extremely honourable; for he proposed
that the young woman should marry a very respectable person, who
was fully prepared to overlook the past, and who was, at least, as
good as anybody the young woman could have aspired to in a regular
way: her connexions being very common.'
He changed legs again, and wetted his lips. I was convinced that
the scoundrel spoke of himself, and I saw my conviction reflected
in Miss Dartle's face.
'This I also had it in charge to communicate. I was willing to do
anything to relieve Mr. James from his difficulty, and to restore
harmony between himself and an affectionate parent, who has
undergone so much on his account. Therefore I undertook the
commission. The young woman's violence when she came to, after I
broke the fact of his departure, was beyond all expectations. She
was quite mad, and had to be held by force; or, if she couldn't
have got to a knife, or got to the sea, she'd have beaten her head
against the marble floor.'
Miss Dartle, leaning back upon the seat, with a light of exultation
in her face, seemed almost to caress the sounds this fellow had
uttered.
'But when I came to the second part of what had been entrusted to
me,' said Mr. Littimer, rubbing his hands uneasily, 'which anybody
might have supposed would have been, at all events, appreciated as
a kind intention, then the young woman came out in her true
colours. A more outrageous person I never did see. Her conduct
was surprisingly bad. She had no more gratitude, no more feeling,
no more patience, no more reason in her, than a stock or a stone.
If I hadn't been upon my guard, I am convinced she would have had
my blood.'
'I think the better of her for it,' said I, indignantly.
Mr. Littimer bent his head, as much as to say, 'Indeed, sir? But
you're young!' and resumed his narrative.
'It was necessary, in short, for a time, to take away everything
nigh her, that she could do herself, or anybody else, an injury
with, and to shut her up close. Notwithstanding which, she got out
in the night; forced the lattice of a window, that I had nailed up
myself; dropped on a vine that was trailed below; and never has
been seen or heard of, to my knowledge, since.'
'She is dead, perhaps,' said Miss Dartle, with a smile, as if she
could have spurned the body of the ruined girl.
'She may have drowned herself, miss,' returned Mr. Littimer,
catching at an excuse for addressing himself to somebody. 'It's
very possible. Or, she may have had assistance from the boatmen,
and the boatmen's wives and children. Being given to low company,
she was very much in the habit of talking to them on the beach,
Miss Dartle, and sitting by their boats. I have known her do it,
when Mr. James has been away, whole days. Mr. James was far from
pleased to find out, once, that she had told the children she was
a boatman's daughter, and that in her own country, long ago, she
had roamed about the beach, like them.'
Oh, Emily! Unhappy beauty! What a picture rose before me of her
sitting on the far-off shore, among the children like herself when
she was innocent, listening to little voices such as might have
called her Mother had she been a poor man's wife; and to the great
voice of the sea, with its eternal 'Never more!'
'When it was clear that nothing could be done, Miss Dartle -'
'Did I tell you not to speak to me?' she said, with stern contempt.
'You spoke to me, miss,' he replied. 'I beg your pardon. But it
is my service to obey.'
'Do your service,' she returned. 'Finish your story, and go!'
'When it was clear,' he said, with infinite respectability and an
obedient bow, 'that she was not to be found, I went to Mr. James,
at the place where it had been agreed that I should write to him,
and informed him of what had occurred. Words passed between us in
consequence, and I felt it due to my character to leave him. I
could bear, and I have borne, a great deal from Mr. James; but he
insulted me too far. He hurt me. Knowing the unfortunate
difference between himself and his mother, and what her anxiety of
mind was likely to be, I took the liberty of coming home to
England, and relating -'
'For money which I paid him,' said Miss Dartle to me.
'Just so, ma'am - and relating what I knew. I am not aware,' said
Mr. Littimer, after a moment's reflection, 'that there is anything
else. I am at present out of employment, and should be happy to
meet with a respectable situation.'
Miss Dartle glanced at me, as though she would inquire if there
were anything that I desired to ask. As there was something which
had occurred to my mind, I said in reply:
'I could wish to know from this - creature,' I could not bring
myself to utter any more conciliatory word, 'whether they
intercepted a letter that was written to her from home, or whether
he supposes that she received it.'
He remained calm and silent, with his eyes fixed on the ground, and
the tip of every finger of his right hand delicately poised against
the tip of every finger of his left.
Miss Dartle turned her head disdainfully towards him.
'I beg your pardon, miss,' he said, awakening from his abstraction,
'but, however submissive to you, I have my position, though a
servant. Mr. Copperfield and you, miss, are different people. If
Mr. Copperfield wishes to know anything from me, I take the liberty
of reminding Mr. Copperfield that he can put a question to me. I
have a character to maintain.'
After a momentary struggle with myself, I turned my eyes upon him,
and said, 'You have heard my question. Consider it addressed to
yourself, if you choose. What answer do you make?'
'Sir,' he rejoined, with an occasional separation and reunion of
those delicate tips, 'my answer must be qualified; because, to
betray Mr. james's confidence to his mother, and to betray it to
you, are two different actions. It is not probable, I consider,
that Mr. James would encourage the receipt of letters likely to
increase low spirits and unpleasantness; but further than that,
sir, I should wish to avoid going.'
'Is that all?' inquired Miss Dartle of me.
I indicated that I had nothing more to say. 'Except,' I added, as
I saw him moving off, 'that I understand this fellow's part in the
wicked story, and that, as I shall make it known to the honest man
who has been her father from her childhood, I would recommend him
to avoid going too much into public.'
He had stopped the moment I began, and had listened with his usual
repose of manner.
'Thank you, sir. But you'll excuse me if I say, sir, that there
are neither slaves nor slave-drivers in this country, and that
people are not allowed to take the law into their own hands. If
they do, it is more to their own peril, I believe, than to other
people's. Consequently speaking, I am not at all afraid of going
wherever I may wish, sir.'
With that, he made a polite bow; and, with another to Miss Dartle,
went away through the arch in the wall of holly by which he had
come. Miss Dartle and I regarded each other for a little while in
silence; her manner being exactly what it was, when she had
produced the man.
'He says besides,' she observed, with a slow curling of her lip,
'that his master, as he hears, is coasting Spain; and this done, is
away to gratify his seafaring tastes till he is weary. But this is
of no interest to you. Between these two proud persons, mother and
son, there is a wider breach than before, and little hope of its
healing, for they are one at heart, and time makes each more
obstinate and imperious. Neither is this of any interest to you;
but it introduces what I wish to say. This devil whom you make an
angel of. I mean this low girl whom he picked out of the
tide-mud,' with her black eyes full upon me, and her passionate
finger up, 'may be alive, - for I believe some common things are
hard to die. If she is, you will desire to have a pearl of such
price found and taken care of. We desire that, too; that he may
not by any chance be made her prey again. So far, we are united in
one interest; and that is why I, who would do her any mischief that
so coarse a wretch is capable of feeling, have sent for you to hear
what you have heard.'
I saw, by the change in her face, that someone was advancing behind
me. It was Mrs. Steerforth, who gave me her hand more coldly than
of yore, and with an augmentation of her former stateliness of
manner, but still, I perceived - and I was touched by it - with an
ineffaceable remembrance of my old love for her son. She was
greatly altered. Her fine figure was far less upright, her
handsome face was deeply marked, and her hair was almost white.
But when she sat down on the seat, she was a handsome lady still;
and well I knew the bright eye with its lofty look, that had been
a light in my very dreams at school.
'Is Mr. Copperfield informed of everything, Rosa?'
'Yes.'
'And has he heard Littimer himself?'
'Yes; I have told him why you wished it.'
'You are a good girl. I have had some slight correspondence with
your former friend, sir,' addressing me, 'but it has not restored
his sense of duty or natural obligation. Therefore I have no other
object in this, than what Rosa has mentioned. If, by the course
which may relieve the mind of the decent man you brought here (for
whom I am sorry - I can say no more), my son may be saved from
again falling into the snares of a designing enemy, well!'
She drew herself up, and sat looking straight before her, far away.
'Madam,' I said respectfully, 'I understand. I assure you I am in
no danger of putting any strained construction on your motives.
But I must say, even to you, having known this injured family from
childhood, that if you suppose the girl, so deeply wronged, has not
been cruelly deluded, and would not rather die a hundred deaths
than take a cup of water from your son's hand now, you cherish a
terrible mistake.'
'Well, Rosa, well!' said Mrs. Steerforth, as the other was about to
interpose, 'it is no matter. Let it be. You are married, sir, I
am told?'
I answered that I had been some time married.
'And are doing well? I hear little in the quiet life I lead, but
I understand you are beginning to be famous.'
'I have been very fortunate,' I said, 'and find my name connected
with some praise.'
'You have no mother?' - in a softened voice.
'No.'
'It is a pity,' she returned. 'She would have been proud of you.
Good night!'
I took the hand she held out with a dignified, unbending air, and
it was as calm in mine as if her breast had been at peace. Her
pride could still its very pulses, it appeared, and draw the placid
veil before her face, through which she sat looking straight before
her on the far distance.
As I moved away from them along the terrace, I could not help
observing how steadily they both sat gazing on the prospect, and
how it thickened and closed around them. Here and there, some
early lamps were seen to twinkle in the distant city; and in the
eastern quarter of the sky the lurid light still hovered. But,
from the greater part of the broad valley interposed, a mist was
rising like a sea, which, mingling with the darkness, made it seem
as if the gathering waters would encompass them. I have reason to
remember this, and think of it with awe; for before I looked upon
those two again, a stormy sea had risen to their feet.
Reflecting on what had been thus told me, I felt it right that it
should be communicated to Mr. Peggotty. On the following evening
I went into London in quest of him. He was always wandering about
from place to place, with his one object of recovering his niece
before him; but was more in London than elsewhere. Often and
often, now, had I seen him in the dead of night passing along the
streets, searching, among the few who loitered out of doors at
those untimely hours, for what he dreaded to find.
He kept a lodging over the little chandler's shop in Hungerford
Market, which I have had occasion to mention more than once, and
from which he first went forth upon his errand of mercy. Hither I
directed my walk. On making inquiry for him, I learned from the
people of the house that he had not gone out yet, and I should find
him in his room upstairs.
He was sitting reading by a window in which he kept a few plants.
The room was very neat and orderly. I saw in a moment that it was
always kept prepared for her reception, and that he never went out
but he thought it possible he might bring her home. He had not
heard my tap at the door, and only raised his eyes when I laid my
hand upon his shoulder.
'Mas'r Davy! Thankee, sir! thankee hearty, for this visit! Sit ye
down. You're kindly welcome, sir!'
'Mr. Peggotty,' said I, taking the chair he handed me, 'don't
expect much! I have heard some news.'
'Of Em'ly!'
He put his hand, in a nervous manner, on his mouth, and turned
pale, as he fixed his eyes on mine.
'It gives no clue to where she is; but she is not with him.'
He sat down, looking intently at me, and listened in profound
silence to all I had to tell. I well remember the sense of
dignity, beauty even, with which the patient gravity of his face
impressed me, when, having gradually removed his eyes from mine, he
sat looking downward, leaning his forehead on his hand. He offered
no interruption, but remained throughout perfectly still. He
seemed to pursue her figure through the narrative, and to let every
other shape go by him, as if it were nothing.
When I had done, he shaded his face, and continued silent. I
looked out of the window for a little while, and occupied myself
with the plants.
'How do you fare to feel about it, Mas'r Davy?' he inquired at
length.
'I think that she is living,' I replied.
'I doen't know. Maybe the first shock was too rough, and in the
wildness of her art -! That there blue water as she used to speak
on. Could she have thowt o' that so many year, because it was to
be her grave!'
He said this, musing, in a low, frightened voice; and walked across
the little room.
'And yet,' he added, 'Mas'r Davy, I have felt so sure as she was
living - I have know'd, awake and sleeping, as it was so trew that
I should find her - I have been so led on by it, and held up by it
- that I doen't believe I can have been deceived. No! Em'ly's
alive!'
He put his hand down firmly on the table, and set his sunburnt face
into a resolute expression.
'My niece, Em'ly, is alive, sir!' he said, steadfastly. 'I doen't
know wheer it comes from, or how 'tis, but I am told as she's
alive!'
He looked almost like a man inspired, as he said it. I waited for
a few moments, until he could give me his undivided attention; and
then proceeded to explain the precaution, that, it had occurred to
me last night, it would be wise to take.
'Now, my dear friend -'I began.
'Thankee, thankee, kind sir,' he said, grasping my hand in both of
his.
'If she should make her way to London, which is likely - for where
could she lose herself so readily as in this vast city; and what
would she wish to do, but lose and hide herself, if she does not go
home? -'
'And she won't go home,' he interposed, shaking his head
mournfully. 'If she had left of her own accord, she might; not as
It was, sir.'
'If she should come here,' said I, 'I believe there is one person,
here, more likely to discover her than any other in the world. Do
you remember - hear what I say, with fortitude - think of your
great object! - do you remember Martha?'
'Of our town?'
I needed no other answer than his face.
'Do you know that she is in London?'
'I have seen her in the streets,' he answered, with a shiver.
'But you don't know,' said I, 'that Emily was charitable to her,
with Ham's help, long before she fled from home. Nor, that, when
we met one night, and spoke together in the room yonder, over the
way, she listened at the door.'
'Mas'r Davy!' he replied in astonishment. 'That night when it snew
so hard?'
'That night. I have never seen her since. I went back, after
parting from you, to speak to her, but she was gone. I was
unwilling to mention her to you then, and I am now; but she is the
person of whom I speak, and with whom I think we should
communicate. Do you understand?'
'Too well, sir,' he replied. We had sunk our voices, almost to a
whisper, and continued to speak in that tone.
'You say you have seen her. Do you think that you could find her?
I could only hope to do so by chance.'
'I think, Mas'r Davy, I know wheer to look.'
'It is dark. Being together, shall we go out now, and try to find
her tonight?'
He assented, and prepared to accompany me. Without appearing to
observe what he was doing, I saw how carefully he adjusted the
little room, put a candle ready and the means of lighting it,
arranged the bed, and finally took out of a drawer one of her
dresses (I remember to have seen her wear it), neatly folded with
some other garments, and a bonnet, which he placed upon a chair.
He made no allusion to these clothes, neither did I. There they
had been waiting for her, many and many a night, no doubt.
'The time was, Mas'r Davy,' he said, as we came downstairs, 'when
I thowt this girl, Martha, a'most like the dirt underneath my
Em'ly's feet. God forgive me, theer's a difference now!'
As we went along, partly to hold him in conversation, and partly to
satisfy myself, I asked him about Ham. He said, almost in the same
words as formerly, that Ham was just the same, 'wearing away his
life with kiender no care nohow for 't; but never murmuring, and
liked by all'.
I asked him what he thought Ham's state of mind was, in reference
to the cause of their misfortunes? Whether he believed it was
dangerous? What he supposed, for example, Ham would do, if he and
Steerforth ever should encounter?
'I doen't know, sir,' he replied. 'I have thowt of it oftentimes,
but I can't awize myself of it, no matters.'
I recalled to his remembrance the morning after her departure, when
we were all three on the beach. 'Do you recollect,' said I, 'a
certain wild way in which he looked out to sea, and spoke about
"the end of it"?'
'Sure I do!' said he.
'What do you suppose he meant?'
'Mas'r Davy,' he replied, 'I've put the question to myself a mort
o' times, and never found no answer. And theer's one curious thing
- that, though he is so pleasant, I wouldn't fare to feel
comfortable to try and get his mind upon 't. He never said a wured
to me as warn't as dootiful as dootiful could be, and it ain't
likely as he'd begin to speak any other ways now; but it's fur from
being fleet water in his mind, where them thowts lays. It's deep,
sir, and I can't see down.'
'You are right,' said I, 'and that has sometimes made me anxious.'
'And me too, Mas'r Davy,' he rejoined. 'Even more so, I do assure
you, than his ventersome ways, though both belongs to the
alteration in him. I doen't know as he'd do violence under any
circumstances, but I hope as them two may be kep asunders.'
We had come, through Temple Bar, into the city. Conversing no more
now, and walking at my side, he yielded himself up to the one aim
of his devoted life, and went on, with that hushed concentration of
his faculties which would have made his figure solitary in a
multitude. We were not far from Blackfriars Bridge, when he turned
his head and pointed to a solitary female figure flitting along the
opposite side of the street. I knew it, readily, to be the figure
that we sought.
We crossed the road, and were pressing on towards her, when it
occurred to me that she might be more disposed to feel a woman's
interest in the lost girl, if we spoke to her in a quieter place,
aloof from the crowd, and where we should be less observed. I
advised my companion, therefore, that we should not address her
yet, but follow her; consulting in this, likewise, an indistinct
desire I had, to know where she went.
He acquiescing, we followed at a distance: never losing sight of
her, but never caring to come very near, as she frequently looked
about. Once, she stopped to listen to a band of music; and then we
stopped too.
She went on a long way. Still we went on. It was evident, from
the manner in which she held her course, that she was going to some
fixed destination; and this, and her keeping in the busy streets,
and I suppose the strange fascination in the secrecy and mystery of
so following anyone, made me adhere to my first purpose. At length
she turned into a dull, dark street, where the noise and crowd were
lost; and I said, 'We may speak to her now'; and, mending our pace,
we went after her.
CHAPTER 47
MARTHA
We were now down in Westminster. We had turned back to follow her,
having encountered her coming towards us; and Westminster Abbey was
the point at which she passed from the lights and noise of the
leading streets. She proceeded so quickly, when she got free of
the two currents of passengers setting towards and from the bridge,
that, between this and the advance she had of us when she struck
off, we were in the narrow water-side street by Millbank before we
came up with her. At that moment she crossed the road, as if to
avoid the footsteps that she heard so close behind; and, without
looking back, passed on even more rapidly.
A glimpse of the river through a dull gateway, where some waggons
were housed for the night, seemed to arrest my feet. I touched my
companion without speaking, and we both forbore to cross after her,
and both followed on that opposite side of the way; keeping as
quietly as we could in the shadow of the houses, but keeping very
near her.
There was, and is when I write, at the end of that low-lying
street, a dilapidated little wooden building, probably an obsolete
old ferry-house. Its position is just at that point where the
street ceases, and the road begins to lie between a row of houses
and the river. As soon as she came here, and saw the water, she
stopped as if she had come to her destination; and presently went
slowly along by the brink of the river, looking intently at it.
All the way here, I had supposed that she was going to some house;
indeed, I had vaguely entertained the hope that the house might be
in some way associated with the lost girl. But that one dark
glimpse of the river, through the gateway, had instinctively
prepared me for her going no farther.
The neighbourhood was a dreary one at that time; as oppressive,
sad, and solitary by night, as any about London. There were
neither wharves nor houses on the melancholy waste of road near the
great blank Prison. A sluggish ditch deposited its mud at the
prison walls. Coarse grass and rank weeds straggled over all the
marshy land in the vicinity. In one part, carcases of houses,
inauspiciously begun and never finished, rotted away. In another,
the ground was cumbered with rusty iron monsters of steam-boilers,
wheels, cranks, pipes, furnaces, paddles, anchors, diving-bells,
windmill-sails, and I know not what strange objects, accumulated by
some speculator, and grovelling in the dust, underneath which -
having sunk into the soil of their own weight in wet weather - they
had the appearance of vainly trying to hide themselves. The clash
and glare of sundry fiery Works upon the river-side, arose by night
to disturb everything except the heavy and unbroken smoke that
poured out of their chimneys. Slimy gaps and causeways, winding
among old wooden piles, with a sickly substance clinging to the
latter, like green hair, and the rags of last year's handbills
offering rewards for drowned men fluttering above high-water mark,
led down through the ooze and slush to the ebb-tide. There was a
story that one of the pits dug for the dead in the time of the
Great Plague was hereabout; and a blighting influence seemed to
have proceeded from it over the whole place. Or else it looked as
if it had gradually decomposed into that nightmare condition, out
of the overflowings of the polluted stream.
As if she were a part of the refuse it had cast out, and left to
corruption and decay, the girl we had followed strayed down to the
river's brink, and stood in the midst of this night-picture, lonely
and still, looking at the water.
There were some boats and barges astrand in the mud, and these
enabled us to come within a few yards of her without being seen.
I then signed to Mr. Peggotty to remain where he was, and emerged
from their shade to speak to her. I did not approach her solitary
figure without trembling; for this gloomy end to her determined
walk, and the way in which she stood, almost within the cavernous
shadow of the iron bridge, looking at the lights crookedly
reflected in the strong tide, inspired a dread within me.
I think she was talking to herself. I am sure, although absorbed
in gazing at the water, that her shawl was off her shoulders, and
that she was muffling her hands in it, in an unsettled and
bewildered way, more like the action of a sleep-walker than a
waking person. I know, and never can forget, that there was that
in her wild manner which gave me no assurance but that she would
sink before my eyes, until I had her arm within my grasp.
At the same moment I said 'Martha!'
She uttered a terrified scream, and struggled with me with such
strength that I doubt if I could have held her alone. But a
stronger hand than mine was laid upon her; and when she raised her
frightened eyes and saw whose it was, she made but one more effort
and dropped down between us. We carried her away from the water to
where there were some dry stones, and there laid her down, crying
and moaning. In a little while she sat among the stones, holding
her wretched head with both her hands.
'Oh, the river!' she cried passionately. 'Oh, the river!'
'Hush, hush!' said I. 'Calm yourself.'
But she still repeated the same words, continually exclaiming, 'Oh,
the river!' over and over again.
'I know it's like me!' she exclaimed. 'I know that I belong to it.
I know that it's the natural company of such as I am! It comes from
country places, where there was once no harm in it - and it creeps
through the dismal streets, defiled and miserable - and it goes
away, like my life, to a great sea, that is always troubled - and
I feel that I must go with it!'
I have never known what despair was, except in the tone of those
words.
'I can't keep away from it. I can't forget it. It haunts me day
and night. It's the only thing in all the world that I am fit for,
or that's fit for me. Oh, the dreadful river!'
The thought passed through my mind that in the face of my
companion, as he looked upon her without speech or motion, I might
have read his niece's history, if I had known nothing of it. I
never saw, in any painting or reality, horror and compassion so
impressively blended. He shook as if he would have fallen; and his
hand - I touched it with my own, for his appearance alarmed me -
was deadly cold.
'She is in a state of frenzy,' I whispered to him. 'She will speak
differently in a little time.'
I don't know what he would have said in answer. He made some
motion with his mouth, and seemed to think he had spoken; but he
had only pointed to her with his outstretched hand.
A new burst of crying came upon her now, in which she once more hid
her face among the stones, and lay before us, a prostrate image of
humiliation and ruin. Knowing that this state must pass, before we
could speak to her with any hope, I ventured to restrain him when
he would have raised her, and we stood by in silence until she
became more tranquil.
'Martha,' said I then, leaning down, and helping her to rise - she
seemed to want to rise as if with the intention of going away, but
she was weak, and leaned against a boat. 'Do you know who this is,
who is with me?'
She said faintly, 'Yes.'
'Do you know that we have followed you a long way tonight?'
She shook her head. She looked neither at him nor at me, but stood
in a humble attitude, holding her bonnet and shawl in one hand,
without appearing conscious of them, and pressing the other,
clenched, against her forehead.
'Are you composed enough,' said I, 'to speak on the subject which
so interested you - I hope Heaven may remember it! - that snowy
night?'
Her sobs broke out afresh, and she murmured some inarticulate
thanks to me for not having driven her away from the door.
'I want to say nothing for myself,' she said, after a few moments.
'I am bad, I am lost. I have no hope at all. But tell him, sir,'
she had shrunk away from him, 'if you don't feel too hard to me to
do it, that I never was in any way the cause of his misfortune.'
'It has never been attributed to you,' I returned, earnestly
responding to her earnestness.
'It was you, if I don't deceive myself,' she said, in a broken
voice, 'that came into the kitchen, the night she took such pity on
me; was so gentle to me; didn't shrink away from me like all the
rest, and gave me such kind help! Was it you, sir?'
'It was,' said I.
'I should have been in the river long ago,' she said, glancing at
it with a terrible expression, 'if any wrong to her had been upon
my mind. I never could have kept out of it a single winter's
night, if I had not been free of any share in that!'
'The cause of her flight is too well understood,' I said. 'You are
innocent of any part in it, we thoroughly believe, - we know.'
'Oh, I might have been much the better for her, if I had had a
better heart!' exclaimed the girl, with most forlorn regret; 'for
she was always good to me! She never spoke a word to me but what
was pleasant and right. Is it likely I would try to make her what
I am myself, knowing what I am myself, so well? When I lost
everything that makes life dear, the worst of all my thoughts was
that I was parted for ever from her!'
Mr. Peggotty, standing with one hand on the gunwale of the boat,
and his eyes cast down, put his disengaged hand before his face.
'And when I heard what had happened before that snowy night, from
some belonging to our town,' cried Martha, 'the bitterest thought
in all my mind was, that the people would remember she once kept
company with me, and would say I had corrupted her! When, Heaven
knows, I would have died to have brought back her good name!'
Long unused to any self-control, the piercing agony of her remorse
and grief was terrible.
'To have died, would not have been much - what can I say? - I
would have lived!' she cried. 'I would have lived to be old, in
the wretched streets - and to wander about, avoided, in the dark -
and to see the day break on the ghastly line of houses, and
remember how the same sun used to shine into my room, and wake me
once - I would have done even that, to save her!'
Sinking on the stones, she took some in each hand, and clenched
them up, as if she would have ground them. She writhed into some
new posture constantly: stiffening her arms, twisting them before
her face, as though to shut out from her eyes the little light
there was, and drooping her head, as if it were heavy with
insupportable recollections.
'What shall I ever do!' she said, fighting thus with her despair.
'How can I go on as I am, a solitary curse to myself, a living
disgrace to everyone I come near!' Suddenly she turned to my
companion. 'Stamp upon me, kill me! When she was your pride, you
would have thought I had done her harm if I had brushed against her
in the street. You can't believe - why should you? - a syllable
that comes out of my lips. It would be a burning shame upon you,
even now, if she and I exchanged a word. I don't complain. I
don't say she and I are alike - I know there is a long, long way
between us. I only say, with all my guilt and wretchedness upon my
head, that I am grateful to her from my soul, and love her. Oh,
don't think that all the power I had of loving anything is quite
worn out! Throw me away, as all the world does. Kill me for being
what I am, and having ever known her; but don't think that of me!'
He looked upon her, while she made this supplication, in a wild
distracted manner; and, when she was silent, gently raised her.
'Martha,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'God forbid as I should judge you.
Forbid as I, of all men, should do that, my girl! You doen't know
half the change that's come, in course of time, upon me, when you
think it likely. Well!' he paused a moment, then went on. 'You
doen't understand how 'tis that this here gentleman and me has
wished to speak to you. You doen't understand what 'tis we has
afore us. Listen now!'
His influence upon her was complete. She stood, shrinkingly,
before him, as if she were afraid to meet his eyes; but her
passionate sorrow was quite hushed and mute.
'If you heerd,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'owt of what passed between
Mas'r Davy and me, th' night when it snew so hard, you know as I
have been - wheer not - fur to seek my dear niece. My dear niece,'
he repeated steadily. 'Fur she's more dear to me now, Martha, than
she was dear afore.'
She put her hands before her face; but otherwise remained quiet.
'I have heerd her tell,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'as you was early left
fatherless and motherless, with no friend fur to take, in a rough
seafaring-way, their place. Maybe you can guess that if you'd had
such a friend, you'd have got into a way of being fond of him in
course of time, and that my niece was kiender daughter-like to me.'
As she was silently trembling, he put her shawl carefully about
her, taking it up from the ground for that purpose.
'Whereby,' said he, 'I know, both as she would go to the wureld's
furdest end with me, if she could once see me again; and that she
would fly to the wureld's furdest end to keep off seeing me. For
though she ain't no call to doubt my love, and doen't - and
doen't,' he repeated, with a quiet assurance of the truth of what
he said, 'there's shame steps in, and keeps betwixt us.'
I read, in every word of his plain impressive way of delivering
himself, new evidence of his having thought of this one topic, in
every feature it presented.
'According to our reckoning,' he proceeded, 'Mas'r Davy's here, and
mine, she is like, one day, to make her own poor solitary course to
London. We believe - Mas'r Davy, me, and all of us - that you are
as innocent of everything that has befell her, as the unborn child.
You've spoke of her being pleasant, kind, and gentle to you. Bless
her, I knew she was! I knew she always was, to all. You're
thankful to her, and you love her. Help us all you can to find
her, and may Heaven reward you!'
She looked at him hastily, and for the first time, as if she were
doubtful of what he had said.
'Will you trust me?' she asked, in a low voice of astonishment.
'Full and free!' said Mr. Peggotty.
'To speak to her, if I should ever find her; shelter her, if I have
any shelter to divide with her; and then, without her knowledge,
come to you, and bring you to her?' she asked hurriedly.
We both replied together, 'Yes!'
She lifted up her eyes, and solemnly declared that she would devote
herself to this task, fervently and faithfully. That she would
never waver in it, never be diverted from it, never relinquish it,
while there was any chance of hope. If she were not true to it,
might the object she now had in life, which bound her to something
devoid of evil, in its passing away from her, leave her more
forlorn and more despairing, if that were possible, than she had
been upon the river's brink that night; and then might all help,
human and Divine, renounce her evermore!
She did not raise her voice above her breath, or address us, but
said this to the night sky; then stood profoundly quiet, looking at
the gloomy water.
We judged it expedient, now, to tell her all we knew; which I
recounted at length. She listened with great attention, and with
a face that often changed, but had the same purpose in all its
varying expressions. Her eyes occasionally filled with tears, but
those she repressed. It seemed as if her spirit were quite
altered, and she could not be too quiet.
She asked, when all was told, where we were to be communicated
with, if occasion should arise. Under a dull lamp in the road, I
wrote our two addresses on a leaf of my pocket-book, which I tore
out and gave to her, and which she put in her poor bosom. I asked
her where she lived herself. She said, after a pause, in no place
long. It were better not to know.
Mr. Peggotty suggesting to me, in a whisper, what had already
occurred to myself, I took out my purse; but I could not prevail
upon her to accept any money, nor could I exact any promise from
her that she would do so at another time. I represented to her
that Mr. Peggotty could not be called, for one in his condition,
poor; and that the idea of her engaging in this search, while
depending on her own resources, shocked us both. She continued
steadfast. In this particular, his influence upon her was equally
powerless with mine. She gratefully thanked him but remained
inexorable.
'There may be work to be got,' she said. 'I'll try.'
'At least take some assistance,' I returned, 'until you have
tried.'
'I could not do what I have promised, for money,' she replied. 'I
could not take it, if I was starving. To give me money would be to
take away your trust, to take away the object that you have given
me, to take away the only certain thing that saves me from the
river.'
'In the name of the great judge,' said I, 'before whom you and all
of us must stand at His dread time, dismiss that terrible idea! We
can all do some good, if we will.'
She trembled, and her lip shook, and her face was paler, as she
answered:
'It has been put into your hearts, perhaps, to save a wretched
creature for repentance. I am afraid to think so; it seems too
bold. If any good should come of me, I might begin to hope; for
nothing but harm has ever come of my deeds yet. I am to be
trusted, for the first time in a long while, with my miserable
life, on account of what you have given me to try for. I know no
more, and I can say no more.'
Again she repressed the tears that had begun to flow; and, putting
out her trembling hand, and touching Mr. Peggotty, as if there was
some healing virtue in him, went away along the desolate road. She
had been ill, probably for a long time. I observed, upon that
closer opportunity of observation, that she was worn and haggard,
and that her sunken eyes expressed privation and endurance.
We followed her at a short distance, our way lying in the same
direction, until we came back into the lighted and populous
streets. I had such implicit confidence in her declaration, that
I then put it to Mr. Peggotty, whether it would not seem, in the
onset, like distrusting her, to follow her any farther. He being
of the same mind, and equally reliant on her, we suffered her to
take her own road, and took ours, which was towards Highgate. He
accompanied me a good part of the way; and when we parted, with a
prayer for the success of this fresh effort, there was a new and
thoughtful compassion in him that I was at no loss to interpret.
It was midnight when I arrived at home. I had reached my own gate,
and was standing listening for the deep bell of St. Paul's, the
sound of which I thought had been borne towards me among the
multitude of striking clocks, when I was rather surprised to see
that the door of my aunt's cottage was open, and that a faint light
in the entry was shining out across the road.
Thinking that my aunt might have relapsed into one of her old
alarms, and might be watching the progress of some imaginary
conflagration in the distance, I went to speak to her. It was with
very great surprise that I saw a man standing in her little garden.
He had a glass and bottle in his hand, and was in the act of
drinking. I stopped short, among the thick foliage outside, for
the moon was up now, though obscured; and I recognized the man whom
I had once supposed to be a delusion of Mr. Dick's, and had once
encountered with my aunt in the streets of the city.
He was eating as well as drinking, and seemed to eat with a hungry
appetite. He seemed curious regarding the cottage, too, as if it
were the first time he had seen it. After stooping to put the
bottle on the ground, he looked up at the windows, and looked
about; though with a covert and impatient air, as if he was anxious
to be gone.
The light in the passage was obscured for a moment, and my aunt
came out. She was agitated, and told some money into his hand. I
heard it chink.
'What's the use of this?' he demanded.
'I can spare no more,' returned my aunt.
'Then I can't go,' said he. 'Here! You may take it back!'
'You bad man,' returned my aunt, with great emotion; 'how can you
use me so? But why do I ask? It is because you know how weak I
am! What have I to do, to free myself for ever of your visits, but
to abandon you to your deserts?'
'And why don't you abandon me to my deserts?' said he.
'You ask me why!' returned my aunt. 'What a heart you must have!'
He stood moodily rattling the money, and shaking his head, until at
length he said:
'Is this all you mean to give me, then?'
'It is all I CAN give you,' said my aunt. 'You know I have had
losses, and am poorer than I used to be. I have told you so.
Having got it, why do you give me the pain of looking at you for
another moment, and seeing what you have become?'
'I have become shabby enough, if you mean that,' he said. 'I lead
the life of an owl.'
'You stripped me of the greater part of all I ever had,' said my
aunt. 'You closed my heart against the whole world, years and
years. You treated me falsely, ungratefully, and cruelly. Go, and
repent of it. Don't add new injuries to the long, long list of
injuries you have done me!'
'Aye!' he returned. 'It's all very fine - Well! I must do the best
I can, for the present, I suppose.'
In spite of himself, he appeared abashed by my aunt's indignant
tears, and came slouching out of the garden. Taking two or three
quick steps, as if I had just come up, I met him at the gate, and
went in as he came out. We eyed one another narrowly in passing,
and with no favour.
'Aunt,' said I, hurriedly. 'This man alarming you again! Let me
speak to him. Who is he?'
'Child,' returned my aunt, taking my arm, 'come in, and don't speak
to me for ten minutes.'
We sat down in her little parlour. My aunt retired behind the
round green fan of former days, which was screwed on the back of a
chair, and occasionally wiped her eyes, for about a quarter of an
hour. Then she came out, and took a seat beside me.
'Trot,' said my aunt, calmly, 'it's my husband.'
'Your husband, aunt? I thought he had been dead!'
'Dead to me,' returned my aunt, 'but living.'
I sat in silent amazement.
'Betsey Trotwood don't look a likely subject for the tender
passion,' said my aunt, composedly, 'but the time was, Trot, when
she believed in that man most entirely. When she loved him, Trot,
right well. When there was no proof of attachment and affection
that she would not have given him. He repaid her by breaking her
fortune, and nearly breaking her heart. So she put all that sort
of sentiment, once and for ever, in a grave, and filled it up, and
flattened it down.'
'My dear, good aunt!'
'I left him,' my aunt proceeded, laying her hand as usual on the
back of mine, 'generously. I may say at this distance of time,
Trot, that I left him generously. He had been so cruel to me, that
I might have effected a separation on easy terms for myself; but I
did not. He soon made ducks and drakes of what I gave him, sank
lower and lower, married another woman, I believe, became an
adventurer, a gambler, and a cheat. What he is now, you see. But
he was a fine-looking man when I married him,' said my aunt, with
an echo of her old pride and admiration in her tone; 'and I
believed him - I was a fool! - to be the soul of honour!'
She gave my hand a squeeze, and shook her head.
'He is nothing to me now, Trot- less than nothing. But, sooner
than have him punished for his offences (as he would be if he
prowled about in this country), I give him more money than I can
afford, at intervals when he reappears, to go away. I was a fool
when I married him; and I am so far an incurable fool on that
subject, that, for the sake of what I once believed him to be, I
wouldn't have even this shadow of my idle fancy hardly dealt with.
For I was in earnest, Trot, if ever a woman was.'
MY aunt dismissed the matter with a heavy sigh, and smoothed her
dress.
'There, my dear!' she said. 'Now you know the beginning, middle,
and end, and all about it. We won't mention the subject to one
another any more; neither, of course, will you mention it to
anybody else. This is my grumpy, frumpy story, and we'll keep it
to ourselves, Trot!'
CHAPTER 48
DOMESTIC
I laboured hard at my book, without allowing it to interfere with
the punctual discharge of my newspaper duties; and it came out and
was very successful. I was not stunned by the praise which sounded
in my ears, notwithstanding that I was keenly alive to it, and
thought better of my own performance, I have little doubt, than
anybody else did. It has always been in my observation of human
nature, that a man who has any good reason to believe in himself
never flourishes himself before the faces of other people in order
that they may believe in him. For this reason, I retained my
modesty in very self-respect; and the more praise I got, the more
I tried to deserve.
It is not my purpose, in this record, though in all other
essentials it is my written memory, to pursue the history of my own
fictions. They express themselves, and I leave them to themselves.
When I refer to them, incidentally, it is only as a part of my
progress.
Having some foundation for believing, by this time, that nature and
accident had made me an author, I pursued my vocation with
confidence. Without such assurance I should certainly have left it
alone, and bestowed my energy on some other endeavour. I should
have tried to find out what nature and accident really had made me,
and to be that, and nothing else.
I had been writing, in the newspaper and elsewhere, so
prosperously, that when my new success was achieved, I considered
myself reasonably entitled to escape from the dreary debates. One
joyful night, therefore, I noted down the music of the
parliamentary bagpipes for the last time, and I have never heard it
since; though I still recognize the old drone in the newspapers,
without any substantial variation (except, perhaps, that there is
more of it), all the livelong session.
I now write of the time when I had been married, I suppose, about
a year and a half. After several varieties of experiment, we had
given up the housekeeping as a bad job. The house kept itself, and
we kept a page. The principal function of this retainer was to
quarrel with the cook; in which respect he was a perfect
Whittington, without his cat, or the remotest chance of being made
Lord Mayor.
He appears to me to have lived in a hail of saucepan-lids. His
whole existence was a scuffle. He would shriek for help on the
most improper occasions, - as when we had a little dinner-party, or
a few friends in the evening, - and would come tumbling out of the
kitchen, with iron missiles flying after him. We wanted to get rid
of him, but he was very much attached to us, and wouldn't go. He
was a tearful boy, and broke into such deplorable lamentations,
when a cessation of our connexion was hinted at, that we were
obliged to keep him. He had no mother - no anything in the way of
a relative, that I could discover, except a sister, who fled to
America the moment we had taken him off her hands; and he became
quartered on us like a horrible young changeling. He had a lively
perception of his own unfortunate state, and was always rubbing his
eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, or stooping to blow his nose on
the extreme corner of a little pocket-handkerchief, which he never
would take completely out of his pocket, but always economized and
secreted.
This unlucky page, engaged in an evil hour at six pounds ten per
annum, was a source of continual trouble to me. I watched him as
he grew - and he grew like scarlet beans - with painful
apprehensions of the time when he would begin to shave; even of the
days when he would be bald or grey. I saw no prospect of ever
getting rid of him; and, projecting myself into the future, used to
think what an inconvenience he would be when he was an old man.
I never expected anything less, than this unfortunate's manner of
getting me out of my difficulty. He stole Dora's watch, which,
like everything else belonging to us, had no particular place of
its own; and, converting it into money, spent the produce (he was
always a weak-minded boy) in incessantly riding up and down between
London and Uxbridge outside the coach. He was taken to Bow Street,
as well as I remember, on the completion of his fifteenth journey;
when four-and-sixpence, and a second-hand fife which he couldn't
play, were found upon his person.
The surprise and its consequences would have been much less
disagreeable to me if he had not been penitent. But he was very
penitent indeed, and in a peculiar way - not in the lump, but by
instalments. For example: the day after that on which I was
obliged to appear against him, he made certain revelations touching
a hamper in the cellar, which we believed to be full of wine, but
which had nothing in it except bottles and corks. We supposed he
had now eased his mind, and told the worst he knew of the cook;
but, a day or two afterwards, his conscience sustained a new
twinge, and he disclosed how she had a little girl, who, early
every morning, took away our bread; and also how he himself had
been suborned to maintain the milkman in coals. In two or three
days more, I was informed by the authorities of his having led to
the discovery of sirloins of beef among the kitchen-stuff, and
sheets in the rag-bag. A little while afterwards, he broke out in
an entirely new direction, and confessed to a knowledge of
burglarious intentions as to our premises, on the part of the
pot-boy, who was immediately taken up. I got to be so ashamed of
being such a victim, that I would have given him any money to hold
his tongue, or would have offered a round bribe for his being
permitted to run away. It was an aggravating circumstance in the
case that he had no idea of this, but conceived that he was making
me amends in every new discovery: not to say, heaping obligations
on my head.
At last I ran away myself, whenever I saw an emissary of the police
approaching with some new intelligence; and lived a stealthy life
until he was tried and ordered to be transported. Even then he
couldn't be quiet, but was always writing us letters; and wanted so
much to see Dora before he went away, that Dora went to visit him,
and fainted when she found herself inside the iron bars. In short,
I had no peace of my life until he was expatriated, and made (as I
afterwards heard) a shepherd of, 'up the country' somewhere; I have
no geographical idea where.
All this led me into some serious reflections, and presented our
mistakes in a new aspect; as I could not help communicating to Dora
one evening, in spite of my tenderness for her.
'My love,' said I, 'it is very painful to me to think that our want
of system and management, involves not only ourselves (which we
have got used to), but other people.'
'You have been silent for a long time, and now you are going to be
cross!' said Dora.
'No, my dear, indeed! Let me explain to you what I mean.'
'I think I don't want to know,' said Dora.
'But I want you to know, my love. Put Jip down.'
Dora put his nose to mine, and said 'Boh!' to drive my seriousness
away; but, not succeeding, ordered him into his Pagoda, and sat
looking at me, with her hands folded, and a most resigned little
expression of countenance.
'The fact is, my dear,' I began, 'there is contagion in us. We
infect everyone about us.'
I might have gone on in this figurative manner, if Dora's face had
not admonished me that she was wondering with all her might whether
I was going to propose any new kind of vaccination, or other
medical remedy, for this unwholesome state of ours. Therefore I
checked myself, and made my meaning plainer.
'It is not merely, my pet,' said I, 'that we lose money and
comfort, and even temper sometimes, by not learning to be more
careful; but that we incur the serious responsibility of spoiling
everyone who comes into our service, or has any dealings with us.
I begin to be afraid that the fault is not entirely on one side,
but that these people all turn out ill because we don't turn out
very well ourselves.'
'Oh, what an accusation,' exclaimed Dora, opening her eyes wide;
'to say that you ever saw me take gold watches! Oh!'
'My dearest,' I remonstrated, 'don't talk preposterous nonsense!
Who has made the least allusion to gold watches?'
'You did,' returned Dora. 'You know you did. You said I hadn't
turned out well, and compared me to him.'
'To whom?' I asked.
'To the page,' sobbed Dora. 'Oh, you cruel fellow, to compare your
affectionate wife to a transported page! Why didn't you tell me
your opinion of me before we were married? Why didn't you say, you
hard-hearted thing, that you were convinced I was worse than a
transported page? Oh, what a dreadful opinion to have of me! Oh,
my goodness!'
'Now, Dora, my love,' I returned, gently trying to remove the
handkerchief she pressed to her eyes, 'this is not only very
ridiculous of you, but very wrong. In the first place, it's not
true.'
'You always said he was a story-teller,' sobbed Dora. 'And now you
say the same of me! Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do!'
'My darling girl,' I retorted, 'I really must entreat you to be
reasonable, and listen to what I did say, and do say. My dear
Dora, unless we learn to do our duty to those whom we employ, they
will never learn to do their duty to us. I am afraid we present
opportunities to people to do wrong, that never ought to be
presented. Even if we were as lax as we are, in all our
arrangements, by choice - which we are not - even if we liked it,
and found it agreeable to be so - which we don't - I am persuaded
we should have no right to go on in this way. We are positively
corrupting people. We are bound to think of that. I can't help
thinking of it, Dora. It is a reflection I am unable to dismiss,
and it sometimes makes me very uneasy. There, dear, that's all.
Come now. Don't be foolish!'
Dora would not allow me, for a long time, to remove the
handkerchief. She sat sobbing and murmuring behind it, that, if I
was uneasy, why had I ever been married? Why hadn't I said, even
the day before we went to church, that I knew I should be uneasy,
and I would rather not? If I couldn't bear her, why didn't I send
her away to her aunts at Putney, or to Julia Mills in India? Julia
would be glad to see her, and would not call her a transported
page; Julia never had called her anything of the sort. In short,
Dora was so afflicted, and so afflicted me by being in that
condition, that I felt it was of no use repeating this kind of
effort, though never so mildly, and I must take some other course.
What other course was left to take? To 'form her mind'? This was
a common phrase of words which had a fair and promising sound, and
I resolved to form Dora's mind.
I began immediately. When Dora was very childish, and I would have
infinitely preferred to humour her, I tried to be grave - and
disconcerted her, and myself too. I talked to her on the subjects
which occupied my thoughts; and I read Shakespeare to her - and
fatigued her to the last degree. I accustomed myself to giving
her, as it were quite casually, little scraps of useful
information, or sound opinion - and she started from them when I
let them off, as if they had been crackers. No matter how
incidentally or naturally I endeavoured to form my little wife's
mind, I could not help seeing that she always had an instinctive
perception of what I was about, and became a prey to the keenest
apprehensions. In particular, it was clear to me, that she thought
Shakespeare a terrible fellow. The formation went on very slowly.
I pressed Traddles into the service without his knowledge; and
whenever he came to see us, exploded my mines upon him for the
edification of Dora at second hand. The amount of practical wisdom
I bestowed upon Traddles in this manner was immense, and of the
best quality; but it had no other effect upon Dora than to depress
her spirits, and make her always nervous with the dread that it
would be her turn next. I found myself in the condition of a
schoolmaster, a trap, a pitfall; of always playing spider to Dora's
fly, and always pouncing out of my hole to her infinite
disturbance.
Still, looking forward through this intermediate stage, to the time
when there should be a perfect sympathy between Dora and me, and
when I should have 'formed her mind' to my entire satisfaction, I
persevered, even for months. Finding at last, however, that,
although I had been all this time a very porcupine or hedgehog,
bristling all over with determination, I had effected nothing, it
began to occur to me that perhaps Dora's mind was already formed.
On further consideration this appeared so likely, that I abandoned
my scheme, which had had a more promising appearance in words than
in action; resolving henceforth to be satisfied with my child-wife,
and to try to change her into nothing else by any process. I was
heartily tired of being sagacious and prudent by myself, and of
seeing my darling under restraint; so I bought a pretty pair of
ear-rings for her, and a collar for Jip, and went home one day to
make myself agreeable.
Dora was delighted with the little presents, and kissed me
joyfully; but there was a shadow between us, however slight, and I
had made up my mind that it should not be there. If there must be
such a shadow anywhere, I would keep it for the future in my own
breast.
I sat down by my wife on the sofa, and put the ear-rings in her
ears; and then I told her that I feared we had not been quite as
good company lately, as we used to be, and that the fault was mine.
Which I sincerely felt, and which indeed it was.
'The truth is, Dora, my life,' I said; 'I have been trying to be
wise.'
'And to make me wise too,' said Dora, timidly. 'Haven't you,
Doady?'
I nodded assent to the pretty inquiry of the raised eyebrows, and
kissed the parted lips.
'It's of not a bit of use,' said Dora, shaking her head, until the
ear-rings rang again. 'You know what a little thing I am, and what
I wanted you to call me from the first. If you can't do so, I am
afraid you'll never like me. Are you sure you don't think,
sometimes, it would have been better to have -'
'Done what, my dear?' For she made no effort to proceed.
'Nothing!' said Dora.
'Nothing?' I repeated.
She put her arms round my neck, and laughed, and called herself by
her favourite name of a goose, and hid her face on my shoulder in
such a profusion of curls that it was quite a task to clear them
away and see it.
'Don't I think it would have been better to have done nothing, than
to have tried to form my little wife's mind?' said I, laughing at
myself. 'Is that the question? Yes, indeed, I do.'
'Is that what you have been trying?' cried Dora. 'Oh what a
shocking boy!'
'But I shall never try any more,' said I. 'For I love her dearly
as she is.'
'Without a story - really?' inquired Dora, creeping closer to me.
'Why should I seek to change,' said I, 'what has been so precious
to me for so long! You never can show better than as your own
natural self, my sweet Dora; and we'll try no conceited
experiments, but go back to our old way, and be happy.'
'And be happy!' returned Dora. 'Yes! All day! And you won't mind
things going a tiny morsel wrong, sometimes?'
'No, no,' said I. 'We must do the best we can.'
'And you won't tell me, any more, that we make other people bad,'
coaxed Dora; 'will you? Because you know it's so dreadfully
cross!'
'No, no,' said I.
'it's better for me to be stupid than uncomfortable, isn't it?'
said Dora.
'Better to be naturally Dora than anything else in the world.'
'In the world! Ah, Doady, it's a large place!'
She shook her head, turned her delighted bright eyes up to mine,
kissed me, broke into a merry laugh, and sprang away to put on
Jip's new collar.
So ended my last attempt to make any change in Dora. I had been
unhappy in trying it; I could not endure my own solitary wisdom; I
could not reconcile it with her former appeal to me as my
child-wife. I resolved to do what I could, in a quiet way, to
improve our proceedings myself, but I foresaw that my utmost would
be very little, or I must degenerate into the spider again, and be
for ever lying in wait.
And the shadow I have mentioned, that was not to be between us any
more, but was to rest wholly on my own heart? How did that fall?
The old unhappy feeling pervaded my life. It was deepened, if it
were changed at all; but it was as undefined as ever, and addressed
me like a strain of sorrowful music faintly heard in the night. I
loved my wife dearly, and I was happy; but the happiness I had
vaguely anticipated, once, was not the happiness I enjoyed, and
there was always something wanting.
In fulfilment of the compact I have made with myself, to reflect my
mind on this paper, I again examine it, closely, and bring its
secrets to the light. What I missed, I still regarded - I always
regarded - as something that had been a dream of my youthful fancy;
that was incapable of realization; that I was now discovering to be
so, with some natural pain, as all men did. But that it would have
been better for me if my wife could have helped me more, and shared
the many thoughts in which I had no partner; and that this might
have been; I knew.
Between these two irreconcilable conclusions: the one, that what I
felt was general and unavoidable; the other, that it was particular
to me, and might have been different: I balanced curiously, with no
distinct sense of their opposition to each other. When I thought
of the airy dreams of youth that are incapable of realization, I
thought of the better state preceding manhood that I had outgrown;
and then the contented days with Agnes, in the dear old house,
arose before me, like spectres of the dead, that might have some
renewal in another world, but never more could be reanimated here.
Sometimes, the speculation came into my thoughts, What might have
happened, or what would have happened, if Dora and I had never
known each other? But she was so incorporated with my existence,
that it was the idlest of all fancies, and would soon rise out of
my reach and sight, like gossamer floating in the air.
I always loved her. What I am describing, slumbered, and half
awoke, and slept again, in the innermost recesses of my mind.
There was no evidence of it in me; I know of no influence it had in
anything I said or did. I bore the weight of all our little cares,
and all my projects; Dora held the pens; and we both felt that our
shares were adjusted as the case required. She was truly fond of
me, and proud of me; and when Agnes wrote a few earnest words in
her letters to Dora, of the pride and interest with which my old
friends heard of my growing reputation, and read my book as if they
heard me speaking its contents, Dora read them out to me with tears
of joy in her bright eyes, and said I was a dear old clever, famous
boy.
'The first mistaken impulse of an undisciplined heart.' Those
words of Mrs. Strong's were constantly recurring to me, at this
time; were almost always present to my mind. I awoke with them,
often, in the night; I remember to have even read them, in dreams,
inscribed upon the walls of houses. For I knew, now, that my own
heart was undisciplined when it first loved Dora; and that if it
had been disciplined, it never could have felt, when we were
married, what it had felt in its secret experience.
'There can be no disparity in marriage, like unsuitability of mind
and purpose.' Those words I remembered too. I had endeavoured to
adapt Dora to myself, and found it impracticable. It remained for
me to adapt myself to Dora; to share with her what I could, and be
happy; to bear on my own shoulders what I must, and be happy still.
This was the discipline to which I tried to bring my heart, when I
began to think. It made my second year much happier than my first;
and, what was better still, made Dora's life all sunshine.
But, as that year wore on, Dora was not strong. I had hoped that
lighter hands than mine would help to mould her character, and that
a baby-smile upon her breast might change my child-wife to a woman.
It was not to be. The spirit fluttered for a moment on the
threshold of its little prison, and, unconscious of captivity, took
wing.
'When I can run about again, as I used to do, aunt,' said Dora, 'I
shall make Jip race. He is getting quite slow and lazy.'
'I suspect, my dear,' said my aunt quietly working by her side, 'he
has a worse disorder than that. Age, Dora.'
'Do you think he is old?' said Dora, astonished. 'Oh, how strange
it seems that Jip should be old!'
'It's a complaint we are all liable to, Little One, as we get on in
life,' said my aunt, cheerfully; 'I don't feel more free from it
than I used to be, I assure you.'
'But Jip,' said Dora, looking at him with compassion, 'even little
Jip! Oh, poor fellow!'
'I dare say he'll last a long time yet, Blossom,' said my aunt,
patting Dora on the cheek, as she leaned out of her couch to look
at Jip, who responded by standing on his hind legs, and baulking
himself in various asthmatic attempts to scramble up by the head
and shoulders. 'He must have a piece of flannel in his house this
winter, and I shouldn't wonder if he came out quite fresh again,
with the flowers in the spring. Bless the little dog!' exclaimed
my aunt, 'if he had as many lives as a cat, and was on the point of
losing 'em all, he'd bark at me with his last breath, I believe!'
Dora had helped him up on the sofa; where he really was defying my
aunt to such a furious extent, that he couldn't keep straight, but
barked himself sideways. The more my aunt looked at him, the more
he reproached her; for she had lately taken to spectacles, and for
some inscrutable reason he considered the glasses personal.
Dora made him lie down by her, with a good deal of persuasion; and
when he was quiet, drew one of his long ears through and through
her hand, repeating thoughtfully, 'Even little Jip! Oh, poor
fellow!'
'His lungs are good enough,' said my aunt, gaily, 'and his dislikes
are not at all feeble. He has a good many years before him, no
doubt. But if you want a dog to race with, Little Blossom, he has
lived too well for that, and I'll give you one.'
'Thank you, aunt,' said Dora, faintly. 'But don't, please!'
'No?' said my aunt, taking off her spectacles.
'I couldn't have any other dog but Jip,' said Dora. 'It would be
so unkind to Jip! Besides, I couldn't be such friends with any
other dog but Jip; because he wouldn't have known me before I was
married, and wouldn't have barked at Doady when he first came to
our house. I couldn't care for any other dog but Jip, I am afraid,
aunt.'
'To be sure!' said my aunt, patting her cheek again. 'You are
right.'
'You are not offended,' said Dora. 'Are you?'
'Why, what a sensitive pet it is!' cried my aunt, bending over her
affectionately. 'To think that I could be offended!'
'No, no, I didn't really think so,' returned Dora; 'but I am a
little tired, and it made me silly for a moment - I am always a
silly little thing, you know, but it made me more silly - to talk
about Jip. He has known me in all that has happened to me, haven't
you, Jip? And I couldn't bear to slight him, because he was a
little altered - could I, Jip?'
Jip nestled closer to his mistress, and lazily licked her hand.
'You are not so old, Jip, are you, that you'll leave your mistress
yet?' said Dora. 'We may keep one another company a little
longer!'
My pretty Dora! When she came down to dinner on the ensuing Sunday,
and was so glad to see old Traddles (who always dined with us on
Sunday), we thought she would be 'running about as she used to do',
in a few days. But they said, wait a few days more; and then, wait
a few days more; and still she neither ran nor walked. She looked
very pretty, and was very merry; but the little feet that used to
be so nimble when they danced round Jip, were dull and motionless.
I began to carry her downstairs every morning, and upstairs every
night. She would clasp me round the neck and laugh, the while, as
if I did it for a wager. Jip would bark and caper round us, and go
on before, and look back on the landing, breathing short, to see
that we were coming. My aunt, the best and most cheerful of
nurses, would trudge after us, a moving mass of shawls and pillows.
Mr. Dick would not have relinquished his post of candle-bearer to
anyone alive. Traddles would be often at the bottom of the
staircase, looking on, and taking charge of sportive messages from
Dora to the dearest girl in the world. We made quite a gay
procession of it, and my child-wife was the gayest there.
But, sometimes, when I took her up, and felt that she was lighter